WHAT'S YOUR WORST VACATION STORY? I'm curious to read your experiences. Come on. Make me feel better?
And now the article....Cross-posting here, read the full article on Bonjour Paris!
Days two and three on the island felt like our vacation record had skipped. A cloudless sky was stretched out above us and I could feel my skin crisping on the way to breakfast.
I missed the real French croissants and walked past the rumpled excuse for pastries that lay on the table to get some cereal that looked like horse food.
French murmured around us in the bustling dining hall. Half the population of France joined us on our trip to Italy, and the only Italian to be heard was amongst the squabbling busboys. I never knew "That's YOUR section, a-hole" could sound so enchanting. Reminds me of when I discovered French swear words for the first time.
I'd never been to a "club" hotel before. The atmosphere was like Disney Paradise on meth. High-pitched voices squealed through the sound system at half-hour intervals to remind us not to miss Thai Chi, AquaGym, Darts, Water-Polo and countless other activities that I'd rather nap through.
The French didn't seem bothered by the constant stream of techno either. The music was like being transported back to the nineties: you can only listen to "Push It" so many times before you feel like your brain is going to push right out of your skull in tiny exploded bits.
I suppose that was better than what was playing at the bar. It's funny, I never thought I'd dislike anything more than French variety... until I heard Italian variety. Opera-pop much? There's a fine line between singing and howling like someone is cutting off your fingers to a circa-1980s beat.
The hotel nearby was a big fan of Italian variety, much to my dismay. I discovered their penchant for Italian variety-of-crap-music blasting in their open-air night club from midnight until around six a.m. Even ear plugs couldn't drown out the off-key wailing that was echoing through the island.
One of the strangest things thus far had to be our voyage into Speedoland. Why is it the people you don't want to see practically nako insist on prancing around in Banana Hammocks all day?