Bill and Chris

This weekend was my vacation from hell. By that, I don't mean that it was a bad vacation, but that I vacated, left, escaped hell. Stratford, Ontario saved me from my life in Elkhart, Indiana. Two days of fellowship, (window)shopping, theatre, and fall weather, left me more tired and rested than I've ever known. I should mention that I should be writing two English essays right now, but I am writing this instead.

The journey to the Great North was a memory of its own achord. Grandpa Grouch was our bus driver. He looked 75 or so and had the quivering voice of a self-proclaimed grandpa. If my portrayal of him sounds endearing, I apologize, because that is not my intent. The old man was a returning veteran from last year (when he hit a deer), but this meant nothing to me. At about five in the morning, the sound of rumble pad mixed with the leftward sway of the bus, woke me up. I was confused; the bus sped up, then the bus suddenly began to slow down. The bus stoppped and GG began to yell out the window "pull over!" I wasn't sure what to think at this point, and I was rather frightened by the fact we were stopped on a highway. It turns out the bus had been sideswiped by a passing truck and trailer. The bus driver then sped up and attempted to stop the truck, but the bounty of asphalt the bus was not on allowed for the truck to drive past. The worst of the damage was done to the door, which we could not open. When the police arrived, I couldn't help laughing, as the police officer stated "that's not good" after realizing we had no way out.
When all was said and done, we stopped at Bob Evan's and got the best preStratford meal I've ever had. Then I spent the remaining hours talking to two of the English teachers. I tried understanding the tag-along administrator's strange temperament, but found no answers.

When we arrived in Stratford and were changed and ready, we headed out to shop, eat, talk. The plays were amazing. To Kill a Mockingbird was my favorite, but King Lear was a close second. Oklahoma! was great too, it had some of the best choreography I've ever seen. Overall, the trip was great. I loved the company, the shows, and the freedom. I was reluctantly happy to put off my English essays at the behest of a tall English teacher.

The trip home was equally as memorable as the trip there. It started off with a ominous headache. Everyone was loud and talkative and annoying. After a Tylenol, the night got better. The entire back of the bus played a teenage-back-of-the-bus game. It got awkward quickly and turned to small conversations. Alix, Anna, and Ben were my entertainment. Eventually, Ben fell asleep, then Alix. The conversations didn't end though. While they weren't the deepest conversations I've had on a return trip from Stratford, they were enjoyable. I felt so good. Then I had to get up and work today, which was basically a recap(itulation) of last night.

Now I have to get back to working. The vacation has ended. The hell is back. But I don't feel as bad about being here. That's what a good vacation does; it gets rid of the bad spirit.

Holiday is a better term than vacation. It comes from Holy Day. Vacation means the leaving of. And for our purposes, we don't just mean we're leaving, we mean we're seeking an intervention.

Today's Confession: I'm not the Chris in the title. The coffee was for telling me not to do my homework.