One of the good things of living in Houston is taking the back streets and finding places that resemble some other country altogether.
Pacific street, on the way to yoga.
Yes, I watched the painful game last night. From a privileged place where it really didn’t matter who won, but still the massacre was just too embarrassing to watch.
So, I shoot the picture of the day: the family spoons, which were kept by my grandma, and after her passing , they’re given to me. At least two in this bunch are more than a 100 years old. They didn’t have the super bawl back then, but they sure knew how to make good stuff.
Cheers to that.