Wait, wait. How does that translate into being a boring person, fer cryin out loud?
I love botanical gardens and museums that were people's houses. I just somehow have never gone to author's houses. Probably because the road trip refusal that scarred me when I was a child was that we never got to stop at one of those cheesy roadside attractions that Tom Robbins made more or less famous, the real chintzy ones with the little carnival of rides, some poor caged beast or other, some specialty food, some gimcrack gimmick.
We kids would wail and yowl and Daddy Daddy can we can we stop there please? You know, they put signs for such places strung along the highways for miles, so we got our frustration built to a high pitch, and Daddy got to hear all about it.
But he was firm. Those places were nothing but tourist traps, out to get your money. Trashy. Not for the likes of us.
*sigh*
So that's the kind of thing I went for, in reaction, later on, until I learned that carnival rides and cheap thrills and juke joints were pretty much what Daddy said they were after all.