There’s been a whole lot of crazy going on this week. It’s nice to be home.

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A bridge in Skagit Valley (a few hours north of Seattle) collapsed yesterday. Apparently quite a few of the bridges in my state are in equally bad condition. The upside? Though three cars plummeted into the river, but not a single person died. #happyending

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The news coming out of Oklahoma wasn’t nearly as good. Tornadoes tore through the town of Moore on Monday, killing 24 people, including 7 children. I know that news is absolutely unbearable, so if you don’t wish to read that story, consider browsing this photo gallery of survivors being reunited with their pets after the tornado.

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An interesting look at how science and fantasy novels shape our language. (And an important question: what is the plural of hobbit?)

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Holy cats, Steve McQueen was cool.

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This brings me such joy: “Actual conversations with my 2 year old daughter, as reenacted by me and another full grown man.”

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Zach Galifianakis takes an 87-year-old female friend with him to every movie premiere. Bonus: he also saved her from homelessness. (via @marikamalaea, who is almost as funny as he.)

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Wowzers. The National Geographic Tumblr blog is full of amazing photos from the magazine’s 125 year-long run. (via the classy and cultured @BenjaminEstes

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I am such a sucker for a good pun. Especially when it’s in a newspaper headline.

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During post-game interviews, members of the Cincinnati Bearcats Baseball team engage in some seriously awesome antics.

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I should apologize for this next link, because it’s been the reason I’ve been mumbling incoherently in Portuguese all week (and no, I don’t speak Portuguese): “Ai Se Eu Te Pego” is catchy as hell, and it was introduced to me by the same cousin who told me about “The Macarena” in 1998.

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That’s it for me this week, folks. I’m going to enjoy a weekend at home, as I try to learn as much French as possible before our trip next month.

I should have warned you there’d be photos of us in bathing suits, huh?

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Our seaplane had just landed in the middle of the Great Barrier Reef. Remembering how often lofty expectations led to disappointment, I did my best to calm my brain, which was racing with thoughts of everything we were going to see.

“THERE WILL THOUSANDS OF FISH,” it screamed. “AND SEA TURTLES! AND ALSO KITTENS.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. While it was almost certainly guaranteed that we’d see fish, I had no evidence (aside from Finding Nemo) that there would be any sea turtles swimming around. And numerous online searches have confirmed the fact that kittens are not indigenous to the Great Barrier Reef.

“Whatever happens, happens,” I told myself. “Even if the water is murky, and I don’t see too many fish, I won’t mind. This has already been an awesome experience.”

And that was true. The flight out to the reef was wonderful. If the high point of the day – or even the trip – had already passed, I was okay with that.

But the day kept getting better.

The seaplane gently coasted on the water, and pulled up to the glass-bottomed boat. The water and the sky seemed to blend together. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

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Already aboard was a group of tourists who were lounging around in the sun, drinking cocktails and chatting with one another in French.

There were part of an all-day tour, and it was hard not to envy them.

“You are stupidly lucky to be out here in the first place,” I reminded myself. “Also, cocktails and lying in the sun gives you a headache.”

The ship’s captain gave us a rundown of how things would go. We’d have an hour to snorkel the reef. He outlined the areas that were safe – where the water was deep enough that we could safely swim, and asked that we keep a minimum of 1-2 meters from the coral. He noted that this was more for our safety that anything else: odds are the coral would be fine if we bumped into it, but we’d get torn up.

After a few minutes spent putting on our dry suits, our snorkels, and our fins, we were in the water.

I know what you are thinking: her expensive, fancy pants camera isn’t waterproof. And you’d be exactly right. Fortunately, the camera I rented from the resort was:

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Above the water, you only get a hint of what’s underneath. You peer down, and try to make sense of the shapes and colors, but the slightest wind ripples the surface, and it’s all lost. But the second you plunge in, you can see all of it clearly – a bustling world that shimmers and floats and changes direction in a second. It’s soundless and infinite.

And it is ridiculously, absurdly beautiful.

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The coral looms out in front of you like giant mutant cauliflower. It stops just abruptly just below the water.

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The water was warm, but not overly so. It was cool enough to be refreshing, and to ensure that we wouldn’t overheat after an hour of swimming. There were floating pontoons every now and then, so if we got tired, we could rest on one. I stopped on one only once, to readjust my mask. Curiosity and wonder trump exhaustion every time.

I tried to take a video of it all, but, forgive me, it’s jittery as heck. That’s the problem when you are trying to use your hand to swim and hold a camera.

