Yeah. Yeah. I know. I should probably go have a cupcake and retrace my steps. I mean, really, there’s only so many places that a brain could be, right? While I go do that, you enjoy these links, courtesy of people who are far more with it than I am:

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My friend Mimi took her daughter to Tokyo Disney Sea (yes, this is a real Disney park, and no, I’d never heard of it), where they learned of the existence of a character called Shellie May. It doesn’t make a lot more sense if you read it, but Mimi’s take on the whole thing is pretty darn delightful.

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Words cannot express how amazing this is: Jeff Goldblum gets interviewed INSIDE OF A CLOSET  (sent to me by the lovely @gret_herself, to whom I am forever indebted.)

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This made me giggle so much. For all my friends out there who are parents (and to those who aren’t), Jezebel has a great take on why you’re so not almost ready for a baby, even if you think you are. 

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Whatever your political affiliations, the story behind why a little boy was patting the president’s head is downright touching.

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I’m not a fan of actual violence. But theoretical, fictional violence at the inanimate things that annoy us? I’m SO DOWN WITH THAT. Which is why I find the “Things I Want to Punch In the Face” blog so darn enjoyable.

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Inspired by Memorial Day, my friend Angela decided to use her blog to memorialize her own loved ones. You can participate in the project, too. It’s easy, and it’s a great way to honor the people who helped make you you.

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I can’t for the life of me remember if I’ve linked to the Photoshop Troll blog before. Either way, you should visit, because it’s HILARIOUS.

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Ewww. Pretty sure this sandwich is going to kill someone.

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This is so creepy, but I can’t look away. Io9 has a collection of portraits of ventriloquists and their dummies that will HAUNT YOUR DREAMS.

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Rand and I have always wondered about this, and Slate delivers: How those cranes get on the top of buildings in the first place.

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OMG I FOUND IT, you guys! I found my brain in the fridge! AWESOME. Oh, wait. It’s just a hunk of cauliflower. Damn it. The search continues …

Like, for example, when we were in Madrid last month – for a grand total of only 24 hours – I did not have a lot of expectations.

I certainly didn’t think that I would have any time to spend with Rand. Or that he would have a whole afternoon free.

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I'm doing this weird thing with my mouth here, but Rand looks really cute so I'm posting it.

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Nor did I expect that we’d get perfect weather in which to stroll around downtown.

We aren't actually "strolling" here, but you get the idea: it was lovely out.

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I wouldn’t have dreamed that we’d stumble across a Chagall exhibit – one of my husband’s favorite artists, mind you – and that admission would be free – FREE! – and the gallery itself (the Fundacion Caja Madrid) would be uncrowded and spacious. I mean, this isn’t the sort of thing you can demand from the cosmos, right?

This gallery is located near the palace, and I HIGHLY recommend it. It's always free and the exhibits are always excellent.

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And while we’re at it, it’s absurd to request that right around the corner would be a churro cafe (WHY IS THIS NOT A THING EVERYWHERE?) serving the fried pastries with a side of hot dipping chocolate. No. I couldn’t dream of such a thing.

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He was really, REALLY, really, really happy.

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Or that we’d find ourselves at the Puerta del Sol at sunset, and understand why it’s called del sol.

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No, no, no. These are not things you can ask of the universe. With all the turmoil and strife and crap that other people have to deal with, you can’t even THINK of putting in such a grand request.

But sometimes the universe delivers, anyway. You get a day filled with sunshine and churros and at the end of it, you find yourselves in the Plaza de Colón. The place where, four years ago, the two of you made out:

Okay, FINE. We aren't making out in this particular photo, but we did make out, back when we were young and gorgeous. Just take my word for it on all accounts.

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And you stage a re-enactment, because why not?

Attempts to Photoshop my acne out of this photo were unsuccessful. Focus instead on my gorgeous husband and how great my hair looked.

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You can’t ask the universe for this sort of thing. But, oh man, if you get it anyway? All you can do is say “thank you” a million times over. And remember the next time things don’t go your way, you can look back to that sunlit afternoon in Madrid and think:

“It’s cool, universe. I still owe you from that one time … I still owe you big.”

