BUT, the good part about Dunedin was that though the magic of the internet I got hooked up with S, who invited me over for dinner with her family two nights in a row. She and her husband C have two kids who think that visitors are the coolest ever and did I want to see this pokemon game and look at this dance and it was all very entertaining. S even let me embarrass myself heartily on her spinning wheel. It trounced me and I was demoted to spindle practice.

As a quick aside I’d like to note that if there’s anyone out there with an entrepreneurial spirit, you should think about bringing bathroom ventilator fans to this country. In lieu of fans they just leave the bathroom window open. Now, I’m all for saving the planet and whatever, but one of the main places I want warm is the bathroom, thank you very much. So, you know, if you’re into that sort of thing, go for it.

Right! Anyway. After the second dinner with S and her family, we went to my first knit night. It was small but friendly, and nice to be around so many knitters. I managed to almost finish a sock, which got completely ripped out the next day. Alas.

From Dunedin I went to Queenstown, a place I was steeling myself to have to endure rather than relax in. Lonely Planet had it described as adrenaline-junkie, party-animal town, which, as you may have gathered, is not so much my scene. Fact remained, however, that there were plenty of athletically-inclined things to do there, from bungee jumping (oh HELL no)¹, a canyon swing (a “bungee variation,” according to Lonely Planet), jet boating, white-water rafting, river surfing & sledging (sledge = sled), skydiving (NO), and plenty of other things, all of which are quite expensive ($100+).

I decided to be frugal and pick two. With the canyoning ticket, the trip to Milford Sound, and the hostel I was spending $350 for 2.5 days in Queenstown. Ouch.

That being said, canyoning was awesome. And terrifying at points. I didn’t know much about it, and actually have no idea why I picked it over all the other non-height-based options, but after I got the brochure (after I booked it) I started to get worried that I wasn’t going to be fit enough to do it. There was noise about how you should be an active adult, and considering I couldn’t make it up the bitch of a hill getting to my Queenstown hostel (well done, self, picking hostel on a worse slope than the one from the night before) I wasn’t feeling terribly “active,” and there were noises about climbs and other things that I wasn’t fully sure I was able to do, and what if they had to stay behind because of me? Augh, that would be so embarrassing, and maybe I should just cancel now and hide under my bed for the rest of my trip. Or intentionally sprain an ankle or something.

I did go, and the first thing they did was to suit us up in the appropriate protective gear – oop, no, the first thing was to have us sign away our right to sue them should they screw up and break our legs or kill us or whatever. Woo hoo! Love those. Right. So, full body wetsuit, socks, booties, head sock, harness, life jacket, and helmet. I felt like the queen of style, right there, let me tell you.

After a brief hike through the woods they had us submerge in glacier water 6º C, or –595º F – the water we would be spending the trip trudging through – and then climb a ridiculously steep hill to a zipline. I haven’t done a zipline since middle school, and all I remember was that I spent most of it backwards and trying to turn myself the right way around. This go around was about the same.

Then they had us abseil/rappel down a vertical (vertical) cliff. For those who aren’t In The Know, abseiling involves attaching yourself to a rope and having someone lower you down the cliff while you walk backwards, perpendicular to the rock. Ha.

The trip involved a couple of slides, and at one we couldn’t quite see what we were in for, but followed directions just the same. They held our life jackets, we crossed our legs and arms, and they let go. Next thing you know it’s not the easy drop you were thinking, and your sinuses are packed with water. Mine felt larger when it was over, and I haven’t been nearly so congested since. Scrambling to the surface and looking back you realize the it’s actually quite a fall and what were they thinking and GOLLY that was cool.

Some (easier) slides and jumps later there’s the option of climbing up to a ledge, what I estimated to be about 4 meters high, and jumping off into the water. Being a little delirious from having an unstuffed nose for once, I decided to go. After climbing up a vertical cliff face involving clipping carabineers to safety lines and hauling oneself up with ropes and things, you look out what is, in fact, a six meter drop, eeeeee.

It turns out that my comfort level for jumping into water is at about four meters. When I’ve gone that far and still haven’t hit the water I panic. Lived to tell the tale, though, and enjoyed the adrenaline rush.

And I might’ve come out and hugged the rocks, laughing and wide-eyed with terror.

The other zipline offered a little more responsibility than I was happy about. We ziplined over the deepest pool, then unhooked our safety ‘beener, pulled on the rope that was keeping us in the same place, and lowered ourselves down to the pool.

