I love being a tourist. Family vacations are great. I don't say this with shame, I shout it with pride. I love being a visitor in strange cities.

People look down on tourists, I don't know why. I think it's fun walking around in a new place with a map in my hand and a camera around my neck. On vacation you are far away from school or work. You don't have the fear of bumping into people you know, so you can relax.

A family vacation to Seattle was quite normal and enjoyable except for a few small things. But it is those events that made my trip memorable.

We arrived at our hotel to find out that our room was on the 13th floor. My mother's face turned a pale shade of green.

"I thought most hotels didn't even have a 13th floor," she said.

"It's quite silly, actually," explained the clerk. "Most hotels just label it as the 14th, but it is the same physical thing." she told us with a smile.

"Plus, we are all booked," she added.

Grasping our rabbits' feet tightly, we headed up to our doom, err. . .room.

When we entered our home for the next week, I put my bags down and checked the place out. No broken mirrors or black felines. At least so far. Seven days to go.

Just pretend it's the 14th floor, I told myself.

After eating dinner the next day, we took the elevator back to our room. When we pressed the button reading 13, the man next to us exclaimed, "Golly! I didn't even know they had a 13th floor in hotels anymore! Gosh, that is just terrible."

Oh, you think you're so hot, don't you Mr. 42nd floor, I thought angrily. Well, I'll show you.

When the elevator arrived at our floor, I started in on him.

"Our room is very nice, and I don't happen to believe in silly superstitions. . ." I began, getting really worked up.

So worked up, in fact, that as I walked out onto our floor I tripped and fell flat on my face. I got up, dusted myself off and turned to him.

"Never mind," I quietly said.

The next evening after dinner we wanted something to do, so we headed down to the concierge (that's French for concierge) to see if he had any suggestions.

"What activity do you recommend that a teenager, a nine-year-old and two adults would really enjoy?" inquired my father.

By the time the man stopped laughing, it was time for bed.

I'm not saying there are no family activities that everyone enjoys, it's just that they are hard to find. Kind of like a buried treasure.

So where do you go in search of buried treasure? Museums, of course. We went to museums of art, history, flight, industry and science. How educational and productive, we thought. My parents were thrilled that they were filling their children's minds with such culture.

One day, for a change of pace, we decided to take a tour of a famous brewery.

That night, my grandfather called to see how we were. My brother picked up the phone. This was his response to the question, "What have you done all this week?"

"We went to a beer factory," he gleefully explained, images of golden bubbles clouding over images of ancient Japanese artifacts or an exhibit on whales.

Gosh. Beer interfering with an educational experience. How wacky.

Everywhere we went there were gift shops. They were on the tops of high buildings and hidden deep underground. Next to almost every single tourist attraction there was one of these lovely tourist cash-grabbing, err. . .stores.

Where else can you find snowball shakers, T-shirts, mugs, stickers, posters, magnets, key chains and pins all with the name of the city you are visting?

I'm very excited -- I have almost completed my collection of toothpick holders from all 50 states.

We were so tired from shopping for these gems all day, we decided just to order in room service that night.

As the man brought up our food, his hand knocked over the salt shaker. The mini-diamonds scattered everywhere. Panic filled his eyes. He quickly left. That's OK, I reassured myself, as I was eating. Who believes in that stuff anyway? Just then I bit down really hard on my tongue.

Are there any rooms left on the 42nd floor?