January 14th, 1989

January 14th, 1989
Orlando, Florida
Comfort Inn Hotel

We didn’t wake up until eleven, and went out in search of breakfast, which ended up being lunch. Seems there’s no shortage of places to eat, here on International Drive, but I must locate a Winn Dixie.

Planned on spending the afternoon by the pool, sunning ourselves, but we soon got bored of that, and decided to go shopping. Pamsy drove us to the Florida Mall, where we took turns trying on tops and jackets, with built in shoulder pads. Walking through the mall, we tried our best to keep our composure whenever someone (not only females!) walked past us, wearing said shoulder pads. We decided there really is no need for them!

We met Carina, Liza, Miriam, and Carol at Rosie O’Grady’s for dinner. Pamsy’s not the sort of friend you have to worry about introducing to a new crowd, she can talk to anyone, and I love that about her. Dinner was really enjoyable, and Miriam treated us, which was very sweet of her. Carol had a gig playing the bagpipes at a birthday party, so she and Miriam left, and Liza and Carina left soon thereafter.

Pamsy and I made our way over to the Cheyenne Salon, and got followed around by two guys, who were definitely not our cup of tea. We stopped at the bar, and weren’t surprised when they did the same.
“What’re y’alls names?” the hairier one of the two asked.
“I’m Charlene Buchanan, and this here is my friend, Miss Tiffany Wells,” I said, in what I felt was a great impersonation of Misty’s Southern accent.
“Where y’all from?” asked less hairy.
“Alabama,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
I saw the two of them snicker, and I glanced at Pamsy, but her years at drama school had already kicked in, and her face gave nothing away.
“Y’all are beautiful. You must be models,” stated less hairy.
“Oh, you’re much too kind,” I said, waving my hand at him.
“We’re hosties,” Pamsy chimed in, surprising me with what sounded like a perfect New York accent.
“Like at a rest a ront?”
“No, not a hostess, a hostie,” she said, through her nose.
“Oh, you two are a caution,” less hairy chipped in. “What’s a hostie?”
“We fly around in a tin can,” Pamsy managed, without cracking up.
“Stews. You guys are stews!” Hairier guy had just found his booming voice.
“Yes,” Pamsy continued, looking straight at him, “we’re stewardesses.”
“Who d’y’all work for?” Boomy was clearly enjoying his newfound voice.
“Piedmont,” I said, “and where you boys all from?”
They snickered again, and boomy said, “Bama.”
“Where’s that?” I asked, sounding cocky, even in my Southern accent.
“Al a bama,” stressed less hairy.
“Only folks not from Bama, call it Alabama,” boomy announced.
Pamsy kicked my ankle, and I knew what she was saying.
“Well boys,” I drawled, “it’s been real nice meeting you ‘n all, but we got a flight to catch.”

I linked my arm through Pamsy’s, and once we were out of sight, we doubled over, laughing. We couldn’t talk for ages, but when we did, we decided to call it a night, and head back to the hotel.
“Blimey,” Pamsy said, sounding more like herself, “you weren’t kidding about it being a different language here, that was mental.”
“What a pair they were,” I laughed.
“By the way, Charlene Buchanan,” she asked, “where exactly is Alabama?”
“I got no idea Miss Tiffany Wells, I got no idea,” I said, in an accent that would make Misty proud.


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