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瓦哈拉的塗鴉簿  Danseuses de Delphes  (Apr 19, 12)
It was a long drive from Glacier to Olympic. The good things about those national parks were their remoteness from civilization and spectacular views. The bad things they were damn far away from each other and there was absolutely nothing in between. It was a long drive.

“Are we there yet?” asked the little girl on back seat.

“Not yet, maybe another eight hours to go,” I said.

“How many percent are we there?” asked the girl again.

“Maybe ninety percent,” I said, knowing she could not tell I was lying.

“Yeah!” cheered the girl.


“I am hungry,” said the girl on back seat.

“Me too,” said the woman on front seat, “and there is a three-diamond restaurant in the next town.” She said as she pointed to a tour book.

“We only have time for gas-station food. Don’t you think the restaurant ritual requires too much time we don’t have?” I tried to reason.

“I want some good food,” said the woman.

“Me too,” said the girl.

Democracy was a good system for those who complained about consequences at the end, but made no contribution and took no responsibility at the beginning. I sighed as I followed the woman’s direction to the restaurant.

Females were satisfied after a lunch too rich. I kept driving.

“Should the things in the movie 2012 happen now,” said the woman, “at least I’m glad we’ve been to Glacier.”

“I won’t be,” I said. “I cannot tolerate any surprise, and I hate to mitigate my plan due to some meteorological phenomena or seismic anomalies. It means I need to drive faster which is already too fast, shorten the time for each stay which is already too short, or even cut the plan. I enjoy the perfect planning and execution and don’t want my joy ruined by some stupid risks.”

The woman looked at me speechless.

“Messiaen could have composed more pleasing music if he came to Montana instead of Utah,” I murmured.

“You are really a piece of work,” said the woman.


We got to Olympic the next morning. It was remote. It was spectacular. It was… a national park.

The little girl took a look at the sign and asked: “Why is this place called Hurricane Ridge? There is no hurricane here.”

“Don’t take a name too seriously,” I said, “Tell me, what does ‘Irene’ mean?”

“Peace,” said the girl promptly.

“Next time you whine I’ll say ‘Irene is peace. You are not Irene, you are her evil twin.’”

“I am Irene and I do not have a twin!” uttered the girl.

“See, that’s a good example why you shouldn’t take a name seriously,” I said.


“The visibility seems limitless,” said the woman as we reached the cliff. She looked at a remote mountain range covered with snow on top.

“Is that Glacier National Park?” asked the woman.

“Let me see,” I pretended to be enthusiastic and took a long hard look at the mountains, “I think you are right about the limitless visibility. Wait a minute, something obstructs my view. It’s egg shaped… it’s hairy… Wow! It’s the back of my head!”

The woman turned her head forty five degree away and white-eyed me.

All of a sudden I wanted to have a Hurricane but there was no bar nearby.

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