Trail of Crumbs

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I’m sorry for the lull in blogging, and the long delay in recounting the highlights of our Philly trip. I promise to get back to all of that tomorrow. Today, though, I wanted to tell you about something that happened during our weekend jaunt to California. Because I think the full force of it hasn’t hit me yet (pun not intended). 

A member of hotel staff tries to figure out what the hell happened outside of our room.

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I often have odd reactions to things, both emotionally and physically. To me, they make sense, of course. But anyone else would think I was a bit strange.

I have slow reflexes, and my flight or fight response is clearly broken. I once saw a car careening towards my friend Lauren, and my response was to rush over to her, put my arms around her and … stand perfectly still. So, you know, she wouldn’t be alone when the car hit her. That was my way of protecting her, I guess. (Spoiler: we were fine.)

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The Lithia Springs Resort is imbued with a sort of Shakespearean vibe.

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This picture is frigging adorable.

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My first impression of Paris didn’t take hold until we got to our hotel. The cab ride was lost to a jet-lagged fog – no opinions or observations of the city would be forthcoming. I simply struggled to keep my head up so that the driver would think I was awake, and wouldn’t take any costly detours through the outskirts of the city.

Not that I’d know it if he had.

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Rand and I went to Miami and Boston for a few days last month. Rather than lug my camera, I decided to just take photos on my cell phone. I’m not entirely sure if I’m pleased with the results. I suspect that I won’t leave my Canon at home again.

Real and faux Art Deco buildings along Miami Beach.

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I moved to Central Florida in the middle of second grade. It would be another several years before I’d visit the southern end of the state, but I remember my first visit there clearly: the boardwalk in Miami, the white sand, an ocean the color of that kids’ gel toothpaste my mother refused to buy us on grounds that it was too expensive.

I remember thinking that it was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. Of course, at the time I’d only been on the planet for a decade or so, and I hadn’t really seen that many places. It’s not like I had a lot to choose from.

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I know, I know. You guys were probably expecting the exciting conclusion of yesterday’s post, in which I tell you all about snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef, and also whether or not there were kittens. Unfortunately, I realized that all those photos are still on Rand’s laptop, and I’m currently overcome with a strong case of jet lag and laziness, so instead, I’m going to talk about how crazy expensive food on Hayman Island was.

You can have lunch, but you’re going to have to sell your plasma to afford it.

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My family has instilled in me a great number of strange habits and beliefs; among them is the notion that food shouldn’t cost much money. As is their wont, my family has taken this belief to the extreme. Most flat-out refuse to ever go to restaurants (their logic: “You just pay more for stuff that you can get at home!”), and many of their groceries are purchased on clearance, from those weird discount bins at the end of aisles (you know – the ones filled with seasonal cake decorations and dented canned goods).

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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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