|Getting lei-d at the airport|
We have managed to make good our escape to Rarotonga. A long-planned, but oft-threatened holiday has materialized. The Cook Islands, in the middle of South Pacific nowhere, are providing respite for a week. The sun is going down and the sound of blenders is announcing happy hour.
We will be happily off the grid for a while.
The first few hours of our retreat have taken on a rather unfortunate phallic nature. For some reason at breakfast, Ewan asked what the domain address was for the Cooks. He was told by the straight-faced Morgan that it was .Co.Ck.
“There’s a lot of jokes about that,” Morgan said. It’s a South Pacific thing, I guess, and that early in the morning I didn’t know what he was on about.
“What are you on about?” I asked.
“Figure it out, Dad.”
It’s as far as I’m willing to go with these observations.
The internet is spotty, expensive and, to be frank, I’m not real eager to pursue the alternatives.
So, checking out in paradise. We’ll catch you later.