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The fish were wary of us at first, but after a few minutes in the water, they seemed to accept us. We weren’t one of their own, obviously, but we weren’t going to eat them, either.

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My beloved was there, too:

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It was everything I could have asked for and more. But that didn’t stop my brain from being demanding.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE THE SEA TURTLES?!” it screamed.

“Shut up,” I snapped back. “This is incredible, even if you don’t see a – OH MY GOD THERE’S A SEA TURTLE!”

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Wanna see a video of it swimming? Of course you do:

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The hour flew by. It was one of the shortest of my life. We saw the captain waving to us that our time was up, and we reluctantly swam back.

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As we climbed back into the plane, Lee explained that he’d need to make a quick stop on one of the islands. Would Rand and I mind if we were dropped off last? No, no we most certainly would not mind an extended seaplane tour of the islands.

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We stopped for a moment at Whitsunday Airport so that Lee could refuel and drop off the other passengers. He treated us to drinks at the airport cafe while we waited.

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We sat in the shade, sipping fizzy water.

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“This place,” Rand said, and didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. I merely nodded in reply. We sat in silence, trying to process it all. Rand had wanted to see the Great Barrier Reef since he was little. He’d had ridiculously high expectations. I’d had very few. And we both were equally blown away.

Reasonably, what more could I have expected?

A few minutes later, the manager of the cafe walked out, carrying a large box.

“Lunch time!” she said, brightly, though it didn’t seem as though she was talking to us. She placed the box on the floor. Guess what was inside.

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Yup. Kittens.

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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).

And then came along Rand, and turned that idea on its head (honestly, if you told me that his sole role in my life, besides all that making out and romance stuff, was to make me question EVERYTHING, I would totally believe you). He loves going out to eat; he adores expensive and boutique grocery stores, filled with local products and fancy cheeses. He’s consistently suspicious if something edible is on sale.

“I just don’t trust it,” he once said of some discount chicken I brought home from Albertson’s. I ate it alone.

Over the last decade, I’ve tried to strike a balance between these two forces in my life. I like buying things on sale, but I’ll willing to spend a little more for something local, or organic, or ethically-produced. I’m fine with eating out at cheap places, and I’m even okay with splurging on an expensive dinner every now and then, provided I think it’s worth it.

But despite all the leaps and bounds I’ve made, the prices of food on Hayman Island left me clutching my heart. The thing is, they had the same effect on Rand.

There were three things on Hayman Island that were free:

• Water
• Breakfast
• Apples

Guess what we consumed a ton of?

That’s right! Water!

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Pancakes! Uh, … I mean breakfast! (Which was mostly pancakes!)

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Apples!

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Seriously, I think we each ate something like 3 apples a day. Which is crazy, because we all know that I prefer my apples surround with pie crust, and baked.

But a gal can’t subsist on breakfast and a shit ton of apples alone. We had no choice but to eat at the resort restaurants. And they were expensive as hell.

There were three options for lunch – we could order a picnic lunch and take it out with us to one of the islands (prices started at a whopping $58 AUS, or about $63 U.S., PER PERSON), or we could eat at back at the resort, at either the pool cafe or the tiki bar lounge. Most days, we chose the latter.

The tiki bar offered some gorgeous salads, which were actually pretty reasonably priced.

This salad, with mint, watermelon, and feta, was $9 AUS, which seemed like a bargain at the time.

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We ate so many of these, and though they were delicious, I’m now actually kind of sickened by the thought of them.

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And there were little sliders, which came with a small side of fries, for about $27 AUS, or close to $30 U.S.

Itsy bitsy burgers. Note the absence of lobster tails.

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Were the burgers delicious? Yes. Absolutely. Do I think it is even remotely sane to pay $10 per mini burger? NO. NO, not unless each one comes with a free lobster tail or something (and despite my numerous pleas to our server, I can tell you: these did not).

With tax and tip, the meal above cost us about $75 U.S.

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The good news is that we aren’t big drinkers. Because then things would have gotten really crazy:

For $22, you’d better bring me a bucket full of margarita, you hear me?

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On any given night, three of the resort’s four restaurants were open, and room service was also available. Unfortunately, I don’t have too many photos of those meals, because we often skipped them and headed straight to bed. When we did manage to stay up and eat dinner, we found that the bill hovered around $150 AUS for two entrees and an appetizer (excluding drinks and dessert). Some restaurants were far pricier – the seafood buffet at AZURE was $100 AUS per person. Like lunch, these meals were all fantastic, but spending money on food is not something that I’m used to. Each time we got a bill, I found myself gasping for air.

