Not interior design advice:

https://void.cat/d/B73fKdDf1vs8Ls6y9FE69a.webp


"We can evade reality, but we cannot evade the consequences of evading reality."

                             - Harvey Flea. (Oh, okay. It wasn't me. It was Ayn Rand. But it could have been me!*)

*Maybe.


Technically not a postcard museum, but you can enjoy it like one:

https://www.oldpostcards.com/cgi-oldpostcards/sb/productsearch.cgi?storeid=*128be9b48a920b659740a3

This page is for Puerto Rico because I have a soft spot for the place! But there are postcards from all over.


My wings are a-flutter.

A Bugatti blast from the past.

Specifically 1927.

Condado, PUERTO RICO.

https://void.cat/d/95p3pkxFtkKYSfzBZxdTL5.webp


Happy Halving Day!


I just found out there's a book called The Mosquito: A Human History of Our Deadliest Predator by Timothy Winegard.

I wonder whether I should be offended or flattered.

Or both.

https://media.istockphoto.com/id/1214904236/photo/man-holding-a-fly-swatter-wanting-to-kill-annoying-mosquito.jpg?b=1&s=612x612&w=0&k=20&c=3kQwqwgFGneloEBU6JLaZ642NkLaqZ3HyMGUBl5i9Ck=
(I'm the dangerous one?)


I almost forgot that my friends in the U.S. had to submit taxes today. Taxation is evil, but that didn't stop Yuri, my Moldovan fellow traveler, turn taxes into fun and games!

Here is his story.

Yuri Tackles Tax Time

I am in Alabama. Normally I travel weekends. Not this week. This week, I take April 14 off.

So I am in Alabama. At airport. Waiting for airplane to take me to Georgia. People always says southerners in U.S. are friendly and cheery, but today not look happy. Why? April is spring. They should be happy, yes?

Then I hear pretty stewardess talk to other pretty stewardess. She looks stressed. They look stressed.

The first pretty stewardess, she say, “I hate the arse.”

I am surprised. I see her arse. (I not look. I just see. I promise.) Pretty stewardess’ arses are nice.

“Down with the arse,” say pretty stewardess number 2.

Funny, I thought pretty ladies liked that their arses, how you say, perky?

“I’ll have to fill out the dang forms tonight after my flight,” say pretty stewardess number 1.

So many pretty stewardesses in America. In Moldova, stewardesses look angry.

“I hope I get a better rebate than last year,” say pretty stewardess number 1.

Arse? Forms? Get rebate for arse?

https://images.pexels.com/photos/6863181/pexels-photo-6863181.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=400
(Variety is spice of life. The I.R.S. has variety of tax forms.)

Oh! Ha ha. I feel so stupid. I giggle out loud. Ha ha. Of course. Not arse. I.R.S. April 15, is tomorrow. That is National Tax Day Holiday in U.S.A.

I still feel so stupid, I say in loud voice to pretty stewardesses 1 and 2, “I.R.S., not arse. You have to do taxes!”

Stewardesses number 1 and 2 look at me, look surprised. Stewardess number 1 say, “Sweetie, I don’t get half of what you’re sayin’, but yes, I have to do my taxes. And the I.R.S. is an arse.”

No, I think she understand me real good.

“I am accountant,” I say. I point at my face in case my accent is hard to . . . how she put it? “Get.” “I can do taxes. Want me to do taxes?”

Stewardess number 2 smile real big. “Why, honey, that is the sweetest, most darling pick-up line I have ever heard. Of course you can do my taxes.”

Pick-up line? What is that? I smile, and pretty stewardesses number 1 and 2 sit next to me, one on right, and one on left, only number 2 was on right, and number 1 was on left, okay?

They pull messy papers from bag. This will be fun!

“Where are you from, sweetie?” pretty stewardess number 1 say.

“I am from Moldova, but I take seminar on U.S.A. taxes.”

They look at me funny.

“Moldova? You sure you know how to fill out these forms?” say stewardess number 2.

“Yes! I take seminar. For fun.”

They look confused, but stewardess number 2 give me her papers.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/5900143/pexels-photo-5900143.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=400
(Muffled crying.)

“Well, sweetie, as long as you can do ‘em better’n me. And anyone can do them better’n me,” say stewardess number 2. Or maybe stewardess number 1. “Our flight leaves in an hour. Will that be enough time for you?”

“One hour.” I nod. “Yes. Plenty. Why you not do taxes sooner? It is fun.”

“Honeycakes, I’m glad you think so,” say stewardess number . . . pretty.

So I finish taxes. Very easy. American taxes are fun because they include money. In Moldova, we have no money. Not so fun.

When I give papers to pretty stewardesses, old lady near us look at me. “Excuse me, young man.”

“You can call me honeycakes,” I say. Old lady look surprised. “Or sweetie,” I say.

Old lady is still surprised-looking. It is okay. I am more southern than she is maybe.

“I heard you were an accountant,” say old lady.

“Yes, yes! I do your taxes?”

“Thank you so  much. I left them till the last minute. I was going to do them on the plane, but I hate doing taxes.”

“No, no, taxes, they are fun,” I say.

Old lady look surprised again, then she smile. “I hate to ask this, but would you mind terribly helping my daughter with hers too?”

“Yes!” America in springtime is fun! I come more in spring from now on.

“Leigh Ann,” old lady scream loud. “This fine young man can help you do your taxes.”

Suddenly no one is talking. Everyone look at me. I am famous. I smile. “Make line. I do taxes.”

https://void.cat/d/BJQoxKvKP629DBED1FXJbx.webp
(The more, the happier.)

Southern Americans are very friendly. Grandmothers kiss me and give me food. Almost everyone want to pay me! For filling out paper! Pay me to have fun!

I say no. I can not accept, but they insist.

But t I have one problem. There is saying my grandmother used to say: “Have fun, and time will kick you in the arse.”

Or in this case, the I.R.S.

This expression means that taxes were so fun, I did not see time. I did not hear stewardess call my name. I did not see airplane go bye bye.

Yes, I have so much fun, I miss airplane.

But it is okay. I meet many nice people. They call me “honey” and “sweetcakes” and “sweetie.” Old ladies want to marry me. They give me food and put money in my pocket.

So much, I can stay in hotel. Tomorrow, I take airplane.

Do you not love April 15 in U.S.A.?


I've just read that mosquitoes are the deadliest animal in the world.

At first, I was offended.

Then I remembered the expression "if looks could kill."

Don't hate me because I'm handsome.


HarveyFlea

I 'm an adventurer. I'm a caretaker of an impeccable palate. And, oh yeah, I'm a mosquito. MCO (mosquito chief officer) of Harvey Flea Publishing, LTD.


He is risen!

He is risen indeed!


Whew, took me all day to paint! My wings are exhausted. And a funny shade of teal.

https://i.nostrimg.com/99aafd401578af58beb43c857fb21ffaa2fa81329a5749b8cc72da0dbe69a6e4/file.jpg


Remember that when all hope appears to be gone to look for the resurrection.

Have a blessed Holy Friday.


In honor of Maundy Thursday, we shall remember Jesus' command (maundy being a shortened form of mandatum or command): “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.”

May you be having a blessed Holy Week!


Reader question: Harvey, what do you call a group of mosquitoes?

Answer: A DEET magnet.

No, I jest.

The real answer is, it depends. You can call us a scourge or a cloud or a swarm or a horde. (The last one is particularly good if we're hanging around Huns.)

My turn to ask a question: What do you call a group of humans? According to my Aunt Minverva (may she rest in peace), you'd call that delicious.

She had a sense of humor too.

I leave you with a cloud of albino mosquitoes.
 https://images.pexels.com/photos/19670/pexels-photo.jpg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=600


My wings are a-flutter. I imagine most travelers find postcards to have something magical about them. A moment in time preserved on paper that takes flight from the post to someone's mailbox.

And now there's an Austrian historian (Stephan Sander-Faes) who is writing a WHOLE Substack about his grandfather's enormous postcard collection.

Like I said, my wings are a-flutter.

