Vacation Land(ed)

When, last spring, my friends (the three of them and some barfly acquaintances) heard that my mother would be flying me and my BAG to Mediterranean climes they chimed in with a lot of jealous palaver.

If by jealous palaver you mean hatred, despair and wishes that I would die.

If I had a dime for every time someone claimed that the Continent would be wasted on me or…

Oh.. wait, they said I’d be wasted on the Continent and they were dead right.

It’s my mom for god’s sake. It’s the Continent for god’s sake. And with all else moms and I share there is also the love of the grape. And there we were, with all that lovely grape juice, pops with a pipe, and the BAG with bookstores. So we all fed the beasts within.

We wandered from lovely place to lovely place.

I, as is my wont, snapped pictures.

I think I’ve covered this elsewhere, but I hate pictures with people in them. To me a picture of an architectural or natural wonder with people in it is like a picture of a porn star with her yeast infection and tattoos showing.

Just wrong… a kind of defilement.

“Hey look Palookaville! I’m here in front of something that dwarfs my pathetic life. But the group tour stopped here before we went to the Microtel (outer) Rome!”

er… this wasn’t supposed to turn all bitter.. the point is..

some of the photos came back to roost in a semi-lovely university publication…

this would be a screen shot…

and this would be a link to the pdf…

as if you stupid tourists care..

I’m off to base-jump into a undersea cavern filled with lo-cal rum, the best margaritas you have ever had, a native guide with a well-stuffed loincloth, slivers of the true cross, and food as the savages themselves kill, prepare, cook, and eat.

Later?

I’ll parasail out with a fistful of antiquities.

So.. like… your vacation sucked compared to mine..

;-)