Like many people out there in these times, I am required to take all of my holidays this year. There goes my secret plan of saving them all up and taking 6 months off next year!
This requirement is kind of sucky, because holidays to me generally involve getting on aeroplanes, visiting other countries and changing time zones. And in Covid time there is none of that. I’m used to packing a bag, and packing as much as possible into every day, tasting new and exciting foreign foods, and running on empty. Usually my holidays end with me needing a holiday from my holiday.
I realise it’s a first world problem, because I am thankful to have a job and also to have holidays that I can actually take. So I figured I was better off taking the bulk of them in summer, when the weather was warm.
None of which, by the way, I saw on my recent trip to Australia.
I hadn’t meant to go back to Oz at the end of the year, but with hubby’s new job, I suddenly found myself a-flush with more leave than him, and we decided it was a good chance for me to take the trip on my own.
So off I tripped… for a whole month… just cause I could.
I recently had a good friend come to stay for a week and half in our tiny little town. A word for the wise – that is too long for most in our tiny little town. Being autumn and getting colder, although the weather wasn’t terrible, there is still a limit to what we could do. On days where the sun takes until lunchtime to pierce the fog, it still feels dismal and cold and motivation is low.
The lead-up to any holiday is exciting, the lead-up to a trip home when you live overseas is something else entirely.
On one hand, you’re super excited to be heading back into familiar territory, to have the chance to talk properly to people who have known you your whole life and understand your subtle nuances … and just the opportunity, to put it simply… to feel less isolated.
On the other hand, you’re just going home. You’ve been there before – many times. You grew up there. It can hardly be called a holiday, right?