L ATELY I have experienced that every six months or so, I start craving for a break from routine. At home, in the office, my mind starts wandering and I hear whispers, “Time for a break, time for a vacation.” And I want to unwind, relax, and do nothing except sit under a palm tree, wriggle my toes in the warm sand, stare at the ocean and sip coconut water. Reality, however, is far away from the picture that I’ve just painted. However, never the one to back down after I’ve made up my mind, I declare that it’s time for a break to my family, consisting, as of now, only my better half. “Lazy lamhe,” I tell him, adding, “sleep-ins, late brunches, and great sunset views. I can’t wait to get started.” My better half knows better. He knows my vacation dreams have more often than not ended in chronic muscle fatigue and GPS trauma, he nods wearily but wisely says nothing. Because he doesn’t want endless drama, he only grunts, which can either mean “Wow, I am all in,” or “Oh! No, not again. God can you spare me?” Because I am a person with a very positive attitude, I always go with the ‘Wow’ factor. The madness begins the moment I decide on a destination. It is never a mundane place.

 

It has to be out of the ordinary. “Let’s go somewhere exotic,” I chirp. The umpteen reels that I watch daily about vacation spots spell out only ‘exotic destinations’. ‘Exotic,’ in my mind, means quaint lanes, charming cafes, museums with air-conditioning, and ample Insta-worthy backdrops. In my husband’s dictionary, it means places with no Wi-Fi, no shopping alleys, a place where quietness prevails. Ah! Well, we never see eye to eye with each other. So I don’t mind. After weeks of comparing hotel rates with the intensity of a stockbroker tracking the Sensex, I book our tickets. And then it’s time for packing. As I lay out the dresses and the footwear, the first objection arises. “Why do we need three pairs of footwear each?” he grumbles. “Sightseeing shoes, beach flip-flops, dinner heels! These are the very basics. And let’s not forget the ghar ki chappal,” I retort. Now from the case of footwear, readers can well imagine how the clothes were picked for a relaxing vacation. “Do you really need to stuff your suitcase to the maximum permissible limit?” the second protest. I don’t say anything because I do not want to spoil my mood at the beginning of what I know will turn out be a great break from routine. We arrive at the destination, eyes gleaming, phones charged, and in high spirits.

 

The hotel room, that online looked like a five-star suite with colonial charm, turns out to be a cramped cupboard size contraption. But then, barring India, where hospitality and Hotels are really ‘majestic’, elsewhere in the world, unless its a Waldorf Astoria, the rooms are match-box sizes. But hey, who is going to stay cooped up in the room? We are here to explore. “But I thought you wanted to relax,” the third gripe, coming from my spouse. “Exploring new places is also a form of relaxation,” I explain, and whip out the itinerary that I had planned so meticulously. Day one: Wake up early. Very early. Why? Because sunrise photos. Never mind that the sun rises every day - when you’re on vacation, it must be photographed with full drama, multiple angles, and at least one moody silhouette exclusively shot for social media. Day two: Wake up early. Very early. Why? Because the driver is going to pick us up at 7.15 am. On the agenda is - Visit every single ‘must-see’ monument, local market, museum, and food joint recommended by travel blogs written by people who seem to have ten times our energy. “You’re walking too slow,” I snap, swinging my purse, twirling my hat, trying to keep up with the guide, who is taking us on a walking tour around the Old Town. Every city has a charming Old Town that is a must on every tourist’s itinerary. And we were tourists. “I’m not slow,” my husband retorts, adjusting the straps of the backpack.

 

“Do you see what all I am carrying?” But that’s his job. After all don’t men always aver ‘we are the stronger sex’ - so this is the time to prove it by carrying a heavy backpack laden with sunscreens, sunglasses, ipad, extra towels, medicines, water bottles.... Of course, every day must be utilised. Utilised to the hilt. Each moment must be ‘memorable’. Which means, we don’t sit down. Ever. “We’ve spent a bomb coming all the way here - we can’t waste time relaxing,” I declare. And he simply shakes his head. We climb mountains to see sunsets. We run to catch ferries. We pose in front of abstract statues. We eat local delicacies that are picture perfect but otherwise tasteless. Pictures, on vacations, are far more important than anything else - hence it doesn’t matter if the food is bad. Waise bhi - I follow the ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’. And every day ends with us collapsing on the bed, shoes still on, wondering why our legs hurt like we ran a marathon in snow boots. The Health App reveals the secret - ‘16000 steps, ten floors climbed, steep inclines’. “I thought this was a vacation,” my husband mumbles on day four, massaging his calf, with a face that says he’s aged six years. “It is,” I insist. “Look at all the great stuff we’re doing!” “That’s the problem. We’re doing too much. I want to just loll on the beach, stare at the ocean, without a plan or a packed itinerary or a laminated city map being shoved in my face.”

 

I ignore the ramblings. Psst - let me tell you a secret. By day six, even my enthusiasm starts to crack. I don’t want to see another ruin, climb another fort, or taste another exotic dessert that tastes like sweetened rubber. I want my bed. I want dalchawal. I want the Wi-Fi to work without me standing on a chair next to the bathroom window, trying to catch the signal. But I dare not admit it. We come back home with sore legs, fried nerves, and 2,346 photos - half of which are blurry, and the other half have one of us blinking. “What a vacation!” I exclaim, trying to sound peppy. “What a workout,” he says, limping to the kitchen to make tea - our version of detox. But here’s the irony. Within two weeks of returning home, the itch begins again. “We need a break,” I say. “From what?” he asks, alarmed. “From the post-vacation fatigue. I need another vacation to recover from our vacation.” He stares at me, totally flabbergasted, probably thinking if he can wring my neck. And the cycle continues. Because no matter how much we complain, we’ll do it all over again. The planning, the packing, the sprinting from temples to towers, the bargaining over fridge magnets, the posing in front of suspiciously similar fountains… After all, what is a vacation if not the beautiful illusion of rest, chased with full enthusiasm and ended with complete exhaustion? So here's to vacations - where we leave behind our routine only to discover new ways of exhausting ourselves, one attraction at a time.