I bought hiking boots for our trip to Yosemite. Of course I said they were “also for snow! They’re snow boots!” but they weren’t. They were obviously hiking boots. They tied up around my ankles and had big rubber soles on the bottoms, and as soon as Kyle saw me trying to shove them into the suitcase he said, “You’re bringing hiking boots? To California?” (He said it this way because I am not what one would call a ‘hiker’. Kyle has seen me “hike” before – my version of hiking looks a lot like walking.)
“Yes!” I said proudly. “For Yosemite.”
“Are those going to be comfortable?” He asked a little concerned. “You know we’re going to be walking a lot.” Which meant, “I’m not going to tip-toe around Yosemite with you when your feet hurt because you wore those dumb shoes.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
But what I meant was, “I did not buy these shoes because they were ‘comfortable’, I bought these shoes because they were cute – and HOW CUTE would I look wearing them in Yosemite?? When else am I going to have the opportunity to wear HIKING SHOES? YOU KNOW I DON’T HIKE.”
I don’t know why I bought those shoes. I mean, I know why, but… ugh. Anyway, now I have hiking boots that I never wear.
Chick flicks and “fun beach reads” will lead you to believe that couples who go away on vacation together always have a super romantic time. A “romantic getaway” they call it.
I don’t know about you, but when Kyle and I go on vacation – we usually just end up bickering about the traffic, or the crowds, or “what time is check-out?” since SOMEONE always seems to forget that check-out is at 11 – even though “check-out is ALWAYS at 11”, but we probably won’t be ready by then because SOMEONE is still in the bathroom.
Our first trip to San Francisco was…. kind of romantic? I guess? It was romantic when Kyle paid some guy to switch seats on the flight home so that he could sit next to me. In a middle seat. While I used his shoulder as a pillow and spent the entire four hours blowing my nose (because OF COURSE I’d woken up with a sinus infection that morning and proceeded to go through airport security with a box of tissues.) Not only did he opt for a crappy middle seat by his sniffly, disgusting fiancé – he went out of his way to hold my hand and let me rest my head on his shoulder, even though I had snot dripping out of my face. If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.
Our time in San Francisco was short. We did MOST of the touristy stuff – like take pictures at The Golden Gate Bridge, and Pier 39, and Lombard Street, and we saw the cable cars and the “Painted Ladies” houses and hung out at “that one park across from the Painted Ladies – you know, the one they showed in Full House?” (Alamo Square).
We rented a car for the day. I had reserved something like a Ford Focus (or whatever the equivalent to “economy” was), but when the guy asked us “what kind of car wanted”, he somehow talked us into upgrading. Which wasn’t very hard once Kyle responded with “something fun” to the “what do we want” question, and the guy said, “How about this Chevy Camaro convertible?” and Kyle said “Sold!”
(I act like I’m blaming this all on my fiancé. In reality, I heard “convertible” and said “Ooh!!” and then Kyle said “Sold!” What can I say, we’re a couple of yuppies.)
Overheard at the terminal bar last week in the Kansas City airport– guy asks the bartender if he can have a “mock tail” (similar to a cocktail, but with less alcohol – and by “less”, I mean zero). The bartender says, “Sure. What would you like?”
The guy doesn’t know. He just stands there for a minute, like he’s never been asked that question before. Finally he says, “Like, a wine?”
First of all – the fact that he just called it “a wine” made my entire day.
Now the bartender looks confused. I don’t blame him. “Wine?” He asks. “So… juice.”
The guy shrugs. “Well, I don’t know how you do it.”
I should also point out that this guy is well into his twenties – more likely early thirties. He is old enough to know what “a wine” is.
My flight was boarding shortly after, so I don’t know what happened next. I’m assuming he got his juice, asked the bartender to pour it into a wine glass, and then sent a Snapchat to all of his friends with the caption “Thirsty Thursday”.
We made a pit-stop in Phoenix last year on our way from The Grand Canyon to San Francisco (which is not at all between “The Grand Canyon and San Francisco”, for those of you familiar with geography, but it was one of the places that had an airport relatively nearby – and also because, during the planning process, I said, “Ooh! We should go to Phoenix! It’s so cool! I was there a few years ago with some friends, we loved it.”)
We LOVED IT. In hindsight, I’m trying to remember why we loved it – maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was -2 degrees back home and in Phoenix we got to wear bikinis and drink margaritas all day. That might have had something to do with it.
But I managed to forget about all of that when I said “We should to go to Phoenix!”, “It’s going to be so fun!”, “They have cactuses there!”…. so we went to Phoenix. They have cactuses there.
I had been to the Grand Canyon once before. Which is not to say that when Kyle and I discussed visiting the Grand Canyon on our trip to Vegas last year, I was like – “yawn, snore – seen it, no thanks” — but I figured you should know this for two reasons:
1) Because I – for some completely stupid reason – believed this made me an expert on all things ‘Grand Canyon’. At least once I said, “No, we need to go this way. I remember from when I was here before.” (Keep in mind that I can barely remember where I parked my car in the Target parking lot after thirty minutes – but, sure, I remember this dirt path from my two hours spent at The Grand Canyon four years ago.) And also –
2) I was the WORST tour guide. For someone who has actually BEEN to the Grand Canyon before – I know shockingly little about it. We pulled up to the entrance where they were doing helicopter tours, and I actually said “Oh wow, they do helicopter tours?! That’s so cool!” So. There’s that. *Also – in case you didn’t know, they do helicopter tours.
I won’t bore you with details about my trip there from 2014. Mostly because it was two hours spent walking around with my friend saying, “Oh, will you take a picture of me by this rock?” and then taking pictures of my friend when she asked, “Hey! Will you take a picture of me on this ledge?” And then we left. Because once the profile-picture-taking-game was over, we ran out of ways to entertain ourselves. “The Grand Canyon seems like more a ‘family’ vacation spot,” we said – whatever that means. Like it’s the equivalent to Sea World.
I signed up to study abroad during my junior year of college. An entire semester in Spain designed to immerse students into the culture, learn about the history, and live with a host family who spoke zero English.
Literally, zero. No habla. Just a Madre and a padre who discussed current affairs every night at the dinner table (I’m guessing, I actually had very little idea what they were talking about. Like I said, everything was in Spanish, and they talked so fast!), and a host brother who was super into Shakira. My roommate and I heard the song Rabiosa through the thin walls of our piso AT LEAST once a day.
Spending a semester in Spain sounded like a great opportunity. I mean, yea, my Spanish skills sucked – even after two semesters of the basics, my ability to string a sentence together usually went like this: “Hola. Como estas? Chaqueta, biblioteca, gracias, tienes un pluma?” Which Google Translate will tell you means: “Hi. How are you? Jacket, library, thank you, do you have a pen?” Clearly, I was ready to navigate a foreign country.