I realize I must sound like a total ass complaining about the prices of things. After all, it was an amazing experience, and the food was excellent (and don’t forget: free apples). But since we were on an island, with literally no other options for food, we started to feel rather trapped by the whole situation. Rand and I both agreed that we’d much rather the hotel had been all-inclusive. We’d have paid more upfront, but we’d at least have known what we were getting into.

The one advantage of the costly meals was this: they made leaving Hayman Island slightly easier. There was no way we could stay there any longer, because we’d either go broke or starve.

En route to Sydney, we stopped briefly on Hamilton Island, and already we felt liberated. We no longer had to pay Hayman’s crazy prices. I spotted a vending machine and decided to buy myself a bottle of water. I felt giddy at the prospect. It would be affordable! And cold! And hydrating!

I was rummaging in my pocket for a few coins when I saw the prices.

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I walked back to Rand empty-handed.

“I thought you wanted a drink,” he said.

“I decided I wasn’t thirsty,” I replied, and began searching my bag to see if we had any apples left.

The view from our seaplane as we flew over the Great Barrier Reef.

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The other day, I botched a batch of homemade cookies that I had been making for get-together with friends (or maybe my intent was just to sit in front of the TV and eat all of them by myself. Whatever.)

This shook me to my core. A large portion of my life is devoted to the creation and consumption of baked goods. It is, as a friend of mine noted, “one of my core competencies.”

I won’t lie: I’ve had baking mishaps before (if you have a copy of The Geraldine Handbook, please see pie, peach for more examples. Also, smoke alarms and tearful fits). But this failed batch was particularly upsetting because I had such high hopes. These cookies were going to be PERFECT. I’d made the recipe before, and had finally figured out the right tweaks I’d wanted to make. I halved the recipe (because even I have my limits, which are heeded only due to the threat of diabetes), but forgot to halve the quantity of butter I was using.

The result: flat, greasy, somewhat bland cookies.

Rand found me in the kitchen, having a sort of sputtering tantrum over a dozen oily disks of baked failure and what was left of the dough. I’d realized my mistake too late – there was no way of fixing it.

In what was not my proudest moment, I crammed two cookies in my mouth, chewing ruefully.

“What are you doing?” Rand asked.

“Eating my shame. Wanna taste?” I handed him a cookie. He took a tentative bite.

“Babe, I know all the guys probably tell you this, but your shame tastes great.”

I managed to smile and pout all at once, with my mouth full of cookies. In Hollywood, this is known as being a “triple threat.”

“Seriously, honey,” he continued, “if this is failure, I’d say things are looking pretty good for you.”

We ended up bringing the cookies to our friends’ house, imploring them all to “taste my shame.”

In the end, I guess, they weren’t all that bad. But it was a good reminder that high expectations will inevitably lead you to disappointment.

Which is why the day we went snorkeling on the outer reef was so damn perfect – because I had no expectations whatsoever.

Hell, up until a few days prior, I didn’t even know we were going. Rand had booked the tour as a surprise, but had then forgotten what day it was, so he had to ask the tour organizer (honestly, it’s amazing that he’s able to pull off any surprises whatsoever, given his memory). That was when I found out: we were going to take a seaplane to the outer reef. We’d land on the water, dock on a small, glass-bottomed boat, and spend the late morning snorkeling.

I tried to accept all of these things as mere facts. I tried to keep my thoughts rational, my expectations low. I willed my brain not to editorialize. But, like always, my brain fought with me.

Me: We are going to go snorkeling in the outer reef.

My Brain: Are you effing kidding me? HOLY CRAP WE ARE GOING SNORKELING IN THE OUTER REEF. THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST THING EVER.

Me: No. No, no, no. We are not going to go into this with high hopes. Remember what happened with Iron Man 2? I cannot handle that kind of letdown again. Nope. We are going to expect nothing, and if something good happens, we will be pleasantly surprised.

Brain: I AM GOING TO EXPECT EVERYTHING. THE DAY WILL BE AWESOME AND PERFECT AND FULL OF SEA TURTLES AND KITTENS.

Me: Seriously, please be reasonable about this. We are going snorkeling. There will be no kittens.

Brain: YES THERE WILL BE. Now, do the cha-cha dance or I’ll give you a migraine.

Me: (does a half-hearted cha-cha) Is this sufficient?

Brain: You don’t look like you mean it.

And so I tried to reconcile excitement and caution, tried to keep my high hopes within the realm of reasonable. I do this often, and it’s made my life and travels so much easier. If you have no expectation for a day to be perfect, you aren’t nearly so distraught when something inevitably goes wrong.