As a kid, I wanted the window seat. Now I prefer the aisle, so I can get up to pee.

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There are days when I feel far older than my 31 years (Wait, am I 31? What year is it …? No, I’m still 31. Dear god. Losing track of my age is not a problem I used to have). When something happens that makes me realize that I have been on the planet for three long decades, and then some.

Take, for example, the time I had the following exchange (via Google chat) with my brother-in-law, who is 10 years my junior:

Me: … it must have been around the time River Phoenix died.

Him: River Phoenix?

Me: Oh, dear god, no. Don’t. Just don’t.

Him: Who’s River Phoenix?

Me: NO. You can’t actually not know.

Him: Wait … is he related to Joaquin?

Me: “IS HE RELATED TO JOAQUIN?” I … WHA … PLEASE STOP TALKING.

Him: Hold on, I’m looking him up … Okay, you can’t get mad at me for not knowing who he was. I was, like, three years old when he died.

Me: I TOLD YOU TO STOP TALKING.

I know. It’s just horrifying. The kid was born in the nineties and is able to drink. It’s enough to make you curl up and weep for your lost youth, the untimely death of poor River, and the cancellation of Pete and Pete. And it makes you realize how many of the immutable pillars of your childhood mean nothing to younger generations.

When it comes to flying, where the rules change every time some idiot tries to bring down a 747 by hiding C-4 in his underwear, this is particularly true. Traveling in planes today is not what it was when I was a child. Here are some of the things I remember from air travel during the 80s and 90s that will sound utterly shocking to younger generations:

1. There were tiny pre-wrapped soaps. I suppose it was simply a sign of more careless, excessive times: in the 80s and earlier, airplane bathrooms were stocked with individually packaged miniature soaps. I remember loving these, and would hoard them in my carry-on (I don’t know why I did this. There was never a soap shortage at my house, from which I could save my family by showing them my hidden stash, and be hailed a hero). Eventually, I guess the waste became costly: every person who used the bathroom would grab a soap, unwrap it, use it, and toss it. Now most planes have soap dispensers. Certainly less charming, but a hell of a lot-more eco-friendly.
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2. Airplane food was bad. And I mean really bad. These days, I’m never that fazed by airplane food, because it is SO MUCH BETTER NOW THAN IT WAS.
   

   Believe me when I say that this is a serious improvement.

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   I remember once, when I was six years old, peeling the tin foil back from my meal and seeing an orange hemisphere floating around in dark brown sauce.
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   “What is this?” I asked my brother.
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   “A peach.”
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   “Yeah, but what’s it in?”
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   “Gravy.”Dear god, I kid you not: there was a peach FLOATING IN GRAVY. Twenty-five years later, that venture into culinary purgatory still haunts me. (Granted, most airlines don’t even serve food nowadays, but I still think that’s an improvement. At least they aren’t scarring people for life.)
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3. There was a smoking section. ON THE PLANE. Which, of course, was right next to the NON-SMOKING SECTION. And wouldn’t you know it, that pesky smoke would never stay on its half of the plane.
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4. There were pillows and blankets everywhere. Seriously, economy class looked like a harem. Sometime in the last few decades, though, I think someone finally realized that no one was washing the damn things, and that the blankets were harboring diseases that pre-dated manned flight. So we bid adieu to pillows and throws along with the illusion of comfort. On the plus side, we substantially reduced our chances of dying of consumption.
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5. You weren’t charged for extra luggage. Or, at the very least, it was rare. I remember, on my trip during my youth, traveling with approximately seven carry-ons.
   

   Pssh. In my day, I had three times this much luggage.

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   Another time, I boarded a plane with a Rubbermaid tub that vaguely resembled, in both shape and dimensions, a coffin (I swear it wasn’t even considered oversized). And I met a guy who told me that when he left for college (some 20 years ago), he was told by one agent that his bag was too big and he couldn’t take it. So he said okay, walked down a ways, and plopped it on the conveyor belt with no problem. I don’t know how these things happened. But they did.
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6. We kept our shoes on. It’s true, kids: we really did. And our belts. And if we set off the metal detector, we simply removed the offending item, plopped it on the x-ray machine, and went through the metal detector again. No pat-downs. No weird blue naked images viewed by a lonely, underpaid TSA worker. Nope. You might have a metal-detecting wand waved over some of your squishier parts, but that was it.
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7. There was one movie, and to watch it, you had to buy headphones. When I was a child, the price sounded astronomical – something like $3 a person – so we’d never end up getting the ear buds. We’d just crane our necks in an attempt to see the one screen near the front of the plane, and try to discern the plot by failed attempts at lip-reading. Nowadays, on international flights I have my own screen.
   
