I sent my husband to the post office last June with a short stack of papers, two 2×2 photos, and a check.
“What is this?” he questioned.
“Your passport application,” I laconically replied.
I could see his nerves contract and I ignored his reaction. He agreed to stay in the dark about our plans, leave all the booking to me, and just show up when the day came. Details would only aggravate his anxiety, raise questions that I preferred not to answer, and, well…drive me to drinking.
It was his first trip abroad: a concept I couldn’t quite grasp, being personally bitten by the travel bug at a young age. I’d lived my life full of wanderlust, and it had built up in me for far too long. I needed to go. Where didn’t matter so much, but I preferred foreign and remote places, and if I entertained “common”, it had to be downright incredible.
It took a long time to decide on Santorini. I knew that I wanted to go Greece. First I researched Athens, and thought that would keep us busy for about two days; I looked into Thessaloniki, but it seemed flawed by being big city-ish – a trait that caused me to view London with disdain a decade ago. Since it was his first trip abroad, and since we were already planning for my following business meeting in Eastern Europe, Santorini seemed easy. But touristy is not my forte, and I feared building my expectations on all the hype and then being disappointed.
Our first flight left from Houston and we changed planes in Toronto. The flight to Toronto was fine, and I upgraded to United’s Premium Economy to ease his nerves and my cramped legs. We arrived in Toronto with four hours before our next flight, and we found a cozy spot for power and wifi and settled in after a meal.