The best kinds of vacations are the ones in which you are so far from civilization that your phone says NO SERVICE and your GPS tells you it can't manage turn-by-turn guidance because it doesn't know where you are and when you tilt your head way back until your neck bends in half and your sunglasses (that you don't need because it's Fogust) fall off, you still can't see the tops of the trees and the dog falls asleep on your lap in the car somewhere during hour four but you keep riding and looking out the window and waiting for adventure that is all around you. You find it easily, handily and you wish you were someone else, living there all the time instead of sticking out like the outsider that you are. You wish life were a vacation punctuated with small spats of work here and there instead of the other way around. You wish you had some clean clothes but actually you don't really care. You wish you had comfortable shoes to walk in or some conditioner but you didn't bring either so you resort to bare feet and tangled hair and you reacquaint yourself with the things you always forget in the crush of real-life that chokes away the make-believe. Then you blink and it's over.
We're home now, in other words.