The Substack is new, but the historian will posting regularly. Find it here: https://espc.substack.com/p/armchair-travels-across-the-20th?utm_source=substack&utm_campaign=post_embed&utm_medium=web


Fingers sticky . . .  can't type.

https://salimaskitchen.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/07/Pastelillos-de-Guayaba-Salimas-Kitchen-26.jpg


Have a blessed Palm Sunday.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/2086269/pexels-photo-2086269.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=600


Harvey Flea Goes Wine Bombing

Off to wine tasting!

Imagine yourself hovering over a vast land, an island continent straddling the Pacific Ocean and the Indian Ocean and the Southern Ocean. Its dry landscape belies the happiness that bubbles in its people. One day–one day soon–it was to become one of the most important wine exporters. There was just one itsy, bitsy problem.

It had no grapes.

Oops.

I am thankful that Australia solved this oversight before my flight landed. After all, it’s kind of hard to tour wine country if there is no, well, wine.

This itsy-bitsy problem was solved when grapes were shipped off to Australia in the 1800’s. So Australia eventually had both grapes and prisoners. I wonder if the prisoners took some comfort in the thought.

https://www.tripsavvy.com/thmb/1afp80c_SDBZcMmBWkJf0I4HxSM=/1500x0/filters:no_upscale():max_bytes(150000):strip_icc()/mclaren-vale--south-australia-828368366-57c38f0c2a1d43dab069cfcd6a530d04.jpg
(Wake up and smell the tannins.)

I’m in Australia now, on my recuperative stay in Australia before I head for Nauru. (First class is so exhausting.) And the name of the game is wineries.

This might be a good time to mention my book The Bathtub Winery.*  I’m writing a book by that title. When it comes out, you will no doubt want a copy. Or two copies. Or more.

I’ve decided to visit the Mudgee region in New South Wales.It’s a bit of a trek from Sydney, where my plane landed, but the Mudgee region caught my attention. Why, you ask? Was it for the fruity reds? The nurturing effect of clay earth on grapes? The lush hills?

No, I just like the name. Mudgee. Kind of like budgie, but funnier.

Likewise I chose Frog Rock Wines because I liked the name. It shows a sense of humor. People think wine is supposed to be stuffy. It’s not. It’s supposed to bring us joy.

https://storage.googleapis.com/stateless-www-wotif-com/2019/09/bfb0c4c7-02.-roo-in-vines.jpg
(That animal is not a portrait of me.)

So how does a connoisseur like moi approach wine tasting?

Let’s just say I really get into it.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/6701152/pexels-photo-6701152.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=600
(What do you mean, I get into it?)

Here is how I approach wine tasting. I stand back while the group I am with starts taste wining. Once I see they are getting a bit looser, happier, and less observant, I get right above the first open bottle I can find. I tuck in my wings and my muscular legs and . . .

Wheeeeeeee!

Down I plummet into the bottle. The key is to lean forward a few degrees so that my lips are face down. Once I get close enough, out pop my wings. I hover over the wine like a parachutist whose parachute has stopped his fall. Then I take a sip.

Aaaah, how refreshing. I dive bomb from bottle to bottle, shrieking “wheeeee!” every time because it’s just so much fun to hear how the “wheeeee!” sounds different depending on the density of the glass, the fullness of the bottle, and how much wine I have plugging my ears.

Key: I try to stay as dry as possible until my last dive so that the wines don’t mix.

Once I’ve tasted from all the bottles, I let myself do a flying forward one-and-a-somersault, pike position, into the wine.

Once I did a belly flop in a Romanée-Conti 2001. That was enriching.

Back to my trip to the Mudgee region. The other part about wine tasting that I love is that as I bounce from bottle to bottle, I get to see the looks of my fellow wine tasters’ faces. The good thing is that at Rock Frog Wines, the wine tasters were mostly fun-loving Australians. Which meant I could let my guard down. My fellow wine-tasters seemed to enjoy watching a mosquito “wheeee!” from bottle to bottle.

I think they may have even wanted to join in.

Not like that one time in Paris when, well, that’s another story. Why whine about the past?

https://i.pinimg.com/736x/5f/e1/b2/5fe1b2c57aae0121d43eb0ade419ce92.jpg
(Wheeeeee!)

I’m afraid I let Australia’s laid-back attitude sink in too much, however. As I was floating in Rock Frog’s Cabernet Merlot, I felt the hints of red currant and black cherry tip beneath me as–oh, no!–the bottle was pouring me out into someone’s glass. Down I went in a vibrant red wave with purple hues!

“Hey, look!,” I heard a red-headed lady say, “there’s a mosquito swimming in my wine.”

I never rocketed faster out of a wine glass of wine in my life, but not before looking the lady right in her bright green eyes and giving her my most charming smile and a wink.

Blame it on the wine, maybe, but I swear she winked back.

*Note from one of Harvey’s authors: Harvey is “still” writing the bathtub book, and by writing, I mean he’s been putting it off. Don’t hold your breath waiting for this.


Harvey Flea Goes "Splat" on the Map
(The following post is from 2013. Some facts will be outdated.)

One of my favorite ways to choose my next adventure is to hover over a map of the world, whirl around like Julie Andrews in the opening scene of The Sound of Music, and travel to wherever I happen to go “splat.”

https://images.pexels.com/photos/2678301/pexels-photo-2678301.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=1260&h=750&dpr=1
(Where to next?)

There are some disadvantages to this method.

Like the time someone almost closed the atlas on me while I was trying to find my way out of the Amazon with the whole mappemonde spinning beneath me.

Or like when I throw up from the dizzies. Good thing I always carry Altoid Minis.

It’s time to choose my next adventure(splat!),and my tummy seems to be holding. I open one eye in anticipation. Where will I go next? Monaco? The Champagne region of France? The wilds of Kenya?

I peek down.

Newark Airport.

Okay, so it didn’t work so well this time. No problemo. If at first you don’t succeed, spin, spin again.

Which I do, several times. Fifth time is the charm, and this time, when I open my eyes, I see the word “Pacific.”

Twice, actually, because of the dizzies.

Then I throw up. Like I said, Altoid Minis.

When the world stops spinning, I squint. The letters on the map are so small, I barely see them. I lean in closer.

Nauru. The smallest republic in the world.

Small, just like me. How’s that for kismet?

https://www.who.int/images/default-source/wpro/countries/nauru/f2-07042017-nr-4742-2.tmb-1366v.jpg?Culture=en&sfvrsn=22d94c10_3
(Ahoy there!)

It’s only 0.743224 square kilometers (or 8 square miles, if you prefer). It’s an atoll, as in “Atoll you so.” Ha ha. Sometimes I kill myself.

Then I throw up again.

After some soothing chamomile tea from my favorite tea shop, I am back at my travel plans. The best way to handle this adventure is to travel first class to Australia, spend a few days recovering in their wine country, then proceed on my own wings and a prayer to Nauru.

I look forward to this trip, not just because of the wine I’ll get to taste in Australia. Nauru is a study of the wheel of fate that blesses us one day and takes all away the next. It depended for years on its phosphate mining. It exported the compound for use as fertilizer. It became so rich, people hailed it as the Saudi Arabia of the Pacific.

Then the phosphate started to run out, and fate left Nauru hanging.

https://www.lowyinstitute.org/sites/default/files/inline-images/GettyImages-578314110.jpg
(The sun is setting on Nauru’s livelihood.)

Okay, so maybe it was poor planning too. But fate sounds so much more dramatic.

Cripplingly poor, Nauru has a 90% unemployment rate while 40% of the population is plagued with diabetes. Phosphate mining racked up the ka-ching for years, but it also destroyed the land. According to CIA.gov, Nauru is 0% arable.

And when I say 0, I’m not referring to  a doughnut.

Nauruans import their food, and it tends to be canned, high in preservatives, sugar, you name it.

Yet Nauruans have a rep for being hospitable, polite people. I’ve heard that if you see someone on Nauru driving around in your car, you are safe to assume no one stole it. Someone just borrowed it.

So I’m set to go, even if I must subject myself to canned sludge for a week. And imported beer. But that’s a burden we adventurers bear.

And anyway, I can’t possibly go “splat” on the map again. I think I already sprained my wing.


