Can You Really Call It a Vacation If You Need a Vacation From It?
Vacation Hiatus: Espresso, Sunscreen & Staircase Secrets
If August had a motto, it would be: “Sure, why not?”
Sure, I’ll go to Dresden for a week. Sure, I’ll squeeze in a weekend with friends right after. Sure, I’ll unpack, repack, and spend over two weeks in Italy with my family. And sure, let’s top it all off with a road trip through Austria and a lake house in the Czech Republic. Because apparently, I think I’m auditioning for the role of “Exhausted Yet Fabulous European Socialite.”
Dresden swept me up in cobblestones and culture, the kind of city where you start to wonder if you should have majored in art history instead of whatever it is you actually did. I came home, barely had time to toss my laundry in the machine, and before I knew it I was packing again. A weekend with friends, chaotic, wine-soaked, and just enough fun to forget that I was already running on fumes.
Then came Italy. Ah, Cesenatico: evenings strolling along the canal, the Adriatic sun warming me in ways no doctor could prescribe, and the unshakable reality that family time is both a blessing and an Olympic sport. I love them, truly. But why does seeing everyone require me to morph into a full-time event planner? Sushi nights with my cousin and her soon-to-be fiancé turned into wedding talk over rolls of salmon maki. Arcade nights with my other cousin devolved into competitive chaos, the kind of joyful rivalry that’s so deeply ingrained in our family it might as well be genetic. And of course, the endless dinners, burgers, pastas, more pizza than I’ll ever admit, scheduled like high-level diplomatic negotiations.
The truth is, I adored it. I laughed, I played, I felt like a kid again. But somewhere between the wedding chatter and the arcade machines, my body started whispering what I didn’t want to hear: “Sweetheart, this pace isn’t for you.” I tried to ignore it, of course. Tried to stall out the fatigue, push past the wobbly joints. Until I fell down a staircase in what I’d like to think was a very graceful way (no witnesses, thankfully). That was the not-so-subtle reminder: vacation-me is glamorous until chronic-illness-me calls my bluff.
From there, it was on the road again. Through Austria, where coffee stops turned into shopping detours, and I somehow found myself in a Viennese carriage just because, why not? It was indulgent, romantic, and utterly unnecessary. Which is exactly what made it perfect.
And finally, the lake house in the Czech Republic. If Italy were a marathon of family dinners, the lake house was pure freedom. Lazy mornings that stretched into hours at the breakfast table. Afternoons spent swimming. Beer pong tournaments that proved two things: one, I am tragically bad at games; and two, I don’t need to be good to have the best time losing. Evenings rolled into barbecues and impromptu pool parties, with music, laughter, and the kind of silliness that only comes when no one has anywhere else to be.
It was cozy. It was chaotic. It was everything. And sitting there, espresso in hand while my German friends reapplied sunscreen on a cloudy day (adorable, excessive, necessary — in that order), I realized how much joy there is in not being on a schedule. Just existing. Just playing. Just being.
Looking back, these past five weeks feel like a blur of borrowed identities. The cultured traveler in Dresden. The party friend. The dutiful family planner in Italy. The spontaneous romantic in Vienna. The bad-at-beer-pong-but-good-at-laughing guest in the Czech Republic. I’ve lived so many versions of myself that I almost forgot one of my favorites: the writer. And oh, how I’ve missed her.
Now, I can feel Switzerland pulling me back. My bed, my routine, my quiet. I still don’t have the full-time job lined up yet, but my part-time work keeps me happy for now. And beyond that, I feel inspired. Full of new ideas. Open to new adventures. Excited about what’s next.
Because maybe that’s what this vacation hiatus was really about: not the sushi rolls, the arcade nights, or even the Adriatic sunsets. Not the carriage rides or the pool parties. It was about remembering that life doesn’t fit neatly into one version of me. Sometimes I’m the exhausted girl falling down a staircase, sometimes I’m the one laughing over beer pong, sometimes I’m the cousin shouting at an arcade screen. And all of them are me.
And while I’ll see my family again in a couple of months, once my body has forgiven me, right now I can’t wait to be home. To sit in Switzerland, sip my coffee, and realize the greatest adventure might just be the stillness in between.