To me, a successful vacation is a vacation that
doesn't end in an Indian attack. Last year, I drove to Newport,
Rhode Island with my parents and I hitchhiked back with a severe
limp, a pair of scalps in my fanny pack, and a complete disdain
for New England. The year before it was the Grand Canyon and some
unpleasant words exchanged with a Sioux Indian death squad in
the parking lot of a roadside T.J. Cinnabon's. Total bloodbath.
I spent a long, horrible ride home, hardly able to finish my cinnamon
roll, let alone enjoy it warm. Paris '93 was no better. It rained
nearly the entire trip, and my girlfriend took a flaming arrow
in the spine.
It has been the same thing, year after year. Lately
I feel like you can't enjoy trail-hiking, gambling, or selling
cigarettes and firewater out of the back of your truck on a reservation
without being in serious danger of a full-scale, whoop-whoop-whooping,
bareback, tomahawk and hand-fashioned crossbow Indian attack.
I would like things to be different this vacation.
I want friendly, reliable traveling partners capable of defending
themselves in the event of an Indian ambush. I want a warm, arid
climate entirely free of hostile Indians. And I want some time
alone in my covered wagon to write, without having to worry about
our wagon train being herded into a circle while armies of bloodthirsty
Indians, painted for battle, terrorize the other settlers. I'd
rather just stay home, maybe take myself out to the movies a few
times, than have another vacation like that.
This year I'm considering a trip to New Mexico, Montana,
North Dakota, the Bermuda Triangle, or Knife City. And maybe, for
once, I'll have the peace and quiet I so richly deserve.