Trouble in Paradise
Blondage and I (oh yeah, during the hiatus she went through a rainbow of different colors, and ended up dipping her hair in the pot of gold at the end) have been trying to figure out where to go on vacation. One of the requirements of marrying me is that I have to show her the world. So far, I’ve shown her Lubeck.
Not a good start.
So we have decided that we should go somewhere in May/June for a few days. Originally, I wanted to take her to Paris, but the whole "buying a house" thing really fucks with your finances.
Instead, we are looking at domestic travel. She loves the beach, whereas I loath sand, saltwater, and sun. Really, the only good thing about the beach is sitting one of those tiki huts, drinking boat drinks, watching bikinis bounce in the surf.
She prefers a vacation where you get some much needed R&R, and are refreshed when you get back home. I prefer to not risk missing anything, and get up earlier and go to bed later when I’m on vacation. There’s a whole world full of bikinis bouncing in the surf, and I don’t want to miss one of them. Also, there’s art, culture, history, and more gin and scotch than I could ever hope to drink. I can’t afford to miss a second. Hell, I don’t think you need a hotel when on vacation, just grab a nap in the cab between stops.
She prefers four stars. And room service.
Anyway, we’re trying to find a nice compromise between a hot-sandy-salty hell and curling up under a set of stairs at the dodgy end of Fifth Avenue. Blondage was looking into Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, but I’m thinking that maybe Paris would be cheaper and easier to get to. So now we’re talking about driving to Niagara.
I think that sounds nice:
Romance. Awesome scenery. Canadians. Everything a boy could want.