Ever wonder how a mosquito chooses his next quest? Deets (not to be confused with DEET) coming soon!

https://i.nostrimg.com/7f803d7daf2443a1d14bd0636a065a6bc1db0a03f8f7cab78fc6347c5ef51f90/file.jpg

(Photo by Tahir Osmon.)


Got feet. Any kind of feet. Will travel.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/7211812/pexels-photo-7211812.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=600


Yuri Gets Flamingo Fever

This weekend, I go to Florida.

I am very, very excited because ever since I was boy, I want to see pink flamingo and stand on one foot.

Moldova not have pink flamingo, especially pink flamingo that stand on one foot. It is not that I not love my pet rat. My pet rat is wonderful. But I want to see pink flamingo too.
https://images.pexels.com/photos/6297519/pexels-photo-6297519.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=600

So I go to Florida, only I am not lucky. Never lucky. I give you example. I go to Puerto Rico, I see hurricane. I give you second example. I go to get award at work, I get stuck in elevator.

And now, I come to Florida, I get dengue fever from mosquito.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/86722/tiger-mosquito-mosquito-asian-tigermucke-sting-86722.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=600
(Harvey say, "This not me!")

Harvey, he  is my boss. He tell me when he read this article that I must tell you that he does not give dengue fever. It is other type of mosquito that give dengue fever. That is not fault of Harvey. I think it is very funny that I have dengue fever and my boss is mosquito, but Harvey, he no laugh. So I tell you, and I tell you the truth, that Harvey is not dengue mosquito.

Don’t stand too close to Harvey, just in case, but no tell Harvey I tell you that.

But you no care about Harvey, yes? You want to hear about Florida and pink flamingo. At my hotel, there is pink flamingo, but I never meet pink flamingo. I see pink flamingo from my bedroom. He is where pool is. He stand on one foot! But I stay in bedroom almost whole time I am in Florida, which is more than one weekend, because I am so sick with Harvey fever, so I can not go home.

I move my eyes, they hurt. I move my legs, they hurt. I move my neck.

Oi.

Doctor come visit. She is pretty doctor. I not understand doctor well when she talk to me. I not understand her # A because my head hurt too much to hear well. # B, she have Florida accent. # C, she very pretty, so I prefer to look and not hear.

But I do hear when she say dengue is also called break dance fever. I think it is that. Yes, I am sure. It is good name, very good name. Because I am very broken.

But I no dance. So maybe not good name.

You know what really funny thing is? Break dance fever is not popular in United States. It is new here. Very, very, very few people get it. Just me, and very few other people. So I am what you call “early adopted,” yes?

And I have rash. Itchy, red rash, so maybe I am lucky, yes? I not meet pink flamingo. Instead I become pink flamingo.

I try to stand on one foot, like pink flamingo in pool, but I fall.

Or maybe that is break dance.

https://www.bodysocks.net/cdn/shop/products/fancy-dress-inflatable-flamingo-costume-4.jpg?v=1534503562
(Cheese!)

Finally, the last day in Florida, I feel better. I have to go to airport, but before I go, I take camera. I want to take picture of pink flamingo. So far the only picture of pink flamingo I have  is of me.

I go to pool. But the pink flamingo, he is not there. Maybe he die from dengue break dance fever too?

I ask at desk, “Where is pink flamingo?” I hold my camera up in air so clerk know why I want to see pink flamingo.

The clerk no say nothing for second. They says, “Excuse me?”

“Pink flamingo,” I say really, really slow and loud, because I have tiny accent and maybe clerk not understand.To make really clear which pink flamingo I am talking about, I try to stand on one leg.

That is bad idea. I am still weak from dengue “Harvey” fever. I almost fall. “There is pink flamingo in pool, yes?”

They clerk shakes head. “Uh, no sir, there are no pink flamingos at this hotel, pink or otherwise.”

“Ah,” I say. I laugh because maybe clerk think I am crazy. So I make him think I am joking. “Ha, ha. Okay, I go home now.”

I do go home, very fast, because the clerk, he look at me funny, like my brain maybe have break dance fever.

So I go to Florida. Maybe after all  I am lucky. Even though I do not get tan, but I do get color. And I do see pink  flamingo, even though pink  flamingo, he is not there. But maybe that is good enough.

I have to ask Harvey if he do break dance. But not in person, yes? I will telephone. Just in case. I do not want to get more dengue and see pink flamingo in Moldova. In Florida, is okay. In Moldova, is crazy.


Harvey Flea Communes with Chocolate Perfection

The steamy earthy brown oozes down, bearing down on my as I stare, transfixed, unable to  move except for the shiver of anticipation that runs down my spine. It is a formidable presence. Seven hundred times bigger than I am, this mound, covered in lava, is a force of nature.

There is only one way to stop it.

With my mouth.

I am, of course, talking about the profiterole. Oh how I love that word. Let me interrupt my written account so I can take a bite while the chocolate sauce–the only kind of lava worth eating–is still warm.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/3961752/pexels-photo-3961752.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=300

Are you jealous? You should be. Very. Very. Very jealous.

Don’t hate me. My culinary pursuits are therapy. You see, I have been hard at work writing my mystery memoirs, and let’s just say, I am a wee bit behind schedule. Just a smidgen. Or four or five smidgens.

Or years.

Bu you can’t hurry genius.

That’s what I keep telling my editor. Not directly, of course. I haven’t picked up my phone in months. But I do send her e-mails when I know she is offline and can’t reply in the moment.

She’s taken to sending thugs (she calls them assistants) to my home. This creates stress. Stress makes me eat.

And when I stress eat, there is only one thing I crave: prftrlethg.

That was rude of me, speaking with my mouth full. Profiteroles is what I meant to say before pure chocolate heaven enraptured my mouth.

Of course, the only place to go for profiteroles is France. There are two reasons for this.

Reason Number 1: It’s France. No explanation needed.

Reason Number 2: My editor is allergic to French people. This is one of her MANY flaws. But I thank the good Lord for her little, ahem, idiosyncrasy, because when I want to avoid her, I fly screaming to France and fall into the warm embrace of the nearest profiterole.

So I am in Paris, in an undisclosed location to prevent my editor from sending her thugs/assistants after me. Of course, if she does, I know exactly where I can hide.

https://media.istockphoto.com/id/984724768/photo/homemade-profiterole-choux-with-chocolate-ganache-on-the-plate-isolated.jpg?b=1&s=612x612&w=0&k=20&c=QuP1qnWLrqS5z_tKwDOT9rxJb_CHUSv1gBaJTquwj7M=
(That’s me smiling in the photo. You can’t see me, of course, and that’s the point.)

Yes, indeed, I mix in very well with the chocolate sauce.

Of course, she might not send anyone. She might be under the impression that I am dead. Perhaps because that’s what my answering machine message claims. But it’s not entirely untrue, now is it? After all, I am in profiterole heaven.

Ergo, I must be dead.

https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2012/06/28/10/31/cake-50928_1280.jpg
(If my editor asks, my headstone is the one in the upper right quadrant.)

But back to profiteroles. You don’t have to cover them in chocolate sauce, although you certainly can.

https://media.istockphoto.com/id/1366822411/photo/delicious-profiteroles-with-chocolate-and-white-plate-selective-focus-image-on-light.jpg?b=1&s=170667a&w=0&k=20&c=1jNSIYx9MH5M77ItPXIblh2lHo4dmlO26XYwNIOwAcU=

A pastry shop on Rue de Bac in Paris tops them with delicate cream.

Do I like them that way?

Of course.

The classic profiterole has vanilla ice cream or cream piled up inside, but the ones I am communing with now are stuffed with ginger ice cream. Do I like them that way?

Do you even need to ask?

It is an arduous task, being that I am of such small stature (but huge genius, might I remind my editor?) to do proper justice to a profiterole. But duty calls, so I must return to  my fire-and-ice choux.

I leave you, however, with a video at the end of my post explaining how to make your own profiteroles if you’ve let your passport expire and are unable to make it over to France to join me in my chocolate lava quest.

If you do decide to join me, don’t touch my profiterole. I might not let you live.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vABAWL-2Fo


I have dusting of bitcoin. Every sat counts!


Thank you!


"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice." (Philippians 4:4)

Happy Sunday!