It’s become for my rule for having a great time on any trip: set your expectations low. Don’t hope for perfection. Just hope for not a disaster.

That way, when perfection (or the nearest thing that you can get to it on this earthly plane) does come along, you will have, as Rand later described it, one of the single greatest experiences of your life.

That’s what happened to me.

We started the day with a lovely breakfast which we managed to eat while simultaneously swatting away cockatoos. We then walked to a large boat ramp at one end of the island, and waited for our seaplane to arrive.

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I suppose it should have been romantic, staring at the water like that, but somebody was jumping around, giddy with excitement. Like a five-year-old on his birthday. Who’d eaten waaay too much cake. And also, the cake was laced with methamphetamines. (It was not me.)

Finally, the plane arrived.

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THE PROPHESY HAS BEEN FULFILLED.

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It was a seven-seater. The pilot and one person sat in front, and there were two rows of seats behind them, with one seat in the very back. The plane was already full of passengers, except for the bench seat directly behind the pilot. Rand and I squeezed in. I’m generally a claustrophobe, and I wondered if the close quarters would bother me. Miraculously, they didn’t.

As for Rand … well …

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Let’s just say he was pretty excited about the whole thing.

Because the small plane was so loud, we had to wear giant headphones. They blocked out the noise, and were connected to the PA system that our pilot spoke into, so we could hear his narration of the landscape below us. The best part of the headphones is that everyone who puts them on is suddenly a total badass, thus finally breaking your lifelong streak of looking like a dorkus.

See? Told ya.

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We drove out onto the water …

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and began to pick up speed.

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It was like being in a incredibly smooth-riding speedboat. And then, suddenly, seamlessly, we were airborne.

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Rand accepted this reality with the same level of restraint that he had had all morning. Which is to say, none at all.

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And though I could not hear him, I knew – I just knew – that he had the theme to Indiana Jones in his head. And sure enough, later, as we landed, I could hear him humming the score quietly to himself.

If there was some way that I wasn’t already head over heels for him, that moment alone would have done it.

The trip to the outer reef was forty minutes or so. I suspect it will forever remain one of the best plane flights of my life. (Even better than the Virgin America flight where I ate two bags of salted caramel popcorn and watched a movie with Martin Sheen in it, and then found out that Martin Sheen was sitting one row ahead of me in first class.)

Our pilot was a rakish blonde Australian named Lee. He, like so many other people working in the Whitsundays, decided to leave his nine-to-five job in the city, and now spent his days flying people around the reef. The view from his office was pretty great.

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As we flew, the ocean beneath us slowly became clearer and bluer. We saw a murky white substance sitting on the top of the water. We initially thought it was pollution, but Lee explained that it was entirely natural: these were coral spores, and were how the reef regenerated.

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I have had the privilege (one which I don’t deserve) to see many wonderful things in my travels and in my life. Some things, understandably, prove so amazing or significant that they stick out in my memory. There’s the first time that I saw Rand, wearing designer jeans and an air of confidence, both which were a bit big on his small frame. There was the first time I saw the Manhattan skyline when I was 14, looming out in front of me as I rode the ferry from Governor’s Island.

And there’s the first time I saw the Great Barrier Reef.

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There was even a heart-shaped reef.

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My husband, who has wanted to see the Reef since he was 10 years old, seemed pretty happy about the whole thing, too:

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Slowly, Lee began to circle the reef, and bring the plane lower and lower for a landing …

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We were all transfixed, watching as the turquoise water below us grew closer and closer.

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Just as seamlessly as we’d taken off, we’d landed. We were in the middle of the reef. In a few minutes, we’d be swimming in it.

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And I hope you’ll forgive me, but that’s where I’m going to stop today. I have loads more to tell you about our time in and on the reef. About the sea turtles and the schools of fish, and how sometimes you can have a marvelous day, even as you struggle with high expectations and a brain that demands to see kittens on a snorkeling trip.

Clouds begin to roll in over the resort at Hayman.

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On our last night on Hayman Island, it rained.

We didn’t mind it so much. We’d had our sun – five days with weather that was just about as perfect as one can get. We watched the clouds gather ominously, the promise of a thunderstorm that never did materialize. We only got a bit of a rain shower.

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It caught us as we were out for a walk on the beach.

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Growing up in Florida, I learned that a beach is not where you want to be during a storm. So I dragged Rand (who really wanted to stay and frolic in the surf, but NO. No, that was not happening) back to the resort. The island was lovely, even in a downpour.

