Harder Than I Thought

Vacations are a wonderful thing . . . until they're over. You spend months planning them, waiting for them, anticipating them - and then they're over before you know it. In other parts of the world, it's not uncommon for even entry-level workers to get four to six weeks of downtime but in our neck of the woods, most of us have to settle for a measly two weeks a year to recharge our batteries. Just when we start to relax, it's time to head back to reality and, as everyone knows, that is highly overrated.

My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?

It isn't any better.

At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.

And then it was over.

Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.

I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:

How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?

Living the Dream

For years I have dreamed about living in Italy. I've read every guidebook I could get my hands on, perused real estate websites with images of Tuscan cottages straight out of Under the Tuscan Sun, and watched every Italian episode of House Hunters International. I've fantasized about walking down to the village market with a wicker basket over my arm, greeting the locals with my impeccable Italian, and welcoming friends and relatives to my hillside home away from home. Amazingly, my dream is finally coming true.

For one of my best friends.

I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.

Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.

See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.

So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.

And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

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