Author: kbtwomey

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

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After unfolding my body from the overhead bin and having circulation return to my feet, I reunited with a well rested, Mr. Golden Underwear. After some sleep, we embarked upon sightseeing in gay Pariee, but must’ve signed up for the straight tours. We walked all over the Champs De Elyse to the Eiffel Tower, which surprisingly looks just like the one in Las Vegas, but without the free lardass buffet. Walking we met a gypsy woman, who happened to find a solid gold ring on the ground, after explaining that she can’t wear rings for religious reasons, she gave me the ring, then walked away. She quickly returned asking for a few Euros for a sandwich. Well, it must’ve been the lack of sleep, but I was the ultimate rube making Scott give her 10 Euros. You’d of thought I would’ve learned my lessons from Cher in the early 70s singing about gypsies, tramps, and thieves. I may also become the owner of a few stories of the Eiffel Tower, if my real estate transaction with that lovely Somalian Realtor goes through. Either way, I get to keep the complimentary selfie stick that came with the deal.

Next, as we are staying in a Starwood hotel and I am the Platinum Princess, I was given a free harbor cruise as an amenity, so I’m now financially up from the gypsy faux pas (while in Paris, screw up like the French) and am ahead 90 Euros on the free cruise. Best of all, we got it without having to listen to a timeshare presentation at Euro Disney.

On our walk, we past an exhibit in a museum in tribute to Dr. Louis Pasteur. In a banner behind Scott, it turns out Pasteur fought for safe milk not with a germ busting process, but with a mean upper left cut. Perhaps instead of Dr. Louis Pasteur perhaps the disease was actually fought by French favorite, Dr. Jerry Lewis Pasteur with a batch of flubber!

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

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Today, after a walk to the Grand Palais and Louvre, we went to visit my scoliotic cousin, Quasimodo at Notre Dame. While his name might ring some bells, I took the opportunity to pose for this Quasiphoto, as I’m at least 25 years away from a Dowager’s hump. Scott got in on the action growing a nice cyst on his cheek to have him become the hunchcheek of Notre Dame, as we simply naming his new growth, Chic’. After collapsing in our beautiful suite and not eating the macarons, as they pale next to macaroons, we headed to dinner at a famous bistro in St Germaine de Pais. I could pais on their food. Their Michelin star rating came from the rubbery texture of its steak. As we say in Paris, C’est La Vie!

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

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Today was all about Art-Shout out my Waldwick Art Teachers, Mrs. Michelson, Karen LeGere, and Mr. Zacco. After my own art dreams were dashed when I could only make art of the one subject I could draw, my Dachshund, Zeesa. I carved my muse in linoleum block, in copper, made her from pasta, drawn in craypas, and formed in clay, I became more of an art appreciator than an artist. Today, I saw many of the masterpieces from the game, Masterpiece. Although my college transcript reports that I got an A in Art History, I believe that I got the grade of the other Karen Kaplan at my school, as I never saw art in my 4 years at Binghamton unless you count some of my guy friends peeing their names in the snow. Anyway, today we went to the Picasso Museum. All morning, I felt like my nose was on my cheek, then I felt blue, before feeling like I just needed to think a bit more out of the box or cube. After that, Scott and I split up. No, we didn’t take on French lovers. He went to the Musee of des Armes (the Art of War?) and I went to the Musee d’ Orsay, which houses many of the masters with a focus on Impressionism. Waiting on line behind an obnoxious American women and her entitled daughters for 1/2 hour, I got into Impressionism, as they impressed me as all that’s wrong with America. If only they were more like a needle in a Monet haystack. As they say art is timeless, which I think is due to all the nudity. Sure, it’s rare to find someone in repose these days wearing a fig leaf, but had Renoir or Degas painted people wearing hoodies and falling down the asscrack jeans, they’d look back and be glad that they opted for well placed scarfs. Kim Kardashian (who never created anything) might be so angry that Vinny Van Gogh got more likes on this selfie that she might’ve cut her ass cheek off to keep up with him in the media. I also saw my 4th Statue of Liberty today (in the museum, in the Seine, in Nice, & the big green lady in NYC). Can you say knockoff? We ended the day in Montemarte, an artistic community, from back in the day that these museum guys were just making their 1st impressions. Then, off to Moulin Rouge, where we sang the ShopRite Can-Can sale song before making impressions in our pillows.

