Wednesday, April 23, 2008

 

When the going gets tough, the tough go to the Historic Triangle

Being an aforementioned military brat, the idea of "home" is a fleeting one. Rather than an all encompassing "home" -- a place that has a smell, a feel and a monopoly on emotional comfort -- I have lots of sort-of "home"s. The home where I learned to ride a bike. The home where my older sister and I had to share a room. The home where my brother and I had to share a room. The last home my parents were together in. The home I moved my stuff to between college semesters. For simplicity, my home is with my husband (& cats...)-- wherever he is. And a Christmas "at home" is at my mom's.

Nearing 30, I found a place, though, that feels more like the quintessential idea of home to me. Like nothing really bad can happen to you there. A physical place where I know the streets and where the good bowling and eats are. A place I can drive around and find myself constantly pointing out that place where this and this and this happened. To me, and to a lot of people, that place is Williamsburg, Virginia.

After an emotional and personal set back this week there was only one place to escape to. Grabbing my husband and Bestie, we set out to Colonialize ourselves for a weekend and see if we could eat our weight in Sno-to-Go. By exit 236, my mind was clear, my heart less heavy.

Being in the comforting arms of The Burg helped me let my guard down, let out the sillies and let me put my troubles on hold.

Summoning up my inner pirate aboard Jamestown's Susan B Constant.




Why pay attention to the real tour when you can take funny pictures with the ye old Jamestown stuff? And oddly look like you and your Bestie planned to wear the exact same outfit?

A day in Williamsburg is far from complete unless you've played 18 holes of Pirate's Cove Putt Putt.
..18 holes. And loved yourself a pirate.

Comments:
hope everything is okay. sorry we have been missing each other this week.
 
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