Going Away

You go on a holiday. You leave this stuffy tight-laced concrete jungle and you board a plane to Perth, where you rent a four-by-four and drive overland a day and a half to the Great Barrier Reef. You part with your money and do your first dive, your first para-sailing, your first submarine walk, heck, even your first Banana Boat Ride. With your suntan, you fly to Paris and have champagne and tapas by the moon-lit river, a tenous first kiss on top of Eiffel under the stars, your first night in a hotel that welcomes you with strawberries and cheese: the first time in a jacuzzi for two.

You fly to Boston for the marathon; you explore the ancient runes of Machu Picchu; you camp in the Sahara desert; you conquer Mt Kinabalu; you drink one ruppee Indian tea by the road; you bring medicine to East Timor; you smile in front of the Big Ben; you make a snow angel; you ride a motorbike with three; you dance down the street at night, singing foreign songs to your lover all night long.

And then when the time runs out, you pack your bags and come home, slightly pink, local goodies in your bag for the co-workers, as if it never happened.