Mo’orea and Bora Bora: Prelude to travel. What kind of idiot....

...buys a house four days before a two week trip? These idiots, that’s who.

I guess we were short on pre-trip stress. We bought a house betwixt packing and debating whether lagoon sharks know they are harmless. (Answer: Probably)

Meanwhile, despite our planning, there have been several “last” trips to the store to pick up needed items. For instance, we had bug spray, but the books say the bugs are legion and hostile, so we went to pick up more. Then we realized our backpack was too small and bought a new one. And so on. 

The adventure begins tomorrow with three flights:

1. Calgary to LA (3 hours)
2. LA to Pape’ete in Tahiti (8 hours)
3. Pape’ete to Mo’orea (15 minutes. Yes, MINUTES!)

Other last minute crises include: can we fit our instruments in the baggage, since there is only one carry-on for the inter-island flights? (Answer: Yes, if we don't respect these instruments) (We don't) Which travel book do we bring? How much cash should we pack? Seriously, how safe are the sharks?

I expect that there will be many mishaps stories. In preparation, here are some stories from this past year.

January: A quick weekend trip to New York, to visit a friend and see the sights. Sadly, everything went well, albeit cold, so no remarkable stories. However, our friend did take us to a private restaurant that had no signage. There was a black curtain inside the door, so you still couldn't see people if you were in the doorway. Then, you had to drop a name to get in. Once we were in, I found it odd that the prices were pretty cheap.

June: A quick weekend trip to New Orleans, to see my Cajun fiddle teacher perform with his band at a festival. We had a great time, and the food was very good. We stayed in an old mansion that had been converted to a hotel. We explored it, opening doors and snooping in the public areas, and guess what we found!

Literally, a skeleton in the closet!

On Saturday afternoon, we sat on a gallery above Bourbon Street to have a bite and watch the people. Then we noticed two police bikes with flashing lights stopped at one end of the street. After a few minutes, some cyclists rode by. We did a double take, and realized they were nekkid! So were the cyclists behind them. And the ones behind them.

(I've added censor bars for the delicate.)

As our eyes travelled up the street, we saw hundreds of cyclists in a parade that was blocks long. Our waiter had no idea what was going on. The parade ended after about 15 minutes. Several days later, we found out it was a protest to make drivers more aware of cyclists: “Don’t ignore us! Watch where we’re going!” The only awareness I gained was that the male counterpart to pasties is a Crown Royal bag.

Finally, we learned not to walk down Bourbon Street on a hot Sunday morning. No matter how much they hose down the sidewalks, the smell wafts up and finds you as the sun heats and evaporates the myriad body fluids from the night before. The smell doesn’t care that you’re walking to church. Or maybe it’s trying to remind everybody WHY you need to go to church.

And now it’s November!