People stare.
Friends shake their heads in bewildered amusement.
And apparently busy Portuguese men in swank SUVs stop to ask “What problem?”
People stare.
Friends shake their heads in bewildered amusement.
And apparently busy Portuguese men in swank SUVs stop to ask “What problem?”
You’ve been dying to hear about my 3 a.m., post-skinny dipping, post-wedding-reception, post-after-party shenanigans.
I know.
Here goes:
I’ve written tons lately as I housesit this fall in New Hampshire.
“So why aren’t there any new blog stories?” you ask.
You know when I was in Portugal and I had that pre-wedding-ceremony fubar?
Yeah, well, cool fun fact about that bride and groom:
You know that scene in wedding movies where the characters aren’t going to make the ceremony?
So there we were. In our Sunday best.
The sun relentlessly baked the pavement outside Hotel Sao Sebastiao de Boliqueime.
My airport saga never would have happened if I weren’t such an overly-efficient freak.
It all started at the laundromat in Amsterdam.
“Like a bitch!” said Lars, when I asked him how the Dutch say “Cheers!”
“Hey! Here’s a giant, cold swamp! Wanna live here?”
“Hmm”¦ seems hard, but”¦ okay!”
Many Amsterdam residents worry about people going through their garbage, but it’s not identity thieves they fear.
I’ve grudgingly put hours of my time into finding the best massage in the Khao San Road area. It’s a tough task, but someone has to do it! 1I endured several poor massages in the process, including one by a male my age who subtly found ways to stroke my (clothed) breasts throughout the service. While I didn’t feel unsafe or particularly violated, being molested is still annoying. (Perhaps years of caring for various children has desensitized me to being groped unexpectedly?)
While Thailand is well known for amazingly cheap massages, the quality is an absolute crap shoot. It has nothing to do with price, and everything to do with luck.
References
↑1 | I endured several poor massages in the process, including one by a male my age who subtly found ways to stroke my (clothed) breasts throughout the service. While I didn’t feel unsafe or particularly violated, being molested is still annoying. (Perhaps years of caring for various children has desensitized me to being groped unexpectedly?) |
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