My dad is of the opinion that the definition of vacation is "A stressful period of suspension of career work, or the act of vacating, when you awake with the sun, hoard money, move as often as possible, and yell as much as possible," while the definition of work encompasses rest and leisure. I fault my mom's freedom famine and sleep shortage for her brain acting as competent as Paris Hilton's vocabulary.
Oftentimes during the trip my brother and I speculated about Mom's intoxication possibilities. However, as this was repeatedly at 8:30am, I revert to the previous conjecture: fatigue.
One morning we caught a train with as much energy as dogs with Lyme Disease. Our eyes barely open, our limbs lethargic, we resembled five zombies trailing behind indefatigable Dad, who irately rotated every thirty steps and screamed venom at us to hurry up and if we missed the imminent boat/train/plane, it would be our fault.
"Was that Dad's voice yelling at us just now? Or did my brain just make that up?" I asked, eyes squinting against the early morning sun as I mentally encouraged my legs to continue forward, determined as Martin Luther King Jr.
"I don't know... I think I heard him too, but I can't be sure. I haven't seen him in seventeen blocks," my brother responded.
"I don't think I've seen him in twenty blocks. I just keep sporadically hearing his voice reverberating in my head. Maybe he'll catch the train and we can just meet him nowhere."
We eventually secured our positions on the train only to realize that while we had train tickets, we hadn't separately booked seats, therefore we had nowhere to sit. The six of us stood, crowded like cows and yawning like cats as the train departed the station. My mom stabilized her water bottle in the crook of her arm, unscrewed the cap, and then dropped the cap on the train's floor.
"Mom, don't bend over. Mom, if you bend over you're going to spill the water. Mom, hand me the water. Mom, if you bend over the water will spill," I modulated in monotone with as much energy as I could summon, which rivaled that of a semi-comatose hippo. Mom bent over to retrieve the cap and the open bottle gushed water onto the train's floor, soaking our feet and rolling in a puddle attacking suitcases like the plague every time the train turned a corner.
"Mooomm. I told you not to bend over," I said with the complaining whine of a six-year-old. Mom giggled. "I feel like I'm drunk but I haven't had anything to drink this morning!" she exclaimed.
The next morning at 6:26am as we waited for the elevator to descend Mom asked my brother for the seventeenth time, "How do you say six again? I need to know how to say six because there are six people for breakfast!"
He had procured a translation booklet and knew limited German words, like numbers, how to say his name, and small household pets.
"Sechs," he answered.
"Sex?"
"Yes Mom, it is pronounced sex. Sex is six."
My brother, sister, cousin, parents and I approached the host at the hotel's restaurant. A quasi-attractive chocolate-eyed man in his early twenties smiled at us in anticipation, broadcasting his hospitality skills.
"Sex for breakfast please," my mom proudly proclaimed, surrounded by her husband and children.
"I'm sorry? What?" he asked, his face as perplexed as if my great-grandma had requested vagina cream.
I clenched my hand on my mom's shoulder and propelled her away like a leashed dog.
I apologized to Chocolate Eyes on my mom's behalf.
"Mom, are you drunk?" my brother repeated for the twelfth time in the past five days.
"I don't think so..." she replied.
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