“Are you sad about having to go back to work?” … My Mother asked during her phone call to me this evening.

I had been off work for a two week holiday.

“Not at all,” I replied. “If I don’t go back to work, I don’t make any money… That’s how we play the game.”

And indeed, I had no negative feelings about re-establishing my working life routine.

I harboured no internalized “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” going back to work angst.

Not that I didn’t enjoy my time away from work, but I found myself feeling good about what I do for a living, as well as the little parts of my workday routine.

For example:

The drive into work usually agrees with me, as the highway is quieter than when I worked days and I don’t have to worry about getting the sun in my eyes.

During my drive, I always have the radio tuned to CBC Canada. Alone in the car, for my half hour commute I listen to a radio show called “IDEAS.”

This program has introduced me to authors, books, ideas, and I like to consider it as a sort of “getting out of my bubble exercise” as I listen to people talk about their lives, interests and passions.

Arriving at work there is always an exchange of greetings and smiles. I happen to work with some very fine people, and it’s always nice to see and talk to them.

With any luck, while I am at work, I will find something to happily muse over while I sort through bucket after bucket of mail.

During the drive home I get to see the dawn.

And when I do get home I am greeted with boundless affection from my Bobby dog as we set off in the invigorating chilly morning air for a few minutes of quiet walking.

Before the sun has fully risen my daughter will have dropped off Sophie dog as she sets off to work.

And then with two dogs in tow, it’s time for tea, toast and then bed.

And so it goes….

If you were to ask me when my next holiday is, I couldn’t tell you nor do I really care.

For the moment I am happy in the present.

I wish the same for you…

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Did you like the movie… “Eat, Pray, Love”?

Well… I didn’t.

In fact I usually refer to this movie as:

“Eat, Pray, Throw Up.”

There was however one redeeming quality to this movie.

It was when Julia Robert’s character described to us:

‘Dolce far niente…’

Are you familiar with this Italian term?

Literally, this translates into…

‘The Sweetness of Doing Nothing.’

According to Merriam-Webster Online:

dol·ce far nien·te. noun \ˈdōl-chē-ˌfär-nē-ˈen-tē\.

Definition of DOLCE FAR NIENTE: Pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness.

Which is pretty well what we have been doing here in Florida for the last several days.

Indeed, it is a week since I’ve worn any makeup. The last time I used a blow dryer on my hair was when I got ready for my last shift at work. It’s nice change to be able to let the sun dry it.

We’ve been whiling away the hours by sleeping in, drinking long, leisurely cups of coffee and watching palm trees sway in the wind.

Of course there has been the obligatory stop at a shopping outlet or two.

On our first day, Jen secured a pair of silver pumps.

I find them tacky, gawdy, and completely over the top.

Which of course means that they are perfect for Florida.

In facts while we were out today she received two compliments on them while we were having breakfast at Cracker Barrel.

I couldn’t believe my ears, but then again, this is Florida.

Well, on the serious side, let me tell you that I am very grateful to my husband that he was able to scrape together the means to let us make this holiday possible and I mean to take nothing for granted.

I appreciate every palm tree that I see, as well as every warm breeze that goes by.

Life is indeed good this day.

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Do you remember a few things that you have missed since childhood?

A particular candy?

Favourite toy?

Invisible friend maybe?

Yes, well I have a few things that I find myself as well.

Time and again they will come to mind.

And after being lost in a few moments of reminiscing,
With a heavy sigh I will dismiss the thoughts of yesteryear
keenly aware that…

“All things come to pass.”

However, I try to never lose hope that somewhere, somehow, I will have an opportunity to enjoy them once again.

For me, three things come to mind:

1. My Mother’s coffee cake with the fluted edges and mocha butter icing.

2. The Tosca cologne which my Grandmother always gave me for my birthday.
I wore it on my wedding day.

3. The original scent of Jergens hand cream.
It was the only hand cream that I remember as a child

In fact, when I travelled to German with my Mother, it was give to me as a gift.

Imagine my pleasant surprise that while shopping yesterday I finally came across a bottle of Jergens original scent hand cream.

Sure,the packaging was different, but I didn’t care.

Several hours later as I dabbed some in the palm of my hand, I recognized the sweet almondy fragrance.

