I’m back from travel.
When I’m gone, I miss home. I’m not really the type who can travel in an endless merry go round of airplanes, hotels and restaurants. I like being on my couch. I like sleeping in my bed. I like eating food from my fridge.
I also like the routine of a 9-5 workday, preparing supper, kid bedtime routines and a couple hours of unwinding surrounded by my stuff. It can be zen.
That said, a break from a routine is good. It’s how we stretch.
I almost always get sick just before and at the beginning of travel. When I went to Mexico with my parents I got the flu. They drank champagne in the marble lobby of the resort while I sweated and shivered and fantasized about how soft covers and a squishy pillow would feel.
Maybe it’s the stress. Or maybe it’s become so routine that the anticipation of getting sick makes me sick.
I’ll be travelling to my hometown at the end of the month with my oldest daughter. We’re going to see the tourist sites, like the CN Tower, and we’ll try to take in a Jays game at the SkyDome (or the Rogers Centre, as my dad corrected me tonight). We’ll also do some things that I did when I was her age, like turn rocks over in the local creek looking for crayfish and swim in my parents pool.
We’ll synch up with my parents routine for a little while and fondly recall our own as we adjust. Then when we get home and crash on the couch and eat food from our fridge and sleep on our beds, we’ll look forward to the next break.