As soon as I undid the knot that would allow me to get down my lifejacket shifted right up under my chin, which was very attractive, which is, of course, when the camera got pulled out. Foxy lady!

The final jump was about as high as the previous big jump, but more exciting because you had to be specific about where you jumped so as to not hit a rock, and had to bend your knees, because the water wasn’t tremendously deep. I almost didn’t do it, but did, and may have yelled “ OH FUCK!” on the way down. I also jumped wrong, but managed to keep from injuring myself.

A few more easy slides and the group emerged the freezing water fast friends. The fear and cold bonded us together. They don’t have you wear gloves because you need to have good grips on the rock (I guess), and their recommended method of warming up your hands is to straighten your arms at your sides, hands flat and pointing out, and pumping your shoulders up and down. I came out of a pool at one point to find four of my compatriots standing in a line, arms straight down, hands out, bouncing their shoulders. It was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time, and I told them they looked like a chorus line. One guy started can-canning.

My fears about being too weak were denied, though it’s three days later and I’m still sore. Two women didn’t make it through – they (or maybe just one, and her friend joined out of solidarity) was too freaked out by the heights and who knows what else.

A German woman on the trip, K, and I decided to go out for a coffee after the trip, and we found a café and sat as close to the fire as we possibly could to warm up.

We ended up getting dinner as well, and I splurged because it’s not often I actually allow myself to do that. It did involve some measure of plugging my ears and going LA LA LA LA NOT THINKING ABOUT MONEY LA LA LA.

During dinner we discussed tattoos, and I learned that the popular tattoo for women these days – the one on the coccyx – what some of us in America call the “tramp stamp” is, in Germany, called “arschgweih.” Literally, “ass horns.” HA!

We went to a bar afterwards (LA LA LA LA LA LA LA) and played no small amount of pool. A Dutch gentleman who was being summarily ignored by his two young companions was watching us play, and I think my lack of natural billiards-ability was causing him actual physical pain.

In the end I was reminded why I don’t go out to loud, busy pubs at night, and was happy to head to bed early. I took two Sudafed to keep the snoring/7am sneezing down, and while my body felt like a sacka hammers, I couldn’t sleep. I saw 4:30am and was awake before my 7:30 alarm. Nice.

¹ When I told my mom that I was headed to the bungee-jumping capitol of the world she said “Don’t do it,” in that mom-to three-year-old-with-a-hand-in-the-cookie-jar voice. “Or at least don’t tell me about it.”

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This is actually my third stop in Christchurch. The first I didn’t think I’d stick around, but at 6:20pm I was browsing the internet for local swing dances and found a big workshop happening that night, starting at 6:30. I checked my watch, booked it upstairs to get my shoes, and took off into the night.

Two lindy hop workshops later I learned there were more workshops and a dance the next night, so I decided to stick around. Budgetary concerns kept me from the next workshops ($20 each adds up, even when hostel living is relatively inexpensive), so I just went to the dance. It’s a small scene, but generally friendly (for the uninitiated, it’s much easier to get into a dance scene if you’re relatively competent at the relevant style of dance).

J told me that I had to go to Cave Stream while I was around. I had no idea what it was, but apparently it was one of the coolest things to do. Unfortunately, and naturally, you can’t get there without a car, and it’s a fair bit of trouble getting there by bus as you’d have to ask especially to get dropped off nearby, and then walk. But! He might be taking the lindy teacher who was there for the workshops next Tuesday, so if they went and I was around I could tag along. That, combined with my offer and acceptance to teach a workshop for the Charleston Stroll at the classes the next week, and my interest in seeing Akaroa, led to me heading to the Information building the next morning.

I got there, bags in tow, at 10:05am, and asked for a ticket to Akaroa. The woman’s face fell – the last bus had left at 10am. Superb. I bought a ticket for the next day instead, and hauled my things back to Fraureisehaus. A whole day now at my disposal I checked my email, and learned that the leaders of the local swing dance couldn’t make my workshop happen, and so they were sorry but they had to cancel. Things were going my way!

(The view down to Akaroa)

The bus ride to Akaroa went off without a hitch and I settled myself into Chez La Mer backpackers. I booked myself for a Swimming With Dolphins tour for the following morning and wandered up and down the one main road in Akaroa. J sent me a text and said Cave Stream was on for the following Tuesday if I was interested.

Swimming With Dolphins was cancelled in the morning due to bad weather (just as well since it was freezing cold and cloudy), so I rebooked and went back to bed for another two and a half hours.