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   Sure, it’s great, but where is the poetry? Where is the hardship that made us appreciate existence? Sometimes I watch the screen without headphones on so I can remember what it feels like to be alive.
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8. The airlines would hand out medicine. Just tell the flight attendant (or, as we called them back then, stewardesses and stewards, the latter of which was a rare sight) you had a headache, and you’d get tiny little packages of Tylenol in return. It stopped sometime in the late 80s, when someone realized the practice was expensive and highly litigious.
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9. You had to call to book a ticket. That’s right: you had to speak to an actual person. Comparing prices required making SEVERAL telephone calls. And then – get this – you’d have to go to the airport to pick up your ticket, or have it mailed to you (really, kids, I’m not making this up). Once, I nearly missed a flight because the airline mailed my ticket late. I finally got it, a few hours before we were supposed to leave. And – wait for it – THIS WAS IN 2005. YEAH.
   
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10. You could pack whatever the heck you wanted. A friend came to visit me sometime in the late 90s. After he disembarked, he was having trouble undoing his bag, which he’d secured with twine. So he reached into his carry-on and PULLED OUT A THREE-INCH-BLADE WITH WHICH HE CUT THE string. He then stared at his knife and remarked, “It’s kind of weird that they let me travel with that, huh?”
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    And, oh, the liquids in our bags were plentiful. Our carry-ons sloshes and splashed with all the  shampoos and lotions and soaps we had in there, in quantities far exceeding 3 ounces.

Sigh. Those were the good old days. When flights included a little plastic pair of aviator wings that would inevitably poke you in the finger. When you could take whatever you wanted on a plane with you.  When you could hoard tiny soaps to your heart’s content.

Don’t leave me floating on a cloud of nostalgia by myself. What memories do you have about flying that would seem absolutely foreign to kids today?

I expect my tea to be served warm, with a bit of milk and sugar. I expect it to rain at least half of the time I’m in the city. I expect cab drivers to call me “love” or “miss” instead of the dreaded “ma’am.”

And, damn it, if I find myself on Knightrider Street, I expect David Hasselhoff to be hanging around somewhere close by.

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Or at the very least, I expect to encounter some sort of cardboard cut-out of him. I at least deserve that.

BUT THERE WAS NO DAVID HASSELHOFF ON KNIGHTRIDER STREET, cardboard or otherwise.

And there sure as hell wasn’t any sign of KITT. It was just a regular old street:

Not pictured: ANY SEMBLANCE OF KNIGHT RIDER.

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Thus, I experienced one of the bigger disappointments of my travel career. Oh, and don’t think this place yielded anything, either, because it so did not:

False advertising.

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WTF, London? What’s the point of even having a Knightrider Street if the Knight Rider is nowhere to be found? Not cool. Not cool at all.

(Apparently, though, the street was a shooting location for a 1969 episode of Dr. Who. While it’s no Michael Knight, that’s still pretty awesome.)

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I have a confession. It’s kind of a doozy. Are you ready? Here goes …

I don’t love chocolate.

Hey, where are you going? Hello… ? Wait … what is that?

Is that a straight jacket? OH DEAR GOD WHY DO YOU HAVE A STRAIGHT-JACKET?

No, no – don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. The point is, I’m not wearing that thing. I haven’t gone completely bonkers, okay? Plenty of people don’t like chocolate. Courtney Love recently went on a rant about how she can’t touch the stuff.

Okay, fine. I realize that example doesn’t really work in my favor.

It’s not that I hate the stuff. I appreciate a good s’mores, and I can make a chocolate cake that will literally make your head spin (provided you eat it while swirling around in the spin cycle of my washing machine). But I’m not obsessed with chocolate. Truth be told, it gives me a headache, eating it makes me weirdly hungry for EVERYTHING IN MY FRIDGE, and frankly, I prefer vanilla.

