I’ve tramped over all of Rome’s seven hills, jogged along the banks (both right and left) of the Seine, climbed every mountain (at least part way) that Julie Andrews only sang about, trod the sands of every beach of every island I visited, and even scaled a Mexican pyramid and a Jamaican waterfall — all to no avail. The old equation always held true: One week’s vacation equals five pounds gained — and about ten hours of sleep lost, because at those prices, who can waste time snoozing? I have to make every minute count so I’m up long before the stars have faded. The US Marines in basic training sleep later than I do when I’m on holiday. So it’s no wonder that I always come home not only chubby but exhausted, as well — and in need of a vacation.
I also come home broke. Though I’m normally a frugal shopper, when I’m away I spend with wild abandon, using the excuse, “What the heck, I’m on vacation,” a phrase which covers a multitude of uncharacteristic indiscretions, including feeding quarters to one-armed bandits and purchasing useless, expensive bric-a-brac because of my compulsion to buy the local product wherever I may be. (Would anyone out there like a giant cowbell or a glass gondola? It broke in my suitcase, but you might be able to super-glue it back together.) Heaven help me if I ever visit a country which specializes in the processing of fertilizer. I think one of the reasons I’m so extravagant on foreign soil is that I don’t feel I’m spending real money. Shelling out fistfuls of krones, pounds, lire, francs — or more recently Euros — seems no more reckless than investing my Monopoly fortune in Park Place or the B&O Railroad.
And if a look at my post-vacation bank balance doesn’t cure me, you’d think one glance around my house would. The wrought-iron lamp that was so appealing in Mexico City looks a bit incongruous on the glass and chrome end table I acquired in Stockholm — and it does nothing for the little wooden chalet beside it which plays “Eidelweiss” when I lift the roof. The piece of coral from Curacao is now covered with soot on its perch on the mantle; and I’ll never be able to remove all the tarnish that’s collected on the silver cheese slicer I picked up in Copenhagen. But that’s okay because I’ll probably never buy a big enough hunk of cheese to require a slicer.
As for the size 6 wool knit dress I bought in that expensive boutique in Athens, I’m sure it will fit as soon as I lose the weight I gained on Mykonos gorging on moussaka, stuffed grape leaves, ouzo, and all kinds of other things I wouldn’t touch at home — like tea, for instance. I hate it. I don’t even drink it when I’m sick; and when I try drinking it when I’m well, it makes me sick — except when I’m in London or Bermuda where I have to stop whatever I’m doing to have four o’clock tea. It’s weird. But no stranger than passing up an hour on the balcony in Jamaica with a good book to cheer a bunch of overweight, middle-aged men on donkeys race down a stretch of beach — and later applauding those same guys destroying what’s left of their sacroiliacs as they samba to a steel band accompaniment or fold themselves backwards trying to waddle under a limbo pole.
But watching such antics is at least a harmless spectator sport, in no way comparable to rushing to, instead of away from, a good spot to view the latest volcanic eruption on the Big Island. I actually did that. And I’m definitely not your basic thrill-seeker. I’m your basic coward — the type who dives into the nearest closet the instant the weatherman predicts the merest possibility of a thunder storm, even if it’s a long-range forecast and he talking about next month.
Yes there’s definitely something about travel that transforms me from Fearful Fanny to Carrie Courageous. I climb unhesitatingly into any shaky Alpine cable car, and race my rented Citroen over the Grande Corniche or even around the Arc de Triomphe during rush hour (a feat worthy of the Croix de Guerre). Furthermore, though I’m normally terrified of the water and can keep afloat only if I know I’m not in over my head, when I’m on vacation I’m the first to board the rocky gondola, the leaky river raft, or the wobbly rowboat into the Blue Grotto.
Travel even affects my architectural preferences. At home I’m a contemporary freak; but when I set foot on a foreign shore, I follow the crowds to every ancient ruin and ornate monument and cathedral. In fact, even Continental pigeons that swarm around afore-mentioned monuments and cathedrals seem infinitely more charming to me than their Boston Common cousins.
Maybe the fact that I’m a Gemini accounts for my split personality. I’m a veritable Jacqueline and Heidy, and I don’t have to drink a mysterious potion from a test tube to be magically transformed. I simply have to get out of town. I find the mere act of packing a suitcase to be far more therapeutic than popping anti-depressants.
So take a tip from me. The next time you’re feeling low, don’t take a tranquilizer, take a trip. You’ll see new places, do new things; and, who knows, you may even meet a fascinating stranger — you.
Editor's Note: Rose Mula's most recent book,
The Beautiful People and Other Aggravations by Rose Madeline Mula, is now available at your favorite bookstore, through Amazon.com and other online bookstores, and through Pelican Publishing (800-843-1724), as is her previous book, If These Are Laugh Lines, I'm Having Way Too Much Fun.
©2010 Rose Mula for SeniorWomen.com
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