The
weeks stretched into months, and still we climbed.
Also, quite inexplicably, we somehow never managed
to run out of sandwiches. Trudging ever upward, there
was nothing for it but to keep stopping at each landing
to snap a pic or two. And so we did.
But then something strange
happened....
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I'd just finished posing
for an exceedingly sexy shot (not pictured). As
we turned back toward the accursed stairs, we
noticed that they led down instead of
up! What? Who? Where? When?! And how.
This was bad. Really bad.
And potentially impossible, but there it was. We
needed a plan.
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But
first, we needed more pictures of the beach! Ah, the
beach at Nice. One can never have too many photographs
of you and your azure waters, your uncomfortable
rocks instead of sand, and your horribly, horribly
topless grandmothers. You offer solace in times of
sorrow, and comfort to those who need, um,
sleep. Unless they want to sleep on you, because
those rocks are just too goddamn uncomfortable.
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O, Beach! You seduced us
with your seductive beachly ways into taking
picture after picture of you, sometimes with one
of us in front of you and sometimes without. For
some pictures, we turned the camera sideways and
for others, we turned it inside out. It was only
with the power of hindsight that we were able to
deduce that you were behind the tragic
stair-switching incident all along.
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Yes, it was with great
chagrin that we discovered that the stairs had
not really switched after all...we
were just kind of looking at the ones we'd already
come up instead of the ones opposite them that
still continued upward. Oops!
Sure, we felt retarded,
a moment Roger didn't hesitate to capture on
digital film.
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And the months stretched
into years.
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