Cucina Testa Rossa

Drinking from the firehose...

I'd never heard the expression before yesterday when I heard it twice and my goodness it certainly sums it up.  Yes, indeed I am drinking from the firehose...at least that is what it feels like. Usually, when you start the job search process, you mentally ramp up for the intensity that awaits you but to be going in one direction and then shift on a dime and head 180 degrees in the opposite direction logistically, intellectually, and emotionally overnight, well...think firehose. then think drinking from it.  when it's turned on. full blast. you get the picture...

And after 4 weeks of 12-14-16 hour days sitting at my desk or on planes, trains, and auto mobiles, it's official. I have no ankles.  They are so swollen I go from leg to foot. I was going to take a picture but didn't want to turn my little blog into a circus freak show of bloated joints.  So I spared you all the visual but suffice to say it really bums me out. And speaking of being bummed out....

Those damn Gateway elves must have spent too much time locked in their Iowa barn because rather than restoring my DATA, they restored my LAPTOP.....to it's original state! Thereby wiping out everything. Let me repeat *everything*! Years of contacts, emails, calendars, software programs, recipes, documents, work, etc.... poof, gone! I backed up a few things, including some pictures and my humble little book less one major edit, but the rest, gone. I'm trying not think about it or I shall hurl myself off La Tour Eiffel.  If you happen to be at the Trocadero and see a red-head flying through the air, you can shake your head knowingly.....

Seulement moi...

self portrait, december 12th, 2005 2:15am, procrastinating packing....

Thank you all so much for your many kind emails of empathy, sympathy, and offers to try to fix my laptop. From what I can tell I lost most everything for the past 8 months, May 30, 2005 to be exact and that is the same day I installed AOL on my computer. I hope it is merely a coincidence as I don’t need another reason to add to my intense dislike of AOL.

It is also day I moved into Chateau d’Enfer (Chateau from Hell), that uber-swanky chateau I cooked at last summer that surreally (is that a word?) morphed into Amityville Horror only the evil ghosts were the proprietress and her sleazy sidekick. I mentioned it a bit last summer but the experience was just too dreadful to write about but hopefully now I can begin to tell the story, unravel the threads of this enigma without sending my blood pressure skyrocketing and me screaming to the therapist’s couch. But I digress...

Back to my Laptop d’Enfer. If you sent me an email in the past year, it’s gone, adios, sayonora, along with all my contacts and my calendar which that alone has sent me into a tailspin missing appointments, deadlines, etc a la gauche et droite (left and right). So if you have sent me an email or we have a lunch date, would you pleeeeeze resend me your email or remind me of an upcoming evenement (date) because if you don’t, guaranteed I won’t be there. Once I leaped into my 5th decade, the ol’ grey matter turned to a sieve and is cyphoning memory cells by the billions.

So my Laptop d’Enfer is in the (hopefully) capable hands of the Gateway elves who are (hopefully) rescuing my bits and bytes as I type. We shall see…… Until then, bare with me here on the other side of the world. Losing my laptop is like losing an appendage as I was glued to it. An acquaintance of mine took a picture of her husband’s laptop, wrote “The Other Woman” across the top of the picture, and stuck it on the fridge. Kind of like that....

I am typing this on the Eurostar (aka the Chunnel), slicing my way through the Normandy countryside after a day in London. Since moving here, I quickly grew to love the train system and would hop on a train over a plane any day. Heck, I would take a bike if I could avoid Charles de Gaulle airport, the most dreadful airport in a first-world country. Sorry, but I really despise that airport. It reminds me of the Habitrail I had for my hamster in 6th grade with all the tubes and ramps and wheels. Sorry, back to London.

I stayed at the Cumberland Hotel across from Marble Arch. I found it at the last minute on the Eurostar web site for £99 which has to be the best deal in uber-cher (expensive) London. The Cumberland was recently renovated and the lobby is more Museum of Modern Art than Hotel Lobby and the rooms were surprisingly comfortable, practical, roomy and chic. I straggled in late and exhausted so a quick call to room service for an also surprisingly good Caeser’s Salad and I called it a day.

