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The worst part of travel is actually coming home. One day you are in Peru, gaping at Machu Picchu or in Quebec City, learning about why the English and the French both coveted the area. Maybe you’ve been cycling in Italy, trekking in Nepal, cruising down the Nile in Egypt, or sauna hopping in Finland. The next day, you open the door to your digs and…chaos.
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A few days ago, my husband Paul and I took a water taxi to Norris Point, in Newfoundland, and tried to get a cab to go to the Lobster Cove Head lighthouse, where a rug hooking class was taking place. The taxis were busy, the class was starting, and I asked a man who was walking toward his car if he could give us a lift. “Of course,” he beamed. He had four people in his small vehicle, and they all scrunched and squeezed to make room for us. Then they insisted on taking us to a lookout point before dropping us off at the lighthouse.
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As the holiday of hearts approaches, you’re probably thinking long-stemmed roses served on a breakfast tray in a 5-star hotel. Then, hmmm … snuggling, doing the love thang, champagne, chocolate, doing the love thang again, bundling up for a hand-holding stroll, dinner, a show and home again. The odds are slim that your amorous thoughts turn to things that creep and crawl and fly. But what if Cupid inspired you to do just that — think of animals for Valentine’s Day? One equatorial word immediately leaps to the lips: Galapagos.
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My Craigie episode started a few months ago when my husband and I decided we desperately needed a vacation. Truth be told, I am not sure we’ve ever taken a vacation. As travel journalists and photographers, we’re always writing, shooting, taking notes and stumbling over stories, even when we don’t mean to.
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If you are one of those lucky people whose family gets along superbly, who looks forward to flying or driving to visit family on holidays or special occasions, who can’t wait until the family gets together again, who slid out of the birth canal into a functional family, then stop reading–this article is definitely not for you.
If, on the other hand, you start popping Valium, drinking vodka or meditating obsessively two weeks before you have to go home (or wherever your family convenes), then, by all means, read on.
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Some people I know, when they are really stressed out, take an afternoon, evening or full day off. The next day, they are back to work. Others kick it for a weekend, and then dive back into the daily routine on Monday morning. I’m flipping through my mental rolodex of friends, associates and family and, to my horror, I realize that I don’t know anyone who really takes vacations.
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