I just threw out the last of my “hot chocolate” from an overnight break in Fort Lauderdale with my cousin. I woke up this morning to a buffet of English muffins, reheated sausage, overly sweetened juice and assorted cereal boxes. It brought back some painful memories.
I was a tender eight years old and on vacation with my parents and younger brother in the Bahamas. As kids do, the first morning there, we woke up obscenely early to take in our new environment. I had been reading through the literature that hotels give guests and had found the highlight of my vacation. The hotel was offering a “continental breakfast.” I was elated. I imagined rows of food, imported from the most exotic corners of the world, a buffet of international flavors and tastes that I had never before experienced. I was going to eat from every continent, Antarctica included. I was ready. We (well, maybe just me ... my brother wasn’t, and still isn’t much of a foodie) trotted happily down the corridors, passing unopened gift shops and friendly staff as we walked.
What happened next was a defining moment in my life. It was the moment I learned to question words.
I saw muffins. I looked around the room quickly, trying to take in everything that was offered. Blueberry muffins. I walked up to the closest station, and in what was most likely an effort to protect my delicate eight-year-old psyche, began to wonder if my assumption that Frosted Flakes were really American was true. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I didn’t understand. I saw a croissant, and assumed the French creation is what allowed the charlatans to pass this offering of cold breads and boxed grains off as “continental.” I passed a box of Rice Krispies down to my brother who thankfully wasn’t yet tall enough to see the trays of warmed over lies that lay before us. I envied him.
