Dedicated to Don and Dre, who told me they wished the posts were longer.
Sometimes, our wishes are fulfilled.
Sometimes, that's a bad thing.
This is that time.
Kangaroo Island, or KI if you want to sound like a savvy Adelaidian, is a turtle shaped island off the southern edge of Australia. (After reading that, Amy said I should stop trying to introduce new words like Adelaidian in the whisper she uses when I mispronounce words or forget people's names).
KI is an impressive throwback to the Paleolithic Era known for its wildlife, koalas and rocks shaped like Nicholas Cage's hair.
I'm not a fan of bus rides. But the ride to the ferry had a great view.
Our good friends at Hertz were there to greet us at the ferry. I had a nice sit down with the agent who was affable until I asked about driving at night. She stared at me with the lifeless eyes of a goanna. "You're not covered if you drive after dusk," she whispered. "No one on the island will cover you if you drive at night."
"Is that because of all the kangaroos?" I laughed helpfully. Another long goanna stare. "Because I might hit one?" I added helpfully.
"Riiiight ..." she nodded. "Kangaroos. That's why."
After having me initial forty clauses that stated that Hertz cannot be held responsible for damage to the vehicle or damage to my family, we were off!
We traveled from Penneshaw to Kingscote, where we were staying a the Aurora Ozone Hotel. A good example of naming something by finding two random words in the dictionary and then acting pissed off when people ask you what the name means.
Accommodations were a step above spartan. For those of you who failed history, Sparta was a greek city state established prior to the invention of plumbing. This necessitated difficult choices; a great deal of bucket hauling or self-mutilation of the olfactory sense. Ask any classics professor at Bates. I shouldn't complain. We essentially had a two bedroom apartment that seemed well built and soundproof.
At two in the morning, I was awakened by a repetitive hammering sound somewhere below me. Pounding. Then silence. Pounding. It was a puzzle. In my sleep deprived mind, it sounded like home improvement. With a deep sense of embarrassment, I realized the sound was coming from the direction of my in-laws' room. But that was odd, because my father-in-law had a well established contempt for home improvement and the people who spend their time that way. Ask my mother-in-law. His stock phrase is "why would I work on the house when I could work on my [insert obscure economics lecture topic here]?!'
The next morning, Amy headed down to check on her parents.
You know that moment in the Shining, when the elevator doors open and a tsunami of blood pours out into the hall? It was like that. But it was vomit.
Amy was confronted by an elevator of vomit. I know this both because a) I heard distant screaming and weeping in the direction of the elevator that morning, and b) she told me.
I'm choosing to take the moral high ground and not include a picture here. Obviously, that suggests I took a picture, which suggests that my moral high ground is a savannah.
The puzzle was starting to come together.
Amy took the stairs. She debriefed her mother, who reported that she also heard the pounding in the early morning. Now many of you don't know Alice, but she doesn't take anyone's shit. If you're a manager of a budget gift shop and you're trying to screw her out of $1.50, expect a patient and implacable reminder that you are a manager of a budget gift shop. Imagine Nurse Rachet. Now image Nurse Rachet on steroids without her morning coffee. You don't really want to piss that image off. If you're pounding the shit out of the door next to her, Alice is going to have words.
Alice opened the door and said "Would you possibly be able to do that tomorrow morning?"
What this translated to is this:
"If you don't stop doing that, I will wait until you pass out and staple your pants to your forehead."
The "bloke" turned to her and said, "I'm trying to get into my room."
What this translated to is this:
"I am completely hammered and I've run out of ideas. I am in a hallway. I want to be in a bed. Beating on this door is my best idea."
Adelaidian (n) See above.
I should also mention that Amy had a harrowing experience on the way back. Deciding not to the take the elevator back up, she took the stairs. At the top of the stairs was a locked door that required a key card entry. It may be useful at this juncture to note that my wife historically has a habit of leaving her wallet at home. At any time you might meet her in the world, there's a 50/50 chance her wallet is in the bathroom. When I point out that she could be in a serious accident, in a coma, and without appropriate identification or proof of insurance, her response is "oh wellseys."
So ... it turns out that Amy had her wallet and the key card but the reader didn't work. So Amy had to take the elevator. She did stand on her tiptoes which I think made it a LOT better.
The next morning I stopped by reception and told them that someone had violated the elevator. Without missing a beat, the receptionist said, "Right. One of our guests saw someone who wasn't wearing any pants. That must've been him."
I think of this as Amy's expression immediately before seeing the vomitorium.
I'm watching Speed while I write this post. You remember the Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock movie that restored our hope in love at first sight? It would be totally different if I were taking speed and writing the post. It would go something like this.
We went to Kangaroo Island. KoalasKangaroosMrRogers. We came back.
During our long drive around the island, we happened upon a desolate beach and decided to stop and take a look. Bales Beach.
Huge waves. Pristine beach. It was amazing. The beach was empty. There was no one on the beach.
And then it struck me. There was no one on the beach. "Shar ..." I croaked. "Shar ..." But no one had seen Jaws recently and they didn't get the joke. So I started raving about chum and a squinty old guy named Quint but no one had a damn idea what I was talking about. So we all took off our clothes and jumped in the waves.
It was awesome.
On the way back, we stopped at a cafe and had a latte. Restrooms were (helpfully) triply labeled.
The Remarkable Rocks.
Amy said, "Don't use that photo. Lily looks like she's about to vomit." I chalk that up to elevator induced hypersensitivity.
Amy fondling Mr. Cage's hair.
Our shy daughters.
As we reached Admiral's Arch, I realized that we were getting perilously close to dusk. Which, according to our Hertz Goaana, was Armageddon. Or Ragnarok. I essentially badgered everyone down the trail, took three pictures of seals and badgered everyone back. It was great family fun. The whole time I was acutely aware of the retail cost of our Hertz rental and the population of kangaroos on our turtle shaped island. Because, you know, no one in the universe insures after dusk.
We finally headed out back about six o'clock. It was cloudy, so I had a hard time determining how close we were to dusk. Five minutes after heading back, two kangaroos hopped across the road fifteen feet in front of the car. Almost as if they were saying, "G'dusk. We've been waiting for you." We had a harrowing drive back. I had to decide whether it was better to crawl along at 35 kph to avoid hitting a kanga and arrive at midnight (prime kanga time) or speed at 110 kph and hope we got back before the kangas decided to have a block party.
My mother in law helpfully noted that, traditionally, dusk starts two hours before the sun sets ... so our entire drive was uninsured.
But no kangas were harmed.
The road.
I promise. The next post will be shorter. Much shorter.
Wish fulfilled.
