You may have noticed that I was strangely quiet on all things Facebook, blog, Twitter, last week. With no laptop and no phone, our purpose was twofold. First, because it was our HONEYMOON, and who wants to see what celebrity died or what the stock market did when you could be gazing into your lover's eyes and sipping foreign brews? And second (and mostly), because you would have resented us for all the luck and disgustingly cute things that surrounded us.
I'm a lucky girl as it is, but the honeymoon was just over-the-top. I even hate myself a little bit just typing about it. You've been warned. If you're in a miserable mood, please, just skip today's blog, okay? Unless you're the romantic melancholy type who needs a good reason to wallow, in which case, read on, but pour yourself a bourbon first.
We were #1 and #2 on the standby passenger list, and the flight to Amsterdam was oversold. It looked like we'd be spending a few more hours in the Detroit Delta SkyClub Lounge sipping free cocktails and chowing on cheese and kalamata olives (woe is us!). But as the doors to the flight were about to close, HWT noticed the gate agent kept paging "The Johnsons to the gate immediately." When the Johnsons failed to check in at the last minute, the Kaelin/Caldwell party was ushered on the plane.
We then toasted to the Johnsons from their First Class seats and giggled, oohed, and ahhhed, all through the warm nuts, the fine china, the spectacular surface, the legroom, the champagne, the wine, the apertifs, the ice cream sundae cart, the fettuccine alfredo, the eggs florentine, a movie, and enjoyed a long nap with our down comforters and pillows. (Remember, I warned you!)
But enough about the flight ... where did we end up? In Amsterdam, of course, but
mostly in Bruges.*
All we did was meander around and get lost in strange cities. We ate pommes frites with mayonnaise AND ketchup. We tripped on medieval cobblestone streets (like actually fell over, not with LSD or anything), and we people-watched at canal-side cafes. We went to a restaurant in Belgium that served 780 different kinds of Belgian beers. We felt terrible that we didn't know any Flemish, and we felt stupid that everyone over there speaks 10 languages. We bought a painting and chocolate. We went to Gouda and ate cheese (another blog). We stopped and smelled a hundred roses.
We didn't tweet about it at all.
It was perfect.
*I know, I know, that's a violent Colin Farrell film (not movie, it's a "film," I'm told), that's supposed to be pretty good. I've not seen it because I can't sit still long enough to watch a movie -- unless I'm flying Business Class, of course.
I'm a lucky girl as it is, but the honeymoon was just over-the-top. I even hate myself a little bit just typing about it. You've been warned. If you're in a miserable mood, please, just skip today's blog, okay? Unless you're the romantic melancholy type who needs a good reason to wallow, in which case, read on, but pour yourself a bourbon first.
We were #1 and #2 on the standby passenger list, and the flight to Amsterdam was oversold. It looked like we'd be spending a few more hours in the Detroit Delta SkyClub Lounge sipping free cocktails and chowing on cheese and kalamata olives (woe is us!). But as the doors to the flight were about to close, HWT noticed the gate agent kept paging "The Johnsons to the gate immediately." When the Johnsons failed to check in at the last minute, the Kaelin/Caldwell party was ushered on the plane.
We then toasted to the Johnsons from their First Class seats and giggled, oohed, and ahhhed, all through the warm nuts, the fine china, the spectacular surface, the legroom, the champagne, the wine, the apertifs, the ice cream sundae cart, the fettuccine alfredo, the eggs florentine, a movie, and enjoyed a long nap with our down comforters and pillows. (Remember, I warned you!)
But enough about the flight ... where did we end up? In Amsterdam, of course, but
mostly in Bruges.*
All we did was meander around and get lost in strange cities. We ate pommes frites with mayonnaise AND ketchup. We tripped on medieval cobblestone streets (like actually fell over, not with LSD or anything), and we people-watched at canal-side cafes. We went to a restaurant in Belgium that served 780 different kinds of Belgian beers. We felt terrible that we didn't know any Flemish, and we felt stupid that everyone over there speaks 10 languages. We bought a painting and chocolate. We went to Gouda and ate cheese (another blog). We stopped and smelled a hundred roses.
We didn't tweet about it at all.
It was perfect.
*I know, I know, that's a violent Colin Farrell film (not movie, it's a "film," I'm told), that's supposed to be pretty good. I've not seen it because I can't sit still long enough to watch a movie -- unless I'm flying Business Class, of course.
0 comments