I ate it here: lower Manhattan


“I think I’ll call it morning” is playing while the toast is turning crispy and brown. A rich man, probably indian, shows up in front of his window and drinks his coffee. He lays his mug on the marble top and with slow gestures he sets his cufflinks. Our gazes meet for a fraction of second and his girl in nightgown comes from behind to fold his white collar. I turn around, zip up my hoodie and leave the house with the toast in my mouth. There are several travel options to Varick st. but I always chose the long one, heading east while the office is norht-west, but here is Chinatown and that’s where I want to be having my breakfast.

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I ate it here: Alicante

Forty minutes to boarding and there is a line of about fifteen people standing to be first in a game where if you win or lose, you still get the same seat number. As more people join “the cue of back-pain” I drink this overpriced squeezed orange juice that taste like pith and think about this new series of articles I’ll write for SIRP names “I ate it here” as tribute to Spider Jerusalem’s column The Word. Yet this is not about the city and politics but the city and the food in the form of simply short travel notes.

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