There. I said it.

What? No, NO I DO NOT THINK THAT LAST STATEMENT MAKES ME A RACIST.

And yet, despite all of my reservations against chocolate, I enjoyed the Theo Chocolate Factory Tour. While my friend Katie was visiting Seattle from California, we decided to check it out. Though I had had Theo chocolate before, I’d never been to their plant (which is located in the quirky little hood of Fremont), so I braced myself for awesomeness of Willy Wonka-esque proportions.

In that respect, I was pretty bitterly disappointed. There are no Oompa-Loompas. I repeat: there are no Oompa-Loompas (there is a petite woman manning the front counter, but she is not orange and refused to sing, despite several requests).

But we did get to wear hair nets, so there’s that.

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Our tour guide was a cheerful woman who was incredibly sweet, upbeat, and competent. She explained that most chocolatiers in the U.S. aren’t chocolate makers – they are merely chocolate melters. Melters purchase their chocolate already made and then melt it, adding in flavorings and ingredients.

Theo however, is a chocolate maker – meaning they handle every step of the creation of their chocolate from bean to bar.

Step 1: Beans. Step 2: ???? Step 3: Profit.

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And yes, they let you sample everything. It was quite lovely right up until it gave me a raging headache.

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The tour took us right on to the factory floor where we encountered giant tubs of cocoa beans:

Must. Resist. Urge. To. Dip. Hands. Into. This.

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And where this cheerful fellow was scraping melted chocolate out of a machine:

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We gained all sorts of knowledge that’s useful to have during chocolate-themed trivia nights (of which there are none). Like how white chocolate isn’t really chocolate (which, not to brag, but I already knew). And that chocolate is actually a fermented food. That’s right: the beans used to make chocolate are left to ferment for about a week (don’t dwell on the thought).

We even found out why some chocolate “blooms” (you know, those weird white smudges on the surface of the chocolate) – if it is heated improperly, or stored in conditions that are too warm or too humid, the cocoa butter separates out, and leaves white traces on the surface of the chocolate.

Fear not: if this happens, it is still safe to eat. I repeat, you can still eat your bloomin’ chocolate.

The tour walked us through the entire chocolate-making process. Here’s the abbreviated version:

1. Cocoa beans arrive from the growers, already fermented. A machine called “the destoner” (heh) cleans the exterior, and the beans are then roasted.
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2. A machine called the winnower removes the husks, and reduces the beans into little shrapnel-like nibs, which are crushed into a paste.
   

   Katie shows off her nibs.

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3. The paste is further smoothed by going through a mill, and then goes into a mixer where sugar and/or milk powder are added.
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4. A machine called the refiner reduces the particle size of the sugar, so the chocolate won’t be gritty. It is then oxidized in another machine, making it less acidic.
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5. Next, it goes into a huge canister known as the Holding Tank, which is where I think Augustus Gloop finally ended up.
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6. A tempering machine heats the chocolate to just the right temperature, forming a bond between cocao butter and cocoa solids as impenetrable as that between Starsky and Hutch.
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7. Inclusions – like bits of cookie or fruit, are added at this point (and no, the folks working there are NOT open to suggestions, like “steak” or “Fritos.” Spoilsports.). The chocolate is sent to a machine which will pour it into molds, which are sent through cooling tunnels.
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8. BOOM. The chocolate bars are done, and can be wrapped and shipped off. Any chocolate that is visually flawed, but otherwise perfect, will be used as samples in the factory tour.

The finished product, some of which, rather inexplicably, are covered with vampires despite it being the middle of spring.

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The tour took us about 45 minutes, and includes a discount for any of the handmade confections on sale in the store. Plus, you get to try nearly every single chocolate bar that Theo makes. It’s perfect for a chocolate lover.

And for a gal who’s merely a chocolate liker? Well, I got a kick out of it, too. And lots of free samples. And a headache. But let’s not dwell on that last part.