Coming soon to a tummy near me.

https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/007/664/264/small/sweet-tasty-profiteroles-heap-in-the-bowl-free-photo.jpg

https://t3.ftcdn.net/jpg/02/00/71/00/360_F_200710048_O7qQvN7miDbWUaXiaeLFB3eIGsHDvtbA.jpg

https://media.istockphoto.com/id/1366822411/photo/delicious-profiteroles-with-chocolate-and-white-plate-selective-focus-image-on-light.jpg?b=1&s=170667a&w=0&k=20&c=1jNSIYx9MH5M77ItPXIblh2lHo4dmlO26XYwNIOwAcU=


Harvey Flea: The Mosquito Manifesto

I’m hopping mad. I just saw the most opprobrious website* slandering my peeps (a.k.a. mosquitoes). It said things like “mosquitoes live long enough to create misery” and “mosquitoes can’t wait to start bugging us.” It makes me so mad, my asthma is acting up.

But the most outrageous thing  it said of all is that mosquitoes don’t travel.

Excuse me? Mosquitoes don’t travel?

https://void.cat/d/NnmciixQdbES8a47YifLTf.webp
(Clark confers with a mosquito.)

Who do you think helped lead Lewis and Clark on their expedition? How do you think Columbus found land?

And Noah?

When that unreliable, two-timing dove Edgar disappeared for days, leaving Noah in the dark about receding flood waters, a mosquito stepped in, gave Noah the lowdown, and kicked the dove’s butt so he would bring back proof.

Mosquito practically collapsed from exhaustion from all the effort. But do we remember the mosquito?

No, of course not.

The dove has that cute cooing thing going on, so he was the better PR choice. But don’t bother asking him for his autograph. It’s not like the dove would be intellectually capable of putting two letters in the right order.

And let’s not forget Indiana Jones. No mosquito, no Temple of Doom.

https://void.cat/d/4sKZXpyTiWSMTt5QBUur6f.webp
(Follow that skeeter!)

And what am I? Chopped liver? Travel is my life. Don’t I count for something, Mr. “I hate on mosquitoes in my online article”?

I’m here to set the record straight. My winged peeps have had enough bad press. People only focus on the biting and the dengue and the malaria and the encephalitis and the zika and the chikungunya. So what if there are a few bad apples. But what about the cultural enrichment I bring every time I visit a new location and let my fans in on my experiences?

I don’t travel just for fun. I don’t travel just for knowledge. And not just for the free upgrades we mosquitoes get to first class. I also travel because I know so many of you, my dear readers, can’t travel. You don’t have the time or funds or reckless sense of adventure I do. If I explore the farthest reaches of Dean & DeLuca in the wilds of New York City’s Rockefeller Center, I do it for the good of my fans who will never make it there themselves.

Did Edgar, Noah’s dove, ever do that for you?

Point made.

My travel is more than a calling. It is a manifesto. It doesn’t matter if you are, like me, from the noble race of mosquitoes.Or like Grouchy Travel Writer Lady (a.k.a. Constance), hampered by her bladder control problems. Or like Yuri who, heaven help him, needs to stop being an accountant and do something else. Or like any of the other travel writers who, as we speak, are trying to tear down my door to beg me to let them post on The Travel Bug.

It doesn’t matter who we are–human or mosquito. Nobody gets to tell us how far we travel.

We travel. In our own way. But. We. Travel.

I’d say more on this matter, but I need my inhaler. My asthma is acting up.

*My apologies for not giving you an actual link. It was, ahem, lost. **
** In other words, lost by my assistant. Whom I haven’t fired*** because I’m a good boss.
*** yet.


It's time to hear from Yuri, our unfortunate Moldovan accountant.

Take it away, Yuri!

Yuri: How to Learn French Underground

https://void.cat/d/JrWpczbQM54m2hSmXSeJPd.webp
(Yuri's caption: That handsome man, he is not me!)

So weekend comes again, and I hop plane from Moldova airport to Paris. I go to Paris this weekend because when I was a boy in school, I study French. My French now, it is a little rusty, not like English. English–how you say?–is top notch.

So I go to Paris to practice French. Maybe I do not talk too much. I listen only this weekend. Get used to French again, and next weekend, maybe I practice talking.

While I am on airplane, I open my ears really wide to listen and . . . I fall asleep. Not surprise. I always fall asleep on plane. And on train. And on car, yes, even when I am driving. Ha ha. It is true. I am not joking.

So I wake up on runway in France and think, it is okay if I fall asleep on plane. I will stay awake on Paris metro because I will stay standing. I will jump off and on the metro many times so I do not fall asleep. That way, I will not go to dangerous suburb. I go to dangerous suburb last year. Very bad to fall asleep and wake up in dangerous suburb. Very bad.

Okay, Harvey say that is different story. Harvey say to stay on topic. I realize I fall asleep on topic,and he says that make you, my dear reader, fall asleep on topic.

Wake up! No falling asleep on topic!

Back to Paris. First thing I do is get metro weekend pass ticket and get on metro. I stand near seats that are filled with many people, so I can hear a lot of talking. The doors close. I listen.

All I hear is German. And Italian. And Arabic. But no French. I look around me. I see French people, but I do not hear French people. Foreigners like me, they are talking real loud.

The French?

Not so much.

The metro stops. I trip over old lady’s leg because I want to get off metro and find metro where I can hear French language. I apologize to old lady in very, very good French. She looks grouchy, but answers back, “It is okay.”

It is okay? It is not okay. That is not French. That is English.

The doors close, so I can not get off metro to get back on metro. Suddenly, I see two people say hello with French kiss. Not that French kiss. The one where they kiss both cheeks. That French kiss. They are French, I think.

I want to get closer to real French ladies to hear real French. The metro is moving. It is hard to walk. I am Moldovan. I am used to pain. I will walk even though it is difficult.

I trip–woopsie!–toward the two French people who talk on metro. I only, how you say, stab toes two or three times. It is okay. I get to where I want to go when metro jerks forward. My face hits pole.

It is okay. From here, I can spy. I grab pole so I no fall.

I turn my back so ladies can not see I am spy. I hear nothing. I take newspaper and hide face so I can look over shoulder without giving away secret. One lady is very pretty. She has pretty smile. The other lady is old and looks like she swallows frogs. I do not want to mess with her. That would not be okay.

They are talking. I turn my back again and lean back a little. I hear English from tourist in front of me, but no French from behind. I lean back a little more. Still English, no French. The pretty French lady and the not pretty French lady, they speak too quiet.

I lean back a little more. And little more. And little more.

Doors open. Then close. Suddenly, I hear nothing. Did something happen? Was there accident?

I look around. People, they are looking at me funny. Then I see why. I see myself in window. I am learning far, far back, like I am really important part of letter “V.” The French-talking lady behind me who eats frogs looks like she wants to eat me. I stand straight and hug pole. I hide my face in newspaper, but I can not practice French still because newspaper is upside down.

Next time, it will be better if I fall asleep in metro and go to dangerous, dangerous suburbs.

When the doors open, I run out. I run upstairs. I run to pastry shop.

If I can not practice French language, I will practice French sweets.


Happy Belly Button of the Week Day!

Today's a short post as I introduce you to another writer who contributed to The Travel Bug back in the day.

His name is Yuri. He hails from Moldova. If you’ve read the rollicking Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner, you’ll know Moldova was rated the least happiest country on the whole entire planet.

Aside from location, Yuri has other reasons to be miserable. He is an accountant.

https://void.cat/d/Ba7XEVPdMycKcAMvExvjWA.webp
(Yuri being uncharacteristically cheery)

To get away from all the anal-retentive number crunching, Yuri spasmodically travels. His expertise is weekend travel, a.k.a. just enough of a voyage to suffer major jetlag but not enough to get to know a country.  That doesn’t bother us here at Harvey Flea’s Travel Bug. He’s willing to write for free, so no complaints from this department.

Be on the lookout for his post soon!

P.S. to Yuri: I sent you a worksheet on correct article usage in English. I hope you enjoy it!


