It’s August, and Isabel’s been running on fumes since June. One week of, her only week off- appears on the calendar like a rare planetary alignment. No plan, no itinerary, no time to orchestrate the kind of glamorous, sun-soaked escape she’s been bookmarking for months. Still, the idea of slipping into linen and walking through tiled alleyways in Portugal feels like the medicine she didn’t know she needed.
But then reality taps her on the shoulder: the inbox marked school supply lists, the quietly looming tuition payment, the inevitable cascade of September expenses. A staycation starts to sound… responsible. Sensible, even. She pictures herself in a corner booth at that restaurant she’s been stalking on Instagram for the better part of a year, the one with the impossibly glossy oysters and tiny, perfect martinis. Maybe this is the week for indulgence in small, delicious doses.
Or maybe there’s a middle ground? Something closer, a quick train ride away, just enough distance to feel like leaving. The thought of being alone is intoxicating until it isn’t, until she imagines the sudden urge to turn to someone and say look at this- and the someone, her kids, are off having their own summer.
So she sits at her kitchen table, coffee cooling, maps and menus open in too many browser tabs, chasing the sweet spot between wanderlust and restraint. Heading towards something, she thinks. She just hasn’t decided what.
