The journey is not more important than the destination

Yesterday we walked for a mile or two in search of the French Bakery, a well-concealed bakery somewhere in Bellevue. We didn’t find it, eventually giving up and going to the Fresh Cafe instead, far in the depths of office buildings in northern Bellevue, where the staff told us there wasn’t any WiFi (there was) and then sold us revolting egg-and-cheese-in-croissant concoctions. That wasn’t the beat start to the day.

Still, my wife researched things more carefully and later found the French Bakery, hidden halfway down a block just over from where we’d given up. It turned out to be just another anodyne cafe, not a joyous nexus of Galkic charm, baguettes and men in stripy sweaters.

Today, we continued in our quest for new and wonderful eating experiences, by trying to eat doughnuts for dinner.

My wife, alone with our child and so removed from human contact for much of the day, found out about Top Pot from a review site. It’s a doughnut shop, a few blocks away from Bellevue Place, occupying a good quarter of a block, promising delicious doughnuts of every kind: apple fritters, old fashioneds, probably those chocolate filled Berliners, the whole shebang. She collected me from the office this evening and we headed out to find Top Pot.

This was harder than expected; we had to stop at one point in a mall and abuse a demo computer to find it on a map, just after locating a Top Pot coffee cup, discarded on a table outside the Microsoft shop. Those doughnuts were so close we could smell them.

However, Top Pot closes its doors at 5:30pm, and we didn’t get there until close to 7. Though the sun was still above the horizon, though there was still a cloud of greasy doughnut aroma hanging around the building, we were cruelly denied doughnuts.

Probably just as well; otherwise we’d have gorged ourselves and stumbled home, clutching our distended stomachs. Instead, we went to Chipotle, where somebody failed to roll my burrito up properly so it collapsed, shedding rice and guacamole all over the place, and then back to the hotel, where our daughter continued to try to head-butt every piece of furniture.

Tomorrow I imagine we’ll walk five miles to another obscure eating establishment, only to find it’s only open on Sundays to people with no more than one vowel in their names. Or I’ll just go to Starbucks.

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