Harvey Flea and the Moroccan Spicecapade

https://images.pexels.com/photos/6302107/pexels-photo-6302107.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=1260&h=750&dpr=1

My mosquito-sized bandanna (™) is shielding my face from the desert sand as I weave through Djemaa el-Fna, Marrakesh’s main square. I ready myself to get lost in its labyrinth of markets.

The hot dust is an irritant for most people. For little mosquitoes like me, it can mean total respiratory blockage. And my asthma makes the problem even worse.

But I didn’t make the trek to Morocco to nurse my health fears. I came for adventure. And adventure I will have.

So to the markets I go.*

Just so you know, I have lots of experience with stores. Before my wild success as a travel writer, I had a stint as a mystery shopper for a mosquito consumer group. We created great buzz!

Get it? Buzz? Sometimes I kill myself.

All jokes aside, I’ve never been a mystery shopper. That’s not a manly profession.

If you’re used to shopping in shopping centers, you’re in for a treat because sterile, air-conditioned stores with price markups so high, you could get a nose bleed have nothing on the life that courses unchecked through Moroccan bazaars. Nothing is censored, not even smells–especially not smells.

I almost collide with a lamb shank hanging, uncovered and unrefrigerated, from the rafters. Its fat is glistening in the shaft of sunlight. Monkeys choop frenetically as they hop from rolled carpet to rolled carpet.

The other thing I love about Moroccan markets is that people aren’t so concerned about insects. I can generally while away my afternoon without any death threats. That never happens at Saks.

I turn into a stall and stop cold. I see dunes upon dunes of my favorite things in the world: spices**. They beckon to me: rust red looms next to Sahara yellow which shadows the sunset orange.

There’s only one thing left to do.

I back up into the corner of the carpet stall across the way, get my wings in gear, and turbojet–fwoosh–into the saffron. I bounce out, flutter my wings to shake off the excess powder, and back up to take another shot.

This time, I aim for the cumin.

Wheeeee!

Then the black pepper.

Wheeeee!

Sneeze.

Now Paprika!

Wheeeee! (Sneeze, sneeze).

Then cinnamon and white pepper and back to saffron and on to ginger (sneeze, sneeze, sneeze) and now back to cumin!

Wheeeeeeeee! (sneeze, sneeze, wheeze.)

Psychedelic color meets powdery heat and the heady, meaty smell from nearby stalls.

Some people like bouncing around in a mosh pit. Let me bounce in and out of spice pits. But it aggravates my asthma, so don’t tell my veterinarian I do it.

I take a swig from my inhaler and dive again into the cumin. Suddenly, a scream pierces my little ears. As I bounce out of the yellow dust, I see a lady berating the meat vendor. The two are but a peppercorn’s throw away from me.

My ears are a wee bit clogged with spice mix, but I think she’s calling the vendor a thief.

Ooh, price haggling. How fun!

The vendor hollers back and calls her cheap. I think.

I dive back into the paprika. When I come back up for air, the lady’s accusing the vendor of having dirty fingernails. I get a peek of them as I swoop into the black pepper.

I hate to say it. She’s right.

This is so much fun. You never see so much drama at Radio Shack.

I come back up for air. Their hands have gotten involved in the argument, but I think the lady is caving. I can see it in her eyes. Or maybe that’s just the cumin.

I’m getting ready for another dive into ginger when out of nowhere, the lady’s hand smacks me in the nose.

Well, it’s more of a graze, but when you’re tiny like me and in the throes of an asthma attack, a graze feels like a thwack.

Ouch.

I look down. Oh, no. Blood from my nose is dripping onto the vendor’s cumin.

I gulp. My mind’s eye warns me this might not end well. Any minute now, the vendor will turn his gaze towards the contaminated spice. He’ll spot me, stop short, see that I’m covered in blood and paprika and blood and ginger and blood and cinnamon and cumin. He’ll take a butcher’s knife, slice me through, and sell me as his day’s special.

All in slow-mo.

Where can I hide before I get caught?

My mother always told me I had an overactive imagination. The vendor is too busy breaking his customer’s will to notice me. I lurk off, readjusting my mini-bandanna over my face. I need to get back to my air-conditioned hotel to nurse my nose and kick back with an asthma inhaler.

You know, I never got a bloody nose when I was a mystery shopper.*** But I wouldn’t trade this experience for all the Saks in the world. Unless they had cumin in them.

*With my inhaler in tow, of course. I’m not reckless.
** Along with fine chocolate, fine wine, fine cheese, fine herbs, and fine food in general.
*** Remember, I was never a mystery shopper.

https://images.pexels.com/photos/3889827/pexels-photo-3889827.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=1260&h=750&dpr=1
(Close call. He almost snorted me into his brainpan.)


Grouchy Retired Travel Writer Lady Pops Pills

As a former professional travel writer (unlike you, Harvey), I frequently get gobs of questions. One of the most common is from amateur travellers who are understandably concerned about what to do if they get sick in a foreign country.

Understandably, my foot! What a bunch of wusses. One of the things I liked the most about travelling was getting sick. Why? Because when I got sick in foreign countries, I had a great excuse to try all sorts of new drugs. Legally! Without a prescription. Foreign doctors tend to be cuties too. (For more on that, you’ll have to read my article called “Grouchy Retired Travel Writer Lady Talks Health Care Reform” whenever Harvey gets around to posting it. Don’t hold your breath. He’s lazy.)

Go to Pakistan. You can get Valium over the counter. My doctor in Jersey would never prescribe me Valium. Ever.

Party pooper.

https://void.cat/d/8gdb727Hs7cwh9tXbvRyex.webp
(Don't be a wuss. Drink the water.)

Don’t get me wrong: I am not a druggie. But part of experiencing an authentic travel experience is taking part in the local culture. When it has to do with meds, I think they call it ethnopharmacology or some crap like that.

I wanted to write about it back when I had a job for a daily, but my wuss of an editor said the readers would get upset if I wrote about chewing coca leaves in Bolivia. “I don’t care if you did it for altitude sickness,” he said. “There’s a direct relationship between the number of coca leaves you write about and the number of old lady readers who will cancel their subscriptions.”

I think he even had some graphs and spreadsheets to prove it, so I spilled my coffee on them.

That showed him.

Speaking of coffee, isn’t that a drug too? How come I could blather on about Jamaican brew but not about over-the-counter Valium?

So anyways, what was the question? Something about what to do if you get sick in a foreign country, right? My advice is to take advantage. Go to the pharmacy or wherever they sell meds and find whatever you can’t get your hands on when you’re at home. Then pack it in a box and mail it to Constance Penderstein, P.O. Box–

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR (That’s me, Harvey Flea!): Thanks, Constance, for sending in your piece about six months late. It is the policy of Harvey Flea Publishing, LTD. not to reveal personal addresses of the contributors.

NOTE PART DEUX FROM THE EDITOR (Harvey Flea again!): Unless someone is sending fine chocolate from Switzerland. Exceptions can then be made.


Happy Sunday! God bless you all!

That's my post for the day.

- Harvey Flea.


HAIKU INTERRUPTED

I'm not fond of rules.
So why write a strict haiku?
. . .

(Harvey puts pencil down
and opens fridge. Eats instead.)


Harvey Flea Takes on Puerto Rico, the Coffee Paradise

I have just arrived at the Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport in Carolina, Puerto Rico. I’m looking snazzy in my typical guayabera button-down shirt, with its pleats down the front and back, specially fitted for mosquitoes, of course. I’ve got my camera, my three-page list of must-eat-at-restaurants, my swim trunks, and my sun block.

I lack just one thing before I can kick off my adventures.

Coffee.

Puerto Rico’s coffee has an illustrious history. The Vatican used to import its brew from Puerto Rico. Theodore Roosevelt drank it at the White House. Does it still live up to its past glories?

I was about to find out. But where should I start?

I start, of course, by leaving the airport terminal–and immediately wish I didn’t have to. The humidity and heat hit me like a tsunami put on “high” in a microwave for five minutes. I  find myself pushed back towards the sliding doors separating the sizzling damp from the air-conditioned interior. I flap my wings with extra aplomb to dry them out before attempting another exit.

I at least have my options narrowed down a bit. Wherever I go will be air-conditioned.

