Jupiter

G and I went to a travel agency yesterday. We've never travelled by a travel agency before and, frankly, I've never really been to one, at least not by myself. Mum and dad would take all of us on summer vacations, so that was great, but while others swam, sunbathed and chillaxed, I explored. In a week's time, I'd have hitchhiked, photographed and/or excavated half of Portugal.
    The concept of paying a shitload of money for an itty bitty speck of time in a mediocre setting is to me unthinkable. I am able to use a third of that money to move two people through a country for a month. The lady behind the desk, a generic blond reciting their offers so fast and so patronisingly that even if anything did sound inviting, she completely ruined it for me with her half-meant catch-phrases. The general seemed to nurse the idea of two weeks at the seaside, just kicking it, but then again he really wanted to go to the spa until we actually went to the spa. This man hates adventure travel until we are adventure travelling. Then he completely and utterly loves it. But right up until the moment we set, he's bitching and whining how just for once he's like to go to a place where we will be able to identify our food.
   Looks like we're going to try it his way, again, and then that'll be out of his system. And I'll be able to walk Manchuria finally.