Guest Post Series: Abez

Travelogue Bajiland: Day Three

Our third day in the Land of Baj was marked by sun, sand, and salamanders, all of which were present in our hotel room left of the Arc de Triomphe and right of the Basket du Sock. The salamanders, a rare indigenous breed whose taste remotely resembled gelato, earned a C+ for their crunchiness and slightly puckish taste.

The Salamander was a C+

After packing up and checking out, we tarried south towards a charming little cafe on the Coastu Coast that smelled slightly of the sea and strongly of the weed. It reminded me of the creepy little joint in that old movie that no one but myself has seen, Sea-Dive, which starred Johnny Obscure and Jill Oblivion. As I sat there eating crepes and drinking cappuccino, I couldn't help but think of the quote that captured the very essence of the film; "Tartar sauce, the fish that doesn't swim."

Having finished breakfast, Mothra (my travelling companion) and I went in search of a copy of a Washington Post. No other magazine would do, because only the Washington Post allows me to paste links that other people cannot read because they're not subscribers. After visiting a few overpriced shops for tourists, we asked a man who appeared to be local (he was sleeping on a bench) where we could find the 'real' shopping area. My French isn't too good, but I did understand the instructions to a land where the sun didn't shine. We thanked him and went on our way.

We walked along the Boulevard de Boullion for what felt like millions of miles until we realized we were lost and the soles of my hush puppies were yelping for mercy. Mothra thought we needed a rest, and from my place on the ground underneath of a mailbox, I had to agree. We popped into another little cafe for coffee and the house speciality, a mysterious looking blob of brown stuff on toast that the waiter assured me was vegetarian. Or Sumerian. Or valerian. It turned out to be valerian; the root. Quite disgusting. Very much not like gelato. Not even like salamander. D-.

The Boulevard de Boullion

We eventually gave up for the day and Mothra hailed a cab with his index finger extended in the air. Had we known that this was a culturally rude gesture, we might have hailed the cab differently, but at the time we could only wonder why cabs would drive up and then pass dangerously within inches of us before speeding away. We made it back to the hotel, seven hours later, and fell exhaustedly onto the furniture. It had been a long and exciting day, although we never did find a copy of the Washington Post.

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