Boy and I have decided on summer vacation plan. He had originally thought that he wouldn't get the entire month of August off like most Frenchies. Honestly - what are all of you people doing living in a country where you DON'T get five paid weeks of vacation per year?
Anyway. Turns out Boy was wrong and now we are planning our summer getaway. Every year to date we have gone to Spain on some sort of week-long (plus) trip. And every year to date we have gotten into exploding, screaming arguments on vacation at the most unpractical of moments. Two years ago, I got so mad that I stopped the car in the middle of traffic and walked out, leaving him helplessly behind in the passenger seat. Last year he told me that he was getting on the first train back to Paris after less than four hours of our tropical island vacation had officially passed.
People tell me that couples always fight on vacation. My history would indicate that I agree, but really, I don't understand. Why fight? You're on vacation. There are none of those pressures and bullshit responsabilities that are normally weighing on your shoulders. Our fighting has always been related to driving. I secretly think this is because he feels as if he has been stripped of his manhood because he can't drive (expired permit), so he instead tells me to turn down one-way streets (in the wrong direction) to test my skillz. Which then causes screaming (out of fear of death), which only unleashes the typical chain of events that leads up to an argument ("Don't scream while I'm driving!" "Well, don't turn down the wrong way!" "Well, don't tell me to turn there then, Navigator Man!" etc)
Yes, so yes. We have decided to leap into the insanity of yet another vacation together. And this time, we are hoping to do so for three weeks. With a car the whole time. A two-seater. Oh yeah.
But hey, we've found some reasonably cheap car rates, we'll sleep in hostels, and yada yada yada. The whole romantic travelling thing people do when they're young and free. That's sounding mighty appealing, man (say that in a bad Jamaican accent - I'm listening to Bob Marley).
For the moment, we've decided on the following loose itinerary: train to Barcelona, car rental in Barcelona. Drive to Valencia. Drive to Alicante. Drive to Malaga (maybe stop off in Grenada). Drive to Sevilla. Head towards Portugal. Work our way through Portugal. Swing through central Spain while heading back to Barcelona, maybe hitting up on Salamanca or Madrid somewhere in there.
The good news (besides that whole going-on-vacation-for-three-weeks thing) is that 21 days in Spain/Portugal will most certainly turn me into a tan, blond goddess. Yes, I might have to work on my figure a bit before I hit the beaches, but I'll have such a deep dark tan that nobody will notice the cellulite once I get back from the beaches. And anyway, what woman doesn't have cellulite? Seriously. Have any of you ever met one?
Don't worry. I'll post pictures. Not of the cellulite. Not of the arguments, either. Just of me. In Spain. Or Portugal. Sunbathing topless.
(About sunbathing topless: I don't see why Americans think this is so weird. It's really nice, actually. I mean, I would probably do it full-blown naked if allowed. It's more logical anyway - no tan lines. Then again, it's always sort of fun to have something to gage your tanning progress by, isn't it? Yes. I'll only take off the top half after all.)
Time to get working on those mixed tapes. Too bad I don't have a cassette player. Cars should just come equipped with CD players as cassettes are becoming rather archaic.