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the colours in your head



I was just about to get down on the ground and do a couple situps when a big black beetle (not a cockroach... one of those that typically infest my house every summer)decided to bumble on through the library, so my Bikini Body(TM) is going to have to manifest itself through the sheer power of prayer, not through desperate last minute exercise. My fear of creepy-crawlies just won't stand for it, no matter how much my waist has vanished just in time to go on vacation with my boyfriend!

What... obtaining a perfect tummy and model legs in 3 days doesn't strike you as a viable option? Yeah... I'm just going to have to hope that the glories of a fish-and fruit-based diet, tan skin (yes yes skin cancer I know I know), and tons of time swimming and playing along the beach will do the trick. Jon and I are going to Madagascar! For twenty-five days!

I'm particularly excited by the length of time, because at first we were just going for 21 days, but then had to adjust so we would have a few days' overlap with my family, who are coming the second week of July. I realise that 21 does not excessively differ from 25, but 25 is my lucky number, so it bodes well for the trip.

Jon gets to Milan tomorrow night, to the godforsaken Bergamo airport, where I will pick him up. We have the weekend in Milan, then we fly to London la-a-a-a-ate Sunday night. After moseying across town to switch airports, we shall fly to Paris (yes, it's somehow cheaper to fly to Antananarivo from London via Paris than it is to fly straight from Paris, and there spend a night saying hi to my friend Sabine. Go figure.) and then go alllll the way down Africa to the crime-ridden city of Antananarivo. We shall clutch our bags to our sides, fight our way through the ridiculous crowds in the airport, somewhere find the place where you can obtain the visa (for special price, my frien') in the airport, and then make our way out into the balmy Malagasy night to try to make our way to the hotel. Two nights in Antananarivo, some exploring of villages or alternately a tour around the south in a beat-up old Peugeot driven by my stepfather's Malagasy buddy Dyonni (yes, pronounced Johnny), and then over to the island of Nosy Be, where we shall lounge and laze about for two or three blissful weeks.



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