Here are my notes on, A Walk In The Woods, By: Bill Bryson.
When the guys in camouflage pants and hunting hats sat around in the Four Aces Diner talking about fearsome things done out-of-doors, I would no longer have to feel like such a cupcake. I wanted a little of the swagger that comes with being able to gaze at a far horizon through eyes of chipped granite and say with a slow, manly sniff, “Yeah, I’ve shit in the woods.”
Rayette was six feet tall and had a face that would frighten a baby, but she seemed good-natured and was diligent with the coffee. She could not have signaled her availability to Katz more clearly if she had thrown her skirt over her head and laid across his Hungary Man Breakfast Platter.
She talked nonstop, except when she was clearing out her eustachian tubes (which she did frequently) by pitching her nose and blowing out a series of violent and alarming snorts of a snort that would make a dog leave the sofa and get under a table in the next room I have long known that it is part of God’s plan for me to spend a little time with each of the most stupid people on earth, and Mary Ellen was proof that even in the Appalachian wood I would not be spared.
My room was basic and battered – there were cigarette burns on every possible surface, including the toilet seat and door lintels, and the walls and ceilings were covered in big stains, the suggest a strange fight to the death involving lots of hot coffee-but it was heaven to me.