I'm sure my use of Andrew Marvell's words from his poem "To His Coy Mistress" makes the poor man spin in his grave, but I find them appropriate to this week's blog prompt: "my fantasy vacation." I initially considered spoofing the old TV series Fantasy Island, but reconsidered. I couldn't make "De plane! De plane!" work.
Enough of my warped humor.
Everyone dreams of an extended, exotic vacation, right? Strangely enough, I dislike traveling and still yearn to visit lands far, far away. History buff that I am, I want to sail to Europe.
My husband and I fully intend to take that trip when he retires. (He'll never retire, so that's a moot point.) We joke about taking a food tour of Italy, eating our way down one coast and up the other, not leaving until we've each gained 50 lbs. Since my father's family emigrated from Calabria, I'd like to spend a little extra time there to soak up the ambiance and history of the region.
My mother's family is Bohemian and German, so I'd like to spent time in the Czech Republic and Germany, too. I have no problems doing the "tourist thing" and touring Mad Ludvig's fantastic castles and sampling beer. The fairy tale landscapes of northern and central Europe call to me in a way that the sun-drenched landscape of Italy doesn't. It's as though Italy's almost too perfect; the green forests and misty dells of the northern countries hint at mystery and danger.
I'd also like to splurge on an extended visit to the United Kingdom and Ireland. An equestrian friend and I speak of a shared dream to take an "equitour" of Ireland, riding horses across the country. Of course, we wouldn't leave our husbands at home. They'd go ahead of us and enjoy gossiping about their crazy, unreasonable wives and bureaucratic idiocy of their former jobs while enjoying a few pints at our day's destination.
Because I'm the kind of person who prefers to plan her spontaneity, I fantasize about the luxury of traveling when and where whimsy takes me, a freedom in which detours and tangents don't matter. Until that happens though, I content myself with watching Rick Steves, Rudy Maxa, and Joseph Rosendo and traveling in spirit with them.
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Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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