The only person in my family who possesses a worse sense of direction is my eldest daughter, who upon returning to our hotel after our first day of gallivanting about Seattle's abandoned industrial parks insisted that our room was 446. Who am I to contradict a 13-year-old's certainty? We stood outside room 446 for a good five minutes trying to open our door, inserting the key from every possible angle—even upside down, which we knew was incorrect, but thought maybe this key is the lone exception in the universe that actually works upside down. We finally gave up and shuffled down to the front desk to get a new key. TO ROOM 346.
The one and only place we found without any trouble at all was the Cheesecake Factory. I made a beeline to that restaurant with complete accuracy, like a human GPS, I tell ya.
Cuban Pork Sandwich, baby!
Dinner last night: packet of pretzels, diet Coke
Exactly one year ago: