My son, the tenor (not the same son as Broken Arm/Scar), just left this morning for his European tour. The European Tour of the University of Utah Singers, to be more precise. Oh, how I wish I were going on a tour of European cities to sing, with or without a group! They are starting in Nancy, France, then to the Netherlands, then back to France, including Paris, then to Germany and Italy.
Instead of going on a European tour, however, I have his car in my driveway (which I should feel free to wash and clean out, plus fill with gas, he tells me) and his itinerary.
I want to have a European tour like the ones people took in Victorian novels--the ones men took to gain experience, or the ones married couples took for their honeymoons. Six months, for instance. I want to disappear into those Sunday Times travel articles about the secret best cities in eastern Europe. I want to eat at the restaurant up in the Alps where the chef is an artisanal cheese artist. I want a villa in the south of France for a month. I want to live in that artist's colony in Italy, where you can live for six months. (I realize this is starting to add up to more than six months, especially with the Italian artist's colony factored in.)
And I want to end up in Scotland, where the mood is a bit dark and the weather a bit darker, but my shining, adorable daughter and granddaughter (and the husband/father, too) live. That would be a fitting conclusion to my European tour.