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The Essentials on the Theo Chocolate Factory Tour:

• Verdict: Yes. It’s not a must-see, but if you’ve already hit up Seattle’s touristy hot-spots, this place is worth a stop (especially if you love chocolate).
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• How to Get There: Personally, I drive (there’s free parking right adjacent to the factory), but you can also take the bus (the 28 will get you to Fremont, and you can walk through the little downtown area to the factory.)
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• Ideal for: Rainy days (the tour is entirely indoors); foodies; chocoholics
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• Insider tips: Call ahead to book your tour, as they often fill up WEEKS in advance. Be sure to wear close-toed shoes, and be warned: it can get a little warm on the factory floor. Also, leave yourself some time to tour Fremont, because it’s a great part of town.
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• Nearby food: One of my favorite restaurants – Revel – is right next door to Theo (but note that they are closed from 2pm to 5pm and get quite crowded). Fremont also has a bunch of decent Thai places, and a stellar cake shop.
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• Good for kids? Very little ones will have a hard time with the tour. You’re not allowed to touch anything, and the path you must follow is clearly marked. There’s no running around, so if you are under the age of 10, this place will just be an hour or so of boredom, punctuated by too-bitter-for-your-infant-tongue chocolate samples.

Mmm ... "mit hackfleisch!"

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I’m not a big shopper.

Hold on just a sec, will you? My husband is reading over my shoulder, and has started laughing so hysterically at my opening sentence that I need to make sure he’s not gonna hyperventilate.

Yeah, apparently, he’s fine. The jerk.

But still, his convulsive fits of laughter have me thinking that I should correct myself. I am a big shopper. But I’m not a big buyer. I love going into stores and just, well, looking at stuff. That’s weird, right? But that’s how I operate. I like to browse, to hear the hum of a dozen conversations all around me, to watch patrons pick out something perfect for themselves or a loved one.

In downtown Munich, I often spend hours roaming up and down the streets that wind around the Rathaus. I usually won’t buy much, if anything at all (exceptions include: candied almonds; cakes). I just love being there. Many of the stores are inexpensive chains that you can find all over Europe, and many cities in the U.S., too (Zara, H&M, Promod). I tend to walk passed most of these. They don’t inform me about the city I’m visiting. I’ve been inside an H&M before and forgotten what country I was in. That’s not the point of travel. (Plus, if we’re going to be really honest, let me share the following with you: H&M is cheaper in the states than in Europe. Yeah. I know. It’s marvelous.)

But there are a few shopping destinations in Munich which are unique and distinct, and absolutely worth visiting.

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Manufactum

Dienerstr. 12

This German chain has 9 stores across the country, including one in the heart of Munich. It’s an upscale home and garden shop, and the products they offer are manufactured according to traditional methods; it’s like a well-curated Home Depot. The store’s website makes it clear: you will pay more for their wares, and it will be worth it.

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Near the entrance of the store is a small cafe, emitting smells of baking loaves and pungent cheeses onto the street, luring in customers. (Note to American hardware stores: please consider installing bakeries.)

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Further in, the store smells of wood and leather, the materials which compromise much of their inventory: purses, work gloves, small toys, furniture.

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It’s beautiful, but the place feels a bit stiff. I mean, check out the posture of these stuffed animals. They look like enlisted personnel standing at attention:

Also, what child wants to play with an ostrich? Ostriches are TERRIFYING.

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This doesn’t prevent Rand from adoring this place, though. Truth be told, the entire shop has a sort of rugged, masculine feel to it while still being upscale. Which, in my lovesick world, is a quality that applies to my hubby, too. Plaid shirt + elbow patches? Upscale and rugged. YES.

He was kinda upset I wouldn't let him buy a crossbow that shot suction-cup arrows (but seriously, it was 50 bucks and he was gonna shoot his eye out).

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Everything is so delightfully random and lovely. You have trouble discerning whether it’s practical or art.

There's a joke here. But being the dignified gal that I am, I won't make. Just kidding! I'm totally undignified. Ahem ... SOMEBODY'S HORNY!!!

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Indeed, it feels a lot like the Deutsches Museum.

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But here, when you touch the exhibits, no one starts screaming threats of deportation at you. I like that.

