On the last day of July, 2001, less than a week after the conclusion of the first World Tour, I posted the following blog item:
Summers here are long and hot and mostly boring, which is one reason I scheduled the World Tour for July, and which is one factor I took into account while plugging my various locational desiderata into FindYourSpot.com, a site which seeks to match up people and cities. (Thanks to Catherine for the tip.) Twenty-three of the 24 locations recommended were up towards the Great White North; the sole exception was New Orleans, which has the sort of climate that makes me wonder if maybe I'm listed as the soup du jour.
I duly recommended this site to my daughter, who has lived much of her life in the Kansas City area and for some reason is none too crazy about it. (I like the place, but then I don't live there.) Her Top Spots were all over the map the northern half of the map, anyway. There were recommendations in the Pacific Northwest, the northern Rockies, and New England. Now she's been out West, but she's never been to New England; a couple of sharp questions revealed that she wasn't entirely sure where it was. Most unlike her, I thought. But since six of my top seven Spots were in New England including Hartford, which the site picked for her as Numero Uno I found myself saying "So let's go to Connecticut."
"Okay," she said, without even taking a breath.
My next two thoughts: "Well, she's inherited my sense of timing, anyway," followed immediately by "Omigod, what did I just say?"
So World Tour '03, or at least its first week, will be different from its predecessors: I'm not going alone. She's requesting the appropriate vacation days she only has five saved up, which explains that "first week" business and when that time runs out, I'll put her on a plane back home. Her three-year-old will be foisted off on relatives for the duration. In the meantime, we'll be doing some sightseeing, some vague history lessons, and a whole lot of chattering. (Something else she inherited from me is my willingness to discourse on any subject, even if by some fluke I actually know something about it.) The additional costs will be fairly minimal, and let's face it, this is probably the last chance I'm ever going to get to take a cross-country trip with a twentysomething woman.
So we're off to see the small-y yankees probably by way of Cleveland, because, well, Cleveland rocks. The only real fear I have is that her brother might pipe up "When do I get to go?" If I have to buy a damn minivan because of this, I'll never forgive myself.
(Aside to John G. Rowland: This is your only warning.)
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Copyright © 2003 by Charles G. Hill