You’re probably thinking “what does this have to do with the title?” Absolutely nothing. Laser focus is not my strong suit and am distracted by most anything. Undiagnosed A.D.D. no doubt. The title refers to my experience at Heathrow airport last week. I flew from San Francisco to London Heathrow and then was to connect to Paris. Our plane from SF parked at Heathrow's Terminal 3 and I had to transfer to Terminal 1 which required a near-2 mile hike then a bus ride across the airport dodging 767s, gas trucks, luggage trains, etc. I arrived at Terminal 1 after throwing out my back trying to yank my overstuffed carry-on onto the transfer bus. After clearing passport control and another ½ mile hike I filed in to the snaking security line.

I had a 3-1/2 hour layover and wanted nothing more than to collapse into a big overstuffed armchair in the red carpet lounge and have someone ask me if I’d like something to drink. It was not to be. When I reached the conveyor belt, I reached for my laptop.............and nothing. Check purse. Nothing. Check carry-on again. Nothing. OH. MY. GOD. WHERE WAS MY LAPTOP?!?!? OH MY GOD I LEFT IT ON THE PLANE!!! I FREAKED OUT! In a panic, I knocked over my carry-on that had a 6-inch file stuffed with scraps of recipes and food articles from the past 4 years. Papers scattered everywhere, followed by my leopard print bra, and bottles of wine and olive oil went rolling off through the metal detector. I burst into tears, mortified, and a barrage of profanity ensued that made even the cranky security guard's eyes big as saucers.

They practically carried me through security and I threw myself on the mercy of the United customer service agent, tears streaming down my face. She called the gate that I arrived in, gave them my seat number, and asked them to check my seat for the laptop. She then told me I had to wait a half hour. A HALF HOUR?! I’ll have committed hari-kari by then. She tried to reassure me but there was no comforting to be had. I asked her to call the United business lounge in San Francisco airport. I knew I didn’t leave it there but I had to do *something*. I just couldn’t sit around and WAIT. The amount of patience I have on a good day would fit in a thimble and today, well fugetaboutit. But wait I did as there was nothing left I could do other than get arrested or committed which wasn’t far off.

About 20 minutes later the customer service rep motioned me over to the desk. I bolted over. She told me they found the laptop and that I had to go back to Terminal 3 to get it. Heck, I would have gone back to San Francisco’s Terminal 3 to get it, I was so elated. At the United Customer Service desk in Terminal 3, the agent kept telling me over and over how lucky I was, how most people never get their laptops back, blah blah blah. Did I need to hear this? NO! Just give me my damn laptop and let me get a cocktail!

So why all this drama over a laptop that crashed, you ask? Well, this isn’t my laptop that crashed. It isn’t my laptop at all. It is a loaner laptop that a software company I am consulting to loaned me until I could get mine fixed and it took no less than 4 days and 38 emails back and forth between the SVP Marketing and the CFO. I was finally granted permission to leave the premises with a laptop after the SVP Marketing personally vouched for me as well as the VC partner that funded them! So can you IMAGINE if I had to go back and tell them that I LOST their new laptop?! I would have rather died....hence the melt down in the security line. That and the fact that I slept a total of about 8 minutes on the 11-hour flight and in the previous 24 hours. I tried to take a sleeping pill but it fell on the floor and I couldn't find it so I knew right then it was going to be a l-o-n-g flight.

In case you picked up on the word 'consulting' as opposed to 'cooking', I am sacrificing myself to the hi-tech gods to finance my culinary career that has cooled quicker than crème fraîche. I naively thought I could live on minimum wage and while my life is far from extravagant (other than the city I happen to live in) and I sure as the devil don’t shop like I used to, actually I really don’t shop at all other than for new silicon molds, cookbooks, cooking magazines or various and sundry other kitchen gadgets, but there is no way I can live on minimum wage again.

Actually that’s not true. If I had to, I could do it and I did do it. On less actually. I lived on 8 euros a day including phone and subway my first few months in France but to have and to want are two diametrically opposed forces and, had I moved to New York as planned, would have had to share an apartment in the Bronx with 8 people. Fine at 20. Unacceptable at 40. I’m just too old to live like I’m back in college nor do I want to. By the grace of God I didn’t have to as The Man called me over the holidays and offered me a consulting project that I couldn’t refuse.

So every morning I thank the Good Lord for providing me with such abundance, put a smile on my face, and remind myself that this is, as my friend Christine says, just a seat in a game of musical chairs and once in a while we just have to sit down. So cooking is relegated to evenings and weekends for now until my pocketbook can once again bare the burden of a culinary salary or no salary at all as is most often the case in this métier (profession).

