Vacation

Lyla is napping in our hotel room. She's napping, as in taking a nap, as in sleeping. For me, the morning nap in the hotel room is a point on which our whole trip could pivot toward triumph or hideous failure.

The issue is that Lyla's mother takes approximately 137 minutes to get ready in the morning. I take 11. I suppose it makes sense since she is much, much prettier than I am, and prettiness necessitates the daily use of many bottles, currently assembled in minibar-like fashion on the bathroom counter.

So if Julie's use of these bottles was punctuated by the shrieks of her daughter and the loud sighs of her husband, then it might start to feel less like vacation and more like Sartre's No Exit, which famously demonstrated that hell is other people.

But if Lyla can nap like this every morning, then we might all survive together peacefully in this 400-square-foot room.

Later:





So far, so good.