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We decided to keep walking. There wasn’t any thunder or lightening to worry about, and the resort had umbrellas sitting around everywhere, so it turned out to be a nice stroll.

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Plus, we’re used to the rain. We’ve accepted that it’s a facet of our life. The grey clouds that hover above our home town also seem to follow us, even when we’re on vacation at the ends of the earth.

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My husband, marveling at the notion of warm rain.

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And we’re both pretty okay with that.

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Sunsets on Hayman island were quite lovely.

I’m mostly speculating here: we missed a large number of them. We were so jet lagged that we were often in our room by dusk, impatiently watching the last bit of light disappear from the sky so we could justifiably crawl into bed.

I don’t know if two childless adults have ever cheered the arrival of 7:30pm as much as we.

On one or two nights we managed to stay awake and watch the sky turn dark. The turquoise of the water would turn a deep indigo, the blue sky slowing fading into a hazy shade of orange and periwinkle.

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And all the shy, nocturnal animals would emerge. If you’ve seen a possum stateside, you already know that they are one of the more terrifying mammals in existence. They look like a hybrid between a Skeksis and the scary face that Alec Baldwin makes in Beetlejuice. #childofthe80s

But in Australia, they were downright adorable:

It’s like Sanrio got a friggin hold of them.

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Even the bats were lovely; we’d pass underneath a tree, hear a soft rustle, and see one fly out of it, flapping its giant leathery wings in the fading light.

Wallabies, a notoriously shy creature during the daylight hours, would begin to descend from the hills looking for food at sunset. They’d freeze when they saw us. We’d stare at each other for a few tense seconds before they’d bound off, covering huge distances in a few quick jumps.

This was what we had been missing.

One evening, we managed to see all of it. We’d decided to go on a walk before dinner (in an effort not only to see the island at sunset, but also to keep ourselves awake for long enough to actually enjoy an evening meal). We headed down the beach, following the shore as it curled away from the resort.

We’d managed to catch low tide, and waded in the warm water, gesturing to little creatures with our toes. Growing up in Florida, I’ve developed a nasty habit of reaching into the water and picking up whatever I find interesting in order to show it to Rand.

Thus I was scolded for the umpteenth time to “Put that hermit crab back where you found it. Its terrified.”

But then you went and did the EXACT SAME THING, didn’t you, Rand? DIDN’T YOU?

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And Rand took photo after photo of me, which made me self-conscious, but also sort of happy. It’s nice to know that even when your hair is a mess, and your skin is breaking out from sunscreen, and you are wearing a sundress that was last laundered in your hotel room sink (ditto for your underwear), there is someone who still thinks that you are lovely.

Thankfully, some of the photos were in silhouette, which makes everyone look better.

I guess the evening wasn’t incredibly eventful. We walked along the beach, looked at the water and thought deep thoughts: -

“I should start breeding miniature horses.”

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“I wonder what a marshmallow factory smells like. Good, I bet.”

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We watched the sun disappear, and started heading back to the resort. It was nearly dinner time.

Suddenly, I stopped.

“Oh, my god.” I said in a shocked whisper.

“What is it?”

“I just realized … I do like holding hands and long walks on the beach at sunset.”

Not gonna lie: this realization caught me by surprise.

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I just needed to stay awake for long enough to realize it.

The sink in our hotel in Australia. SPOILER: the water went straight down.

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I have some disappointing news.

Are you sitting down? You should probably sit down. You aren’t going to like what I have to say. This piece of news is up there with learning that Santa and professional wrestling are not real (if I just broke the news about either of those things to you just now, then I am very, very sorry. Life is easier when you believe that men come down your chimney armed with presents, and that karmic piledrivers do happen to bad people).

Instead, my sad revelation is this: the direction in which water goes down the drain (clockwise or counterclockwise) has absolutely nothing to do with where you are on the planet.

I realize that this is in direct opposition to everything that we were taught in 6th grade science class. If you are anything like me (pear-shaped, bad at math, and in your 30s), it was instilled in you at an early age that water goes down the drain in a counterclockwise direction north of the equator, and in a clockwise direction south of the equator.

This phenomenon, which I never bothered to test, was explained as being a result of the Coriolis Force.

Are you ready for some potentially inaccurate, woefully explained amateur physics? Wonderful! (Also, I dare you to find another travel blog that tackles stuff like this. THERE ARE PROBABLY NONE. Why? Because other travel bloggers don’t have the time or the inclination to flush their toilets repeatedly and record the direction of the putrid water. But I do, folks. I do.)

