Quoth Corey to the cat, "Curiosity killed y'all."

And in a desperate fit of escapism, they found themselves in the critiquable position of being nauseated at the idea of eating local for even one more meal. Localvores turn into loco-vores when their passports haven't been stamped in a while, and at that moment, there was nothing in North America that could slake their thirst for the smell of that smoggy, tropical air that drapes over the shoulders, heavy with humidity, diesel particulates, and sticky papaya sweetness, outside metro stations in central Sao Paulo. In headphones, Tom Ze crooned a love-lorn yarn about the stops around Ave. Paulista: "Augusta, between you and Angelica, thank god I found Consolation." The corrosive saudade tasted a little bit wonderful in their mouths, but mostly it just made things worse. Barreling through just didn't seem possible that day.

Most likely, what happened next was that hours passed, and they went to the park--maybe the farmer's market was on that day. Maybe they got some baked goods from Amish country and ate, and maybe drank, and certainly slept, and the smell of spring in their natural habitat created enough instant nostalgia that they could get through another season. But while that was a perfectly reasonable response, reason seemed awfully tragic, and at least one of them surely googled recipes for aipim and vegan feijoada.

Helmet wearing while biking is a hot-button fashion and comfort issue. There are people close to me who are loathe to walk their bikes without protective gear, and others who put themselves at astronomically high risk of injury every day and ride capless. I wear a helmet and refuse to feel like a dork.

( This is why. )