It happens every spring. Maybe it’s a sign that I am not actually as grown up as I think I am. Sometime around May Day I get that itch. Summer is coming. Summer break. Summer vacation. No more teachers, no more books. Freedom. At last!
I want to hit the road. Get in car. Drive.
Or I want to to jet away. Shall I stand on the windy upper deck of a ferry boat bound to an island without cars?
Oh to wander the streets of a dusty golden Spanish town where each afternoon tapas you try is better than the last.
How I long to spend a week in a hammock hung from an apple tree somewhere in the Adirondacks, rocking and swaying into another place and and time with a fragrant old novel as my passport,
I could dive into clear green Grecian waters. Discover Hazelnut gelato all over again at an Italian train station.
Clearly I’ve been spoilt in the past. And I can’t complain. I’m glad I’ve traveled. Equally glad that I live someplace so beautiful that the travelers now come to me. Why would I want to leave, they ask? Why indeed. But every now and again…
My husband’s “vacation hat” on the dashboard has been taunting me. He tends to wear it when we (not often enough) embark on an adventure and I’m not sure why it’s such a symbol for me. Calling my imagination on a direct line.
May is fleeting. Before long the actual routines and realities of summer will overwhelm and we will realize we cannot spent a month in Ibiza or finally cruise to Alaska. But leave the reality for June and July. In May I can still dream.