July 23, 2006

Last night marked the first time since moving here that I’ve stumbled home drunk in the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t mind the interminable subway “Metro” ride, or the 15-minute walk from the station back to my apartment, because I was looking forward to getting a hot dog. I spent a year walking past a Statoil whenever I went anywhere (or came back), and I can say with confidence that Statoil’s hot dogs are incomparable; they’re veritable kings in the world of drunk-snacks.

There’s a 7-Eleven on the way to the Metro station, and of course it has one of those rather horrifying grease-coated cooker-thingies that’s usually bedecked with an array of tubular meats slowly rotating in their juices. But they didn’t have any, the fuckers. 3 in the morning on a Saturday night, and they were out of hot dogs? Come on.

I had to fall back to my standby option, the can of sour-cream-and-onion Pringles. Not as good as a hot dog, of course, but I’d forgotten how much more of the flavor-dust stuff they put on Pringles in America. European Pringles barely have any flavoring by comparison.

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