I just booked a flight to Spain for H and I. I can't believe it. It was so easy. All I had to do was list out a number of digits from my credit card and presto the deal was done. The hotel sits on the med. Sea view. Restaurants five minutes away. Terraces. Blue water. Warmth. Bliss.
My son tells me I am suffering from YOLO syndrome. YOLO means; you only live once. I like it. At least I liked it when I scoured the web for a hotel and a flight. I was desperate in a sense to find a place where H and I could reconnect after the past year full of trauma and upset. I wasn't about to give up when I was offered a zillion hotels in a zillion places. I knew what we wanted. I knew that our trip to France in August was going to be busy with many people. That the house we rented there accomodated at least seven people and I had made the offering that each son could take a friend. I knew too that a weekend in Ireland would cost as much as a trip to Spain and that it might rain every minute of our sacred outing. So I chose a place where the sun is guaranteed to shine, the rioja is refined and the beach a stones throw from our room.
YOLO is nice. It makes everything possible.Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind. Sometimes blue skies seem necessary. So there it is. I write the rules for our departure. No house parties. No burnt pans when I come home. No slouching when it comes to housework. And off I go into the land of Espana with my tired eyes eager for a sight of the blue sea and H turning into a bit of a god before me and a small table, two chairs, a sunset and the night to come. Packed with possibilities.