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Dallmayr

Dienerstr. 14

This place is swank. Dallmayr is a luxury grocery store located right next door to Manufactum, and I like to imagine that there are people with glamorous lives who do all there shopping on this block, have perfect teeth, and never, ever get their credit cards rejected. Their sweat probably smells like Chanel No. 5.

Since I will never be one of those people, I am content to shop alongside them, occasionally taking a whiff of rosiness that characterizes their existence.

Dallmayr dates back to the 17oo’s, but fear not: it’s changed ownership numerous times since then. (Which is a very good thing, since if there’s one thing I hate, it’s shopping in a store with a zombie proprietor. They want you to pay for everything in brains, which is only a good idea in the short term, let me tell you what.)

Rand stands next to a cheese display that exceeds our first apartment in square footage.

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Much of what they sell is prepared foods, along with a few cook-at-home grocery items, and a scotch section that made my husband’s eyes bug out (more than a gal would traditionally find attractive, but hey, I went with it).

The pre-made stuff feels distinctly German. Look at these canapes made shiny with a coating of aspic (or, as we call it in my house, “meat jell-O.”)

Fun to look at, but not particularly appetizing for me.

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And there are more kinds of ham than you will know what to do with (relax. If ever you don’t know what to do with ham, let me tell you: eating it is a safe bet.)

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This is the “salad bar”, which cracked me up. It’s true: in Germany, you can order a salad consisting entirely of meat. They are not a meek people.

VEGETABLES ARE FOR THE INFIRM.

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And then there are the sweets.

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No, I’m kidding. That’s meatloaf enrobed in pastry crust. I was just seeing if you were still paying attention. Here are the sweets:

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Rand: "Shall we head out?" / Me: "Nope. I'm gonna live here."

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There are rows and rows of them, beautifully crafted and gleaming under glass cases.

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It was nearly Easter when we visited, so there were huge displays filled with eggs and bunnies and other symbols of fertility rendered in chocolate which somehow have to do with the resurrection of Christ (I say this without judgement. If you have a religious holiday to observe, I say do with it candy).

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Oh, yes - and antlers decorate the walls throughout the store, because it is Germany, after all.

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And then Rand found his equivalent of dessert, which he was rather happy about.

There are two kinds of people in the world: Those who drink Scotch, and weaklings.

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He was like a kid in a scotch store.

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Viktualienmarkt

Viktualienmarkt 6

I love the name of this open-air food market in downtown Munich, because you can see a word that looks remarkably like “victuals” right at the start of it. It brings to mind the idea of a bunch of German hillibillies hanging out at a store, which is all kinds of delightful in my mind (“Guten tag, y’all!”). The truth isn’t quite so exciting, but it’s still worth a visit.

There’s stall after stall of meticulously organized food. Every piece of fruit is neatly stacked, every vegetable arranged in lovely, tight rows.

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Seriously, the beauty and order of the place makes my local grocery store look like something out of Mad Max.

Yes, the grapefruits are individually wrapped. Anything else would be barbaric.

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And for those of you as enamored with lactose as I am, I give you yet another giant display of cheeses:

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There’s also a few cafes where you can grab lunch (and if it’s warm enough, you can sit outside like Rand and I did). And let’s not forget the copious number of vendors selling giant gingerbread hearts with German sayings written on them in icing (which, to my American eyes looked to be vulgar proclamations about the human anatomy):

Excuse me?

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"So, I'm looking for a cookie in the shape of two conjoined penises wearing bike helmets. Gotta anything like that?"

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So there you have it: all the places at which I shop in downtown Munich. Except I don’t so much “shop” as “look at and smell the food therein.” Whatever. You get the idea. Damn, I could go for a chocolate Easter egg right now.

And speaking of awesome, here are this week’s links:

It’s so … TALL. A video depicting the evolution of Nicolas Cage’s hair. (I sincerely hope they do Travolta next.)

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While I’m not a fan of their restaurant suggestions, I’m charmed by the gratuitous cursing on the “Where the F#ck Should I Go to Eat?” website.

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Can’t help but be blown away (heh) by photographer Tadao Cern’s new series entitled Blow Job. Fear not: the site is totally suitable for work – Cern just places people in front of powerful air jets, and snaps photos of their windblown faces with hilarious results.

