Dreaming of vacation

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This past weekend, I made the four-hour trek home for my brother’s 10th birthday. After family time during the day Saturday, I headed out to a local bar with a few friends from high school, who spent part of the night reminiscing about a college trip to Acapulco.

It was mostly tales of drinking (a lot), waking up claiming they’d never drink again, and then having a margarita in the afternoon to start all over again.

I’ve had a few of the “I’m never drinking again” nights. And it’s true — the declaration is usually short-lived. But as my family talked about summer vacation plans this weekend, an all-inclusive trip to a beach-front resort was the furthest thing from my mind.

I’m dreaming of the mountains.

Every year, my dad and his golf buddies rent a house in Maryland for a week. They golf during the day and come home in early evening for happy hour and a king’s dinner — steak, shrimp, burgers and dogs, lasagna and other man foods. And as I listen to stories of the house and food (and price — the weekly rent is dirt cheap split between the six or eight of them), I drool a little bit.

Replace golf with hiking, and I would be all about that vacation. Find me a house in the mountains with a good-sized front porch and, if I’m being greedy, a rocking chair. A communal room where family or friends can gather for drinks, dinner or Trivial Pursuit at night. A kitchen stocked with mugs for morning coffee on the porch. A lake, if it’s in the budget. And plenty of hiking trails nearby.

I’ve yet to convince anyone in my family (or group of friends) that this would be the greatest vacation they’ve ever taken, or that it would be entirely worth five precious vacation days from work. But as winter ticks by, I can’t help dreaming of sunshine and green grass — and drinking a cup of coffee on the porch of my dream vacation home.

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