Grueling. Painful. Not unlike a death march. Vacation.
I think it is safe to say that the idea of sleeping in my own bed tonight is sweeter than any other I’ve thought in a long time. I have enjoyed my time with Michele with whom I still get along despite spending 23.5 hours a day with her for the last eight days in a row. But now she shall be free of me and I of her and this can only keep the trend of getting along going. I firmly believe that they key to popularity is short, well-spaced visits.
We finished the Tour de Canada at a fog side beach side golf resort that was comfortable, considering the fact that the last hotel we stayed in reminded me of that place from the movie Hostel. I give you the Adrienne/Michele banter that should probably have its own blog category at this point:
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise.”
“The low, growling noise?”
“Yeah, you heard it too? Crap. I was hoping I just imagined it.”
*low gurgle, then a growl, then a distinct sound of John Denver singing*
“AHHHHHHHHHHH”
“What?”
“I HATE JOHN DENVER!”
“I don’t know what’s worse--sleeping by the door that doesn’t lock or next to the thing that lives in the bathroom.”
And then the electricity went out.
In spite of this, Michele and I fell into a fitful sleep, lulled into unconsciousness with horrifying secrets about country roads whispered into our ears. I have the strangest urge to take a bus trip through West Virginia. But I know better.
For those of you who are interested (Hi Mom and Dad!), I give you the last of my vacation photos, including the ones that are supposed to contain whales but don’t really. I am posting them because I spent two hours trying to take them, and I think the Internet should have these treasures for posterity.
