Even on vacation there's something to worry about

My husband Peter and I are spending a month in Spain and we have left our worries behind. As a result, we have had to come up with new, temporary worries to occupy us until we get back home.

Peter ran out of lotion and for several days used something he found in the house, which turned out to be soap. (“I wondered why it wasn’t soaking in,” Peter said.) He doesn’t like my lotion (“axle grease” Peter complains) so he ventured out to buy some more. He came home with some lotion in a metal tin and immediately began worrying if this container would travel well.

“I don’t want grease leaking all over my luggage,” Peter worried.

In the absence of a real grocery store, we worry if we will be able to find olives we like and, once we find them, if we will ever find them again. We feed the cats on the roof every day, then worry how they will survive after we are gone. (But then we remember they were not overly slim when we arrived.)

We hiked to a neighboring town, spent the night, and returned. The hike was wonderful, crossing through mountains and fording a stream. We had dinner in the square with two ladies in their 60s — an Englishwoman who had come to live in this remote town several years earlier and a Dane, who was on her way to explore Argentina. Hiking home the following day, I thought (as I always do while traveling) of the endless variety of ways there are to live.

It was nice to get back in our funny little house, but I worried we were running out of time. Peter made soup, as he does. “This will be my last batch this trip,” Peter announced.

I will miss this little house more than Peter will. The doors are low, and the stairs are steep, so Peter walks around the house slightly stooped and carries a hiking pole up and down the stairs, as if he is herding sheep to and from the upstairs bathroom. I try not to laugh — but sometimes I fail.

I hiked to the top of a hill that overlooks the town. There used to be a Moorish castle on the top hundreds of years ago. The view is amazing. I looked down on the white houses and the Mediterranean in the distance and thought of all the people who had been exactly where I was, looking at that view.

Sometimes they were worried, I imagined, looking for invaders, or bad weather, or some other trouble coming by sea. But most of the time I imagine they sat where I did for the same reason — to wonder how long they would get to look at something so glorious, to wonder why they spent so much time worrying.

Carrie Classon can be contacted through her website:

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