This summer, I actually went on vacation. I hadn’t been on vacation, on a real vacation where I don’t check email or dial into just one conference call, since 2009. I was due.
Last weekend, the boyfriend and I went down to San Diego. My grandparents have a timeshare (kind of) for the summer months on Coronado island. I’ve been visiting them in Coronado (almost) every summer for years — it’s my favorite vacation spot in all of the US. Coronado is a sleepy beach town, complete with white sand, clear waves, swaying palm trees and breathtaking sunsets. The food is delicious.
Last weekend was the first weekend in I don’t even know how long that I actually did nothing. Sure, we woke up in the morning, made breakfast, maybe walked the dog, read for a little while, maybe went down to the beach or the pool, maybe walked around town. The only plans we had were for dinner. That’s it.
I read two and a half books. In one weekend.
I relaxed. Truly relaxed. And it was wonderful.
I love spending time with my grandparents, and since they live in Arizona (and have my whole life), I don’t get to spend nearly enough time with them. I cherish our one on one time in the summers.
But I’ve got to say, after spending the past 4 days lounging around with no plans, falling asleep to ocean waves crashing on the beach, and hanging out with the boyfriend, coming home to the sound of sirens and car alarms, and the daily hustle and bustle of living in a city has been a jolt back into reality.
That’s what I hate about vacations. They end.