Damnit! I'm a Prude!

No one wants to hear about the good times ---  So I'll skip Ulys' joy at discovering a nation of athletic, organized people who eat sensibly and have turned their international city into a friendly park.  I'll skip the cliched account of our happy families (our and our hosts') biking through flower-adorned cobbled streets, alongside canals with houseboats, pedaling to and from the Van Gogh museum until 10 pm.  And will definitely NOT mention  the sexy, funny, gorgeous waiter at "our" local cafe -- who charms effortlessly in a perfectly appropriate melange of Dutch and English.  All that would be annoying.  To travel and have an excellent time -- with ease -- is just plain rude!

So let's get to the Prude Part and go to the Children's Science Museum, NEMO (that's Dutch for OMSI).  Tired of watching Tai build and destroy a meant-to-be-built-and-destroyed structure with equally feral boys, and done teaching Zahra about recessive genes and phenotypes courtesy of a very clever computer program, I took the many, many, many stairs up to the "Teen Center."  Initial display? "LET'S TALK ABOUT SEX!"  I expected an updated  "Where do I come from?" with cooler clothing and some piercings,  but what I came across first was an interactive display ---  "Oh, I see.  You put your hands in here -- and someone else puts theirs there.  How sweet!  How cooperative!  And you move this thing . . ., um, those thick touching red things look like . .  what?!"  That was the French Kissing Interactive Booth.

To be followed by the movie on the perils of puberty (stick figure accidentally ejaculating, "darn it!  hate it when that happens! ) --

.  . . .and then onto the Hello Kitty Kute "Pink Light District".  I wouldn't believe me either (reference my just-discovered prudishness) --- so here are the photos from inside the Love Shack:

These colorful thins are decorative condoms -- the various means of contraception is more difficult to spot.

Well that was dramatic!

Du ti duh ti duh . . . so innocent, so cheerful, with shining faces and confident walks we quickly, easily checked in to the little self-service kiosk -- which then directly us to the longest line I've EVER seen at PDX to "drop off" our baggage.  "What the hell is the point?!"  I mean,  the airport tellers weren't any quicker than they were in the ancient paper-ticket days!  So . . really, what is the point?  Are they now playing computer solitaire on their busy little computers -- their eyes sucked into their screens as the non-eye-contact questioning continues pretty much unchanged in 30+ years --- how CAN it take so long if we've already "checked in." 

We arrived at the real-live-person-check-in-desk with uncharacteristically ingratiating expressions, carefully dressed (Ulys even changed into a "better" pair of running shoes).  After all, we weren't sure how this stand-by thing works.  The non-eye-contact-teller, pleasant but very very busy, told us that the flight was oversold but maybe . .  you never know . . . maybe someone -- err at least 5 people -- wouldn't show up.

Within minutes my physically pubescent, emotionally adolescent 10 year old was weeping -- and continued to do so as we watched EVERYONE board the plane.  Finally called to the podium, we were cheerfully given 4 first-class seats.  Smiling happy Pollyannas we were again!  Except for said daughter -- who now cried even harder -- with relief.

Hoping to Leave

We are hoping to go to Amsterdam, I should add.  We are traveling stand-by!  On the first day of summer vacation!  This may end up being a very domestic "travel" log -- Hood River, East side, Fred Meyers . . .

My Least Favorite Part

On the eve of a family trip, there is no way to avoid packing.  Believe me, I tried my best.  So many "emergencies"  -- 10 year old roses that HAVE to be transplanted TODAY.   And so much lettuce to plant (never mind that it will ripen, bolt and turn bitter before our return).  I even left town for a day or two -- and watched the entire 10th season of one of the many Law and Order series.  But the most blaring evidence of my packaphobic desperation is what you are reading.  Despite years of resistance (and technical laziness), I am now starting a blog --   about not packing.  What if I just don't do it?