#99: Embarrassing tourist behavior
A sloppy dispatch from the depths of jet lag mania
Death by Consumption
4/21/26 - 4/27/26
I am, right this very minute, traveling to Los Angeles from Switzerland, where I spent the past week — I’m randomly having an unusually glam month — so forgive the abbreviated email. The email below, halfassed while typing on trains and planes, was all I wrote before jet lag destroyed me. And, really, the only things I consumed all week were wine, bratwurst, cheese, and beautiful views. And who the hell wants to hear about THAT?
This week: I tortured myself for some scones, and I ruined my sleep by re-watching a classic on a redeye, and that’s all for now, folks!
Irish soda bread scones — at Mary O’s, in the East Village, NY
Ironically, after a week of traveling around Switzerland, the most embarrassing tourist activity I engaged in this week took place in my home city. You may have heard about this scone shop, Mary O’s, from Humans of New York or another similar social media endeavor. I didn’t. But I was informed about it by my aunt, who emailed me 7 months ago, requesting that I pick up some of these (very very good, I was assured) scones, to bring home as a surprise for my mother last Thanksgiving. This small request turned into a half-year-long ordeal, which only finally concluded this week.
The first issue with Mary O’s is that it’s only open 3 days a week, starting at 7am, and only stays open until the scones run out, which happens by noon at the latest. The second issue is that it’s extremely popular, with lines frequently stretching around the corner, and waiting times over an hour. The third issue is that it’s located in the East Village, a not-entirely-convenient location to get to from my apartment. What this meant was that I would need to wake up early the day before flying home for Thanksgiving, travel into the city, wait in line for possibly an hour, purchase a few boxes of scones, and then transport said scones to Wisconsin as my carry-on.
For many reasons, this did not happen at Thanksgiving, and then it did not happen again at Christmas. It also didn’t happen earlier this year, when I met my parents in San Diego. After months of failed attempts to bring my mom these scones on behalf of her sister, I knew my aunt was getting frustrated with me. I felt like a bad nephew, a bad son, and worst of all, a bad scone-transporter. But I also really, really did not want to go to the East Village at 7am and wait in a line. And can you blame me?
But finally an opportunity presented itself, because this past week, Justin and I were traveling to Switzerland to meet up with my parents, who were themselves meeting up with my cousin and two of my aunts — including the famous scones aunt herself! Even better, Justin and I were going to be a surprise for my aunts and cousin. I knew I was suddenly faced with an unprecedented double-surprise opportunity — to not only surprise family members by popping up in Switzerland, but to surprise my aunt herself with the very scones she had been thwarted from sending to my mother, hand-delivered to Switzerland. You rarely get an opportunity like this in life, so I had to take it.
Unfortunately, what this meant was waking up early last Sunday — one of the only 2 days I had at home between my Miami trip and going to Switzerland (I told you it’s a randomly glam month) — and heading into the city on a cold, drizzly morning, to wait in line for some scones.
When I arrived at Mary O’s, the line seemed surprisingly manageable: it stretched out the door, but only about 20 or so people were lined up on the sidewalk. I estimated I only had to wait about 15 or 20 minutes before I could order. Based on my own prejudicial visual assessment, I gathered I was the only non-tourist in this line. As happy couples emerged from the tiny store front, clutching their boxes of scones and eagerly filming TikTok content, I tried to strike a casual pose that somehow gave off the specific impression that I wasn’t here to follow a trend like them, but rather for a larger reason, one more selfless and benevolent than they could even imagine.
Every couple ordered, at most, two scones per person. I mean, how many scones can one person eat? And at a whopping $6 per scone, you really don’t want to over-order. But when I approached the counter, I nervously asked for 18 scones. “Uh… let me check,” the teenage employee said, consulting with the women working on the scone assembly line behind her. After a brief discussion, she informed me I would have to wait about half an hour. I said that was fine, and went outside, where I leaned against a stoop and observed the line, which had grown immensely, and now stretched around the corner. These people had no idea I had just made their wait even longer.
As I stood there, I observed the New Yorkers walking past the line, on the way to brunch or shopping or DSA meetings or whatever everyday Sunday activities they were engaging with, and I longed to join them. “Oh my god, what is this stupid line?” someone said as they shoved their way past the line. “Jesus Christ, they’re all waiting for scones?” someone else sneered. I tried to smirk and nod sympathetically with the passing New Yorkers in a way that said, “Ha ha, yes!! These people waiting an hour for scones are such silly tourists, unlike me, a New Yorker who is doing it for reasons that are ironic but also big-hearted.” Though I was in the East Village, waiting outside this place felt like I had found myself in an offshoot of Times Square, as if a man in an Elmo costume smelling of piss should be handing out scone samples.
After a half hour of public humiliation in front of my fellow citizens, I was summoned back inside for my boxes of scones by a very friendly woman. We had to make our way to the front through a crowd that did not want to budge, not even for an employee, out of fear of losing their sacred line spot. At the front, my employee shepherd was prevented from getting around the counter by a woman who simply refused to move. “I have a hair appointment,” she announced, “So I need my scones now.” I had no choice but to respect the combination of ignorance and egotism that causes a woman to get scones from the hour-wait scone shop before an urgent hair appointment. She was finally persuaded to step aside, so that the gears of the scone factory could continue to turn at a steady pace, and I was handed my 18 scones, each in a separate bag. I shoved the way out of the place, hearing people muttering at the sheer greed of someone like me, who slowed the whole line down with a massive group order. I avoided eye contact on my way out, fearing I would be torn to pieces by a crowd of tourists suffering from scone psychosis.
At home, 3 hours after I first set out on the scone odyssey, Justin and I sampled a scone each, which were thankfully still warm, and which we dutifully doused in the provided butter and homemade jam. And, really, I am not a fan of scones, but these were pretty good! They’re significantly less dry than a typical scone, mercifully, and mostly taste of butter and jam, which is kind of all you can ask for. If you were able to just casually pick up one of these scones on your Sunday morning neighborhood coffee stroll, they’d be transcendent. But I’m not sure any scone would be worth waiting for even half an hour, let alone over an hour.
The next day, after nervously getting the butter and jam through TSA security, the scones were transported by airplane, four trains, a funicular, and a bus, to Zermatt, Switzerland, where we first surprised my family by our arrival, before revealing the second surprise back at our rental apartment — the infamous scones, hand-delivered to Switzerland, 7 months after they were first requested. And, well, I’m trying not to hold it against my aunt that the scones being in Switzerland genuinely got a bigger reaction than I did.
Notting Hill (1999) — on Delta
Our flight out was a dreaded redeye, so I just wanted to put something comforting and frivolous on, so that I could fall asleep and wake up in Switzerland, refreshed and ready to see some mountains or whatever. But I made a fatal mistake in selecting Notting Hill, which, it turns out, is still extremely watchable. After a weed gummy and 2 airplane red wines, I was positively soaring, and started convincing myself Notting Hill is one of the greatest movies ever made. Of course, it features two of the most charming actors in history, at the peak of their charm, which does a lot of the legwork.
But I forgot how strange so much of this film is — the music choices in particular are absolutely god awful, genuinely laugh-out-loud shocking. Whoever did the music for Notting Hill should be imprisoned for life. Julia’s character, as well, is a bit of a psychological torturer, which I forgot about. She toys with Hugh’s character throughout the film as if he’s at Abu Ghraib and she’s Lynndie England. Anyway, I got absolutely no sleep on the plane as a result, but I don’t regret it.