I did resolve to begin telling some college stories here, so I’ll start with a fun one. Spring Break 1990. Ah, what an adventure! I and six of my closest friends made the trip from Boston to Florida for a fabulous week of fun at my house. Three of us flew; the rest road-tripped. None of us were really into the partying spring break scene, but a quiet week near the beaches was still a goal and Port Charlotte was as good a location as any for that. Mostly because it was a free place to stay. My parents made excellent and, dare I say it, fun hosts. It was probably the first time in my life that I ever considered a week in Port Charlotte to actually be interesting!

The good times began before the trip even started, in the planning. The three of us who flew put together a travel kit for those who were driving. Our totally cool kit included emergency snack rations, reading material (including, if I remember correctly, some magazines of questionably smutty nature), a mix tape of driving and travel-themed songs, and probably a few other things to help pass the time.

But the best addition to the kit was the “Official Guide to Wasting the Next 26-28 Hours,” authored by me and one of my flying friends for those who were making the long drive. It was 10 pages chock full of trivia for the weary travelers to answer about themselves, each other, and the journey, along with some other deep and absurd questions, just to give them interesting things to talk about along the way. I still have this guide in one of my college scrapbooks—both a blank version and the one completed by that crazy group. I’m not sure how I ended up as the keeper of the completed document, but I’m glad I was. This morning I pulled it out and read the entire thing. And laughed out loud many, many times at the memories. I could share some of the responses here, but much of it relates to personal information and inside jokes, so it’s probably only funny to me and those who knew us then. Those guys were jokesters! But I also know tidbits like who caused the group to be late leaving, who took up the most space in the car, who asked “how much longer” first, who fell asleep first, who were the fastest and slowest drivers, who talked the most, and who was the crankiest traveler.

We gave them some record-keeping assignments too, so among other things they tried to keep track of the number of McDonald’s they passed (lost count after 15), the number of accidents they almost had (2), and the number of times they got lost (2). I recall that they unintentionally drove around Washington D.C. twice, and the unlucky driver who missed that turn did not live it down for the rest of our college years. We later made up a song about it to the tune of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” I still remember some of the words to it:

“______, you get so lost, sometimes. Take us around D.C. again. When I want to go to Florida, I’d rather not, in your car. Take us, around again, take us back to the place we started. All your instincts, they were wrong…”

All these years later I still think of it every time I hear that song.

The rest of the week was lots of fun (so much fun that we did it again the following year with even more people). We had several days at the beach, a couple of theme park trips, lots of singing and dancing to my mom’s jukebox and playing pinball, and a birthday celebration for one among us whose birthday fell during the week. And just generally driving around in my convertible and hanging out piled on my waterbed. Most of which is heavily documented with photographic evidence.

The stuffed purple cow of a friend factored heavily into our amusements. That cow was always under attack, and not just during spring break. We were on a mission to exterminate the ghastly bovine. At one point, it was “skewered” by my dad’s Spanish swords that hung crossed over our staircase. Another time it was set adrift on a raft in the swimming pool. I don’t recall how he got into either of those situations. I of course had nothing to do with it. There is also video footage of the cow getting stomped on and assaulted with a coat hanger, and a foiled attempt to nuke him in the microwave. One evening we came home from the day’s excursions to find that even my parents had gotten into the act. They had laid out the cow in a wooden “coffin” surrounded by candles in a makeshift memorial. I always did have cool parents—I know my friends thought so. But maybe not the friend who was the owner of the cow!

And the things we ate that week! We kept a list, which is also now part of the permanent record in my scrapbook. Let’s just say that it inspired my roommate and me to host a “Pig Out Party” in our dorm room upon our return, recreating the same junk that constituted our diet during that spring break week. It must have recently been Girl Scout cookie time in Florida, because they were a daily staple in our vacation menu. My mom always bought boxes and boxes of those cookies and froze them so we’d have them throughout the year. That year, I’m sure we cleaned her out.

These are just a few of the memories that came to mind when I dragged out my college scrapbooks this morning for the first time in ages. There are oh so many more. I’m still in touch with many of the friends who were on this trip—three of whom I saw last weekend, and one or two of them even read this blog!