Typically, when I travel w/ my good friend Eric, we’re ready to kill each other by Day 5.   In Puerto Vallarta, we nearly became homicidal maniacs by the third day.  I blame that on the fact we were in a foreign country.  Must have been something in the water.

You can always tell when Eric and I are at our breaking point.  Conversation – while pleasant – becomes strained.  I would rather sit in virtual silence than to hear one more thing out of Eric’s mouth.  And I’m sure sometimes when I’m prattling on, somehow Eric finds the self-restraint NOT to punch me in the throat.

Other than that, we’re BFF’s.

When we go on vacation, Eric likes to drive.  Good thing —  because I would rather be driven around like Miss Daisy.  Eric typically only drinks beer.  Good thing – because I become instantly wasted on foo-foo umbrella drinks and have to be looked after.  Eric worships the sun and has the Coppertone tan to prove it.  I’m forever looking for some sort of umbrella or giant oversized hat to cover my alabaster pasty-white skin.  If there’s shade, I’ll find it.  If there’s a rock, Eric will find it and sun himself like a lizard.

Today, I lounged around the resort.  Hung out with some locales I met while I was here.  And ate and drank myself into oblivion.  Eric ran amuck all day and went sightseeing.  It was just the break we needed.  Earlier today when I suggested we go to the Dole pineapple plantation, Eric took one look at me, smashed a beer bottle and threatened to cut me.  I opted to let him to do this own thing.  He eventually went by himself and said it was “lame”.   I secretly smiled inside.

Ours is a love/hate relationship.  He hates me.  I love it.  And I would not want to travel with anyone else.