Holidays have changed a great deal since I was a young person. Oh, I don’t mean that in a get-off-my-lawn way. Sure, there are more sweatpants than when I was young, but that’s not it. I mean in how I view holidays.
When I was a kid, there had to be activities and those activities had to be at a beach or in an amusement park. The more large deranged mice the better. As I got older, it was all about seeing old things: churches, cemeteries, monuments, towers both Eifel and Leaning. I liked to travel for at least 2 or 3 weeks – anything less was downright disappointing. But I was poor, so I had to eat bread and drink in parks. The large deranged mice were mostly sequestered to my accommodation.
Nowadays, I revel in a slowed-down week. A week away from my busy life. I live someone else’s life for a week – we rent a flat, fill the fridge, do the dishes, and just take in a town. It’s the best kind of travel for this old man.
Last year we rented a place on a backstreet near Genoa’s port. We walked along the ocean, and sat in shady town squares up the side of mountains, sipping waters and eating bakery-pizzas. We meandered its lovely medieval alleyways. We got lost in those, bouncing from trattoria and trattoria to café and café until we somehow managed to waddle back to the flat.
This year, we went to Mikulov – Moravian wine country. We rented a flat in sight of the castle, filled the fridge, did the dishes, and lounged in its living room. It was great. Not, however, for our dog.
One of the highlights of travelling within our home country was that we could bring the dog. This seemed great. We expounded several times on how excited our dog would be to get to stay with us rather than be put up in her little doggy hotel with fields and lots of other dogs and (based on the pictures they send us) at which she usually has more fun than us.
We were wrong.
See, the thing is, dogs don’t understand what holiday is. This is surely in no small part due to the fact that a dog’s life is basically a holiday. They wake up, get adored, get brought outside to do their business, which is then cleaned up after them, come home, get fed, sleep for nine hours until it’s time to go back outside for a nice walk, then sleep until they get fed again, then walked again, then they lounge on a couch and watch movies. I would kick a republican politician in his useless testicles (or the jar they are in) for that kind of life.
But to the dog, our holiday is just being brought to a place they don’t know and forced to walk around a town all day. What with all the walking, she doesn’t seem terribly impressed. The only saving grace is that everyone loves her and she loves everyone. Also, lots of those everyones have access to food because they are waitresses. Our little pup got her fill of homemade meatballs and duck pate.
On day two I decide that if the dog doesn’t want to walk, then I will carry her around in a little bag. You might think I was a laughing stock. And you would be right. There were more than a few eyes narrowed at the weird man in the Phillies cap carrying a doggy in a backpack. Nevertheless, the dog loved it. If my dog loves two things it’s 1. walking for about 9 minutes and then 2. Being carried the rest of the time it takes to get wherever we’re going.
My thoroughly unimpressed dog was carried through a wine tour, through a wine tasting, up to the doors of an archaeology museum, through the grounds of a castle, through the cellar of another castle, and up to the Kozí hrádek (Goat Tower).
She remained underwhelmed. This means I have to bring my dog to more impressive places. Maybe a tower – either Eifel or leaning; or maybe a park of amusement. Maybe my dog will finally be impressed by a large and deranged mouse.