Let’s talk about the Coriolis Effect, which is a result of the earth’s rotation.

Here’s how it works (note: this example is totally not sound and could not be replicated in the real world, but I need you to work with me, people):

Let’s say you shoot a canon ball from the North Pole, with the goal of hitting Florida, which is directly south of you (Don’t worry – I lived in Florida for the better part of a decade, and can assure you: it has it coming). The canon ball will obviously take a while to get to Florida from the North Pole, and during that time, the earth will have rotated.

Of course, we’ll have rotated, too, but our canon ball, which is airborne, won’t. Since the earth is rotating, Florida will actually be further to the left of where it was when first shot the canon. Our projectile will land to the right of our intended target. Instead of hitting Florida, it’ll plunk down somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.

Because of the Coriolis Effect, it seems to those of us on earth as though our canon ball has shifted and moved to the right (really, it has moved in a straight line. It’s the earth that’s moving). This is known as the Coriolis effect. In the Northern hemisphere, it causes objects to seem to deviate to the right, and in the Southern hemisphere, objects seem to deviate to the left.

Okay, are you still with me? No? That’s good, because I’m sort of confused, too.

The Coriolis Effect can be seem most notably be see in anything that’s hovering above the surface of the earth and moving long distances. So planes, missiles, and air masses can all be influenced by the Coriolis effect. And because of high and low pressure systems within an air mass, you’ll often get spiraling that results from this. If you ever see photos of hurricanes or low-pressure systems from space, you’ll notice that north of the equator, they move counterclockwise. South of the equator, they move clockwise.

What about if you are on the equator? Well, that’s where it gets crazy: hurricanes don’t form within 5 degrees of latitude of the equator because the Coriolis Effect isn’t strong enough.

When I was small, I was taught that you could see the Coriolis Effect in everything, including our toilets and sinks. Hell, my brother even had a book as a kid called Impossible Unless You Know How by Shari Lewis (yes, she of Lambchop fame) that corroborated this fact.

But now that I’ve visited the Southern hemisphere on four separate occasions, and having flushed numerous toilets while I was there, I can definitively tell you: Shari Lewis and my science teacher were both full of it.

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Here’s why: There is simply too little water (and it drains far too quickly) for the Coriolis Effect to be seen on a scale as small as a bathroom basin. The direction that the water goes down is determined by the shape of the bowl and the direction of the jets shooting water into it. Consequently, you can find toilet bowls that flush clockwise or counterclockwise in both hemispheres.

So why, then, does everyone seem to think that water goes does one way in Northern hemisphere, and another way south of the equator? Often times, it’s simply confirmation bias. We believe something to be true, so we only notice evidence that supports that fact. We ignore evidence to the contrary.

As for me, I’ve gotten into the habit of putting the lid down whenever I flush. It’s more hygienic. And that way, I can pretend the water is moving in whatever direction I want.

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Years ago, when Rand and I were much younger and less squishy than we are now, we would go hiking. A lot.

Nearly every weekend in the spring and summer, we’d jump into my KIA Spectra (and before that, my Dodge Neon, because I am very discerning about the vehicles I choose. I demand that they be crappy and underpowered, damn it), and drive out of Seattle towards the mountains and hills that lie just north and east of our little city.

We were flat broke, and so hiking was a perfect activity. We’d pack snacks, and the day would usually only cost us what we spent on gas and admission to whatever park we were visiting.

Once we got to wherever it was we were headed, we would just walk. For hours. Sometimes we’d talk, or we’d invite friends to go along with us. But most of the time, it would be just me and Rand, saying little as we followed trails and paused to look at the trees and the plants and the bugs. I never realized it back then, but I think it was our way of finding peace in the crazy, confusing time that follows college.

We didn’t know where the hell we were going with our lives (or our relationship) but out there, we did. We had trails and markers and maps and signs telling us where to go. For a little while, there was nothing to worry about – no rent, no debt, no clients (or lack thereof), no bills. It was just us, roaming around a quiet and calm little chunk of the planet.

It went on like that, almost every Saturday and Sunday, for months. When things got really stressful, Rand would play hooky (his company was struggling so much, and he had so little work coming in, it didn’t really matter if he was in the office or not) and go hiking without me in the middle of the week. Our friends joked that he needed an intervention. Ever the enabler, I bought him an annual National Park pass, instead.

Time passed, and slowly, life began to sort itself out. Our paths became clearer: his company found more stable footing, and I found work that I actually enjoyed. We could pay the rent without having minor panic attacks. Our schedules began to fill, and we started traveling. Somewhere along the line, we stopped going on hikes.

