Tomorrow is arguably the last day of my vacation, if you subscribe to the logic that weekends don’t count, because they’re not workdays. This logic is somewhat flawed if you consider that working weekends are as common for me as non-working weekends, but given that I am trying to establish a sense of urgency, let’s just say that my vacation is almost over.
I had big plans for this week which included reading multiple books and Food and Wine magazines, watching at least one movie, and drinking several lattes. On Sunday I loaded Buck and a suitcase into the Mighty Yaris and we drove west to my parents’ house. In the four days that followed I drank several cups of coffee but watched no movies and read two chapters of one book.
Now, in my defense, I did engage in some perfectly worthwhile activities. I celebrated my grandfather’s birthday, hiked a mountain with my dad, and attended a concert with my mom. I also had a few nice meals with family and friends. All told, these activities accounted for approximately twelve hours, which makes me wonder what on earth I did with the other eighty four.
By my calculations, I spent approximately forty of those hours sleeping, eight of them writing, three cooking, ten watching TV, five wandering aimlessly around the house, ninety minutes shopping, and 6 hours on the internet. Which left approximately thirty minutes of reading time.
I understand why I read so few books in a typical week. What does it say about me if I can’t sit still for more than 30 minutes on a vacation to engage in an activity that I have deemed worthwhile and enjoyable?
One of my big accomplishments this week was to solidify my summer vacation plans. My six aimless weeks in Europe now include a four-week Airbnb reservation in a Paris apartment on the right bank with views of the Montmartre hill. I envision myself boarding the metro each morning with a book and a baguette in my purse, lying on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower, and reading poetry until the sun sets. This, to me, is vacation perfection.
The reality will probably look something more like this:
I sleep until noon and reach for my iPad. Mysteriously an hour passes and I have accomplished nothing. I board the metro with a book and baguette in my purse. I get off at the École Militaire stop and make it halfway to the Eiffel Tower before realizing that it’s freaking hot out and I have no water. I wander three blocks off course stopping at no fewer than four convenience stores before deciding that I have, indeed, found the most reasonably priced bottle of water in the 7th arrondissement. Heading back to the Eiffel Tower, I get lost and walk in circles for 45 minutes, wondering how I could possibly lose sight of the tallest building in Paris. After winding up inexplicably on the right bank I reorient myself, cross the Pont de l’Alma, and brush my way past throngs of illegal immigrants selling cheap trinkets and gypsies waving newspapers in my face. I choose my spot on the grass in between a crapping dog and a making out couple and pull out my book, only to realize that the glare off the white page is blinding, and I did not wear my sunglasses. Moments later I remember that I don’t really like poetry all that much and think that I could really use an espresso. So I wander east along the Seine until I come upon the perfect little café or, more likely, one that will suffice given that my feet are killing me. Immediately upon sitting I realize that I am starving because I left my baguette on the metro. I order an over-priced salad and use the free wifi to access the internet on which I accomplish nothing.
And then I’ll blog about it.
