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The travails of travel

It was definitely not the most auspicious start to our long anticipated family holiday to a tropical destination.

It was definitely not the most auspicious start to our long anticipated family holiday to a tropical destination. My husband had decided to get waxed, and was screaming and hollering in pain on the kitchen floor, while my youngest howled in misery and my son cried, “This is the worst holiday ever!”

“Don’t worry,” my oldest consoled them. “I’ve seen this before; it will end.”

So began our spring break trip to Mexico. My husband had grumbled a bit about booking a destination holiday, counting off all the things he could buy with the money, but it was too late. Even though I’m normally a penny-pinching miser, I’d thrown caution to the wind booking this trip. I’d seen one too many friends posting smiling selfies on beaches with their drinks and each time, it set off a little twinge of longing and envy in me. I wanted to give our family a fantastic holiday away too, spending quality time together.

It was, to say the least, an interesting experience. I’d never been on a resort holiday before, nor been to Mexico specifically, so our first overwhelming impression was of the extreme income inequality at play amongst the country’s people, of the contrast of the wealthy Mexicans and foreigners vacationing at the resort, while surrounded by the shacks of those scraping to make a living outside. After a day or two of settling in, astounded by the sumptuousness of our surroundings and the incredible amount of food and drink there was to be consumed, my daughter asked, “Umm, is this all we do? Eat, sleep, go to the beach, go swimming? Isn’t that going to get boring?”

I gave her the evil eye. After all, it was for the kids and the hubby that I had originally booked this trip!

But I had no idea how much worse it was going to get, as on day two, my husband was laid out with what we thought was a case of heat stroke, shivering and sweating uncontrollably. On day three, when he didn’t bounce back, we got a doctor, who prescribed him with antibiotics for an intestinal infection.

This is where I started really banging my head on the wall of guilt. This was my fault; what had I done to my husband? First, I’d stripped him of a layer of hair and skin and now, I’d made him take this trip where he fell as sick as I’ve ever seen him.

To add insult to injury, as he lay there unable to get out of bed, with every part of his body in pain, a mariachi band played a non-stop thudding racket under our hotel window. For. Seven. Straight. Hours. By 7 p.m., even I was ready to shove the kids’ beach ball down the tuba player’s horn, so I can only imagine my poor hubby’s feeling! Thankfully, after a day or two on antibiotics, he was well enough to hobble downstairs and spend a bit of time with us, just as our trip came to an end.

As we made our way past that infernal mariachi band and down to the beach, the kids and I ran in and out of the waves, as they tried to catch me. The four of us were laughing and playing as we had been doing for the past week, reveling in the time spent together. I caught sight of my husband, tears in his eyes to have missed so much, and to be here, finally now. We all came to his side to give him a hug and my heart warmed to have the moment I’d envisioned when I first booked the trip. It was the happy memory I carried from the trip, when we finally walked through the doors of our house, tired, exhausted and glad to be home.

I’ll still probably feel a twinge of longing and envy when I see someone post a smiling beach selfie, and I’m here in St. Paul, suffering a -30 degree winter’s day. But I know my husband’s right when he says it doesn’t matter where in the world we are, as long as we’re together.




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