Last night on the subway, I told a friend, “Vacations are a little bit like massage. You think it’s gonna stay with you a while, that somehow maybe you’re gonna be looser or feel better afterwards, but you never really do. It’s really all about that moment.”
Now, I’m not entirely convinced that what I said it 100% true. Last week’s vacation definately still has some legacy. I still have about sixteen lempiras in my wallet, and my suitcase remains unpacked on the floor next to my desk. My tan is fading, and the hundreds of sand fly bites on my legs are beginning to heal up.
More importantly, though, I’m dive certified. That doesn’t expire (well, it kinda does, but not if I keep doing it). And the memories aren’t going anywhere (that is, until senility sets in): water lapping up on sand, wind rustling through the palms, birds, flowers, cloudless sky, and lots of laughter. All of it. It’s mine. And it’s just a synapse away.
So maybe vacation (and you have to forgive me for spending three posts on the subject, but I’ve never taken a vacation like this one) is more like taking a multivitamin. It’s good for you, even if you can’t quite see the results.
All I know is, I’m back in the world. It didn’t take long. JFK is relentlessly harried. And it was 8° when we landed Sunday night (there’s a heat wave this morning: it’s 28°). We hit traffic within a mile of the airport. Three minutes after I sat down at my computer Monday morning, my boss walked in, closed the door, and caught me up on all kinds of real world corporate media stuff.
And now, from my desk in my rooftop bedroom, I hear jackhammers, sirens, horns and helicopters. I feel the cold nipping at my feet through the sliding glass door. And I’m ok with it. Which probably says it all.