There and Back Again: Hannah Goes to the Beach!

You know that you've hired the right house-sitter when you stumble through the door at 4 a.m. after driving 21 hours straight from Florida in a suburban with no A.C. and find it clean, whole, and a homemade gooey chocolate cake sitting on the counter, waiting for you. Not to mention hand written notes of hilarity and reassurance, a somewhat abstract picture of my family at the beach, and a sterile dog. (Long story).

  There is nothing quite like coming home after a long trip. After a week of being blown from here to there and ever rest-stop in between, I can just curl up in my own bed in my own room in my own basement. Even the smallest details are calming, like the scent of the hand soap or the sight of my dusty school books stuffed under large pieces of furniture or near the fireplace.

Oh, I should probably tell you about Florida, that flatland of seafood and palm trees where we took up hermitage in for the past several days. My most vivid thoughts on Florida:

-The condo was decorated by a man who is inspired by Pina Coladas and hawaiian shirts. 

-Sea water tastes like deluded blue pickle juice. Only with sea cucumbers, not pickles.

-Sand Dollars HURT when you step on them repeatedly. As do broken sea shells and mysterious wiggly things.

-Telenova is too entertaining for it's own good. I have no idea what they are saying, but I find myself riveted by the parade of toupees, soap opera cliches, and angry Hispanic people. Also the Spanish preachers.

-Being sick isn't usually fun. Being sick with the stomach flu is mild purgatory. Being sick with the stomach flu whilst driving down to Florida in the heat of summer and not being able to hold in anything denser than air? There are no words. 

-Relaxing in a tropical condo, spending the days jumping waves and digging for sea shells, and eating sea food so fresh it might be wriggling? There are no words.

-I don't care if you are gay or European or gay and European! There is no excuse for wearing a speedo, weirdo French men. Oh, the horror...

So, in short, it was the worst of times then the best of times. And now, it's nap time!

Boiled Peanuts and other Puzzling Things,

-Hannah