On the seriousness of tourists who are so unique and the same.
She was so sweaty she worried she looked as if she peed in her pants. She shifted with discomfort. She missed the days of chivalry when all the men would have moved to let her sit near the fan.
He hated incompetence. The website said the tour was at 1 pm. Now they’d miss the Summer Temple.
“Give it up already, we’re here. You told me Rick Steves said I had to wear long pants to be respectful at the temple. It’s 100 degrees,” he said. “Did he say anything about tank tops? Did he? Did he?”
The girl noticed she was the thinnest one there. And she was the American. We’re not so fat as everyone says, she thought.
Once we get home, she should really have that mole checked.
She knew she should have gotten those traveler’s pants that wicked away moisture. Was that the term-wick, wicked? She didn’t want to ask her husband; he’d say I told you so. She hadn’t wanted to spend the money. She’d put that on Trip Advisor. Get the pants!