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I had an odd experience a night or two ago. I woke up in the middle of the night, opened my eyes half-way, and the first thought through my sleepy brain was, "I sure am glad to be out of that nasty hostel, and into this great pension. I love this big, comfy bed, and the spacious room with the quaint period touches...oh, wait. I'm not on the East Coast anymore. This is my bedroom in California."

Home less than a week, I'm actively missing certain features of my experience in New York City. Like food. I made myself a chicken tortellini stew this weekend that was, well, uninspired. I still have plenty of leftover. Since I live alone, I've been trying to whet my appetite for the slumgulleon by making little sound effects each time I take the pot out of the fridge to heat it up for a meal--vocal drumrolls and the like. It's not working. My only consolation at this point is that I'm not going to get fat from my own cooking.

Just what was it that made the food at every nowhere, creepy, Zagat-forsaken little dive we poked into back there so scrumptious? Around here, you walk into any restaurant you don't already know, much less a hole in the wall, you take your chances.

I talked to an acquaintance yesterday, repatriated to the West Coast, but originally from New York City, who told me, "It isn't just your imagination. The food back there really is better. I don't know what it is--maybe the water."

Well, if I miss the food, I don't much miss the New York weather--which I found inhospitable, even as early as October. Every time I walk out, I still revel in the mild California autumn.
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