But on Hayman Island, for the first time in years, we wandered out onto a trail.

Behind the resort, a rocky hill crested up; if you followed it to the top, you’d get an excellent vantage point of the resort and the ocean beyond. We figured it would give us a better perspective on the geography of the island, along with some killer views, and we were, I’m pleased to say, right about that.

What I didn’t anticipate was that, like so many years ago, the perspective we got might have extended to existence itself.

Our hike was part of our mission to relax and get a lay of the land on our first day on Hayman. We’d spend the next week snorkeling and canoeing in the neighboring islands, getting better acquainted with sea turtles and schools of rainbow-colored fish, and learning that the jellyfish that usually sting aren’t necessarily the ones you can see. But on that day, we were just going to follow the trails, and see where they led us.

They started out easy – in parts, the path was even paved.

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It was beautiful and shady and distinctly tropical – not something we encountered on our hikes in the Pacific Northwest.

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Slowly we trekked up, until we cleared the treetops below us, and could see the water and the resort peeking out.

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We’d reached the Marina Lookout. We still were unclear of where we were going to end up, but we had options. We could summit the hill and reach the Whitsunday Lookout (which had supposedly even better views), or we could follow the path all the way back down to the other side of the island, to Blue Pearl Bay. The latter option, of course, meant that we’d have to hike all the way back up.

I suggested we head to the Whitsunday lookout (I learned long ago not to let Rand pick hiking trails, because he tends to overestimate our stamina and underestimate how much water we need. A dozen or so dehydrated fights later, I now choose).

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The path began to grow more rocky, the views more lovely. The overhang of trees and the shade they provided had now disappeared. I whined a little, quietly and to myself (but just loud enough for Rand to hear. Because if a gal whines in the woods and no one hears it, then really, what’s the point?). It had been a very long time since I had done anything resembling physical exertion, and the heat was intense. We’d left early in the day, but already the sun was beating down on us.

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Rand didn’t mumble a word of complaint, but quietly walked on. Sometimes his sense of inner peace can be so annoying.

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Eventually, as we neared the Whitsunday lookout, the path became easier. The terrain became smoother, the grade less steep. The hazy marine layer that crept over the island every night and into the morning had by now burned off, revealing an unbelievably blue sky. Suddenly, life looked like it had been photoshopped:

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As promised, the views were pretty damn incredible.

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We stayed up there for a while, passing time in the usual fashion.

Oh, don’t look so surprised.

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High on that hill, I got all introspective and heavy, as I tend to do whenever I’m someplace beautiful (or, you know, just after I’ve finished eating a really, really good pastry). I started thinking about our constantly moving planet: how it was, at that very moment, rotating on its axis, and revolving around the sun, and our entire solar system (and us along with it) was hurtling through the universe as it expanded towards infinity.

All while we were standing up there, looking at the water, and feeling perfectly still.

Doesn’t that sort of blow your mind? It certainly did mine. It made me realize how many of our problems are small and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. And it totally helped me ignore the fact that I forgot to pack snacks. For a little while, at least.

I told Rand that my stomach and I wanted to go back to the resort, with its overpriced smoothies and miniature burgers. He nodded, and we headed back down the hill.

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We arrived back down close to the noon. The resort was barely stirring when we left, but now it was wide awake. Toddlers ran naked around the pool, couples strolled in the surf, and boats and seaplanes left the harbor, taking people to and from the island.

Life was in motion. I guess it always is. Which was why the stillness of just a few moments before was so remarkable to me.

Though I was delighted by the sounds of people having fun, of the beautiful chaos that surrounds families on vacation, I found myself logging for peace and perspective once again. I understood why Rand left the city to go hiking again and again all those years before. He wasn’t running from something. He was running towards something.

I looked up at him, and threw an arm around his waist.

“We should go hiking again,” I said. “Soon.”

I’m such an enabler.

I’m going to see if I have any torn purple jeans (I want to wear them while I wander around my house, smashing things). While I do that, you enjoy these links.

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Given how many talented designers Rand and I are friends with, I often take for granted how difficult it is to design beautiful stuff. But this blog, dedicated to all things ugly, is an excellent reminder: Whoever Designed This is An A**hole.

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The New York Times has some interesting (and proven) ways to defeat jet lag. Get ready to unleash your inner rock star: most of them involve wearing sunglasses on planes.

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I’m not a parent, but I still found this delightful. I suspect that goes double for those of you with wee ones: 10 Things I Really Effing Want For Mother’s Day.

