It has long been belief of mine that what Duke Chronicle is missing most is column dedicated to worldly travels. I have spent a great many hours alone hunched over my computer late at night scrolling through mouth-watering websites like "The Travel Channel," "National Geographic" and "Girls Gone Wild".
Well, I will write my own travel column this week. It is about exotic hideaway in the Southeastern region of the United States, known by locals as Panama City Beach. Endowed with many luxury resorts and beautiful shores of fine golden sand, PCB has long been well-kept secret of state school students and confused families from Texas. In this column, you will find travel log of my stay in PCB as well as great guidance on how to spend time in the beaches of Panama City should you ever find yourselves within the area’s hospitable grasp.
Day 1, 15:30: The autoroute known as i85 S is one of sprawling beauty. We have been driving at high velocities in my frat brother’s Honda Civique for seven hours now. I find that electronic dance music provides most incredible source of excitement in this car as well as every other situation ever. It is very loud, has simple melodies, and it seems that one can shout along to it like mute Zemblian toddler throwing temper tantrum. We have now stopped for petroleum in what my brothers have told me is autonomous US territory of Alabama. They buy snacks but lock me in car with windows closed for security reasons.
Day one,19:30: We have arrived in the parking lot U-Shaped fortress hotel known as Holiday Inn. If this hotel is anything like the official music video, I am eager like beaver to see many mammary glands jiggle. But as I get out of car, I am hit with wave of dismay and anxiety. I cannot see the sea. I cannot see lithe, beaded bodies of fawn and ochre like shown in brochure. Instead I just see spectral city that, in this twilight, looks like aftermath of cruel and illegal NATO incursion. Hooded men ride in herds of scooters like they are cannibals scavenging for Zemblian livestock. At once, I am filled with desire to return to simplicity of my homeland, but my fraternity brothers are more excited than a Mongolian stabbed with EpiPen.
Day two, 9:15: I am aroused by strange sound of war chants. Where am I? Dobroslav, my dear friend and translator is asleep on floor in small pool of gory plasma. What happened last night, I ask myself, and where are the women? Fortunately, my legs still work so I go to patio of my cell-like residence to investigate the chanting. What I see is extraordinary. An army of tanned men with colossal pecs wave flags on every hotel deck and shout nonsense. They have menacing tattoos and look like they eat protein-enriched cats between workouts.
Day two, 10:45: Unlike under the oppressive Duke administration, Panama City Beach provides true democracy promised by the late and great Reagan. Here, no man is afraid to exercise the American freedom of speech and no woman is too scared to exercise freedom of expression. Everywhere I see groups of free men living life as they dreamed, chanting gracefully for ladies to “Show your tits! Show your tits! Show your tits!” For a moment, I am excited to bring this pickup line back to Duke, before I realize that the Brodhead administration is too focused on creating luxury vacation programs under the guise of international engagement to allow for true progressivism.
Day two, 15:00: Luke Bryan is God on Earth. His voice is like soulful hybrid of Frank Sinatra, Larry the Cable Guy and my late grandmother Marija Mikutavicius, the famous Zemblian opera singer famously assassinated by the Bolsheviks. Luke Bryan is American dream. When he performs on beach, he sings elegies that encompass every single human emotion. His concert is ninety minutes of wet bliss. I am in love.
Day two, 23:30: I am standing in the shadow of the famous Club Vela. Unlike Shooters, which has low, communistic $5 fee to allow everybody and anybody in, Club Vela’s $30 filters the riffraff. It is monstrous nightclub with many different kinds of EDM and many fine varieties of beautiful tattooed women who like to wear cowboy hats and talk about state school trivialities. My frat brothers and I engage with a group of ladies, but they like to play puritan American game of hard to get. In my country, no such antics exist. After several minutes, we decide that these girls are not pretty enough and so we just dance with each other. That is more fun.
Day three, 7:00: I feel sand itching my scalp. Two limp warm bodies beside me pin my arms to the beach. Where am I? What happened last night? Dobroslav is floating moribund in the ocean and Luke Bryan is walking to the sunrise of the horizon shirtless, and with his guitar slung over his back. The bodies in my arms start to stir. They are my frat brothers. Apparently the women must have woken up earlier than us because they are no longer there. We spend the rest of our morning laughing about how fun it is to black out.
There you have it. Should you ever find yourself in need of both relaxation and flirtation, I cannot recommend PCB amply enough!
Ishmael is currently suffering hangover as long as a seven day war. He would like to inform Duke faculty that he will not be able to do his scheduled guest lectures this week.
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