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The Depressed Copywriter blog is just my cup of tea (note: I take my tea black with a side of sarcasm.)

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I really hope this never comes in handy, but The Atlantic discusses how economics can save you if you are kidnapped by pirates at sea.

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My friend Dan explores our city of Seattle with a friend who’s visiting for the very first time – and sees it for himself with a fresh pair of eyes. (It’s hilarious. Read it.)

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Researchers at Cornell University have found that including visual stop sign cues in food could help people eat less, and better gauge how much they’ve consumed. Great idea! From now on, every third cupcake I eat will be red velvet.

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The New Yorker gives a play-by-play account of Facebook’s IPO this morning.

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Food blogger Ashley Rodriguez confesses to the (beautiful) mess she makes of her kitchen, and makes me like her all the more.

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A delightful collection of unscientific diagrams of sea life (via @GoSeeWrite)

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Whoohoo! That’s it for me this week. I’ll be back on Monday-morning with a wicked cake hangover. I can’t wait.

What? It could happen.

Besides, it’s not all untrue: I do have enough basic knowledge left over from high school Spanish that I can be of some help when we’re in Spain or South America. Not much, mind you, but enough to (hopefully) not get him arrested. For example, when were in Madrid he saw a sign that said señoras …

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… and he reacted thusly:

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Sorry, darling. That is incorrect. Let’s try again. Here’s another sign. What do you think it means?

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OH THANK HEAVENS, YOU ARE NOT JUST A PRETTY FACE:

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Very good, darling. I’ve never been prouder.

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Yes, yes, you are fantastic. I’m getting you a churro, Mr. Grant. Maybe even two.

Despite all the trips I’ve taken to London, I’ve managed to miss the provocative street artist’s work. On more than one occasion I’ve walked right passed his creations, failing to notice them at all. That nearly happened again this time, owing to the steak and kidney pie that was holding most of my attention.

Forgive me. The steak and kidney pie was really good (but that’s for another post).

For whatever reason, though, I managed to tear my eyes from the flaky crust and unctuous filling, and I saw it:

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It reads: “Laugh now, but one day we’ll be in charge.”

Granted, it wasn’t quite as titillating as his depiction of two police officers kissing (in Brighton), as endearing as the image of little girl losing her balloon on Southwark, and certainly not as loathed as his latest piece in Haringen.

But I was still pretty excited about it. Almost as much as that meat pie.

Who knew keeping your shoes on would be such a luxury?

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I am not a gambler. Should there be any doubts of this, note that I was in Vegas for two whole days and the greatest risk I took in a casino was ordering a savory crepe (don’t do it. Cheese is no substitute for Nutella, and anyone who says otherwise is likely trying to sell you something. Probably cheese).

But the TSA has turned me into someone who takes chances, who rolls the dice again and again, because if I win, I get a bit of humanity back. How? Via the TSA’s new PreCheck program.

The TSA’s website doesn’t offer a ton of information about how their precheck system works. But here’s what I learned:

• You must sign up for it beforehand. Rand and I did so via an online form through Alaska Airlines which had virtually no information on it. It wasn’t an agreement by any means. It just asked for our name and frequent flier numbers.
• We were eligible via Alaska Airlines because we both have status on the airline.
• In signing up for the program, we agreed to let Alaska share our flight itineraries with the TSA, along with our frequent flier numbers. (This surprised me, as I assumed the TSA already had access to this information).
• The only airlines currently participating in the program are Alaska, American, and Delta (with plans to add more this summer). They usually only offer the ability to sign up for the program to their frequent fliers. Active service members are also eligible for the program. Or you can apply for the Global Online Enrollment System; if accepted, you will automatically be eligible for the PreCheck.
• In addition to flying a participating airline, you also need to be traveling through a participating gate at a participating airport (Yeah. Lots of caveats there).
• Even if you meet all the requirements and are traveling on a participating airline at a participating airport through a participating gate, you still might not be selected. From the TSA’s website: “… no individual will be guaranteed expedited screening in order to retain a certain element of randomness to prevent terrorists from gaming the system.”
• If you are selected for PreCheck, you won’t know until you get to the gate. The airline will encode the message on the barcode of your ticket. If you are traveling with someone who has not been selected for pre-check, they don’t get to ride your coattails.