It was sunny and warm the next afternoon when I got suited up for dolphin-related adventures. The company takes a picture of you in your wetsuit before you head out, and takes another picture of the boat heading out. It was far more successful than my last venture. They managed to find two Hector’s dolphins who seemed interested, and they dumped us in the water, and we bobbed around as the dolphins wove in between us.

A tip, should you ever go swimming with Hector’s dolphins (unlikely, since they’re only found off the coast of New Zealand, but just in case) – bring along two small rocks to clack together under water. They think it’s the most fascinating thing. They also seem to like bright colors which does no one any good since you’re likely going to be wearing the tour’s black wetsuits. Different species like different things. Dusky dolphins (which are found in Kaikoura, which I almost got to swim with) like it when you squeak and hum and generally make a ruckus into your snorkel. Bottlenose dolphins like quiet. Who knew?

On the ride back in I chatted with a fellow scuba diver (he’d brought his own suit with bright green on the sleeves – he was very popular with the dolphins) who told me I absolutely had to dive the Poor Knight’s Islands, which north of the north island. Suddenly I’m thinking three months isn’t enough time. And we saw a penguin. It was cute.

There was little other excitement in Akaroa – it’s just quiet and calm and lovely there. Monday I went back to Christchurch and to Fraureisehaus. I asked J what to wear for the trip, and he said shorts and a t-shirt would be fine. Shorts. Great. I didn’t have shorts. Well, I did, but they weren’t terribly flattering. So Tuesday morning I raced around Christchurch trying to find a not-awful pair of shorts that didn’t cost $100. Not as easy as it sounds.

(Outside of the cave)

At noon I met up with J, and we picked up S before heading off to Cave Stream. Cave Stream, it seems, is an underground cave with a stream and a series of waterfalls running through it. You start at the exit (really) and climb through the water, up the waterfalls (1-1.5 meter high) before climbing a ladder and emerging at the other end. Seems backwards to me, but what did I know? I read the sign outside that said you should wear a long sleeved shirt – I didn’t have one – and a hat – didn’t have one of those either – and recommended closed shoes with thick socks – I was wearing sandals and feeling woefully unprepared.

We pranced down a steep hill to the mouth of the cave. It should be noted that it’s a mountain stream, and with the warm weather the snow on top was melting. And heading into the stream. T-shirt and shorts. What a splendid idea.

The first pool is the deepest, and where you gauge everyone’s comfort (according to the sign) and the feasibility of the tramp (slosh?). Normally the pool is waist deep. When we were there it came up to J’s armpits. J is not a short man. I’m short. We aborted the walk.

Instead we walked to the other end to see how going was from that direction. At the entrance is a waterfall maybe 3 meters high with a ladder at the side for clambering purposes.

WHY NO, I DON’T MIND HEIGHTS, HA HA HA.

J made it all the way down the ladder before deciding that the force of the water was too much, so we wiggled back out again.

Fail.

A quick clothing change later and we went to Castle Hill where they filmed parts of Narnia and wandered through the surprisingly big stones. People climb them apparently. Know why? Because they’re crazy.

(J trying to climb the rocks)

The next night I went to another swing dance in Christchurch. It wasn’t thrilling. It was Halloween and apparently a memo had gone out that costumes were encouraged, and they could choose from 1. devil, or 2. angel. There were also two lions and two witches. Someone should’ve gone as a wardrobe. HAR!

I took off Thursday for Akaroa again and didn’t end up doing any of the tours I was thinking about doing (or hit the walks as much as I’d intended), but got a lot of sun. My poor nose is peeling away, and if this keeps up I’ll end up with one similar to the nouveau Michael Jackson.

I’m tan, though, which is very exciting. I mentioned this to P, a chap I met in Akaroa. He noted I was still pretty pale. “Pale!” I squealed, ever graceful under pressure, “I have tan lines,” I yelled, pulling up my sleeve and wielding a bare shoulder at him. “Look at me! I’m the tannest I’ve been in years! I’m like toast I’m so brown!“

He didn’t buy it.

Now I’m back in Christchurch for the third time, a place that I hadn’t even intended to spend three days. And today I’m leaving, thank you.

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Yes it would be, I would respond if I were a quicker thinker, except that I’m paying for this myself. (also, I might add, why couldn’t it be a mommy who funds a big trip? Huh? Huh?).

