Last Saturday, as I lay in bed, feeling gross and icky after an intense two days of battling The Stomach Flu From Hell, I couldn't help but feel my stomach take another flip when I heard the words: "Let's go to the Cape."
The Cape? As in ... Cape Cod? Woo-hoo! My boyfriend is so romantic. And apparently, rich enough to whisk me away for a romantic weekend at The Cape. I'm so lucky! I'm going to puke again, but this time, in happiness.
Then he says, "The Cape. Like, Cape Canaveral."
Cape Canaveral? Woo-hoo! My boyfriend is a science geek who loves museums and outer space. He is not rich enough to whisk me away, but he's sweet enough to drag my sick butt out of bed, let me pick the music on the 2 hour car ride, buy me a ticket to The Kennedy Space Center, and spend the whole day documenting our trip with his digital camera.
Afterwards, we went on a US1 adventure to find the perfect beachside restaurant. The results? Awesum. We found "Breaker's", which boasted the best burgers in New Symnra Beach. Not only did I get to teach Danny how to say fun Floridian words (i.e. "Titusville" and "Symnra") but I sipped on a delish and much needed Long Island Iced Tea. We ate our Mahi sandwiches at a wooden bar, gazing out at the ocean and the stars.
One whole day of not throwing up combined with quality Danny time?
Awesum.
2 comments:
Let's aspire to be wealthy enough one day to whisk ourselves off to the Cape. The real Cape. In the fall, so we can do the New England autumn thing and drink cider and sit on a whitewashed porch and mock poor people.
And definitely on the catching up when you're next in the ville. I would LOVE that.
I can drink the cider, but I can't mock the poor. Unless the cider is sufficiently spiked.
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