Vacations? Bah, Humbug

Midsummer: vacation time. Two weeks off, two weeks of fun.

I’m tempted to celebrate by offering my August reading list, the 100 best beach books ever written. But that might get everybody quarreling, which is not a very summer-spirited thing to do.

Instead, let’s devote the moment to something we can agree upon.

Midsummer: two weeks when our part of the globe leans a fraction closer to the sun. Languid days. Lemonade days. Days for ourselves. Days we earned.

Vacation days.

Midsummer: a time when the rest of the advanced world throws its head back and laughs at our measly two weeks.

“Is the U.S. a Third-World country? Or just work-crazy?” writes my friend Moo from Finland. “Maybe someday someone over there will see the light and you Americans will join the ranks of the civilized How do you manage to relax in two weeks, anyway? I like the European way better--a week to get into the vacation mode, a week to think about traveling, a week to travel, and then you still have a whole week to recover from the trip.”

Well I, for one, don’t appreciate this kind of ridicule. So I’ve been pondering our alleged backwardness.

Two weeks vacation was America’s standard in 1950. How come we haven’t kept up with the Italians, who now average 42 days of vacation? Or the French with 37? Or the Germans with 35? Or even the busy-bee Japanese with 25?

According to the World Tourism Organization, Americans straggle behind all developed nations when it comes to vacation. We average 13 days a year--typically two weeks in summer and three days during the December holidays.

Actually, many Americans are entitled to somewhat more. But according to the online travel company Expedia, half of American workers don’t take it because they are “too busy to get away.” That saved the nation’s employers $19.3 billion in vacation pay last year, about $200 per worker.

Outrageous, you say?

Well, friends, I’d like to help you throw some fuel on the fire here.

I wish I could offer some progressive leadership. But I’ll tell you the truth: I’m not taking even two weeks. The last time I took my full allotment of vacation was to research a book.

Yes, I believe we Americans work too hard, we put in too many hours, we are too harried. But big, burdensome blocs of what we call vacation aren’t my idea of an antidote.

Vacation, I’m afraid, isn’t what it used to be, if it ever was. My childhood memory of vacation was of one long journey of carsickness. And it hasn’t gotten much better. My friend Moo is right. You gotta build up a head of steam for travel these days and then plan on returning exhausted.

Why bother? A week on the road is like another commute, only endlessly longer. Unless you go to the airport--and that’s even worse.

And then we must contend with our fellow vacationers. The last time I went to one of those resort bed-and-breakfast inns, I introduced myself at the table only to be sprayed with scrambled eggs by the guy across from me as he roared, “Newspapers? I never read newspapers. They’re for morons.”

And frankly, two weeks trying to dodge out of range of everyone’s video camera is more stress than I’m up for right now.

Yes, I could stay at home and vacation. Chip some broken tile and reseat the wobbly toilet in the bathroom. The fence is falling down too, and I assume there is worse if I look.

No, I think it’s better to tackle matters incrementally. George Bush can have his month in the blast furnace of Texas. For me, time off is like romance. You can’t rush it all at once.

So as I tell my editor, if you want me to look in on one of these European vacation trips, you’re going to have to pay me. Otherwise, I’ll drop out of sight for a long weekend once in awhile, and I’ll sneak off for an occasional afternoon.

Maybe I’ll sleep in late next week to celebrate midsummer. The bargain goes unspoken. If I don’t take vacation and the work doesn’t back up on my desk, who can complain if I open up some time here and there for myself?

Besides, there’s no such thing as 100 great beach books.