The moral of this story? Aesop would have a field day with me here..... Well there are a few. 1. Don’t leave your laptop on a plane. duh. 2. Back up your computer at least once a month. duh. And 3. if you plan on doing the quixotic and leave your steady, well-paying job for a life of culinary adventure, have at least 3 years of saving stashed away unless of your course you can move back into your old room at the folks, or have a friend with a 6,000 square foot house with a wing of guest rooms or are 20 years old and can live with 8 people in the Bronx.

After I retrieved the loaner laptop, I trekked back to Terminal 1, went through security again (they saw me coming and cleared a path to my friends at the conveyor belt scanner who I could tell were ready to alert security should I have another melt down) and high-tailed it to the BMI business lounge where I poured myself a big fat martini straight up extra dry and chased it with 2 beers. Cheers!

L'Ecran Bleu de la Mort

The Blue Screen of Death greeted me Sunday afternoon when I turned on my computer. It then followed up with the following message:

"All files being systematically deleted"

I immediately shut it off and took it into the IT group who after a day and a half of trying to fix it, actually they weren't even able to get it to turn on!, resigned with the explaination that they'd never seen this problem before. Fabulous. So if an entire hi-tech company's IT team can't fix it, how does Microsoft and Gateway expect a mere mortal to do it?! Net net of this little "set back"? Lost everything. Moral of this story: Back up your computer! and get a Mac!

My Keyboard for a Cutting Board ~ Adventures in a French Kitchen v1.0

UPDATE: The book is at the printer and should arrive chez moi in mid-August! I will send them out the second they are in my hot little hands. Thank you all so much for your patience with my technology woes and emotional melt downs. Laura ______________________________________________

2-1/2 years ago I waved au revoir to Silicon Valley and headed east to New York City to attend cooking school. I was trading my keyboard for a cutting board and not looking back. The goal was to then move to Tuscany, renovate a farmhouse à la Frances Mayes and open a cooking school. Well here I am 2-1/2 years later, living not in Italy but in Paris and I have turned part of that adventure into a book aptly named “My Keyboard for a Cutting Board ~ Adventures in a French Kitchen v1.0”. I have wanted to share my culinary journey, my life transition from a cube in Silicon Valley to cooking school in New York City to the kitchens of France and now I finally can!

My Keyboard for a Cutting Board ~ Adventures in a French Kitchen v1.0 is the first edition of what I hope is many exciting adventures to come. It begins as I wash ashore on the Cote d'Azur to cook at the Cannes Film Festival and includes vibrant color pictures, like those gorgeous strawberries on the cover, and easy recipes to whet your appetite.

If it weren't for the soon-to-be-world-famous-author Kristin Espinasse and her inspiration, encouragement and guidance, I never would have done this. Thank you for the kick in the derrière and for placing the first pre-order!

And speaking of pre-orders.... ;-)

This book is available now for *pre-order* here -- just click the secured, encrypted [Buy Now] PayPal link at the top of the right column, under the small book image. Your book should arrive in February and the cost includes tax and shipping.

If the PayPal purchase system starts behaving like the French mass transit system (ie: not working for no apparent reason), please delete (not lose) your cookies (click Tools, Internet Options, Delete Cookies...). If it is still en greve (on strike), please don't hesitate to send me an email and we can make other arrangements.

A huge MERCI to everyone, friends from home and abroad, people I’ve met here in France and in this crazy blogosphere who’ve embraced, encouraged, helped and cheered me on every step of the way. Gros bisous et merci de ma petite fenêtre à Paris! xo Laura

I’ve been Hammamed!

I’ve been Hammamed! Qu’est-ce que c’est "hammamed" you ask? It means I was violated by a large Algerian woman with a screechy voice, gold teeth and probing hands. (I mean no disrespect for women who have been truly violated so please take this tongue in cheek.)

In a middle eastern "spa", I was massaged in places I’ve never been massaged before while in a room full of naked women lounging around sipping mint tea. To add insult to injury, she gave me an “atomic wedgie” (credit for that to Jen) as I elected to maintain a shred of modesty via a pair of bloomers that were repeatedly wedged up in order to massage my glutes.