And all at once….

I was six years old again.

I love it when that happens….

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When I go away on a trip I know I can count on two things.

1. I will forget something at home.
2. I will forget something else in the hotel room.

It’s no big deal to me anymore.

I know it will happen.

In fact, it’s become a sort of a game with me.

I’ve come to reconcile myself with the facts that:

a) If I’ve forgotten it, it’s not that important.
b) Most things can be easily replaced with a trip to the store.

Indeed, before leaving the house, I ritualistically ( if not obsessively) check and re-check to make sure that I have brought the items that are necessary for my ongoing survival.

These items include:

Eyeglasses
Prescriptions
Lipstick
Tylenol
Hairbrush…

There are other items of course, but those are the main chorus to my

“Forget-Me-Not Mantra”

I can always count on forgetting something…

Thankfully, it’s been a while since I’ve forgotten anything serious which cannot be replaced by a quick trip to the convenience store.

And so, it was about one hour into the trip when a forgotten item suddenly popped into mind:

A pair of freshly washed hand knit wool socks that I had left on the dryer to dry.

Now before you get all smirky on me, let me tell you that nothing says…

“Aaaaahhhh…”

After a long and weary day’s drive like getting your toes into a soft and warm pair of socks.

The same applies to forgetting things in the hotel room.

This time, the unintended victim was my magic bag pillow which was stuffed inside a green pillowcase. Magic bag being a bean bag of sorts which can be heated or chilled and used as a hot/cold pack.

Now, before your eyes begin welling up with tears let me just say that I am not upset about this loss….

It was several years old, and needed replacing.

Hmmm…

And after spending twenty plus hours in the car over the past three days….

That’s pretty close to how my back feels right now…

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Signs… Signs… Everywhere a sign!

Over the years, I have developed a penchant for American signs and posters because every now and again I’ve come across one that keep me smiling for days, if not years.

Maybe it could just be my irreverent respect for British humour and all things Monty Python-ish that allows me to see past the dull and ordinary and revert it into something decadent and/or delightful.

Who could ever forget a billboard put up by a veterinarian with a picture of a smiling bull dog donned in a birthday hat and wide toothy grin while large capped letters boast:

“IT’S HIP TO SNIP!!!”

Or the sign in a small rural Tennesseean bread and milk store with a big white Bristol board behind a dirty front window advertising:

“Milk”
“Watermelon”
“AMMO”

While visiting Mother in Vermont last September, we drove past a sign in front of a deserted quarry that read:

“Cash & Carry Granite”…

And it was only a year ago while driving past a seriously gridlocked intersection leading to a painfully jammed interstate that we spotted a huge L.E.D. construction sign which screamed out to the oncoming masses:

“YOUR G.P.S.’s MAY BE INCORRECT”

(Insert snickering noises here)

If only I could remember the all….

Well….

Yesterday brought us yet another gem which I hope brings at least a hint of a smirk.

We found it before the entrance to a Sheetz filling station.

“PUMPKIN SPICED LATTES…”
“FOR YOUR PIE HOLE”

(Insert giggle and loud snort here)

 
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It was with some trepidation that Jen, Frank and myself sat in the customs lineup waiting for the impending interrogation of the customs agent.

Our passports were not the source of our concern. Nor the purchased bottles of alcohol or carton of cigarettes.

It was the dogs we were worried about.

I keenly remember waiting in a similar lineup not too long ago as we were coming back to Canada after visiting my Mother in Vermont after Christmas.

The car in front of us had just pulled into to customs bay for inspection.

No sooner had the driver rolled down his window, and extended his arm to hand over his passport when his dog’s head suddenly lunged out and tried to snap the awaiting customs agent arm.

Needless to say, the car was pulled over for a bad doggy behaviour time out.

I am very happy to report that our fears were all for naught as the dogs did not make one sound nor twitch as much as a fuzzy whisker throughout the entire questioning procedure.

And so it continued for about another half hour after gaining entrance into the States.

The blissful quiet was suddenly shattered when all of a sudden Sophie let out a loud series of yips and yaps while lunging towards the cars back left window where Jennifer had been quietly sitting and musing to herself.