And then, since we’re in dreamland, I blow a big ol’ raspberry in their face, kick them in the shins, and settle comfortably into smug superiority. Suckers.

A lot of people have told me that I’m so brave for undertaking this big trip alone, and what I try to explain, and what they don’t care to listen to, is that for me, trotting off on some big trip is MUCH less scary than the thought of staying somewhere for longer than, say, a year at a time.

Paying a mortgage? Getting a pet that lives longer than six months? Having some variety of career? No, no, no. No thank you. I will take my rented apartment, my temp job, and keep my browser on travelocity. Yes I will.

So I might have some issues with long-term commitment. The concept of owning a house is both terrifying and more depressing than I’d care to contemplate. I’m hoping I’ll eventually break out of this.

I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I get back. It’s looking likely that I’ll come back to NC (if for no other reason than my friends just might kill me if I don’t). My great plan, you see, is that while in NZ I will have an epiphany (did you know you can plan them? I have decided that you can) as to the best career direction ever. Then, when I come back to the states, I can get working on it.

That is my plan. It’s foolproof.

Also, today I purchased my plane tickets for California. Oddly enough it was cheaper to buy three one-way tickets than it was to book a multi-destination trip. Go figure.

The post Winston-Salem, NC, USA appeared first on Travel Blog.

I should maybe start at the beginning.

The plan, post-Scotland, was always to get away again. Everything I did was temporary — 6 month rental agreement, temp job, lackadaisical housecleaning habits (I might move at any minute!). Then somehow I’d been working at my job — my mindless, sunless, corporate, well-paying job — for a year, my driver’s license said I was a NC resident, and I didn’t have a damn clue about where to go next.

Because nowhere sounded interesting. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was excited about the prospect of going to France, briefly. And then Italy, briefly. Enthusiasm waned — I wanted somewhere warm, and at the end of it all nowhere sounded exciting.

Really. Nowhere.

I’d stayed in one place too long, my job drove me crazy, and I was depressed. Am depressed. I’ve been swing dancing once in the past six months (outside of my trip to Scotland) (this may have more to do with the quality of Greensboro dancing than my mood). I still contra dance every Tuesday, but I sit out plenty of dances (it helps that we haven’t gotten many exciting bands lately). Lately I’ve even stopped answering the phone for most people.

While Greensboro felt dull and confined, I couldn’t find anywhere else to tempt me. Finally I just settled on New Zealand. My grand reasoning was that I knew it was beautiful landscape and with the immediate searches coming up with 24 hours worth of plane rides to get there, there was absolutely no way I’d be going for a week’s visit.

I emailed Lizza, who was spending a year abroad there. I emailed a Kiwi knitblogger. I browsed Lonely Planet. I’m still not excited.

In the end I knew I just had to pick somewhere and go. And so I am. New Zealand, fine. Tickets, fine. I don’t know where I’m staying — or even in what city. And that’s fine.

(Though I am feeling nervous).

Yesterday I turned in my three weeks’ notice and announced to the litigation support staff that I was leaving. The reaction was mostly shock, sadness, and envy. Since everyone else has families, pets, and houses they can’t really pack up and leave for four months.

To be in NZ longer than 3 months you need a visa. I’ll be there 87 days.

I am afraid of:
-Not having enough money
-Being out of touch with people (it’s a 12-13 hour time difference)
-A 12-fucking-hour plane ride
-Making friends that I won’t be able to easily visit
-Heights.

I don’t know:
-What to do about my driver’s license
-What the fuck I’m doing when I get back.

I’m excited about:
-Sleeping in
-it being springtime when I get there
-Sunshine.

Current plan:

August 11/12: Leave NC for Philadelphia.
August 16-23: Iceland with my folks
September 16-21: California
September 21: Leave for NZ.

Spend some time in Auckland. Visit Wellignton and Christchurch, pick a place to live.

December 19: Return to CA
December 20: Back to Philly.

January: Back to NC?

Quality.

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Airport departure: 10pm

Number of plane boardings: 2

Number of phone calls to parents, updating status: 30

Number of times through security: 3

Number of flight changes: 435

Number of storms: 2

Number of convenient flights: 3

Number with empty seats: 0

Number of sobbing sessions in airport bathroom: 1

Number desired: 49

Miles traveled: 0

Hours until next flight: 12

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1. Finishing up Christmas presents;
2. Cleaning out my room, getting rid of things I don’t need/want;
3. Finish/continue writing about my trip;
4. Go dancing, FINALLY;
5. Decorating for Christmas;
6. Making Christmas cookies;
7. See people;
8. Watch old episodes of Inspector Gadget;
9. You get the idea.

