Blast from the Past

It's hard to find time to post lately. So I thought that between original posts I would occasionally add vintage posts from my previous blog, which is no longer publicly available. I realize that, if you read the previous blog, that is really boring and a total cop-out that does nothing to alleviate the lack-of-posting issue. I'm really sorry about that and stuff. But I will do it anyway. First of all, there's stuff from the old blog that I don't want to leave languishing in password-protected oblivion. Second, I will never unlock the entirety of the old blog. Third...there is no third point.

And with that thrilling introduction, I bring to you the first new old post. I wrote it on my bar trip almost a year ago, something I've been thinking about a lot lately, what with it being all really fun and whatnot and what with this current September offering up such comparative thrills as a trip to the dentist.

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Death by Donkey
Originally posted Sept. 5, 2006

We're at sea today, but yesterday we were in the Greek island of Santorini. The island is basically a big old mountain, and the towns are built at the very tippy-top.

And of course the boat leaves you at the very bitty-bottom. So how to get up there, you ask? You could ride up on the cable car. And you could walk it (I don't recommend it, for reasons to follow).

Or you could ride up on a donkey. Doesn't that sound like fun? Who doesn't love a donkey? Nobody, that's who, because everybody loves donkeys.

I love a donkey too, so naturally I chose the donkey. So I got up to the donkey-giving guy, paid, and then suddenly I was hoisted in the air and tossed onto a donkey. "You go!" the man yelled, and the donkey, well, he went.

And that's when it became clear that I'd been given the demon donkey. My brother went cantoring by, waving cheerily and hooting, "Look how well he obeys me!" My sister-in-law wielded her camera in one hand and her bag in the other, snapping pictures as she glided up the mountain.

Me? I held on for dear life, screaming, "I don't wanna diiiiiiiie!"

My donkey didn't care. He went where he wanted to go. He galloped at breakneck speed. He crashed repeatedly into the cliff face, crushing my leg in the process. He rammed other donkeys, and then tried to bulldoze them to the side (leaving my poor defenseless legs right in the line of fire of the other donkeys' hindquarters).

He had a particular yen for the other hapless tourists making their way down the mountain. He headed right for them at top speed. Oh, the poor souls, how they tried to avoid him, stepping this way and that, but my donkey was far more nimble than they. He'd draw nearer, hot breath like the flames of hell washing over them, and they'd press themselves desperately against the cliff wall. Their eyes would grow wide with horror.

And the screams, oh God the screams, they haunt me when I try to sleep. "Nein! Bitte nein!" or "Non! Mon Dieu, non!" or any of a handful of other languages that I do not speak, but the meaning was clear enough: terrified denial at that which could not be avoided.

Somehow, miraculously, I survived and so did the tourists. The cruelest thing would have to be the way that, with (what felt like) miles to go to the top, the donkeys stopped, and the donkey-handling dude came up behind me, grabbed me, and yanked me unceremoniously off the donkey. "Done!" he yelled. "You go now!"

Sheesh, I went. And just about died climbing up the rest of the mountain. I have grave, grave concerns regarding my ability to climb Mount Vesuvius tomorrow. If I do not return...remember me.