Vacations: an escape back to the self.

I am currently on a much needed vacation.  I just arrived in London to visit with a close friend for the weekend, on my way to Israel for my cousin’s wedding. Vacations like these are still a novelty for me – where I don’t have a spouse who I’m obligated to plan or travel with (although if you actually get along with your spouse, I’m guessing that’s quite nice). This is my third year doing the ‘stop in Europe on my way to Israel’ style vacation – as the unmarried me. The first time was my version of Eat Pray Love, although it was for three weeks of soulo searching, not three months. I went to Madrid and then Paris, where I didn’t know anyone or speak the language but for me it was an important step to travel alone, something I had never done before since I had been with my husband since the age of 21. The sheer novelty of being able to sit down at a cafe without having to ask anyone what they feel like doing or worry whether their feet hurt felt like freedom. The year after that  I spent a month in Israel to be with an Israeli man who had swept me off my feet, only to realize once I got to Israel that having my feet off the ground made me nauseous and disoriented. The guy and I broke up just two days into my trip, and I spent the remaining time there depressed and disillusioned, and ended up going home to NY early.

This vacation already feels different – because I’m different. Now my priorities are spending time with people I love, and being in the present rather than in the past. My friend whom I’m visiting here, like me, went through a major life change, divorce and upheavals, followed by the death of her beloved father. She picked herself up and started over. She moved to London, secured an impressive job, an adorable flat, a genuine group of friends… and the most surprising part that seems unattainable after the hopelessness of divorce: romance.  When I arrived at her apartment and saw the nest she had built for herself, I blubbered like the infant that I was unfortunate enough to sit behind on the flight over.

Two of my closest girlfriends are divorced, in their thirties, and it’s not a coincidence that we have a special bond because of it. We are peers. We can speak freely about our flaws and our baggage, and about our exes, including the things we miss, without feeling judged or insane. We experienced the same wild phases, the spontaneous crying fits and self destructive escapades we choose to forget, or not tell anyone about, except each other.

Last night, after a girls night that started at the pub and then ended at a private club, where we ate and drank wine and got to catch up in person, feeling like adults, we went home before midnight.  Rather than one of us sleeping on the couch – like sisters, we shared a bed (remove head from gutter, boys). I was jet lagged, and couldn’t fall asleep, so I lay there in the dark, my thoughts wandering to the day’s events, to random work issues that I hadn’t quite left behind yet, and then I thought about how I felt in my chest. I noticed that it felt light and unknotted. I thought back to the last two vacations I had had, where I’d lie in bed, when everything was still, and the heartache or residual anxieties would rush back and take over. I’d toss and turn, and sigh trying to release the achiness. I’m sure most of you have experienced this feeling post break up. It was a triumphant moment last night for me to realize, wait, that feeling? It’s totally gone.  

Maybe that’s why I like to return to the same place every year, so I can compare my current state of being to where I was before – and mark the emotional milestones. It feels downright awesome.