Mountain climbing must be my thing. I can no longer deny it. First of all there is Peirene. Setting her up, has been an experience similar to climbing a mountain. A very slow ascent. One step after the other. Every now and again I stumble, I slide down a bit, but then I scramble back to my feet and on I march.
And now there is the family holiday. Back in March my husband rang me from a business trip to Delhi. Let’s go to India, he said, I’ve checked out our air miles, we have enough. The next weekend we cruised the internet wondering where exactly to go in India. By chance we came across one of these mountaineering companies offering tracking tours in the Himalayas. Bingo. Decision made.
“It was your stupid decision. Yours alone. I am not going. And the children neither!” On Saturday we are off and for the last few days I’ve been blaming my husband for this decision. Suddenly I would rather lie on a beach, go somewhere easy, somewhere familiar. I don’t want to worry about altitude sickness and diarrhea. Are we overdoing it with our nine-year-old? And perhaps we all might die!
Admittedly, I have a bizarre deal with fate. When something really good happens to me I don’t celebrate. I’m not allowed to laugh at my own luck and be thrilled that I am off to the Himalayas. Because if I do, the holiday might turn sour. So now I am stuck. I can’t even tell you how excited I am.
See you back here – if we survive – in the first week of September.