I left town a week ago Friday, giddy with a sense of accomplishment at having packed nine days worth of vacation necessities (including my one-quart plastic Ziploc bag of 3-ounce containers of liquids and gels) into two carry-on-able bags. I had managed to achieve three of the primary goals of stress-free travel:
- Never check luggage.
- Never fly a bankrupt airline.
- Never travel with a person who hates to travel.
Saturday dawned hot and sunny, so we headed for the beach after making an appearance at the annual church picnic. Virginia Beach was much like I remembered it: crowded with tourists and noisy kids, but still a beach. Which is good enough for me. Bring on the sunblock.
Post-beach, we headed out for the next item on my vacation must-do list: seafood. A pound of shellfish and a margarita later, I was trying to remember exactly why I had moved to an all-but-landlocked state. Then we were ready to really party.
We headed out to for a night of dancing and drinking, bringing along my old roommate's newly-divorced friend. We promised her a crash course in 21st-century dating, and did our best to deliver. Unfortunately, we couldn't convince her to have a "Tie Me to the Bedpost" (tastes kind of like fruit punch -- very dangerous), but she did try the ones we were drinking. We also sent her out to two-step over her protests that she didn't know how, and were pleased to see that she almost seemed to be enjoying herself by the end of the song. By that point, I was enjoying my second large fruity drink and the occasional attentions of a sailor who made it his personal mission to see if he could dip me low enough to make my hair touch the floor (he did). Note to those who were at my bachelorette party lo those many years ago: this was not the same bar. Unfortunately, there was no bull in this one. At least not the mechanical kind.
More on my coastal adventures in a later post.
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