Books. Travel. Drink. Good times!

Vacations may empty your wallet, but they fill your glass, your bookshelf, and your heart.

Years ago, I read an article on happiness. The author posed a simple question: If someone gave you $10,000, would you buy a car or take a vacation? (Yes, it was that long ago—back when $10k could still buy a car.)

The advice was clear: choose the vacation. A car starts to disappoint you the minute you leave the lot. Dings, spills, depreciation—it’s all downhill. But even the worst vacation becomes a lifelong story. The memories—good, bad, or catastrophic—grow more entertaining with time.

It's true...for me.

The Pyramid Moment

There’s a certain shade of blue sky that catapults me back to the Great Pyramid. I remember standing at its base, staring straight up at nothing but stone and sky, and feeling—for just one breath—that I was immortal. Like a Pharaoh. A bright blue, cloudless sky brings it all back, as if it were today.

The Vacation Friend from Hell

Take my “Vacation Friend from Hell” tour through England, Wales, and Ireland. Four of us planned a dream road trip. By the time I landed at Heathrow, one friend had already gone full gargoyle mode. She was curt, sulking, and barricaded herself behind a wall of luggage in the back seat of our rental car. At night, she flicked on her booklight and read in silence, like she was serving time in solitary.

And yet—I had a wonderful trip. Castles, countryside, pubs, laughter, and a pagan wedding on The Tor. One of my favorite memories is winding through the maze at Hampton Court. A snapshot at the end shows us grinning and glowing at our accomplishment. Except for her, of course. She stands apart, smirking, like she’d been dropped into our photo against her will.

A Dublin Singalong

Another memory comes from Dublin, when we took a friend’s mother to see an old Irish crooner (think Andy Williams or Frank Sinatra). She kept us well-supplied with Jameson’s, and somewhere between songs, the crooner launched into one that had the whole theatre on its feet. To my shock, and my drunken delight, I found myself singing too. Back home, I convinced myself I had only been humming along—until my daughter later played a Flogging Molly version of Dublin in the Rare Old Times. The tune hit me like a time machine, and I realized I really had been singing in that Dublin theatre, my arms wrapped around an elderly Irish Lady, and living out of time.

Cars rust. Vacations turn into legends. Drink. Travel. Books. Memories. And yes—sometimes, a hell of a time.

Postmarked from the rare old times.