Faucets and Flatbreads

"It's one degree outside." That's what I just overheard. It's a good preface, I think.

Over the weekend Tim and I braved the wintery bluster to enjoy the splendor of what I like to call "retail paradise," (sung to the tune of Gangsta's Paradise, or Amish Paradish, depending on how you look at it).

We encountered one particularly clean mall bathroom, which is not easy to come by. I could literally see my reflection in the faucet. I walked out to find a man next to a cleaning cart. "I don't know who cleans these bathrooms," I said, "but they are unexceptionally shiny."

"It was me. That's my job." He took just as much pride in cleaning the public restrooms as an artist would at a masterpiece. 

We gravitate towards pizza as well, and we discovered a new gem, Pizza Cucinova, where we met another man genuinely convinced of the goodness of the pizza whose dough he was sinking his fingers into. "You'll see. I've never met someone who didn't love it." And we saw, and tasted for that matter, every little bit of goodness tucked into the folds of the prociutto and mozzarella.

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