applespice: it is a sparkly fairy ([girls] tights)
Muster is at 8 AM - any later and valuable moments of fun are lost. The very concept, for my father, is absolutely intolerable. Fun is a requirement of vacation, after all, and we are going to have as much of it as humanly possible. Forget sleeping in (not that we could on the sleeper sofa to which we've been relegated, my sister and I) and hurry it up when it comes to getting dressed and brushing your teeth - come on, come on, we're on a strict schedule! Every moment of the day is planned down to the most minute detail - where we'll go, what we'll see, where we'll eat, the photo opportunities we'll experience. Forget leisure, forget lazy days on the beach. There's so much to see!

The truth is, my dad never wanted to go to Hawaii. It was my sister's idea, legitimized by her high school graduation and hours of finely crafted pleading. She gained my mom's support first, and eventually, my mom managed to get my dad on board. Still, it was a grudging acceptance of a terrifying fact - he'd be stuck with us, three women, in an environment that wasn't of his choosing (examples of environments of his choosing: sweltering campgrounds in the dead of summer, train museums, and tightly winding dirt "roads" specially designed to make my motion-sickness-prone sister vomit). The only way to survive it was to make it fit with his preconceived notions of what vacations should be, and the best way to do that was to plan it down to the nanosecond.

And day after day, we do it all. Sightseeing, sports, natural wonders - nothing escapes our notice. There's still the rain to contend with, of course, and the perpetual complaints of one or several members of the party, but no one could say we aren't thorough. We take the Road to Hana, snorkel at Molokini Crater, visit the aquarium, windsurf, shop, take photos of waterfalls and mist-clung mountains, and even rent an enormous Harley on which to tour the narrow winding roads that drop off dizzyingly to a surging sea. And though I long to lie on a sun-drenched beach and read, dabbling my toes in the swirling surf, the memories build despite my cynicism, building a wild world of green and blue and gold. Even now I can perfectly recall the vision of a humpback whale breaching the waves, soaring and crashing in a white spray of water.

So while I hate to admit I'm wrong, and despite the fact that my own vacation schedules are always fast and loose and haphazard, a long exposure of blurry lights and indistinct, rushing figures, I can sort of see the point of schedules, itineraries, and marching orders. Sorting the memories into perfect snapshot moments, glossy and clear, available for nostalgia and escape at any given moment... yeah, I guess I can see the point. Don't tell him I said it, but I guess Dad does know a few things after all.
applespice: it is a sparkly fairy ([girls] tights)
Muster is at 8 AM - any later and valuable moments of fun are lost. The very concept, for my father, is absolutely intolerable. Fun is a requirement of vacation, after all, and we are going to have as much of it as humanly possible. Forget sleeping in (not that we could on the sleeper sofa to which we've been relegated, my sister and I) and hurry it up when it comes to getting dressed and brushing your teeth - come on, come on, we're on a strict schedule! Every moment of the day is planned down to the most minute detail - where we'll go, what we'll see, where we'll eat, the photo opportunities we'll experience. Forget leisure, forget lazy days on the beach. There's so much to see!

The truth is, my dad never wanted to go to Hawaii. It was my sister's idea, legitimized by her high school graduation and hours of finely crafted pleading. She gained my mom's support first, and eventually, my mom managed to get my dad on board. Still, it was a grudging acceptance of a terrifying fact - he'd be stuck with us, three women, in an environment that wasn't of his choosing (examples of environments of his choosing: sweltering campgrounds in the dead of summer, train museums, and tightly winding dirt "roads" specially designed to make my motion-sickness-prone sister vomit). The only way to survive it was to make it fit with his preconceived notions of what vacations should be, and the best way to do that was to plan it down to the nanosecond.

And day after day, we do it all. Sightseeing, sports, natural wonders - nothing escapes our notice. There's still the rain to contend with, of course, and the perpetual complaints of one or several members of the party, but no one could say we aren't thorough. We take the Road to Hana, snorkel at Molokini Crater, visit the aquarium, windsurf, shop, take photos of waterfalls and mist-clung mountains, and even rent an enormous Harley on which to tour the narrow winding roads that drop off dizzyingly to a surging sea. And though I long to lie on a sun-drenched beach and read, dabbling my toes in the swirling surf, the memories build despite my cynicism, building a wild world of green and blue and gold. Even now I can perfectly recall the vision of a humpback whale breaching the waves, soaring and crashing in a white spray of water.

So while I hate to admit I'm wrong, and despite the fact that my own vacation schedules are always fast and loose and haphazard, a long exposure of blurry lights and indistinct, rushing figures, I can sort of see the point of schedules, itineraries, and marching orders. Sorting the memories into perfect snapshot moments, glossy and clear, available for nostalgia and escape at any given moment... yeah, I guess I can see the point. Don't tell him I said it, but I guess Dad does know a few things after all.

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How About Them Apples?

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