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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We arrived for our tour. I’ve never been on a vacation tour, but am sharp enough to know that our “coach” is tour verbiage for a bus. After being up for more than 24 hours, there’s nothing like the drone of the buses engine coupled with the drone of our tour guide Olifar Magnussen to ease me off to sleep, as the 15 minutes of things I’d actually like to see in Reykjavik get stretched into 6 hours, as they employ Nordic stall tactics until you can check into your room. I stayed positive even when one of the major stops was essentially an Icelandic Panera, but with nasty soups of the day like Lamb meat soup. Olifar explained about 30 times how seeing the Northern Lights had no guarantee and would be up to chance. Despite my frequent dozing, I got the gist, although I didn’t understand why our Northern Lights excursion was cancelled on the only decent night in the forecast. I remained a beacon of positivity melting the cynicism of Andrew and Keith, who’s karma’s as gray as the threatening skies. As Andrew and his mom walk 7 miles a day, they lead me in an 8-mile Bat-tan Death March through Redjavik’s 4 blocks of attractions never once pausing to go into a store or stop for a bite of Elk. Still, I remained positive. At dinner, they rang a bell and changed a number on a tote board. I assumed it was someone finishing the kitchen sink Cookie Monster Sundae like in the good ok’ US of A. Nope! They celebrate the birth of each new baby as a national event, as it’s so rare that their Svens and Helgas remove their long-johns to canoodle in these frigid temps. While Day 1 was a bust without the Northern Lights, Day 2 promised an 11-hour tour, “the wonders of sniffkissinkoogledissen”. Oh wait, that was cancelled too. Wonk-wah!

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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We awoke to greet the new day with no hope of doing anything different than the day before. Yet, I remained positive that the Northern Lights awaited us. After another high-speed 6-7 mile walk through the same Icelandic streets, we decided to go to the Aurora Museum to be better educated on Northern Lights. The museum was basically someone’s science project with stolen clips from a National Geographic documentary interspersed with excerpts from Wikipedia. We learned about all the mythology of the Northern Lights, but little did we know that the biggest myth was that we’d be going out that night, as visibility was supposedly good and activity high. If they were referring to being seen sitting on a bus for 4 hours as visibility and having us stop at bathrooms as activity, then their Icelandic mythology would be spot on. The tour guide’s promise that we’d see the lights last night was as truthful as this picture. Yet, I remain positive…

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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We set out to Vik on the South Shore to stay over in the most remote area to see the Northern lights.  Obviously Icelanders don’t take advice from the group TLC, as all we did was chase waterfalls.  En route, we saw these cute squat Icelandic horses, who we learned can do 5 gaits (trot, Gallup, prance, lie about the Northern Lights, and lead you to herring). Those that can’t do the five gaits, apparently show up at the dinner table at your local smorgasbord.  The obvious sequel to Frozen will be called “So hungry, I could eat a non-trotting horse” as we follow the antics of a little colt named Pot Roast, who is too clumsy to prance.  The movie will have scenes much like at tonight’s dinner where Keith ate a meat only identified as “loin”, in this sequel, a Princess (Keith is a Queen, so it’s close) finds out “loin” was her favorite childhood pony.  After finding out that her pony made her the Galloping Gourmet, she sings “Let me blow!”  Anyway, that sequel is as likely as seeing the Northern Lights tonight through rain, snow, and clouds.  Yet, I remain optimistic!  (Did I mention falling & hitting my head on the ice?) That’s the only way to see stars here or Aurora Bore the hell out of me!

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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I’m beginning to lose my positive attitude, as I write this under a wet coat, wet shoes, and soggy under armor.  I’ll start today by saying, “EUROPE (yes, I’m talking to you) GET WITH THE PROGRAM!” First, as I’m in drying my hat and gloves with the hotel’s 2 watt hair dryer, I’m certain that Conaire has made a model of blow dryer unlike this one that has a constant on and off switch, since the blow dried hair of the 70s.  Instead, I’ll get carpal tunnel, as I spend the next hour needing to depress the on switch, while drying my stuff.  The showers here use the geothermal water to have hot water; which emits a sulfuric smell.  Nothing like an entire country’s population smelling like a bag of farts.  On to the thread count of their sheets here, of which their scratchy texture could be used to sand the roads here.  Of course, the beds are twins with no top sheet and certainly no condom sheet that covers the nasty blanket.  Attention Europe, when Americans want an immersive travel experience, we don’t mean assimilating with your dead skin cells and hairs (I keep telling myself that the last person who slept here was a Brazilian with alopecia.). I get the whole thing with the different electrical adapters, but can there be more than one socket and more than a 40 watt bulb available to challenge the 19-hours of abject darkness!  I curse the darkness with radio shack adapter!  I also wonder what’s the obsession with serving baked beans and cold cuts that are a step up from head cheese at every hotel breakfast.  I should return with a Taylor Pork Roll and cheese and conquer Europe one delicious breakfast sandwich at a time.  As our outing to geysers, waterfalls, and earthquake fissures were used as film sets to Game of Thrones, I was reminded of another European “nicety” in them charging for public bathrooms.  You haven’t lived until you’re wet, cold, hours on a bus needing to ensure that you have the right number of Icelandic Krona coins in the right denominations to have your “exchange rate” in the ladies room.  The whole ordeal is an evil Game of Thrones (equipped with environmentally sound flushing apparatus).  As you can imagine, tonight’s Northern Lights viewing has been cancelled much like all flights from the Reykjavík airport due to a mechanic’s strike.  As I opened with, my optimism is fading….

