What are titles good for anyway? A picturesque setting to keep a reader’s eyes focused on a text, conforming prose to the structural constructs of literature, or helping middle school students pretend that they read the book, when they really just played with their fidget spinners all night? Well my dear reader, this title is the perfect summarization of my current task, coupled with a caring euphemism. Do the words “dear reader” also immediately conjure scenes of North Koreans addressing their leader to you too? I digress.
Today, we were forced to leave the beautiful town of Toliara and our perfect, secluded beach to come back to the capital, Antananarivo. If our lodge on the beach would have replaced their pack of 7 labs with 14 wiener dogs, I think we would have moved in. Can you imagine being surrounded by packs of roaming weenies? A vegetarian’s nightmare, and our dream. We made it to the airport to catch the one daily flight out of town, but thank goodness we arrived 3 hours early. We were the first passengers, but the security was tough. Our screening process consisted of a guard holding up a sign of prohibited items and asking us whether or not we had them. She did not ask once, but TWICE, and she let us go through. I felt as safe as a gingerbread man walking past a Weight Watchers meeting.
We waited in our teal, empty airport terminal for the one flight, and we rapidly boarded our flying bus. It had previously come from another small town, flew 30 minutes, landed in Toliara, then we flew 45 minutes, landed in another town, a few passengers flied on and off, and then we flew to the capital. I guess that’s what you need when travel by dirt road is full of pot holes and roaming bands of animistic, black-cloaked tribesmen.
Eventually, Ms. Frizz and her flying school bus of smelling Malagasy people (and the hairless, pristine Braunfisch boys) touched down in the capital, and we were on our way. As young excited boys do on Christmas morning, we rushed out of the terminal, looking to see what random stranger we’d have to fake small talk with as our driver today. Who would be the last person you’d expect? Is it Tina Turner?? Well then you’re spot on. Our heroic, Michael Schumacher imitator, Tina “The Tuck” Taylor, was once again our driver. Christian, fighting his impersonal, New York tendencies, had previously given him our blog website, despite our direct mentioning of him as “Tina Turner” because “we’ll never see him again in our lives.” He was as wrong as a Neville Chamberlain after the Munich Pact (read a book, will ya?).
Once we ran out of pleasantries to exchange on the drive and my discussion of how sweaty my legs was coming to an end, Tina informed us he is now a dedicated reader. Cue nervous laughter. Then he said something else, which still, to this day, is shrouded in mystery. The top four possibilities are as follows:
- I really love you all’s writing. You’re more talented than Milli Vanilli.
- Who is Tina Turner? That is not my name.
- What does it mean when you say that I am “The Tuck”?
- If you write one more post about me, I’ll burn your hotel down and perform a spiritual dance as I use your ashes for my cat’s litter box.
Find out next time, with the Hardly (Culturally Acceptable) Boys!
With uncomfortable laughter,
Christian “You should check out our travel blog!” Hans *Staring at Christian to make him stop* & Josef “Yeah, the drone porn is A1!” Braunfisch