When we arrived at the Hammam de la Grande Mosquée, a first time for Kristin, Jen and me, we were given little instruction in rapid fire French but managed to flail and stumble our way to the locker room then to the steam room. A beautiful marble and tile room, perfectly temperate, not hot nor chilly, we selected the last empty ‘nook’ for lack of a better word, splashed water on the marble floor, squeegeed it clean (or as clean as possible, all things considered…which we would rather not consider) and sat down. We were given a Dixie cup of something, “savon” or soap they claimed, similar to a soft wax that we were told to rub all over ourselves, then rinse off. OK, did that.

Then the gommage. An exfoliation by Attila the Hun, kidding, but close. Perhaps a German prison guard in a previous life, this woman took off at least 20 layers of skin and I watched it come off. Now that part I enjoyed however it took place on a table topped with a blue exercise mat that was covered with spots of black mold. I looked at her and looked at the table, then looked at her then looked at the table. The high powered hose provided little comfort and she made no move to explain this fungus patch so I threw down my towel and plopped down. I could feel her glare burning.

While I was having the top 75% of my epidermis removed, the above mentioned masseuse kept coming in a screaming at the scrubber. I guess we took too long in steam room... Finally I looked up and said “s’il vous plait?” and they said “oui madame?” and I said “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Once again her eyes burned and with my stars and stripes Nordstroms flip flops, I didn’t little to further east-west relations but at that point I didn’t give a hoot. I was just glad I brought flip-flops. And I hadn’t even had the massage yet...

After the skin removal, we moved to the lounge/massage room with four tables in the center topped with naked bodies, wedgies in tact, being massaged. Disconcerting would be an understatement. When it was my turn, I walked to the table and noted that the masseuse didn’t change the towels on the table from the woman who had just been there before me. I asked her if she was going to change the towels. I asked her twice hoping she’d get the hint. No and no. I looked at her and looked at the table, then looked at her then looked at the table. Iwas completely chagrined by this point. I calmly laid my towel down and climbed up.

I requested seulement mon dos et epaules (only my neck and back). Well she immediately went for the breasts, followed by the atomic wedgie and the rest is history. I raced back to the locker room and Jen and I silently gave each other a wide eyed “Oh my God, what just happened” look. Now I'm hardly a prude however this was far from anything remotely resembling a massage that I've had in pristine spas with private rooms, dimmed lighting, soothing music, Egyptian cotton robes, fuzzy slippers and...real, professionally trained masseuses.

I am considering asking Time Out Paris to reimburse me the 48 euros as they claim: “To the sound of soft voices and Arabic music, clients are steamed, scrubbed and massaged in this 1920s mosque”. Ha! There were no soft voices, only screeching, and not a note of music. Fortunately I did not have to use the restroom, as Kristin later informed us that it was simply a hole in the ground, sans papier!

We should have read the next listing down for a different hammam that claims: “This hammam experience is hard to beat - spotless ..... masseuse Sonia .... wrapping you in rose petals, using rare huile d’Argan from Morocco”. I missed the part about “spotless” and a masseuse that “wraps you in rose petals” with Moroccan oil. Had I been scrubbed raw on a spotless mat and had a woman named Sonia wrapped me in rose petals, forfait florale, well perhaps it would have been a much different experience.

Afterwards, the three of us went to a nearby café to process what just happened. Would we do it again? Not a change in you-know-where. Are we glad we did it? Well, it was an experience, one we will never forget and, once we recover, one that we will laugh about for the rest of our lives.

Caveat Emptor!

-----------------------------------------

Time Out Paris: http://www.timeout.com/paris/shops/4.html

Hammam de la Grande Mosquée: http://www.mosquee-de-paris.org/  1 pl du Puits-de-l’Ermite, 5th (01.43.31.18.14). M° Censier Daubenton. Open Men 2-9pm Tue; 10am-9pm Sun. Women 10am-9pm Mon, Wed, Sat; 2-9pm Fri. Credit MC, V. To the sound of soft voices and Arabic music, clients are steamed, scrubbed and massaged in this 1920s mosque. Follow your session with a gommage (exfoliation with a rough mitt), then a massage. The hammam is €15, gommage €10 and massage €10.

