Last night I dreamed I was visiting a place I'd always wanted to go. It was India, it was New Zealand, it was Iceland. It doesn't matter, and I don't remember. In the three weeks I was there I visited the Kingdom of Butterflies and the famously beautiful Silent Valley. I ate the local specialty: sweet wheat and milk soup. I danced to the native music. But this wild, colorful, exotic country was a little disappointing. It was difficult to navigate. It was cold. I didn't speak the language, and no one spoke mine. It was the longest trip I had ever taken, and I felt anxious that I wasn't succeeding more at these travels.
On the plane ride home I sit with people who have had more fun than me, and they tell me that the Silent Valley I visited was the wrong one--didn't I see the signs? They had been to a bigger, more Silent valley, and a Kingdom with more beautiful Butterflies. The sweet wheat and milk soup I'd liked was just cereal; they'd had the real local specialty in a village inn, served to them by a plump matron who hugged them all.
I had done it wrong! I had wasted my time! And it would be a long time before I built up enough annual leave to go anywhere else!