In 1621 the modern tradition began, Pilgrims gave thanks for a successful season's harvest and for making it through a New England winter. It was nearly a year ago that we began our drive across the states in the now infamous "traveler" van (spelt with a single L). Though we often lament the inevitable sale of the best van to ever drive cross continent, we can neatly mark the anniversary of the expedition knowing that in less than two weeks it will be Thanksgiving. We were in New York for the Macy's parade and, having spent the morning witnessing the carnival atmosphere, rushed back to the hotel, threw on our sunday best and ran to the concierge to ask him his recommendations for the best feast in town. "No need to go far!" He stated, whilst stuffing a flyer into Jess's hand, "right around the corner, best one in town!" We were worried it was getting late and we might have missed it. Imagine our excitement when we were beckoned in by a row of apron wearing asian ladies stationed behind a mountainous buffet of all the festive offerings. Plates piled high we found a seat at the front and toasted our good fortune - with a very quickly provided green tea.
It was when the trolley pushing, slightly dishevelled gentleman (who had an enviable soda can collection) was also rushed in off the street, did we have time to look around and understand the predicament we were now in. Soup kitchens in the city of New York will make sure that everyone is able to give thanks - for free. I was thankful to be sitting at the front. Any further back and it would have been difficult to push past the gathering unfortunates that had decided we ought to be enjoying our turkey dinner in an establishment more becoming of our fresh scents and leather jackets. I tried for seconds while Jess made sure we could leave, we nodded towards the broadly grinning ladies and escaped under the disapproving gaze of the other diners in less than seven minutes. "Fantastic!" I said, "now we have more money for mojitos!"
"We have tried to roast a turkey in here," Pete the marine fire fighting instructor announced, "It burnt and the fumes made it taste like chemical." It runs hotter than 1200F in the box that the USCG says you have to survive through to ascertain a certificate in basic marine fire fighting. After a quick and thorough explanation of breathing apparatus, fully equipped with head-to-toe fire retardant suits, we followed Pete into the 12' x 25' room filled with thick white smoke. Keeping low, the door was pushed closed behind us. We were on our knees in 650 degrees celsius trying desperately not to breathe abnormally fast to ensure the tank lasts, to illustrate; firstly, the suits work - happily I can announce they do, and secondly, that we can hold it together long enough to learn the patterns required to extinguish a very large,
very hot stack of combustable materials - in a very small space.
"Excuse me Pete," my level voice belying my rising anxiety, "my face mask is vibrating." Not wanting to interrupt the fifteen minute demonstration, I meekly tugged on his sleeve while he fought with the monster now rolling over the ceiling above us. Do not stand up, do not take off your mask - the specific instructions issued at the start. Attempting to distract him to indicate I was certain my tank was getting dangerously low, was difficult in the circumstances. Grateful is not the right word - I could have hugged the big guy when the flames where reduced to a steamy mass. "You okay? That. Was. Cool." Jess puffed outside. "Jeeze it was awesome," I offered in response.
We are now both certified basic marine fire fighters and CPR administers. We know how to use a defibrillator and how to right an upturned life raft whilst abandoning ship in rough seas.
Miami is cool. Ocean Drive along South Beach is heavily populated with well preserved art deco buildings. Housing mostly bars and restaurants, the hosts will offer you free drinks in exchange for choosing their establishment for lunch. I didn't care much for sightseeing when the first place that we passed had a signature frozen margarita fishbowl with two coronas upside down in it. "No need to view the menu, with that sort of ingenuity i'm sure the food will dazzle." It didn't, but it was surprisingly cheap and I barely remember the drive home. We'll spend more time there.
I can safely speak for both of us, we are ashamed and not just a little embarrassed. Never having thought that it would lead to addiction, we were introduced late one night, during a period of diminished decision making capacity, to the best pizza joint in Ft Lauderdale. Spiralling into lacklustre cooking through demotivation, our fridge is nearly always empty. In a "these-pants-need-to-fit-me" display of depravity I was found, in the early hours of one morning in the walk-in closet, with a slice of pepperoni and sausage in one hand and a knife in the other. Leather is tough to punch holes through with greasy fingers. "Don't look at me!" It was a low point in which we decided that for one week it would be food from home - kebabs are a last resort. I will keep those of you obviously concerned up to date.
Jess has the shakes and I used the cord to the stereo as a belt...
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