Hammam Med Centre: http://www.hammammed.com 43-45 rue Petit, 19th (01.42.02.31.05). M° Ourcq. Open Women 11am-10pm Mon-Fri; 10am-8pm Sun. Mixed 10am-8pm Sat. Credit MC, V. This hammam experience is hard to beat - spotless, mosaic-tiled surroundings; flowered sarongs and even a pool. But the main draw is masseuse Sonia Benothman, whose pioneering ‘Rose de Nuit’ treatment involves wrapping you in rose petals, using rare huile d’Argan from Morocco. Hammam and gommage cost €34, a ‘Forfait florale’ €119.

Will Ferrel on Global Warming

Will Ferrel as George W Bush on Global Warming. This is so funny, though maybe not so much for those that tend to lean to the right ... or don't like penguins. Enjoy...!

I loathe SuperShuttle!

I don’t mean to complain but this is getting ridiculous. Really. I am sure there are worse stories than mine, much worse, but I need to vent...  I loathe SuperShuttle. I really really really loathe them, them and their ubiquitous blue vans crawling about the city like cockroaches. So where does such enmity come from, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

I had a 9:30pm flight out of JFK and having blown the budget on meals decided to be prudent and take SuperShuttle ($19). I would have taken the subway ($8) and cool new airtrain but I overpacked, comme toujours (as usual), and knew that schlepping my beast of a suitcase up and down flights of stairs would wreak havoc on my back. Had I known what was really in store, I would have walked to the airport...but I digress...

I reserved a place on the 6:20pm shuttle as the agent said to plan on an hour to get to the airport. The longest it’s ever taken me to get to JFK was an hour and a half on a Friday afternoon of the 4 of July weekend. 6:20pm, no problem. Or so I thought... Did I mention that I loathe SuperShuttle? Anyways...

As I was checking out, a SuperShuttle van stopped by the hotel at 5:20pm so I thought pourquoi pas (why not)? I hopped on. I figured I’d get to the airport early, hopefully upgrade or at least get a better seat, and treat myself to a badly needed manicure/ pedicure/ neck massage. Sounds like a good plan to me. Unfortunately God, that prankster that he is, had another plan in mind as he so often does...

This driver must have hijacked the van because I spent the next three hours in hell.  I was his first stop then we headed to the heart of Times Square for a few other pick-ups. Most weren’t ready so we waited and circled and waited and circled. Circling Times Square. At 5:30pm!  Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. An hour and a half later he had picked up two more travelers and then headed to the airport...or so I thought. 

Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. One more Gas-Break and I was about to hurl my turkey sandwich. A half hour later we stop at a hotel downtown! And wait and wait and wait. I asked him what the you-know-what we were waiting for as I was supposed to be at the airport, uh, now!  He ran in to the hotel and a woman followed him out and jumped in the front seat. No doubt a friend...an unofficial friend that was obviously not on the official SuperShuttle reservation sheet. I was steaming.

Visions of my manicure/pedicure/neck massage at the Spa in Terminal 1 quickly vanished. I was going to have to pull an OJ Simpson (run through the airport, not kill a spouse) to catch my plane. So two hours out and I am still in Manhattan!  Lucifer (as I have now named the driver) assured me that I will make my flight and that he is headed for the airport. Why am I not buying this?  For the next hour we careened through the bowels of Brooklyn, gunning it at the green lights and slamming the brakes at the reds, passing and weaving and swerving. My temples were throbbing and my turkey sandwich was in acid reflux.

I once again began bargaining with God (never a smart thing to do). I promised him that if I got to the airport on time and in one piece... well never mind the Spa in Terminal 1, just get me there alive and uninjured. An hour later, so three hours in all, that blue van from hell screeched up at an angle to Terminal 1 wedging itself in between two limos. I flew out, grabbed my suitcase, threw my cash at the driver and ran to check in. I asked the attendant if I could have a better seat. He laughed. You see, I was the last one to check in!  Did I mention that I loathe SuperShuttle? 

It gets better...

I finally get through security, held up because someone didn’t take their laptop out of their bag! Hello!?  Unless you’ve lived under a rock the past 4 years, you know that near stripping is required to get through security and that you must take your laptop out of the bag. Anyways, I drag myself to the gate, glancing bitterly, enviously, resentfully at the people reclining in the spa, blissful smiles atop relaxed shoulders. Grrrrrrr.

