If I had to choose one word to describe our vacations here, it would be comfortable. The slow days stretch into slower, restful nights; the bikers, young and old, wind their way down sun-dappled streets and across windy beaches; the smells of chlorine and sunblock and fresh - or not so fresh - towels; the spanish moss hangs thick and low from gnarled, dancing trees. All these snippets of the week send "vacation" signals to my brain, and the stresses of the workaday world seem to instantly dissolve.
I've learned two chords on the guitar, which means I can now blunder my way through "Horse with No Name" on our patio with my dad and brother. We recklessly abandon any concern for our neighbor's quiet evening as we plow through yet another attempt at perfect harmony on "Seven Bridges Road," and each time I inhale to sing the next lines, I breath in salty ocean air.
Kyle and my brothers are the terrors of our tiny condo pool, fearlessly slinging footballs around with perhaps a little too much confidence in their aim - but no shortage of enthusiasm.
In other news, I have finally been initiated into that realm of bravery occupied by survivors of jellyfish stings.
Weren't you hoping for a picture of a foot, with some attractive red bumps scattered across the lower ankle region? You're welcome.
I'm so happy we still have an entire week ahead, ripe for the experiencing.