Based on all of this, it seems highly improbable that anyone would be selected. But if The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy taught me anything (besides that I should always take a towel) it’s this: highly improbable is not the same as impossible.

And so, on our flight down to Vegas, flying Alaska and departing through SeaTac, the improbable happened, and we were selected. We were sent into a separate, shorter lane (the one folks get to use when they are frequent fliers or first class). Our IDs were checked against our tickets by an agent, and then we headed through security.

There was no line ahead of us – just a metal detector. And that’s when the TSA, for the first time in years, treated us like normal people. Here’s how:

• We didn’t have to remove our shoes (and thank goodness, as I wasn’t wearing socks)
• We could keep our laptops and TSA-compliant liquids in our bags.
• Sweaters and like jackets did not need to be removed.
• We could keep small amounts of metal – such as that found on jewelry or belts – on.

So we tossed our bags on the conveyor belt, walked through the metal detector, stared at each other incredulously on the other side, and that was it. It took roughly 45 seconds, if that. It was like we’d died and gone to 1998. Traveling was suddenly easy. Security was a breeze. I no longer hated the TSA!

We’d hit the jackpot.

We managed to luck out again on our way back from Vegas. And this time, I was gambling big-time. I was wearing a dress.

Why is this significant? Because I am often selected for the full-body scanners. And every time I am, I opt out, and am subject to a pat-down. I was willfully walking into a situation where I might have to be patted down while in a dress. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I wasn’t going to change.

I mean it’s a really pretty dress. It’s a white dress covered in green leaves, packs beautifully, and cost me $6 at the Goodwill. And according to that dress, I’m two sizes smaller than I actually am. Besides, I’ll admit: I was kind of curious. How were they going to pat me down on my legs? The procedure is that they run their hand up your leg until they meet “resistance” so … were they going to reach up the skirt of my dress?

That sounded mortifying, but better I have it done voluntarily so I can tell others about it, then have someone else get caught off guard. Nope. The dress was staying on. I’d suddenly become a gambler.

But it didn’t matter: we were selected for PreCheck, and breezed through security in Vegas.

Of course, it doesn’t always work so smoothly.

At Newark airport this past Sunday, we were again sent through a quicker line for frequent fliers/first class passengers. I was hopeful that I could keep my shoes on (and I wasn’t wearing a dress), but soon realized we were headed towards the regular queue. And nearly everyone was being sent through the full-body scanner. The line was quickly stacking up as the agents refused to send anyone through the metal detector.

Rand was selected for the full-body scan ahead of me. He opted out, and the agent began telling him – in impatient tones – how it wasn’t dangerous, etc. Rand held up his hand gently in objection and said, “I’m opting out. Thank you.”

We have years of experience: Rand gets a pat-down in London, February 2010.

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The woman ahead of me was sent through the metal detector, but I was selected for the full-body scan. I opted-out, was submitted to the same speech, and then sent through the metal detector before the pat-down.

It’s ridiculously, really. I was no different that the woman in front of me, but because I’d demanded to be treated like her (to go through only the metal detector), I was subjected to more screening. The TSA punishes those who dissent. It’s creepy to think about.

It’s also disturbing to consider that, with the new TSA PreCheck, those who are eligible are usually the upper class. Think about it: if you travel a lot, you likely have the finances to do so. Most of the folks who are frequent fliers are also first class passengers (one of the perks of flying a lot) – so a strange dichotomy is created between the haves and have-nots. The three-child family who takes one trip every few years is sent struggling through security while the businessman who travels all the time breezes through.

If you fly first class, you are treated better, even by security.

Don't fret: if we ever fly first class, it's usually by mistake.

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We ended up making it through Newark fine. We are often patted down, so it was no big deal. But I’d seen what it had been like to be treated humanely by the TSA, and I was having trouble going back to how things were.

Is the TSA PreCheck worth it? Absolutely. There’s nothing to lose, really. If you don’t get selected, you’re treated like everyone else – a shoeless nobody getting their nether regions prodded by a stranger in latex gloves.

But if you do get picked for PreCheck? You get treated like a person by the TSA. Which, really, is like hitting the jackpot.