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I'd asked my husband to join me for an Italian excursion--opera, dining, shopping. As usual, he was right about a solo trip being better for me, but I accused him of not wanting to pack. (How dare he be a saint on my behalf when he's doing what he wants to do!) To me, it's a sad state of travel affairs that my husband has no relationship with a piece of luggage. None. And he's the only person I know who possessed a passport for nine years before getting it stamped the first time. The only reason it even existed was that I insisted he get one, in case something happened to me while I was in Europe.
In contrast, since their European initiation many years ago, my backpack and passport beg to be used: "Take me. Take us. Get a ticket and we'll go." They constantly plead to be jostled, abused, inspected, and stamped or tagged with cryptic destinations.
A few years ago, when I realized that both our passports were soon due to expire, Italy beckoned with resounding lure. Obviously, I needed no luring myself. But David? Getting him to the airport with a passport in hand would be major-league action, a game worthy of record attendance. Like the farmer in the movie who builds a baseball diamond in the middle of a cornfield, hoping fans will come, I kept thinking, "If I build and present a good story, will David go with me to Italy?"
With high hopes and purpose, creating, building, pushing to the edge, I outlined and embellished multiple……….
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