I’ve been trying to decide what warrants starting and maybe even finishing first, and I decided on writing at least one entry, because that is how much I care about you people. And also because I can do it sitting down.

Until dancing comes around, ‘cause ain’t nobody standing in the way of my dancing. Almost nobody.

So. Where to start. How about with the Hukilau? Excellent idea.

On the 8th, which was a Thursday, I went to Edinburgh Swing Dance Society’s dance lesson, where Diane was teaching the Dean Collins Shim Sham. Afterwards, Bjarte, Diane, Michelle, Alan, and I went to a pub down the road for drinks. I was wearing my flip flops because the centre where they hold the lesson is barely two blocks from my place, and I didn’t feel like putting on my sneakers. And OH they teased me for it, what with it being the middle of winter.

Wacky Americans.

It was after the first beer that we were discussing the cabaret (talent show, if you will) that was happening at Tuesday’s dance. Alan, Françoise, and I were planning to do our three-person balboa. Diane then brought up this dance she knew – the Hukilau. Presumably a hula dance, done to a song by an Italian swing band. Being at a beer-and-a-half, we (save Bjarte, who was going to be gone by Tuesday) decided this would be a great thing to perform at the cabaret.

When we sobered up our eyes widened collectively when we realized what we’d agreed to do. But the decision had been made, so the Hukilau was a go.

Diane, Michelle, and I met on Sunday where we went over the dance (it’s pretty simple). Have you ever heard the hukilau song? It gets into your head worse than “It’s a small world.” It will be on repeat in your brain until the end of time. Bleah. Anyway, we practiced until we got bored, and then gussied ourselves up and went to the Christmas dance that two dancers were throwing.

It wasn’t until Monday that we got to practice again, but we grabbed an empty, unused hallway in the pub where the Monday lessons are held, and learned to hula. We thought it was hilarious and laughed through the whole thing.

Fast forward to the Cabaret. We were wearing crepe paper grass skirts, plastic leis, flowers in our hair, and flip flops. And Alan… well, the plan was that he was going to get a coconut bra and, at the climax of the song, tear his shirt open. I can’t remember if we were drunk when we decided that one. For some inexplicable reason he didn’t buy the coconut bra, but instead bought large rubber breasts with a demi-bra. It’s almost the same thing.

I think we thought the whole thing was funnier than the audience did. They were appreciative, though, and loved Alan flashing them.

Oh. And the whole thing’s on film. Good thing I wasn’t planning to run for office.

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So I had to sneak off to update.

Well now. Day two in Orkney.

There’d been some mention the night before about a time change, but I didn’t hear anything else about it, (I imagine it’s not a huge topic of conversation, even in such a small town) and when I asked my waitress about it at breakfast she said she didn’t know. Didn’t know? As a result I spent most of my trip there not knowing what time it was.

But! I went over to the local car rental place, which, despite the permanent stickers spelling out “Open” on the door, was empty. And dark. I stomped around in frustration for a minute before seeing another sign that if no one was there, to call this number – they’re just a few minutes away. I did, and woke up a gentleman who could rent me a car.

And this, I think, caused me to step foot firmly in adulthood. It was kind of squishy and meant I had to put my name on a form that said things like “Hey, if you hurt our car then you have to buy us three new ones. And a house. And if you don’t like it, Guido’s gonna come up there and break your legs, comprende?”

But he also confirmed the time change. Anyway, they don’t keep the cars filled with gas anymore because it’s so expensive these days, so my first order of business was to find a gas – excuse me – petrol station. Which I did. And it was closed. So I found another. Which was closed. It wasn’t quite 10am on a Sunday in a tiny little town, so it’s not totally surprising, just totally inconvenient. The tank was very near being very empty, so I decided to drive for a little and see if anything was open.

I went first to Scara Brae, which is a Neolithic village in remarkable condition. It’d been covered over with sand dunes ages ago and was uncovered in 1850 during a storm. It’s an impressive bit of engineering – subterranean houses with beds and dressers and the like. Directly next to the village is a lovely white sands beach that would be right at home in Hawai’i.

