Long before summer, he decided that he was taking one third of our entire vacation time, always chosen so that we’re together, by me, in function of his restrictive period, the only time he can take his vacation, late July-early August, to go on a week-long motorcycle trip with three of his buddies.
So we had to make our plans around this. Make our reservations outside their chosen week. I went along with it, and did not complain.
His days would consist in riding in the 30 + degree Celcius summer heat, wearing full gear that vaguely resembles a snowsuit, a black snowsuit. And doing this for hours and hours, and miles and miles, only stopping to eat, pee, gas up and sleep. No visiting, no touristy activities, no days at the beach, just riding.
My days during this same time period would consist in a day trip with a girlfriend in her convertible to discover a quaint waterfront village on the South shore, eat fresh bakery prepared sandwiches on a picturesque front street lined with pretty, well preserved, colourful Victorian homes, a couples of hours at an outdoor spa, cold beer and nachos on a trendy terrace.
My days would start with sleeping in until 9:30, having my coffee on my little bistro table in the yard, writing for a half hour or so and getting the latest news and gossip from friends and family on my social media sites, swimming in my pool, lounging on my patio in the sun, getting tan, listening to Latin music and reading a good book. Taking long walks, spending days with my daughter, going to the movies, watching movies at home, seeing friends who stop by on their way to family vacations, eating whenever I feel like it, enjoying a tidy house (that stays that way!), taking funny pictures and putting them up on Facebook.
He would text me around 9 pm, exhausted, overheated from a roadside motel with no AC, and fall asleep mid-sentence, only to start the same riding, riding, riding in the heat the next day. I’d stay up late and watch The Devil Wears Prada on dvd, or another classic chick flick and drink a glass of chilled red wine with my feet up on the ottoman.
Who had the better week?