When I lived in Atlanta there was a bar that got a shipment of fresh oysters in once a week from the Gulf Coast. They'd arrive packed in mud inside a big barrel, and on the appointed day at the appointed hour I'd make it a point to be there and have them dig out the first dozen for me. When I moved to Chicago, though, I became oyster deprived.
But I did travel frequently to New York on business, and being a former resident of that place too I knew it was faster, not to mention a whole lot cheaper, to get from lower Manhattan to LaGuardia during rush hour by public transportation than to try to get there in a cab. This entailed taking a subway into Queens, then switching to a bus for the airport.
Turned out there was a fish store at the bus stop, and one fine evening it occurred to me to buy a bag of oysters to take home. It was only about a two-hour flight to Chicago so I figured they'd make it OK but just to be on the safe side, when I boarded the plane I handed a big brown paper bag to the stewardess and asked if she could put them in the galley with the ice. She asked what was in the bag, I said oysters. "Eeeeek!" she said, throwing up her hands. And dropping the bag.
I spent most of the flight home crawling around under people's seats trying to get my oysters back. It was an interesting way to get acquainted, but thereafter I always carried a big plastic shopping bag on trips to New York and kept my oysters to myself, thank you very much.
PS: The oyster problem is not why I wound up in New England but it might as well have been.
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