The Everywhereist

Spoiler: this skybridge will get you NOWHERE.

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This WTF Weds takes us back to London. But I start out with a little anecdote about Portland. It’s cool if you get confused. That’s how I spend most of my life.

Last weekend I was in Portland, and despite being a city that I know and can navigate quite well, the following happened:

• I walked four blocks in the exact opposite direction that I needed to go, and didn’t realize it until I literally collided with a posted map of the city and saw that I was no where close to where I needed to be.
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• Despite Rand telling me to “Keep going straight”, I kept asking him if I should take every single turn that we passed. At one point he just stared at me and said, “You are joking, right?” I wasn’t.
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• We’d been to our hotel so many times that the valets recognized us. I still required directions to get there.
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• Even while in possession of a map on which directions had been traced out for me in black ink, I got lost.
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• I forgot where I parked the car and so our friend Matt had to drive us around for 20 minutes in the middle of the night trying to find it. Even though I knew the name of the street where I’d left it, I still couldn’t figure it out.
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The pools at Hayman Island resort.

In my continued efforts to keep it real, I would like to share yet another mortifying revelation about my younger years.

Are you ready to abandon whatever lingering sliver of respect for me you had? Because here we go: for a longer time than is reasonable, I’ve wanted to be a Bond girl.

Fear not: I am acutely aware of the fact that I would probably be the worst Bond girl, ever (rightfully stealing the crown from Denise Richards). I’m short, I look comically uncomfortable in a bikini, and I don’t do sexy all that well.

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Vicky’s BB, Khayetlisha.

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In writing about South Africa, I wanted to finish on a high note. I really did. But I’m at the end now, and this last post about our trip deals with stuff that is, in no uncertain terms, heartbreaking and tragic.

I’m sorry. In the wake of the last few weeks, I really wanted to talk about something lighthearted. And I promise, I will. I’ll tell you about the crazy London hotel in which we got hopelessly lost, about the wonderful bagels we had there and the markets we went to with friends. I will tell you about Australia and the damn birds that kept stealing our breakfast, and the day I swam with sea turtles, and how my husband kept telling me, in spite of how self conscious I was in a bathing suit, that I was beautiful.

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Rand and Justin check to make sure that the water in the pool is actually wet.

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When Rand first told me that Bushman’s Kloof had not one, but several infinity pools, I promptly freaked out.

“How is that even possible?” I squealed.

“It’s a luxury resort,” Rand explained.

“That still doesn’t make sense. They are messing with THE VERY FABRIC OF SPACE TIME.”

With that statement, my husband paused, and took a long look at me.

“Sweetie,” he said, gently patting my hand, “you realize that infinity pools aren’t actually infinite, right?”

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I don’t really know how to begin telling you about Bushman’s Kloof.

Words don’t usually fail me. In fact, I often have them in excess. They dribble out of my mouth at particularly inopportune times. Like when I’m telling a story at noisy party, and I find myself shouting the gory details in order to be heard (my stories always have gory details, you see), and at that precise moment because of what I can only assume is a decades-old-curse that was placed on my head, the entire room sort of goes silent.

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No matter how much I travel, I find that there are things that still surprise me about Europe.

Like universal health care. Or the ubiquity of nutella. Or the fact that you can drive for a few hours and find yourself in a radically different country that isn’t Canada or Mexico.

And let’s not forget castles. It’s crazy to me that castles are actually a real thing over there, and not merely the stuff of fairy tales. (more…)

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The Duke at Queens in Belfast is both homey and palatial – a kind of interesting balance. We were only there for one night, but it was, as the Irish would say, just grand, and the staff was exceedingly kind and helpful.

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Every time that Rand and I stay in an old hotel, we have a similar exchange:

Me: This place is nice. Too bad it’s haunted.

Rand: Baby, this place isn’t haunted.

Me: You’d like for me to think that, wouldn’t you?

Rand: Yes. Yes, I would. I would very much like for you to believe that this place isn’t haunted, because it isn’t.

Me: Whose side are you on, anyway?

Rand: Um … logic’s?

Me: SO NOT MY SIDE, THEN.

Or something like that. The point is, I’m rather steadily convinced that every time we stay at an old, remodeled hotel, we’re going to be haunted right out of there, and Rand’s convinced we aren’t.

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