When it comes to family vacations, I’m batting about a .250 success rate. Since our 2018 magical trip to Iceland, where we floated and frolicked in geothermal heated lagoons, took long walks along the black sandy beaches, and stood in a whisper-quiet open field outside Reykjavik in wonderment as the northern lights danced above our heads, it has been downhill.
The year after Iceland, we planned a trip to Belize. The morning of our flight, my kids and I were turned away at the Delta counter at JFK two hours before we were supposed to leave because I didn’t have a notarized letter from my husband giving me written permission to take our children out of the country without him. It didn’t matter that he was meeting us a few days later and his flight was booked with the same airline.
I remember that morning like it was yesterday. It was 6 a.m., I had been up for four hours, hadn’t had coffee, and was sent home by a stern-looking flight attendant. As the hair on the back of my neck bristled, I was surprised at how calm I kept myself inside the airport. “Rules are rules. There’s nothing I can do,” I gritted through my teeth to my confused children as I led them back to the car. The poor Travelocity agent I unleashed on in the car ride home wasn’t so lucky and is still probably in therapy. Honestly, ask my children. I think they’re scarred from that day, too. I know I am.
We decided to keep it simple the following year and booked a sun-filled trip to the Florida Keys for Spring Break 2020, only to be canceled due to COVID lockdowns.
Since we’re gluttons for punishment, we tried Florida again in 2021, but this time, Orlando. Of course, the day before we were set to leave, my husband tested positive for COVID. He told us to go without him. He had a mild case, sniffles at the most, and would rather that we go instead of sitting by his bedside watching him breathe.
Still chasing the Iceland family vacation high and not ready to give up altogether, I decided for my 50th birthday, I wanted the four of us to go to Italy. Our kids are teetering on the age of no longer wanting to go on family vacations, and it’s a special place for my husband and me. We wanted to share the magic with our kids while we still had the chance.
So, I spent my 49th year planning the perfect celebratory trip, starting in the Tuscan countryside—an Italian villa overlooking Lucca, a day-long tour through Parma, including tours of a parmesan cheese factory and a century-old family-owned prosciutto plant, and hopes of running through endless fields of sunflowers. Then we’d head to Rome for three days to see the kid’s eyes light up at the sight of the Colosseum, throw coins in the Trevi Fountain and drink water blessed by the Pope. The itinerary went on and on, and I was so prepared this time—I had Excel spreadsheets, day trips pre-booked, cute sneakers, the it Lululemon crossbody bag—everything. Except . . . it still pains me to think about it.
Packed and ready to go on our trip of a lifetime, I signed into the airline app to check us all in for our flight the night before we were set to leave, when I received an alert telling me that my husband’s passport had expired. There MUST be a technology glitch. There’s no way. I frantically checked his passport, confirming it didn’t expire until February 2023. Almost a year away. “The app is f’in WRONG!” I cursed out loud, confident in all my planning, growing more annoyed that we would have to go to the counter when we got to the crowded airport to get our boarding passes. Then it hit me. “It is JULY 20-f***ing-3!” Five months after his passport had expired. Every cell in my body went numb. How did I screw this up? How did I not know it was 2023? Is it because I don’t write checks anymore? How is this happening? Again! Noooooooooooo…… 😫😫😫
After hours of panicky web searches and hysterical phone calls, it was clear that I had suffered a severe case of pre-menopausal brain fog for the last year and that we had to make a hard decision. Either we had to cancel the entire trip and lose all our deposits, or the kids and I would go, and my husband would stay home. I am not sure I would have handled it as well as he did if it were me. Actually, I can guarantee I wouldn’t have. But given that it was a milestone birthday and that he is the most gracious husband ever, he bowed out gracefully and stayed home with our dogs for the entire week while the rest of us lived out our dream vacation.
We tried to have fun with it by taking his expired passport with us and snapping pictures along the way. At first, it was funny, but as the week went on and the reality set in that he wouldn’t be able to get an emergency passport appointment in time to join us, it was just mean.
Eight months later, it feels like the Italy wound has started to crust over. I can order a pizza without guilt, and my heartstrings no longer pull apart like a steaming hot mozzarella stick when I make my homemade meatballs and sauce. My husband even surprised me with an Italian cooking class—another family activity we had planned—for the two of us at a local culinary school the other night. The fact that the school was only two towns over, meant no government paperwork was necessary, which only helped to ensure our attendance.
I am itching to travel again, but I am not sure I am ready to plan any trips unsupervised. My husband’s 50th is coming up this year, and he has a shining new passport ready to be stamped. Anyone know a good travel agent?
xo Melissa🌻
Well, there you have it—My Travel Woes. Anyone else have travel debacles they’d care to share? Misery loves company. Put them in the comments, I’d love to read all about it. We all would! Just hit the pretty purple button below.
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