I wrote this originally while on sabbatical #2- but I didn’t post it here. Adding it in for posterity. This occurred while on our Mediterranean cruise and being quarantined.
I’ll drink a Heineken today. I know. I know. You’re already thinking, this is LinkedIn— not Twitter. Not Facebook. And, you’re right. But me drinking that beer today is very much work related.
Come with me for a story.
10 years ago, I joined PayPal. Well, x dot com, a PayPal/eBay startup at the time. It started up and started down quickly and within 6 months, I was at PayPal. I joined PayPal for a lot of reasons, including the perks and benefits. One such benefit is a sabbatical every 5 years. That is my kind of motivation!
If you’re a math whiz or even mildly coherent, you probably realize I’m 2 sabbaticals in. I’m actually writing you from the shore of Santorini, from sabbatical bliss, and from a place of sadness.
But first, my first sabbatical was stellar. We cruised across the South Pacific, all around New Zealand and Australia and then spent some additional time on land in Australia. Ridiculous. Insane. The kind of trip worth working your tail off for 5 years. We had 5 more years to prepare for this one and all the ideas blew in and out over that time. In our minds (that would be me and my husband’s), for sabbatical you take the trip you can’t take in a regular chunk of PTO time. You take the big trip.
When it was time to get serious about putting it all together, some outrageous things happened. Ever heard of COVID? God bless you if you tried to plan something big and crazy and through multiple countries during a pandemic, the likes of which not only have we not seen, we were (are?) completely unable to handle.
As if that wasn’t enough, right in the middle of that, we decided to buy an olive farm.
Is that weird? Yes. Isn’t that a lot of work? Also, yes. Doesn’t that make it hard to leave for long periods? Right again. But also, is it cool? Oh, it’s cool.
So, COVID and the olive ranch working together dictated a very narrow window of time in which we could have a chance at pulling this thing off. We needed things to be open enough and able to navigate easily enough on the fly AND we needed to go after harvesting and milling our olive oil and before fruit set the following spring. Oh, and, if we could just ask one more thing - also in the exact same time as family and friends who were willing and able to ranch/dog/chicken/cat/olive sit in our absence.
It finally all came together, as it does, after what felt like months of agonizing, canceled trips, COVID travel warnings, blah blah. All the sudden, one night, a plan clicked.
On March 3, sabbatical began. We sailed across the Atlantic this time. We’ve been weaving our way around the Mediterranean, bringing spring with us. We’re the first American cruise ship in every port. I could, and probably should, write another post about the unbridled joy of the shop owners in these little towns at seeing visitors again after 2 years of no work. I wish I could buy something from every single one of them. The hope on their faces will carry me for a long time.
The trip has been wonderful, but not without challenge. We’ve missed something like 4 or 5 ports due to weather. Mostly high winds. Lots of tours have been cancelled. There are cranky people when these things happen. But, I’m not one of them. Sure, I wanted to taste wine in Tuscany. I wanted to eat tapas in Cartagena. I wanted to see Chateauneuf du Pape. But, I am sort of sailing through the Mediterranean in the springtime while getting paid to not work. So…how bad is this?
But, back to the Heineken.
9 years ago, I reconnected with a college friend and married 2 years after that. We’re both well traveled and often talk about places we want to take each other. His for me has always been Santorini. He took a cruise here with his grandparents when he was 23- a college graduation gift. He remembers walking up and finding a little bar hanging off a cliff, dead on view of the stunning blue waters of the Mediterranean. And completely inexplicably, he drank a Heineken. (Side bar- he swears it is like Guinness. Tastes good in Ireland. Not as good in the US.) For 9 years, we’ve planned to walk until we found that bar, and stand there together drinking a Heineken.
Today is the day.
Almost.
3 days ago, in a routine test on the boat, I tested positive for COVID. The screeching sound of tires coming to a halt in my brain the second I was told- I can never unhear it. I’m alone in a little quarantine room. I feel totally fine- minus the raging sadness and feeling of loss of hopes and dreams. (Side bar - I’ve never been dramatic.) Jason has to test daily and as long as he stays negative, he’s free. I can’t see him, or anyone. I do have a balcony- so I can at least get some fresh air and if luck is on my side and we dock on the port side of the boat, I can even see shore.
So, for 3 days I’ve been wrestling with all these feelings. The uber optimistic side of me screaming about how privileged and blessed I am while the oh so Pisces side of me wails back yes, but it’s ok to be sad and to feel loss. All those things exist together in my heart and mind. I can’t do anything about it.
My only choice right now is my attitude.
Last night, I was just sitting here and it hit me. Jason will go ashore to Santorini today. He’ll walk and find that little bar. He’ll have that Heineken. Just like he did 23 years ago. Just like he’s been telling me about for 9 years. And I’ll be right here in this little quarantine room. Is that unfair? It feels like it is. Does it suck? You bet it does.
But then another thought came.
I’m right here. On the shore of Santorini. With Jason (ish). Like we always said we would. And today, I can look at the Mediterranean, in Santorini, and drink that damn Heineken.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to see him standing high on that ridge. In that little bar. With his Heineken, too.
Thanks, PayPal, for this opportunity. Thanks, brain, for refusing to be stuck on the negative side. Thanks, Santorini, for being as beautiful as everyone always said. Thanks, Jason, for keeping all your promises to me. Thanks, Mark, Christiana, Mom and Dad, for keeping the Hope in Spades Ranch running while we’re gone. And, thanks in advance to Heineken for hopefully tasting good here in Europe.
How’s your attitude?
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