Frustration of living in a country where the sun is a hot commodity (pun intended), and those days are taken advantage of by the entire Irish population. Everyone emerges, to find a nice piece of grass or make a pilgrimage to the nearest coastline in order to soak up every bit of that vital vitamin D.
We book a holiday where those rays are more of a guarantee than wishful thinking.
Resentment, unable to take advantage of the warmth at home when you’ll be stuck traveling and at the airport most of the day.
Arriving extra early, so the Yankee can get her visa checked, as if she isn’t enough of a pain in the ass … this means extra time at the International Hub of Travellers. To our luck, if you will, there’s an outdoor beer garden; which goes without saying – race to the deck.
Eat up every sunray we can get our bodies on.
We’ve had this holiday booked since March, and the day has finally come to jet set down south, where the sun is a little warmer, the beer a little colder, and the time a little slower. We’ve waited four months, so why does a three-hour plane ride seem so grueling? Oh, yeah … that hour drive from the airport down to our trulli amongst those pazzo Italian drivers late at night.
We land and the nervous driving ensues …
In the wrong direction …
Add an extra 15 minutes …
PSA: Don’t let men navigate. It’s not one of their strengths.
In the right direction, we finally arrive… relief.
It’s officially holiday time.