Any day now, I shall be released
We're halfway through the semester, and that means we're weeks away from holiday.
"When are you out and where are you going?" is the topic of conversation this time of year.
For me, sometime between the first and seventh of January. The decision is not mine. We give then grade then post final grades THEN we're free.
Where to? I can't decide.
This planning was much easier when I was single, depressed, horny and confused.
1. Two week break, booze and music: Galway. Place to stay: usually a bed and breakfast near the Roisin Dubh.
2. Two week break, need to blow the pipes and have a slumber party? Amsterdam. Place to stay: The Botel, fifteen minutes from coffee shops; short term visitors from the former Soviet Union (a penchant I have not outlasted) are welcomed.
3. Four weeks, most of the above on a budget. Nepal. Place to stay: The Excelsior Hotel, round the corner from the New Orleans Cafe where every night is open mike night and where I've sat in with some fairly decent Ghurka and Tibetan blues boys. No slumber parties, though. Nepal happens to be the scene of the crime where I experienced the least erotic experience of my (or anyone else's) life. Plus those Himalayan black tar temple balls sort of make me not want to do much of anything else, anything else, other than lay in my hotel room and gaze dumbstruck at "Star Asia Movies". I've been on at least two treks in the world's most breathtaking mountain range where, on the third morning or so I've awoken with aching hamstrings and said to my guide over eggs and dahl baht, "Ah fuggit. Let's head back to Pokhara. Manhattans. I'm buying."
It's not so much that these days I am avoiding a more temperant lifestyle. I actually eeked out two years soberiety not so long. Temperance, now, seems to have been thrust upon me. Marriage will do that, especially when one is hitched to a Persian woman--they are meticulous, hypervigilant bookkeepers (and to be frank, at this stage in my life, it's just what I need lest I end up at 70 a broke dick sleeping under a flyover on St. Charles Avenue).
Unless a thunderbolt of an idea or a sudden obsessive urge of one kind or, ahem, another strikes me between now and the next four weeks (when I should have my reservations confirmed), I will probably head back to Siem Reap, and haunt the ex-pat honky tonks along National Highway 6.