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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Well today our luck improved considerably, as we saw these sites just before the skies opened each time we’d just get back to the bus.  First off, the strike’s averted and we will get home as scheduled.  So, I don’t need to pull up stakes to become a fishmonger’s wife.  We started the day meeting many Icelandic Horses, who are in gait boot camp or they will become dinner.  While the horse pictured can be used by Donald Trump’s hairstylist for inspiration for our comb-over in Chief, I tend to believe that this equine Fabio just doesn’t believe it’s not butter.  We continued to the Southern most edge of Iceland where the earth’s crust is its thinnest.  Sure, why not take a 4-ton bus filled with tourists to the most remote area on the Island and give the Earth’s thin crust a run for  its money?  Unlike with pizza, I’d prefer a deep dish crust to my Earth.  We finished the day at the famed Blue Grotto, a geothermal spa about the size of 2-3 football fields.  That’s a lot of mineral water, which makes me wonder why a Perrier is only 7 oz.  I got to experience what it must be like to be on the track team at Yokohama High School, as the the women’s locker room teamed with Asian women with no regard to personal space, as I dressed.  I sublet my locker to one of the smaller girls, who found it roomier and less expensive than her hotel room.  After dinner, with all Northern Lights tours cancelled, I remained optimistic and we headed to the harbor for a potential viewing.  We were treated to the Northern Lights pale sickly brother, the Northern Very Lites, as we saw an undistinguished green tint in the sky.  Aurora Bore-me-to-tears! 

Update, on another note, this summer’s Captain’s Log-Traveling with the Ancient was a cruise on the Independence of the Seas, which I named Not Independent from Disease.  Well sure enough in today’s news, someone on board didn’t washy washy and they all have neuro-virus.  So all in all, I’d rather miss the Northern Lights 5 nights in a row, the cancelled 11 hour tour, and be rained and snowed upon, then to be on the high seas squeezing the Charmin.

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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As we spend our last day on our Icelandic tour, since it’s my 1st tour, I thought I’d give some pros and cons to organized tours:

1. Pro-the deluxe motor coach is roomie and you can relax without driving. Con-you’re on a bus with no free will

2. Pro-You go to places that you’d never go to on your own. Con-you go to places that you’d NEVER choose to go to on your own.

3. Pro-the tour guide is knowledgeable. Con-the tour guide doesn’t shut the hell up with all his knowledge like a miked-up Cliffy Clavin.

4. Pro-the tour guide thoroughly informs you what you need to do and how to proceed. Con-I’ve been in a buffet line before and would be able to identify the salad area from the main courses without a 10-minute lecture/demo. Same with checking in at the airport. Everyone figured it out and got to Iceland in the first place.

5. Pro-With the average age of tourists about 75, you feel young in comparison. Con-you might as well book through AARP and get your new hip now, if you’re living life in this slow lane

6. Pro-You get to go to the front of the line on any side tours. Con-Waiting for 20 old people to get out the bathroom ahead of you, especially having to follow cantankerous Mr. Wilson, who must have excreted some of his black soul into the bowl, only to have the others who use the loo after you think that you’re the one who blew up the bathroom (I did not have the horse stew or whale au gratin)

7. Pro-Having a fixed plan each day Con-having a fixed plan each day down to when you can use a bathroom

8. Pro-Learning about Icelandic culture and topography Con-Knowing more Icelandic history than the average Viking, who made it

9. Pro-Being able to ask a fellow tour member to take your picture. Con-Not being able to smile, as you’re sick of looking at their face all week.

10. Pro-Never seeing 90% of the tour members again. Con-getting stuck next to Mr. Wilson on the flight home.

Well, tonight was the last chance to see the Northern Lights-I think that’s been the biggest con. My optimism is officially depleted. Home tomorrow.

Traveling with a Busload of Torons.

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Home from the Voyage of the Damned.  As I originally had no intention of doing a blog on the Facebook, (can you tell I’ve been around old people?) until Scott’s request, I didn’t tell you of the bad omen that occurred in the airport before heading to Iceland.  By now, you know that I didn’t see the Northern Lights, but on the flight over, I was stopped at JFK TSA where they checked out my Southern Lights via a very vigorous pat down, reach up, reach around, and a few honks of my boobs for good measure.  With all that patting, TSA must’ve thought that an Isis training camp was housed in my jeans.  I was finally let through with all that I brought but without my dignity.  Little did I know that the TSA rubdown would pale in comparison to my return from Iceland.  Andrew, Keith, and I were all randomly selected by customs for a check before leaving Iceland.  We were each given an innocuous deli/bakery number; which could mean your baloney and/or buns might get handled by Tovar, an Icelandic customs guard.  Of course, Andrew and Keith were quickly whisked through the process, just as my number was being called.  After more of a third date pat down vs. the JFK first-date variety, I was told that they needed to check my bags.  Something in my bags tested positive for a powder more dangerous than cheeto dust and the next thing I knew, they took me into a private back room for questioning and to give me the prison newcomer’s pat down.  As Inga went about her business, I tried to imagine that I was getting a Swedish massage instead of them getting up in my “Danish”.  After 5 minutes of this, I started to wonder if a terrorist or drug kingpin had secreted some plastique or heroin up my ass, while I was changing at the Blue Lagoon.  Finally, they let me go and offered me a cigarette.  Travel lesson learned, when customs asks you if you name your nether regions, don’t answer that you refer to that area as “Midnight Express” #MeToo