Should John McCain ever become President of the United States of America, I wouldn’t mind getting the hell out of dodge. Forth joked about it once, but I, the one with the disposable job, am fer seriously:
FRANCE: J’taime la France. I can speak it a little (3 years in high school reduced to two notebook pages full of remaining knowledge) and I’ve always wanted to go. So, why not live?
SWITZERLAND: The country is tiny and neutral and Forth has some beautiful pictures from when he visited in high school, so why not? Besides, I hear their army knives and drinking water are the best around.
MYKONOS: I will never be able to afford a Grecian honeymoon, but maybe we can live there instead? I could eat Mediterranean food all day. All. Damn. Day. Oh, and the architecture is astounding.
So there you have it: my expatriate destination dream list, lest this country come under the control of a wheezy old gun-toting, tech illiterate coot. I thought of adding London, but that’s overdone. And God knows I could never live in Canada.
**Back.
Categories: Back
Tagged: Expatriate, France, Greece, McCain, Switzerland
Dear Forth,
Every morning when you’re alarm goes off, I think that perhaps if I reach out and grab your hand, our skin will magically melt together and you will not be able to go anywhere without me. You will have to quit your job due to this new medical issue, and we’ll get loads of money from insurance. You’ll be granted your masters six months early and I’ll be forced to quit school, but they’ll give us both honorary Ph.Ds from Johns Hopkins for being such a scientific anomaly. We’ll get married early, having already completed our respective schooling and landed on a pile of money, and then spend a year, literally hand-in-hand, traveling the world and making stops at each continent. I will write a memoir about our travels (you’ll obviously have to help me type it) and it will be granted the Pulitzer Prize half because it was genius and half because we’re famous for our palms being fused together.
I’ll get the French language implanted into my head like they do to you in the CIA, and then we’ll spend our pre-retirement years lounging worry-free by the Mediterranean in the South of France, sipping wine (still no cabernet sauvignon), purchasing designer bathing suits, and emceeing the Cannes Film Festival. Once old, we shall then settle into Keys, fishin’ the pylons and drinkin’ our green labels each day. Our house will have a tiled floor. We’ll watch the sun set over the Gulf each night and I will be most happy about having spent the past 21,923 days standing directly at your side, not missing one thing.
Love**Back
Categories: Back
Tagged: France
