The Vacation's Over

For twelve days, someone showed me to a dining-room table, another person pulled out my chair and put a napkin in my lap; a third filled my water glass, while another brought me decaf coffee and a fifth took my order; yet another brought pastry.

On the thirteenth day, I poked around to see what was in the fridge and made myself a mug of tea. The party was over, the staff was gone and I was on my own until the next time.

I’d think it was a dream, except for having my room card and baggage tag with reach, and an online thread at the cruise site. Yes, I really was there. I saw some happy Caribbean islands and, mostly, poverty-stricken islands where we wouldn’t consider their standard of living to be living.

“Vacation” is somehow related to the word “vacate.” Get out, scram, empty the place. When I left an answering machine message, it was something like, “I’m away until February 7 and I do not check my messages while I’m on vacation; that’s what vacations are for. So don’t leave any; call me when I get back.” I’ve received some earlier that said, “Just in case you check your machine…” Hey, I’m away and I don’t care, because there’s nothing I can, or want to, do about anything.

So, I’m back and the place has gotten along pretty well without me. I’m not surprised; most homes and jobs can exist without us for a short while. If they can’t, we may be too hands-on for anyone’s good.