Shout It Out Loud

I´ve woken up in La Guardia airport. Having gotten out of the airport at 2300h, I decided it wouldn´t be much fun to spend two hours searching for a hostel, to then spend sixty dollars on seven or eight hours of sleep. La Guardia was comfortable enough, and that´s sixty more dollars of eating money.

The game begins with a nice, heavy turkey bagel. By midday, a muffin, a slice of pizza and a big apple have been added. There doesn´t appear to be an end to either what is available nor what I want to eat. If "Flymo" Hodges were here now, there would be carnage. It would be disgusting. It would be fantastic.

Hodges isn´t here, but KK is, and KK likes ales, and I like ales. I´d expected New Yorkers to be relatable to Londoners, especially after coming out of South America. On our tour of the West Village, Chelsea and the Meat Packing District, the latter of which, KK assures me is not gay innuendo, I find that the locals bear no resemblence to Londoners. Everyone here seems absolutley, unnecessarily, and overtly proud of themselves. Everyone can be quickly and neatly catagorised by their appearance. The pregnant women are in stomach hugging dresses, the black guys are dressed like black guys, and the gay guys are the gayest gay guys I´ve ever seen.

KK leads the tour on to Pop Burger. It´s surely the most African American burger chain since McDowell´s. For eight bucks, the burger is as good as anything I´ve ever had before, but I could comfortably eat it in three bites. I could push myself to do it in one.

Onwards to the Italian. And when KK can´t finish hers, I´m on hand to clean up.