First we Take the Forest, then we Take the Rails

I'm running away tomorrow. To the cottage, with no technology except a crappy tv with one channel. To eat so much I readily swear off food when I get home, cackle over board games like Monopoly and Ludo (I slay at them!), drink too much wine, and make things like 'munker' (a type of pastry, looks much like these, only mine rarely turn out pretty). As always, I set out with a stack of books, a mission to get through them, write clever things about them, and arrive at some epiphany. It never happens, at most I read two books and think about the last half of the first one. The last three I forget to take back home, never to retrieve them. The shelves are enormously happy to be rid of the burden, I imagine.

Anette asked if I would like to go on an InterRail trip this summer. While we get along great, long, dirty train journeys and I do not. (The Orient Express I could survive, though.) Neither do I get along well with hostels, or holidays involving backpacks – unless they also entail mountains and dogs. The conversation went something like this:

'Alex, would you like to join me for an InterRail trip?', she said, offering a cup of coffee.
'Er, well, perhaps. Yeah. Where and when?' I said.
'Oh, no, wait. You're you. I don't think this is such a good idea, after all. I'm thinking a month, with backpacks and no showers.'
'Right. I could do it, but you'd have to feed me every third–fourth hour, and make sure I get to at least wash my face every day.'
'Let's just go with New York.', she concludes, looking down at my new boots.

She was taken aback when I told her the cottage is not a palace we retreat to in the summer. I don't know where she gets these ridiculous ideas. A girl cannot, apparently, like both cities, shoes and forests. (I say all this with great affection, even as I try to teach her how to survive in the city.)

By the way, I suspect my aversion to cheap travelling is hereditary. Father yelled up at me, when he was making reservations for a trip in England a few years ago: 'I am sick of hotels being a let-down, beds with a oblivions in the middle and crappy breakfasts. We're doing this properly. You will apparently have to wear something that is not jeans to breakfast.'

Will catch up with everything on Monday. Will miss being scared to death of Bioshock 2 til Monday.

First we Take the Forest, then we Take the Rails

I'm running away tomorrow. To the cottage, with no technology except a crappy tv with one channel. To eat so much I readily swear off food when I get home, cackle over board games like Monopoly and Ludo (I slay at them!), drink too much wine, and make things like 'munker' (a type of pastry, looks much like these, only mine rarely turn out pretty). As always, I set out with a stack of books, a mission to get through them, write clever things about them, and arrive at some epiphany. It never happens, at most I read two books and think about the last half of the first one. The last three I forget to take back home, never to retrieve them. The shelves are enormously happy to be rid of the burden, I imagine.

Anette asked if I would like to go on an InterRail trip this summer. While we get along great, long, dirty train journeys and I do not. (The Orient Express I could survive, though.) Neither do I get along well with hostels, or holidays involving backpacks – unless they also entail mountains and dogs. The conversation went something like this:

'Alex, would you like to join me for an InterRail trip?', she said, offering a cup of coffee.
'Er, well, perhaps. Yeah. Where and when?' I said.
'Oh, no, wait. You're you. I don't think this is such a good idea, after all. I'm thinking a month, with backpacks and no showers.'
'Right. I could do it, but you'd have to feed me every third–fourth hour, and make sure I get to at least wash my face every day.'
'Let's just go with New York.', she concludes, looking down at my new boots.

She was taken aback when I told her the cottage is not a palace we retreat to in the summer. I don't know where she gets these ridiculous ideas. A girl cannot, apparently, like both cities, shoes and forests. (I say all this with great affection, even as I try to teach her how to survive in the city.)

By the way, I suspect my aversion to cheap travelling is hereditary. Father yelled up at me, when he was making reservations for a trip in England a few years ago: 'I am sick of hotels being a let-down, beds with a oblivions in the middle and crappy breakfasts. We're doing this properly. You will apparently have to wear something that is not jeans to breakfast.'

Will catch up with everything on Monday. Will miss being scared to death of Bioshock 2 til Monday.