Write a question from the passage such that it identifies a character (a person or a thing) in the passage.
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Question: We all present these glossy lives to the world; coffee cups presented to dewy sunrises, champagne in airport lounges, luxurious restaurants that cost more than they should and share the blue skies days of exploration. I'm as guilty as anyone.
But, what about behind those scenes? Those days where the wind is so strong you can't instastory for talking (I'm looking at you Cornwall), when travel mistakes happen (like in Vienna where I accidentally booked our trip a day short) or when everyone asks you what your next trip will be and you sheepishly have to answer 'er, not sure'.
So I thought I'd get a few things off my chest, and confess a few of the reasons why I probably shouldn't be calling myself a travel blogger. And yes, these are all very much first world problems.
1. I hate photographs of myself.
Ironic, no? Especially when one of the first rules of blogging is all about the cult of personality. I just don't like them. I wish I did, but there are few times that I fancy a photo and even less when I like the result.
2. We nip into a MacDonalds at least once every trip.
It has now become a tradition between nicer restaurants to nip in and order a Big Mac and fries at some point of our trip but especially in Europe for some reason. Why do their MacDonalds meals taste better?
3. Pastels aren't really my shade.
Again, I wish I could be super girly, twirling in gossamer skirts painted in spring shades but I'm just not. My colour palette is decidedly autumnal/jewel hued and usually sticks to a scarf draped around my neck in a hopefully fashionable manner. And I'm totally ok with that.
4. I once travelled all the way to New Zealand and back (stopping in 3 countries enroute) without a lens cap on my brand new, fairly expensive camera.
This is in no way a #humblebrag about the trip, but a comment on how impractical I can be and how careful I also am. I lovingly wrapped my camera in a soft scarf every day for 3 weeks, growled under my breath at anyone who looked like they might jostle me and at one point found myself accidentally at the top of a dormant volcano with it. As you do.

Answer: Who doesn't like photos of herself?

Question: We gave Tiger swimming lessons in our plastic wading pool. I taught the kitten the way Pa taught me: I threw him into water where he could not stand, and I watched, ready to grab him if he went under. Tiger did not thrash desperately like me. He merely paddled urgently for the edge of the plastic pool with his head high and his thin legs churning. Little Bit said, "Dog paddle," and we all laughed. "Tiger paddle," I said, and we all laughed some more, even Jordy. That was probably when Ma noticed the kitten swimming lessons and stopped them.
Our swimming lessons happened in two places. When Pa took us, we went to Hawkins Springs behind Mrs. DeLyons' Fountain of Youth Motor Hotel. When Ma took us, we drove to Mermaid Springs State Park, where we would sometimes meet Mr. Drake.
I liked Mermaid Springs better because I felt safe there. Ma could not swim, so she never made me jump off a dock into deep water, and she always insisted that I wear an orange styrofoam cylinder on my back like a skindiver or spaceman. Ma usually sat on a towel on the grass near the beach, reading a magazine or a book while tanning her legs. Every now and then she would call to us not to go too far or not to splash each other. When she wore her one-piece red swimming suit, she would come in up to her waist, then lower herself to her shoulders, being careful not to get her hair wet. On the rarest occasions, she would wear a swimming cap and float on her back in the shallow water. Often she stayed in her shorts and shirt, adding sunglasses and removing shoes as her concession to summer and the beach.

Answer: Who was careful not to wet her hair?

Question: Luckily I was not the target or victim of this road rage, but I was a first hand witness.
Back in the mid 1990s when I worked in Southern California, I was returning from lunch one day with a coworker when we noticed two pickup trucks driving erratically. This was on Valley View Blvd in Cerritos which is a large roadway divided (by a large, planted median strip) with 3 lanes on either side.
One truck seemed to be chasing the other when suddenly the lead truck made a quick U-turn and was followed by the second truck. But the second truck came to stop just after making the turn. This was when the driver of that truck got out, walked to the front of his vehicle, raised his arm holding a semi-automatic handgun, paused, and then fired a single shot.
At this point, I was parallel with the shooter's truck and only about 5060 feet from where he was standing. I remember my coworker exclaiming, "Oh sh*t! Did he just shoot at the something?!"
I floored my accelerator and sped off to my workplace which was about a 1/2 mile down Valley View Blvd. I parked and my coworker and I got into the building as quickly as we could.
While he started telling our other coworkers about what we had just witnessed, I ran to my desk, called 911, and reported the shooting. The dispatcher kept me on the line after my initial report and then transferred me to a detective in order to take down my information.
As it turns out, my information and the fact that I called 911 immediately resulted in the arrest of the shooter.
I was later asked to testify in court which resulted in the shooters conviction.
I lived in Southern California for 10 years and now I drive a commercial truck several days a week so I have PLENTY of other "road rage stories", but this is still the craziest one.

Answer:
Who called 911?