Vacation is over. I’m not sitting on my porch in Wellfleet, sipping wine and slurping back some oysters. My skin is not salty from the ocean, but sticky from Dean’s PBJ. Grace is being a sassy pants, and had an epic tantrum last night; balled fists, screaming bloody murder from her bedroom. Dean won’t settle down, and the ocean air seems to have made the brute stronger. In the day and a half since we’ve been home, my voice has gone hoarse from yelling, and I feel like I’m losing the battle. The only one in the house that is truly happy to be home is the dog, and she didn’t go on vacation with us.
Any good vacation worth its salt (see what I did there?) has the potential to induce the Post Vacation Blues, and this one is no different.
The thing that I like about Wellfleet is that everything slows down. There are lots of unpaved roads that force you to drive slowly. The best way to get to the secret pond is to walk, following the path through the woods. Just remember to pick it up on the other side after you cross under the power lines, and let the rest of your crew know where to meet you, before you lose your phone signal.
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