I turned around quickly to assess what on earth had possessed her to become so suddenly undone.

At this point she was pawing wildly at the back window, as if she was desperately trying to reach for someone or something.

Following her intense gaze my eyes met up with a large white wooden advertising sign.

The sign said:

‘CHOCOLATE COVERED BACON’

No word of a lie.

Coincidence?

You tell me……

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We left home without any hint of the regular sense of family drama, all too familiar from previous trips.

After decades of travel, an eventual sensibility about the importance of foresight and orderly planning had finally taken root.

Jen and I were sharing one small suitcase, and one duffle bag. The suitcase was for when we arrived in Florida, and the duffle bag was for our quickie one nighters on the way down.

Frank always packs his own suitcase.

Thank you God.

It is 11:00 a.m. Friday morning, the day after Halloween when I finally step outside of our front door and mindfully make sure that it is locked good and tight.

We are leaving in the midst of a serious wind storm. I am only three steps from my front door when I am blinded by the long tresses of my own hair as the wind furiously whips it into a froth.

I sincerely hope that this in no way reflects the tone of the trip we are about to embark upon.

A few moments later, I climb into the car and we were on our way.

It was 11:05 a.m. and we are right on schedule.

After a brief stop a the duty free, we cross the Fort Erie Peace Bridge into the United States. It was then that we all put on our best shiny happy faces for the customs agent who quickly waved us through as he immediately realized that we are far too happy to pose any threat to their country…

And far too silly.

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First of all, when it comes to travelling, I am incredibly blessed to have a husband and children who indulge me.

They take it on the proverbial cuff whenever I announce that I would like to take a few days to visit my Mother in Vermont, or when I drop the hint that I have an impending week of annual holiday from work.

My husband immediately translates my good news into:

“Let’s go to Nashville.”

However, this time it wasn’t Nashville I was yearning for.

It would take the fingers from both hands and at least one foot-full of toes to count how often we had been to Nashville over the past decade.

Besides, you know that you’ve been to the Grand Old Opry one too many times when you find yourself plotting to leave the two hour long Opry show early in order to avoid the ever-so-painful traffic gridlock which follows after the final clap after the last round of applause.

No, this time I was hoping for something a little different.

With winter quickly bearing down on us I was thinking of someplace warm.

Warm and cheap!

Imagine my pleasant surprise when my husband one night called me over to look at his computer screen which was displaying a RED ROOF INN MOTEL in Kissimmee Florida,which was boasting rooms for sixty dollars a night, and pets stay free.

It’s about twenty-two years since our last visit to Florida to do the Disney thing with our two little girls.

Unfortunately, any plans that we make now would not be including our youngest daughter Aria who’s partner and fiancée had whisked off to a new life in Winnipeg at the end of last summer.

With that being said, I now dedicate this here travel diary to my youngest daughter Aria, who will travel with us ‘in absentia’ so that she will know that not a mile goes by when we do not think of her.

And so, it came to pass that after a brief consensus between my husband Frank, elder daughter Jennifer and myself, it was finally agreed that, like Bilbo Baggins at the beginning to his Hobbit memoirs, we would be going on an adventure.

And to make things even more exciting, our two dogs Sophie and newly adopted Bobby would be coming along for the ride.

……….

Whatever were we thinking?

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And so it begins…

All my life, I have lived with the most incredible case of wanderlust.

I’m not sure if the is because of the frequent family outings my parents took me on when I was a little girl.

Every few months I would be packed into the back seat of the family car and then driven from Toronto to relatives in Cleveland, Maryland or Virginia.

Shorter trips would take us to Niagara Falls, Windsor or Algonquin Park.

Or maybe the wanderlust is directly inherited from my maternal grandparents who never seemed to stay in one place for as long as it took to drink a cup of coffee.

If they weren’t at home in Germany, they would be visiting us here in Canada or my Aunt, Uncle and cousins in Virginia. In between visits to us, they would be trekking to churches in Austria, Serbia, or some Scandinavian country.

Trust me, I have the postcards, and souvenirs to prove it.

And so, without fail, every other month or so, I begin to sense a vague longing to choose a destination, locate a suitcase, and pack as lightly as I possibly can…

Which usually means packing two suitcases.

Until my next post…

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