Vacation, a.k.a. decisions, decisions

Our travel agent cringes when he sees our number come up on caller ID. Not only do we wait until the last minute, and we're not sure what we want, but we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we don't want that.

This year, we gave him explicit instructions: send us someplace good, keeping in mind we've already been to the beach for one week. Oh, and we want to leave in three weeks.

Two days later, he called with suggestions: a cruise, Russia, or Ireland.

A cruise. Before he could finish listing destinations and the tropical drinks Isaac would serve us at the Lido deck bar, I was vetoing that idea. Our last (and first cruise) memories from several years ago still have not completely faded.

Like being stranded at a resort with two hundred of our closest friends while the rain pounded down on the snowy white sand and picture perfect palm trees for four hours with one ping-pong table, two checker boards, three decks of cards and not nearly enough alcohol. A cab/bus/bike back to the ship? Not likely when the locals are all cozily tucked up at home with their satellite TVs.

Or spending two days at sea where, in order to obtain a deck chair, spa appointment or square inch in the pool, you had to hope the twenty people in line in front of you all fell overboard.

All in all, the whole experience was like being stuck in the Mutual of Omaha episode where the lions were all fighting over the same antelope carcass. No cruise.

Russia? Friends have told us it's beautiful...but I still prefer someplace where toilet paper is not considered a luxury and air conditioning isn't a good stiff breeze blowing down from Siberia. Russia. Nyet.

Ireland. A possibility. We haven't been there (together) in almost twenty years. Rain is a regular occurance which doesn't send people into hiding, and T.P. is as abundent as the Guiness.
A tour was arranged, and the details e-mailed to us.

The highlights were: 1. a morning at a whiskey factory, 2. an entire day at the Ring of Kerry, and 3. an afternoon at a wool mill/shop.

Translation: 1. you might as well send two vegans to a stockyard with sharp knives and a bottle of A-1, 2. Oh, goody. An entire day trapped in a car driving aimlessly through a bunch of hills that are all big and green. Coming from northeast PA, you can imagine how impressive that would be. Can't find those sights just anywhere. and 3. a whole shop full of wool sweaters? In August? Pinch me.

Ireland. Maybe in another twenty years.

After another two days of: this one is toooo big, that one is tooo small, this one is toooo hot, that one is tooo cold, we finally found one that was just right. The beach!