I walked along the beach (which rapidly turns to less romantic large stones), and up a cliff. I love me some cliffs. And it was gorgeous and THEN guys, and THEN…

No. You have to understand. No. See, no. No. It was like being in a National Geographic magazine. There was this deep gash in the cliff, and if you got on your belly and shimmied up to the back edge because you’re afraid of heights, particularly natural ones and wouldn’t dare ever ever ever do something so stupid as to walk up to the edge because AAUGH that would be so scary and look down you can see water crashing in the gap, and a short ledge connecting the two sides together and the water is a glorious blue and white and it makes you actively squeal with excitement.

(Note: I didn’t actually squeal. I am much too cool for such things).
(Note the second: Okay, I totally did squeal. It was phenomenal).

And I pulled out my camera, which I’d been lying on, which is not particularly comfortable, and held my camera over the edge and took a picture, and then my batteries died. The bitter, vengeful bastards.

I had three sets of batteries with me, all of which were drained. In desperation I tried any combination of them that I could, in the hopes that it would get me just one more shot. And when it did I would keep trying, for one more shot. I got about four all together. Not as good as I would like, but the best way to get a photo of it would be to either be on a boat or a helicopter, and wouldn’t you know it, I left mine back at the hotel.

When I shimmied back away from the ledge and went over to the side of the gap, wiggling my way to the edge again, I realized that the back edge of the cliff was actually more like a little bridge. Water had worn away the underside until about two meters – the part on which I’d been laying – remained. A cave, I would guess, though I couldn’t see far enough in to confirm. The sheep grazing the grass behind me were considerably less impressed. I guess when you live right next to something it loses some excitement.

Anyway, in an effort to drain some height-related adrenaline vocally I made un-ladylike noises of excitement for a while more before walking back. Two surfers had made their way out into the sea, and I kept an eye on them as I navigated the path. All they did was sit on their boards. Maybe the waves were going to pick up soon. Or maybe they just like to hang out in wetsuits. I don’t know.

The friendly folks at the desk sent me to a petrol station where I got £12 of petrol and a snack and set to wandering. The thought of trying to pick one place to go and then trying to find it on a map and then by car was too exhausting, so I just went.

I drove on their distressingly narrow roads (I had a heart attack any time another car or, heaven forbid, truck passed, certain we could never both fit) (or when I got too close to the outer edge and some as-yet unconfirmed part of the car would make a loud sound like the tire tyre exploding) (and yikes they go way too fast in some of those areas), admiring the vast (vast) farmlands and coasts. And certainly wondering what it was like to live with so few neighbors, so far from other civilization.

It didn’t take me too long to find myself in Kirkwall, allowing me another opportunity to test my cardiac fortitude by driving in an unfamiliar town on the left side of the road. I’d heard rumor that there was a shop selling locally spun yarn from local sheep. Fed on seaweed, for some reason. But also located in this sneeze of a town was St Magnus’ Cathedral. I have no major interest in places of worship generally, but the draw to this one was that their website, my dad learned, claimed to have a webcam focused on the façade.

So I did the logical thing, which was to call my parents (at around 8am their time) and have them look it up so I could jump up and down and wave or something. After much fuss with the internet and the webcam we learned that they’re big fat liars (the webmasters, not my parents) and the feed is so totally not live. So if you ever go onto the St Magnus’ Cathedral webcam and see a woman in black pacing back and forth, that’s me!

And it started to rain. No problem, thought I, I’ll just go to that bookstore that I can see from here, shake off the rain, and immerse myself in books. On the way there I saw the shop that sold yarn and drooled at the windows because it was, of course, closed.

Back to the bookshop, then, where I learned that it was a “bookshop” in the sense that Target is a bookshop. Four shelves of books, and then cards and various other disappointingly non-book-style things.

It being Sunday there was nothing open, so I walked up the hill back to the car. What do you do when you have a car but everything’s closed and/or would require standing out in the rain and you have a quarter tank of gas to spend before dropping the car back off again? You drive around for the hell of it, that’s what you do.

I saw a few things after that, but nothing particularly noteworthy. The skies cleared up after a bit and my admiration got a break from fields/sheep/farmhouses and turned instead to rainbows. As drives go it was lovely, even when it was raining.

As I promised I dropped the car off at 7 or 8 and went back to the hotel for dinner. I’d planned to find somewhere new to eat since I’d eaten in the hotel for the past two nights, but my parents were buying and there was a steak that demanded my attention. And OH it was so worth it. Completely delicious.

And then I retired upstairs for television and a bath in the tub that’s as long as I am tall, then bed. I’ll go to day three tomorrow, and hopefully it won’t take me two weeks to write like this entry did. Sheesh.

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