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A brief but incredibly powerful piece from The New Yorker about Cleveland kidnapping victim Amanda Berry, and her rescuer, Charles Ramsey.

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I totally wish this had been a class while I was in high school. I’d have aced it: Batmath!

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Textastrophe has reinvented the lost of prank-calling through strange and hilarious text messages. Warning: you will spend waaaay too much time on this site. It’s that good.

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This is amazing: an author asks people to reimagine the covers of some of their favorite books, swapping the genders of the main characters (and the authors). The results, well, speak volumes.

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Wow. Just … wow. The creator of Hyperbole and a Half is back after a long hiatus. Her most recent post – about her depression, and her struggles with feeling nothing, is powerful as hell.

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A woman who was kidnapped at the age of 7 writes about her abduction.

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Every year, graphic designer Everett Hiller throws a holiday party. Afterwards, he sends out photos of the event to guests, with celebrities photoshopped into the mix. The results – sometimes subtle, sometimes glaringly obvious – are consistently delightful. This might be my favorite.

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A few years ago, I wrote about my visit to Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, and the wonderful tour guide I had there. I’m pleased to say that I heard from him recently, and he’s just as entertaining as ever. His multimedia site, The Lost Valley of London, features some of his favorite quirky London locations. Be sure to check it out; it’s strange and wonderful, and worth your time.

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Aaaaand that’s it for me this week, folks. I’m on the road next week, but will have some posts lined up and ready to go while I’m away.

The view from our breakfast table at Azure.

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Food on Hayman Island was absurdly expensive. I plan on writing an entire post about it, but it actually causes me physical pain to think about the prices of our meals there, so I’m procrastinating on that.

Breakfast, however, was included with our stay, so we gorged ourselves every morning. The buffet was expansive, and beautifully laid out.

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They even had a honeycomb in a wooden frame, from which you could get honey. This was all a bit showy for me (I prefer my honey is a little plastic bear, thank you very much), but I appreciated it nevertheless.

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The restaurant, Azure, was right on the beach, with massive glass doors that could be opened up entirely. Every morning, we’d sit and look at the water as the sun began to creep over the hill, and eat pancakes with butterscotch syrup (whoever came up with the idea to pass dessert off as breakfast food is a friggin genius).

I added some blueberries in a half-hearted attempt to be healthy.

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We’d sip our cappuccino and tea on the beachfront deck and talk about what we wanted to do that day. Things were very nearly perfect.

And he was stupidly handsome.

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Except for the goddamn birds.

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When we first saw them, we were somewhat delighted. Look! Cockatoos! And they come right up to you!

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Soon, though, their fearlessness became unsettling. They’d land on tables, swiping sugar packets and little plastic containers of jam.

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If you turned your head away from your food for just a few seconds, your croissant or slice of toast would suddenly take flight in the beak of one of these winged thieves.

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Sometimes, they’d leave you something in return.

Awww! A pile of crap! How’d you know?

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“Careful,” one of the staff warned. “They have the intelligence of a four-year-old human.”

She offered no follow-up to this comment. I was suitably terrified (the birds were each roughly as long as my arm). Another explained that since the birds were swiping sugar packets out of the porcelain bowls on the tables, the management decided to order lids for the bowls.

“What happened?” I asked.

“One bird figured out how to get the lid off in about two minutes. Now they can all do it.”

I shuddered. Looking around, I realized we were outnumbered.

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It was like … (crap, I hate to draw such an obvious parallel, but …) it was like a scene from The Birds.

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You could tell how long a guest had been at Hayman by their reaction to the birds. Delight and amusement? Usually no more than 1 day. Slight annoyance?2-3 days. Crazed horror or on the brink of avian homicide? 4 days and up.

After a while, we simply tried ignoring our feathered nuisances. We ate our breakfast and pretended that everything was fine. And most of the time, it was.

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But every now and then, I’d get the creepy feeling that I was being watched …

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In the end, the birds managed to steal their fill of breakfast. It seemed only fair – they were on the island first, after all. We’d invaded their home. We’d no right to complain, to wave our arms at them, screaming “SHOO! SHOO!”. Though in fairness, whenever anyone did that, the birds sat, unperturbed, and continued munching on pilfered pastries.

Still, we figured we were entitled to a little peace, given how much we were shelling out to stay on Hayman. So you can imagine my relief when we returned to our little cabana room and found that there were no birds there.

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Until one morning …

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Goddamn birds. I should have made them pitch in on the nightly rate.