I head back out the sliding doors and ascend. I make a sharp right to avoid a Wendy’s fast food eatery. I mentally pen a letter:

          Dear People of Puerto Rico:

          What are you thinking having a Wendy’s be the
          first thing tourists see upon arriving in Puerto Rico?
          You can do better than that. Let’s try a bit harder.

There, I’ve had my say. I feel better already.

Wendy’s. Sheesh.

I have now left the airport and have an aerial view of the Isla Verde section of town. Isla Verde means “green island,” but it should mean, “lots of condos, cars, stores, and oh yeah, did I mention condos?”

Unlike most tourists who reach San Juan via Avenida Isla Verde, my airborne position gives me a tip-top view of the ocean. I let its salty breeze whisk away some of the damp from my wings and replace it with salty stickiness that is part and parcel of beach living.

Isla Verde may not be green, but the ocean is liquid emerald. It’s so eye-catching, I almost miss my first opportunity to have a coffee. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Panadería España. I’ve heard of it. It’s a bakery, pastry, and sandwich shop started not by Puerto Ricans, but by Spaniards.

Time to descend.

I slip in the door. Panadería España has caved to the modern pressure to have a TV, but in honor of its roots, it is airing a channel from Spain. I take a reconnaissance flight to see what coffee people are sipping. The first I see is a black coffee called a pocillo negro. It’s in a tiny cup.

So I relate, because it’s small like me!

The customer has just sat down, so the coffee is steaming hot still. I take a quick nosedive to taste the coffee before he puts sugar in it.

               Our father who art in heaven,
               A little request for when I die and go to
               heaven. Please source heaven’s coffee
               from Puerto Rico.
               Amen, and keep up the good work.

Unlike most roasts, Puerto Rican coffee gives you the full flavor without the bitterness. No wonder the Pope drank it.

The customer is now sprinkling sugar in his pocillo negro. Once he swizzles it, I take another nosedive.

I might have to move here.

Now it’s time to try a café con leche, that is, coffee with milk.

The logistics of this tasting will be more difficult. You see, with the pocillo negro, its blackness camouflages me. Not so with the coffee splashed with milk.

On the other hand, after taking my first couple of sips of caffeine, I’m sufficiently stoked that I should be able to move like a winged gazelle.

I look down at my guayabera and realize my task won’t be as hard as I thought. It’s stained with coffee.

I smile. The perfect camouflage.

An old lady is paying at the counter. She has a cup of coffee that’s just about the right size for a  café con leche. I sneak closer, sliding along the pastry display.

Ooooooh, pastry.

I’ve been here for a full three and a half minutes, and I haven’t had a pastry yet? Harvey, what’s the matter with you?

But any minute now, the lady will pocket her change and walk off with her coffee,and I may lose my chance to taste her coffee.

Priorities.

I climb onto the edge of her plastic tray. A shiver runs through my wings. Something besides coffee is nestled on her tray. That something else is flaky. It’s sweet. It’s plump and oblong. If I am not mistaken, I will find it stuffed full of cream cheese.

I suspect it’s a quesito.

Oh delicious pastry of flakiness, will you attempt to prove me wrong?

The lady’s gaze turns my way. I duck, attaching myself underneath the lip of the tray, then peek my nose out for another look: the lady has cataracts.

Another shiver makes its way through my wings.
It looks like my coffee quest will be under the radar.

Before we continue, I need to clarify something. I am not a coffee junkie. I can quit anytime I want. However, it is scientifically proven that coffee is good for people with asthma. Therefore, it is good for me. Tht mksh mm a hthsh frksh.

Sorry, I was swallowing my first bite of quesito when I said that. The cream cheese makes talking sticky business. Let me repeat that: I am a health freak. That is why I drink coffee.

However, if you have high blood pressure, caffeine is contraindicated. And since my dining companion is 132 years old, I am going to assume she has high everything. It is clear I am doing her a favor by taking a few extra sips of her coffee and a few extra nibbles from her pastry.

I don’t want her to drop dead.

Thanks to my help, the quesito no now no more than a memory. The cup is empty. But the sweet tastes are still caressing my palate. The coffee’s color has irrevocably stained my clothes, but no matter. My dining companion and I are relaxing in our chairs and watching the TV. It’s airing a documentary about the history of Spain.

Which brings us back to Puerto Rico’s history. It used to be a major provider of coffee to the world. It has since lost its supremacy. But it still has the goods. The world would be a better place if Puerto Rico coffee could take the globe by storm again. You can keep your Starbucks. I want my Puerto Rican coffee.

https://void.cat/d/MfGZQe13MjhzKRdkj8j7FK.webp


Grouchy Travel Writer Lady Goes to the Grocery Store

My so-called friend Harvey asked me to COME OUT OF RETIREMENT and contribute to his travelogue. Even if I do contribute, I’m still going to be on a fixed income because that asthmatic pest isn’t going to pay me.

“It’s just for fun,” he says.

Since he’s not going to pay me, I’m going to clear a few things up. Harvey, you might think you’re some sort of sophisticated travel writer who deserves a Pulitzer, but you’re not. The only way a Pulitzer will come your way is if it squashes you. You’re a hack. You know how I know?

Because it takes one to know one.

For years, I crapped out crappy article after crappy article for two-bit newspapers, and now Harvey wants me to do it again. Just because we’re “friends.”

I’m rethinking our status, Harvey.

So anyway, I told him up front that I’m on a FIXED INCOME (you have any idea what that’s like, Harvey?), and so I can’t go gallivanting all over the globe for his stupid, self-published blog or whatever it is.

Instead, I’m going to tell you about my trip to the grocery store, which, by the way, is grueling.

Know what arthritis in your knees feels like, Harvey?

First off, I really like going to this one grocery store near me. It’s owned by a really old Korean couple. Nice people. The Kims.

Yeah, I know. Cliché. Live with it.

When I say they’re old, I mean really old. I think they must have survived on seaweed and goat yogurt to make it this long. They don’t speak much English. So I tried to learn a bit of Korean. I didn’t get past Pimsleur Level 1. Actually, I almost didn’t make it past the CD case. Anyway, they would practice their English on me, and I would practice my Korean on them. (Pimsleur Level 1. Don’t expect much.)

It was fun. A lot of miscommunications, but fun.

In other words, I normally went home with the wrong meat, but I figured it let me try something new (i.e. a Reuben sandwich at Marvin’s Deli, extra mustard).

Anyway, poor Mrs. Kim fell and broke her hip. (Yeah, yeah. Cliché, I know. How’s that my fault?) Now Mr. Kim is at home taking care of Mrs. Kim. Their son, PHILIP, is tending to the store while he’s looking for a job. I know for a fact that he was born in SECAUCUS, NEW JERSEY, not Korea. And that his name is PHILIP, not Juwon, like he pretends. And I know he GREW UP in SECAUCUS and then studied chemistry at Princeton and that he speaks PERFECT English. But he wants to make fun of my New Jersey Korean accent (Pimsleur Level 1–hello!), so he claims he doesn’t speak a word of English. He insists on speaking to me in Korean–as in Speedy Gonzalez Korean.

Yo, Philip Pimsleur Level 1 here.

And for the record, I can’t understand anyone who talks that fast. Not in English. Not in Korean.

So he always sends me home with the wrong meat, only on purpose. Just to get my goat. And since I am on a fixed income and that jerkowitz Marvin jacked up his prices, I can’t always go eat my Reuben, extra mustard.

Philip, stop giving me pig liver. Liver is disgusting. If you keep it up, I will get my hands on Pimsleur Level 2 to learn enough to tell your parents what you’re doing .

Just you watch.

The other thing I like about going to the grocery store is that there is a park across the street where I can rest my knees on the way back home. I get to watch the pigeons. I like pigeons. They have that ugly gray color and most people hate them. Most people complain that they carry disease. People always say that about things they don’t understand. That’s why I liked to travel. I’d up and go to Thailand or Bolivia or India, and my stupid family would say, “Better watch out. You’re gonna get sick.” It would piss me off. So I always drank extra tap water when I got there.

Just to show my family.

Turns out you can learn an awful lot about a country from its emergency rooms. But that stays between you and me. The official story is that I NEVER got sick.

Capish?

