Several weeks ago, the day David signed the papers to sell his parents’ house in Lancaster, we went out to dinner and talked about our need for a vacation. It seems strange, that two people who left their jobs 7 months ago would need a vacation, but we do. We’ve actually had very little free time, and certainly haven’t had a vacation in the sense of stepping out of our lives, into another way of being and experiencing the world.
So as we ate a fabulous dinner and drank good wine, we talked about where to go and decided on Paris. “I want to go someplace sophisticated,” David said. We agreed we didn’t need to go someplace warm, as at that point we’d yet to have any winter weather (and have barely had any since). Within a week I had dividend mile plane tickets and had found an affordable apartment to rent in the Marais district. We were set to go.
Then David’s back went out. Then his mother got sick. Then Eric’s mother got sick. We emailed the owner of the apartment to say we didn’t think we could get to Paris. We let go of the idea of going. Then David’s mother passed away quickly, David’s back got better, and Eric’s mother got better. So, we emailed the apartment owner and said we were coming. Then just last night there was another major scare with Eric’s mother, but now it seems she’s going to be okay.
Do we go to Paris? It seemed like such a simple decision when we made it. At this point we’re going, and I just managed to call Paris and make a reservation for a restaurant that’s been recommended by a couple of friends. The person on the phone in France gave up on my clearly struggling-to-speak French conversation, and confirmed the reservation in English. I’ll keep trying with the French, and keep trying to imagine that we really can manage to get away.