Date: June 11, 1991
Age: 14
Today we did a lot of walking--including through the Coliseum, where the lions at the Christians. On the way back, a gang of street kids tried to steal my money, but they got nothing.
Love, Dad
Love, Dad
Dad once returned from a business trip from Brazil with these things called copangas for him, my mother, and me. I know I'm misspelling the word, but I remember it sounding something to the effect of copanga. Basically, they were leather fanny packs, and my dad seemed to think they were the greatest invention ever, and we used them on our trip to England in 1989, and to France in 1990. You can imagine how embarrassing we must have looked, walking around chic European cities with these stupid fanny packs around our waists.
I think each of ours was a different size as well--had Goldilocks stumbled upon them, she would know the biggest was my father's, the mid-size for my mom, and the small one was mine. No wonder a gypsy kid tried to rip my father off--with that copanga, he was an obvious tourist.
Perhaps my dad never heard of fanny packs before, and thought he had simply stumbled upon an ingenious invention from the Brazilians. Even if he had heard of fanny packs before, he probably didn't identify their Brazilian counterparts as such because they didn't look tacky (or at least, not as tacky). Had he understood that a fanny pack was the calling card of many a bumbling, American tourist, I'm sure he never would have picked them up (and I'm sure he has erased these things from his memory by now). My dad had an uncanny ability to be at once so oblivious and self-aware.
I didn't go with my parents to Italy--I opted to stay behind with friends. Our vacations always seemed to last too long--the previous summer, we had been in France for 17 days. That's way too much bonding time, too much time without any privacy. Shuffling through the postcards, it appears that my parents were in Italy for at least 12 days--there's no way I would have survived that. Perhaps I just couldn't bear another summer with a copanga swinging from my abdomen.
I think each of ours was a different size as well--had Goldilocks stumbled upon them, she would know the biggest was my father's, the mid-size for my mom, and the small one was mine. No wonder a gypsy kid tried to rip my father off--with that copanga, he was an obvious tourist.
Perhaps my dad never heard of fanny packs before, and thought he had simply stumbled upon an ingenious invention from the Brazilians. Even if he had heard of fanny packs before, he probably didn't identify their Brazilian counterparts as such because they didn't look tacky (or at least, not as tacky). Had he understood that a fanny pack was the calling card of many a bumbling, American tourist, I'm sure he never would have picked them up (and I'm sure he has erased these things from his memory by now). My dad had an uncanny ability to be at once so oblivious and self-aware.
I didn't go with my parents to Italy--I opted to stay behind with friends. Our vacations always seemed to last too long--the previous summer, we had been in France for 17 days. That's way too much bonding time, too much time without any privacy. Shuffling through the postcards, it appears that my parents were in Italy for at least 12 days--there's no way I would have survived that. Perhaps I just couldn't bear another summer with a copanga swinging from my abdomen.
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