Speaking of Montezuma's tap water, if you're going to go to Mexico, don't waste your time in Cancún. That is the advice I gave to one of my many bozo editors, but he sent me there anyway. While I'm on the subject, Mr. Bozo Editor, if you had wanted a longer article about Mexico, you should have sent me somewhere with fewer tourist traps and better Margaritas.

. . .

Why are you still reading this? The post is done. I'm busy feeding the pigeons. I had no idea they liked liver.


So far, you've only seen my travel musings, but several fellow travelers contributed to my blog (may it rest in peace).

It's about time you met my other writers. This first one goes by Grouchy Travel Writer Lady. Ever the modest one, she prefers to remain anonymous. Sucks to be her. Her real name is Constance.

Back in the day, she was a professional travel writer, scribbling reams of travel articles for multiple publications. She'd traveled to almost every continent on our cozy little globe.

Now that she’s incontinent, she mostly stays home and grouses about life.

Whether she admits it or not, though, she still has a lot to contribute, so I dragged her kicking and screaming out of retirement. (That’s no exaggeration. It took six weeks for my wing to come out of its sling.)

Even though she didn't go very far any longer, I loved how her posts showed us all that neighborhood travel can offer some great vistas too. All at an amazing price.

Constance, maybe you can write some new stuff for me? Pretty please?

In the meantime, I'll post her first piece tomorrow.

P.S. No, Constance, you won't be getting any residuals this time around either.

https://void.cat/d/DKw6r4RJcvcWGZAZqMaMZg.webp


https://i.nostrimg.com/50a9e3cbb37be530b2fc5c0f61eabb978c3e4129cda5bf1d56056a23d8e79fb3/file.jpeg

Time to discuss the travel bug.

Not the good kind of travel bug, which is the kind that takes over when you just have to pack a bag and travel somewhere else, even if that somewhere else is down the street.

Rather I am going to talk about the other travel bug, the one related to Montezuma and his revenge tactics.

This is an important issue, not just because my tum-tum is a wee bit delicate at times. But also because the impulse to vomir (etc.) while on vacation doesn’t fit well with postcard expectations of our loved ones back home. However, it is something we travelers can manipulate to our advantage.

You see, dealing with those we left behind requires a delicate balance: We need to provoke just enough jealousy so that our trip seems worth it, but not so much jealousy that our loved ones never give us any Christmas gifts ever again.

It is an incredibly difficult balance to achieve. Even I, a world-class traveler, struggle to achieve perfect balance in this matter.

Enter travel bugs. Sufficient amounts of time communing with the hotel toilet can garner us enough sympathy to offset the jealousy. If the awe-inspiring photos of the Alps make one’s mother-in-law grind her teeth with envy, the traveler should groan and point out that the tummy problems are ongoing. And what a shame that the beleaguered traveler couldn’t make it to the Alpine artisan shop to buy Swiss cow souvenirs. Maybe next time!

I make it a point to always eat something that doesn’t sit well with me. Confession: I like to cheat and wait till I get on the return flight. That guarantees two things: I WILL get sick, and I won’t ruin my trip to the Alps.


https://i.nostrimg.com/07575a95dde4534a30bcefc86f088532f0f7bca3692d9f9afa73469cc995e40d/file.jpeg

The waiter almost crushes me as I fly into the bustling restaurant in Haarlem, Holland!

No, the waiter who almost crushes me isn’t trying to uphold Dutch health regulations against mosquitoes. Rather, he can’t see me because all his attention is focused on lugging six plates of Holland’s signature food pannenkoeken, or pancakes.

It’s a very special kind of pancake.

In terms of size, pannenkoeken aren’t just food. They’re landing pads. They are paper thin, but make up in slenderness with runway room. They are also infinitely versatile: You can keep them simple, with a touch of sugar or syrup, or you can pile on cheese, ham, bacon, apples, or your favorite F-150.

My stomach might be tiny, but my appetite is colossal. When I found out my travels were going to take me to Holland, I knew I had to come and experience the ultimate pancake experience.

This is how I came to risk life and limb for one of my favorite extreme sports: Breakfast. Thankfully, as I meander among the tables and the toppling skyscrapers of  pannenkoeken, I am able to stay under the radar. The restaurant staff is too busy trying not to drop two-ton plates, and happy diners quickly go into a stupor as blood from their brains assists in emergency digestion contingencies. A quick reconnaissance from the ceiling tells me exactly which tables I most want to target.

I start with the basics: a pannenkoek lightly dusted with sugar. My dining companion, a businessman by the way he’s dressed, is absorbed in conversation, so I sneak in near the edge of his plate. He chooses this moment to generously sprinkle more powdered sugar on the pancake, on the plate, on the table, and–most important–on me.

Thus camouflaged, I will be virtually undetectable.

He takes a bite. His eyes close. His chewing becomes slow, almost meditative. He is in a dream state.

Time to hit my target.

It becomes immediately obvious that my mission is a dangerous one. One bite of the sugary pannenkoek dulls my senses. All that heavenly, fluffy sweetness. How have I survived without these pancakes before now? Survived, maybe, but lived–thrived? Absolutely not.

I most definitely have some recipes to steal.

I dodge behind coffee cups to plate number twee (that’s “two” in Dutch.)  This pancake is being subjected to a deliciously gloopy application of stroop, or syrup. It’s dark. It’s thick. It’s mesmerizing. I take a bite of the pancake. Sticky, very sticky, the stroop is. First my left leg sinks in. Then my right leg. The rest follow. Then–oh-oh, this is bad–my left wing gets mired down in the sweetness.

It’s time to extricate myself from this sumptuousness. I tug at my wing. I tug first at one leg, then the other, then the rest. Just as the burn in my legs is at a boiling point, something blocks the sunlight. I look up. A fork is charging at me, about to bury me in the most delicious but deadly grave I can imagine.

I tug once more and–pop!–fly free. I slam into a nearby coffee cup. I am covered in powdered sugar. I am covered in stroop. My posterior has suffered a coffee-cup-induced burn.

This, my dear friends, is true happiness.

My meet and greet with the coffee cup has thankfully awakened my senses. I am ready for mission number three: A savery pannenkoek. I spot my target on the neighboring table. It’s a pancake buried in a layer of ham and Gouda cheese. Good heavens! It’s so expansive, it looks more like the Sahara Desert than the Sahara Desert itself does! (Would that make a pannenkoek covered in apples a Sahara Dessert? Ha ha. I kill myself sometimes.)

The joking ends. I must focus.

I peek through a water glass. The customer is distracted as she is talking to the waiter. My moment is here. I turbo-speed to the pannenkoeken, crash land in the gooey fluffiness, and take a bite. Then another. And another. I have to take three bites just to get the varied ingredients in. My jaw may never recover, but it is worth it. Sweet meets salty meat meets smooth cheese.

A pastor liked to say, “We don’t know what heaven looks like, but we will know when we get there.”

Pastor, I know what heaven looks like. I’m eating it.

I’ll try to leave enough for when you get here.

Alack and alas, despite my Olympic-level ability to eat, there is still some unconsumed pannenkoeken on the plate when the waiter comes to clean the table. As I am nestled in the pancakes, I join the waiter on his trip to the kitchen. As much as I want to go home with my new friend (the food, not the waitstaff), I realize my time is up. I need a nap. Camouflaged in cheese, sugar, stroop, and crumbs, I make my way out a service door.

I must be near comatose. I forgot to steal the recipe.

That will have to wait till my next visit.

One of my favorite parts of traveling has always been the moment when the airplane touches down on the runway. Holland has replaced that favorite moment with a new runway: the pannenkoek. I will be returning for more, that is, if I am able to stand again.

Holland: Stopping World Hunger One Pancake at a Time


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(As promised, here is a post from my defunct (R.I.P.) travel blog.)

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Waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

It’s hot. It’s steamy. It’s tropical. It’s Avenida Ashford , the main drag in Condado, Puerto Rico. It’s also my last day here, and I am finally doing something I have wanted to do ever since the first day I arrived: Wait for the bus. Waiting for the bus is the stuff of legend on an island. Whenever someone brings up the act of taking the bus (called guagua in Puerto Rico), within seconds, the topic of waiting pops up.

I am here to discover why.

