In order to stave off Sunday night blues, I gave my bestie a call and invited her to join me on a walk. I’d intended to just stroll around our neighborhood and bitch about how filled with rage and sadness work makes me. Because nothing beats the Sunday night blues more than complaining about Monday morning misery, right?
In the park across the street from her home, we happened upon the Inti Raymi Festival – an Andean folk music and dance festival celebrating the Summer Solstice. There was (bad) music, (embarrassing) dancing and (fried & delicious) food at the festival.
The options for fried food had this glutton overwhelmed with the choices in front of her. Rather than choose one and later regret my decision for what I’d ordered and wish for this, that and the other thing, I decided to go for the whole enchilada. Except I didn’t have an enchilada. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this (but not enough to not go public with it), but I ate an empanada (yum!) and a steak sandwich served by someone who was quite possibly the nicest festival worker I’ve ever met, washed down with a chocolate syrup-filled churro and Diet Pepsi.
You can take the girl out of Central Pennsylvania, but you can’t take Central Pennsylvania out of the girl, apparently. Because despite having lived in a few multi-cultural cities in my adulthood, I never had a sweet clue what a churro was until today. To say I was missing out is an understatement. If you don’t know what one is, all you really need to know is that a churro is fried dough. Having been born and bred in Central PA means I’m very familiar with fried dough of many varieties, but none quite as good as the churro.
After having sufficiently gorged ourselves on bad foods, Sarah and I slowly made our way back to our respective apartments. Sunday night blues were pushed aside only temporarily, but I have a feeling the evidence of that churro is going to be hanging out on my ever-expanding love handles for a very long time.