I try to call SuperShuttle “customer service”. They no doubt trained with the United Airines “customer service” team as I was on hold for 20 minutes before I gave up. Either that or there were a lot of complaints that evening. I’m inclined to believe the latter. We start boarding within a few minutes. I sat down, stowed my carry on items, and fastened my seat belt low and tight across my waist. I immediately fell asleep. I guess I was a little, oh I don’t know...EXHAUSTED!

As we are taxiing to the runway, I wake up. My arm is wet, as is the seat next to me. I first thought I spilled my bottle of water but then I rememebred I didn't have water. I look up to see the stewardess wedging a napkin into a crack in the overhead bin. It seems the air conditioning is leaking. She said it usually happens just before take off when the plane is warming up. Excuse me? Did I hear that right? They know about this?! Now I’m flying Lufthansa so I can’t even blame United for this bit of abject incompetence.  She places a stack of napkins on the top of the seat next to me to replace the napkin currently wedged as it becomes too wet.

I am officially in hell. Really. The van-ride-from-hell and now Chinese water torture on a German airplane. Someone please kill me. The woman in the row behind me graciously agreed to take over napkin-wedging duty for a while so I gulped an Ambien and sleep for the next 6 hours. I woke up in the City of Lights, never happier to see the Air France bus, and ready to kiss the Champs-Elysees.

But it gets better....

I am now sick as the proverbial chien (dog). Between the van-ride-from-hell, the water torture, and the sheer exhaustion, my throat revolted. I dragged myself across the street to my pharmacy and feebly tried to explain to the pharmacist that I have a sore throat, that it hurts to swallow. Ma gorge fait tres mal, il blesse pour avaler. At least that is what I thought I said. I have no idea but the look on the poor man's face did not express pity at my malaise. I pointed to my throat, made a face, tried to swallow, made another face. I think he finally got it as I stumbled out with a pack of lozenges, some nasty throat spray that makes me gag, and a serious dose of vitamin C.  Someone please wake me up from this nightmare...

I loathe United!

I really really really loathe them. Now I used to love them, but like a fickle wind, I now loathe them. I also loathe Dulles Airport where I spent 6 hours going up and down boarding ramps, to and from runways and on and off airplanes, and let us not forget the 2 hours waiting for my suitcase after I'd been told it would be a few minutes. "Customer service" is a self-cancelling phrase in these here neck of the woods. The "customer service" baggage claim rep told me to be patient. That was after 5 hours. I was patient for 5 hours.  Very patient.....well for me, anyways. The 6th hour I was admitedly not patient. Not at all. QUELLE surprise! After 36 hours with no sleep, little food, and bloodshot eyes that could guide a sleigh, I was most assuredly not patient. I apologize for my behavior, United and Mrs. Customer Service Rep. Now it's your turn.....

I am currently drafting a letter to United's "Customer Relations" director. Note the zip code. Coincidence? I think not.....

Diane Soucy Bergan
Director, Customer Relations
United Airlines World Headquarters/WHQPW
P O Box 66100
Chicago, IL 60666

In case you live in the Washington Dulles area and are awaiting a delivery of bone marrow, you might want to call the United "customer service" baggage claim rep. While I was waiting at the carosel for my luggage for two hours, a box labeled "HUMAN BONE MARROW - DO NOT XRAY!" kept going around and around and around and around....

Understatment of the Decade

"My life came out way better without me planning it." -Rachel Ray

Uhhhh.....you think?!?!?!?!?  Food Network's IT GIRL is the subject of a rather lengthy story in the New York Times.  Way better, indeed!

Personal Space, update.

I hadn't tortured a postal clerk with my tres mauvais français (very bad french) in at least a week so I thought I would pop into La Poste and test my linguistic skills. Actually I went to mail a letter to my colocotaires (flatmates) in San Francisco and to track down a package sent to me with the wrong address. This is really going to fun trying to explain this and the fact that the person who sent it didn't write a return address. Don't ask...

Anyways... anticipating the PDA and subsequent showering and close proximity of fellow liner-upers, I donned a very thick jacket and wrapped a scarf around my head. I could pass for muslim if not for the bottle of wine in my flimsy grocery bag revealing my inner-Catholic. Much to my surprise, everyone in line was adhering to the 1-2 foot radius of Personal Space and even the few couples maintained a respectable distance, not morphing into one being. The man behind me wasn't inhaling the scent of my shampoo like a Hoover upright. Perhaps it was just an off day. Whatever the case, I was indeed grateful for it.