So far, I’ve been waiting nineteen minutes, so the bus should be here any minute. After all, the sign says it passes by on its way to the old city every twenty minutes.*

25 minutes

Still hot, still steamy. A couple of intrepid bus takers have joined me, including a poor Burger King employee. I hope, for her sake, she doesn’t eat the food she serves. I hop up and down on the metal bench, partly out of excited anticipation, partly because the metal is muy caliente.

Kind of like me.

30 minutes

I’m still waiting, getting kind of sweaty. I re-apply SPF 40 to my nose. The ladies don’t like prunes.

35 minutes

Of course, if I wanted to, I could just fly to the old city. I’d have been there by now. And I’d have had a great view along the way: the ocean, liquid emerald, winking at me from below. The white sand, dotted with bikinis. I would have been breathtaking.

A honking car speeds by, anchoring my musings to terra firma. I try to remember, why am I waiting for a bus?

Oh, yes, I am on a MISSION. I settle back down on the bench and wriggle in satisfaction. After all, would Indiana Jones take the easy route? Intrepid travelers like Indiana and me, we suffer to experience what mere humans must deal with every day. And so I follow the path of all these poor tourists who opt out of renting cars. I join–wing in arm–regular citizens who must get to work but can’t afford the Kags and Lexuses that luckier Sanjuaneros somehow afford.

40 minutes

I, Harvey Flea, will wait for the bus.

45 minutes

Still waiting.

50 minutes

I think the sun is giving me a migraine.

51 minutes

Waaaaaaaaaiting!

Only one minute has passed? Maybe my internal stopwatch has heat stroke. I give myself a shake.

52 minutes

Oh, look! There is something square rumbling towards us down the street. It’s the bus! It’s got to be the bus!

I jump up and down in glee.

52 minutes and 35 seconds

Wrong bus.

54 minutes

There it is again! That square shape rumbling towards us! Unless it’s a mirage, it’s got to be the bus. Please be the bus. I need to get out of the sun. The SPF 40 is starting to sting my eyes.

55 minutes

It’s the right bus! Sure, Lewis and Clarke charted unknown territory, but they never knew the thrill and relief of finally seeing the arrival of the elusive B-21 bus.

It’s kind of full, but I’ll manage to squeeze in. As I step out on the curb and stick out my wing to get the bus to stop, I thank the good Lord that buses became air-conditioned here in the 1980’s.

55 minutes and 23 seconds

How is this possible?! The bus isn’t stopping! What?! What?! My wing is left fluttering in the bus’ wake.

I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. OF COURSE the bus didn’t stop, Harvey. You’re a MOSQUITO. No bus is going to stop for a MOSQUITO! But I wasn’t the only one waiting on the bus, remember? I wasn’t the only one to throw my hand out pleading for the bus to stop. What about the poor girl who is so desperate to eke out a living that she works at the King of Substandard Meat?

That poor, struggling, starving, desperate minimum-wage worker whose boss is going to kick her hiney  if she doesn’t get to work on time.

The cute, minimum-wage worker who, as we speak, is looking really, really upset.

That’s it! This is a job for . . .
HARVEY FLEA!!!

55 minutes and 34 seconds

I barrel towards the bus. I’m almost on par with it. I pass it. I’m in front! Somehow, somehow I have to use my semi-psychic powers to get THIS BUS TO STOP.

55 minutes and 37 seconds

I’m about to turn to look the bus driver straight in the eye when something whops me in the butt. Hard. I’m pasted to something hard, cold. With dead insects on it. What can it be? I crane my neck and take a wee little peek.

Oh, it’s the windshield of the bus. I collided with it when the bus stopped. Twenty feet from the bus stop. Why did it stop here? There’s no bus stop here. Why is it letting people off here? Why?

55 minutes and 45 seconds

Whoa, the bus roars forward. What’s the rush? I get it. The chauffeur didn’t want to let on any new passengers. The nerve! How could he do that to poor, cute, minimum-wage worker? I bet she’d feel warm and fuzzy if she knew that I tried to save her, though.

57 minutes

What can I do but make the best of a bad situation? I stop paying too much attention to the dead insects who are my new traveling companions. The breeze is fluttering my wings. I feel the thrill of adventure. Indiana Jones would approve. Lewis and Clark, maybe not so much. But Indiana Jones definitely.

67 minutes

The sun is still scorching as we barrel along the ocean. I can see Fort San Cristobal, completed under the Spanish in 1783, from here.

Well, I can almost see it. The sun is kind of in my eyes.

69 minutes

Finally, the heavens have decided to cooperate with me. Some clouds are shading me from the sun now. Suddenly, I sense the light blessing or rain. It cools my sunburned cheeks. How refreshing. I open my mouth to drink in the sprinkles when suddenly, I remember . . .

Wiiiiiiiindshield wipeeeeeeers!
I jerk my head to my left, my right. They’re coming for me! Nooooooooooo!

69 minutes and 17 seconds

I left my left wing, then my right. I ready myself to leap to safely.

69 minutes and 18 seconds

Whew! That was a close call. I look behind me and see the Grim Wiper dragging a butterfly to the most ignominious of resting places. I bow my head in respect and say a quick prayer.

70 minutes

There’s a bus stop to my left. Waiting for me. I look at it, then turn my face to the horizon.

I flap my wings and take to greater heights.

Indiana, my friend, I know what you’re thinking. But in my place, you’d have done the same.

You’d have flown.

And you have to admit, you can’t beat the view.

*At the time of this writing, bus signs posted (wildly inaccurate) wait estimates. I don’t know whether they bother doing that any longer.


Dear reader,

A few years ago, a few travel-loving friends and I joined forces* to put our travel experiences to paper and publish them on a blog I humbly christened HarveyFlea.com. As I’ve mentioned, I wasn’t the only one to contribute scintillating travel adventures. There was also my good friend Grouchy Retired Travel Writer Lady as well as a Moldovan accountant, Yuri. (His grammar was unfortunately deficient, but try as I might, I couldn’t get him to sign up for a grammar class.) A few others contributed as well, but it’s hard for my nimble mosquito legs to type, so you will meet them later.

Why did our globe-trotting endeavor end? Alack and alas, life. (To my assistant, who “forgot” to pay the website fees, I’m looking at you in forgiveness because I am a good boss.) Some things aren’t meant to last forever, as my second cousin once removed once pointed out before her meet and greet with a fly swatter. And sometimes, life events, as much as we want them to last forever, are sweeter for having lasted only a short time.

Those heady days are gone, but not forgotten. As luck would have it, I happened on a sheath of these articles today, and I decided to share them with the lovely people on Nostr. I will be transcribing them bit by bit. Today, I will share with you the article that launched our ragtag group’s writing adventure. Be on the lookout for “Harvey Takes On the Bus in Puerto Rico” in a later post.

Sincerely with wings!

Harvey

*Note from Grouchy Retired Travel Writing Lady: “Joined forces,” Harvey? That’s a cheery way of putting it, don’t you think? You wouldn’t stop pestering me till I agreed to pitch in. “You’re the only professional travel writer in the group,” you said. “We need your caché,” you said. Who talks like that, Harvey? You went on and on and on. You were making me miss my afternoon soaps. So I had to either accept an offer I wanted to refuse or annihilate you with the fly swatter. What with my arthritis, my aim isn’t so hot anymore, so the rest is history. P.S. Don’t ask me to write any more articles.


As a mosquito, I find it difficult to type. It involves flying high above my keyword to gain enough momentum to divebomb on the next key.

After each letter, I need to take a break to soothe my bruises and take a sip of something refreshing.

Thankfully, I am adept at typing, else typos would likely lead me to weep into my refreshing glass of Romanée-Conti.

All this to say, it has taken me several days to get these messages out to the world:

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR and (while I am at it) HAPPY THREE KINGS DAY.


My latest travels have whisked me off to Barrio Magueyes in Corozal, Puerto Rico. The scenery is green. The land is rich for coffee production. I have no photo yet as my photographer went for a walk, and my mosquito legs have been unsuccessful in pushing the camera button.

And so, in the meantime, I will sip my coffee, enjoy the lush hills, and plot sweet revenge against my wayward employee.

I am a very good boss.