Take Me Away

For those of you who maintained a relatively conscious state during the Seventies (those of you eager to point out you were toddlers in that decade, I hate you), you're sure to remember that ubiquitous commercial for Calgon; the one where some harried woman was imploring her box of bubble bath to get her the heck out of there. That's roughly where I'm at - except I'm not putting my faith in some stinkin' soap product to do the trick. No, my escape has nothing to do with soaking in a hot tub (unless it's on the top deck of a cruise ship); it has everything to do with physically being transported to another place.

Hello. I'm Coleen and I'm a travelholic.

Not that my addiction is any kind of a secret. My mailbox is inundated on a daily basis with brochures from every known cruise operator detailing the latest Rhine River itineraries or round-the-world sailing bargains. Yesterday, I even got one from Linblad Expeditions, inviting me to explore the Antartic. (Clearly, this company has no idea who they're dealing with. Spending thousands of dollars to freeze my ass off when I can do it here for free is something that is never going to happen.)

My AOL (please don't laugh) inbox is full of e-mails from Cruise Critic.com, Tripadvisor, and Kayak. My Facebook ads are continually reminding me of the latest price reduction on a cruise to the Greek islands or the fact that there is only one more room left at that cute little hotel in Orvieto. And how do I go to sleep at night? Do my eyes start to close as I devour the latest bestseller? Not nearly as often as they used to. More often than not, I'm pouring over some Rick Steves' guidebook telling me how to get out of the port in Ajaccio, Corsica or finding out the optimum way to get from Perugia to Parma.

It's a sickness and I know it but I don't care. I love that I can now discover charming seaside hotels in far-flung places from the comfort of my own bedroom. I relish in the opportunity to find the "locals" way to get from Point A to Point B instead of signing up with some impersonal touring operator. Most of all, I love the fact that I'm always in the middle of planning my next trip, no matter how far in the future it may be.

It may be a sickness but I'm having so much fun I have no interest in finding a cure.

I Want to be Rick Steves

Well, loyal readers, I've procrastinated long enough. After an amazing three week trip to Europe, it's time for me to get back to real life and that includes this humble little forum for my earth-shattering observations about life after motherhood.

After that kind of break, I'm here to tell you that there are some perks to a life sans children. You don't have to plan your trips around school holidays. You can walk around historic sites for hours without hearing anyone say, "I'm tired" or "Are we there yet?" (Although I think I might have muttered both of those on our four hour hike from Monterosso to Vernazza). And you can drink as much wine as you want to without worrying about embarrassing yourself in front of your offspring.Your husband, however, may be forced to occasionally pretend he has no idea who you are.

Our hastily put together trip was designed to be a celebration of our 30th anniversary and our (gulp) 60th birthdays coming up later this year. We originally thought about waiting until the fall but when a good deal presented itself, we jumped on it and decided to treat ourselves early (you know, the old "Who knows if we'll be around in six months" argument - the one I drag out quite regularly when I'm trying to justify spending money we probably shouldn't spend).

Anyway, before we knew it, the trip turned into a twenty-three day marathon (what can I say, it was cheaper to fly on Tuesday) visiting over twenty cities by train, bus and ship. We climbed more stairs than Rocky Balboa and visited more churches than the Pope. We schlepped our luggage over cobblestone streets, dragged them up dozens of flights of stairs (including one narrow nightmare of a circular staircase that should have been put out of its misery years ago), and subjected ourselves to a level of physicality that would have challenged Jillian Michaels. And you know what? Now that we're back, I can tell you one thing.

I want to do it again.  Soon

This is Torture

As anyone who has been a regular reader of this blog knows, I'm madly in love with all things Italian. Let's face it, if Italy were a guy, I'd be spending Christmas in jail, serving time for stalking. I've watched enough House Hunters International shows to know that living there is out of our price range (unless I ever edit that bestseller that is now sitting on my hard drive). My next best hope is getting back there for an extended visit but even that seems unlikely with other financial obligations tugging on our dwindling resources. That's why I've grown to hate the mailman.

Every week, without fail, our local public servant deposits tantalizing brochures and beautifully photographed catalogs for Mediterranean cruises and Italian vacations, detailing the once-in-a lifetime deals waiting for my husband and me if only we book by the end of the month. Every time I go to the mailbox and find one of these instruments of torture waiting for me I'm torn. Do I pay the mortgage or call the travel agent? As I grab a cup of tea and lovingly turn each heavy, laminated page filled with images of the Italian countryside or rustic, cobblestone streets, my rational thinking goes right out the window. Maybe we could get by eating nothing but potatoes for a few months. Maybe we could raise the deductible on every insurance policy we own. Maybe we could rent out a spare room. (Oh, yeah, that won't work. Our kids are still in them.)

Eventually, reason prevails and I finish my tea and close the latest attack on my senses. But I can't bring myself to toss the brochure into the recycling bin. That rational I am not. So now I have a filing drawer filled with outdated specials and once in a lifetime deals that have passed us by. But that's okay. I'll hang on to them just in case one of these years, I get what I really want for Christmas