|Avon, North Carolina, Fishing Pier.|
I have high expectations for vacations. It’s not just the expenditure of time and money: my expectancy is rooted in the gargantuan effort required to disengage from a deeply embedded daily grind. Success is clicking through photos for weeks afterward and fantasizing about how to make [insert holiday spot] our new home: quit the day job, write the best selling novel, buy an Airstream and live a hippy existence creating coffee-table books about hippies who retire early and earn a living creating coffee-table books.
But us, we crawled through traffic accidents coming and going through DC, were trapped for hours in over-the-top holiday congestion, hit snow squalls the last 80 miles – all after holidaying tactlessly amid the gloomy residual of a hurricane. Boo-hoo us.
|Dunes at sun-up.|
So I guess the upside of a minimally magical vacation is that I returned feeling grateful for my humble home, for a short-ish daily commute, for The Girl and her Gracious BFF who did not complain when stuffed for unplanned hours inside a small car, for The Husband who can drive on and on in white-out conditions when a lesser man would have succumbed to the safety of the next rest stop, and for the fact that we’re not traveling again over long distances any time soon.
If I have anything to say about it.