How I misspent my European vacation

Before leaving -- once our return flight was within sight -- we spent two idyllic days in Lucca, a sweet, little magnolia-strewn village in north-central Italy. We'd gotten to the end of our trip with a couple of hundred dollars to spare, so John and I finally let go of the budget. We rode bicycles, stayed in a quaint bed-and-breakfast, dined out on fagioli with braised arugula and roasted duck. Everywhere we went, we were welcomed like family. The owner of the B&B invited us to use her personal computer; the waiter at the restaurant demurred when we tried to leave him a 20 percent tip.

Back home this was what we talked about. Like real travelers, we raved about the beautiful trees, quaint brick-walled town and authentic Tuscan food. Then sometimes, after a few glasses of wine, we would tell the Orvieto story, too. But we made it funny rather than sinister, imitating the restaurant owner, making him into a colorful character in our own private Italian tale. It became one of those quirky, vivid memories two married people share.

Deep down, though, my doubts remained. I knew that if John were still throwing money around -- as he did when he was taking exotic wildlife tours, trekking through the Arctic on a second mortgage, extending his trip to the Middle East because the scuba diving was really good -- he would have been treated well throughout Italy and probably had a much better time. And I worried about what that meant. Had he stayed single, my now husband would have had the option after Orvieto to throw the Rick Steves book in the garbage, pull out his platinum AmEx, and find a fancy hotel with real linens and a bathroom en suite.

Instead, he spent much of his vacation calculating the costs of museum admissions and trains, then standing outside phone booths while I was on hold for the group-home director or negotiating with our daughter about whose house she could go to after school. Perhaps, I thought, our trip was the turning point, that critical juncture when he realized the enormity of his trade. Surely there was a limit to the value of warmth and family when unconquered countries were at stake.

After we arrived home I watched John, quietly, as we went back to what was, only two and a half years ago, my life. I was a little distant, on guard. If he was about to tell me this marriage was constricting, too much responsibility and routine, I wanted to be ready. It was during this period -- at another party, nearly identical to the one last fall -- that I overheard a magazine publisher sigh longingly and ask John what it was like to live in Spain.

He paused and I waited, thinking about all the possible answers he might give and imagining the mean guy from that earlier party materializing to chime in, "Yeah, what's it like to go from that to group-home conferences and college orientation sessions and teenage girls screaming because they're having a Heath Ledger film festival in the basement?"

I edged closer. Finally, I heard my husband's low drawl. "Lonely," he said. "Honestly, it was one of the worst times in my life."

I crept away, but a few minutes later, John came and found me. Our daughter had called him on his cellphone. She and her friends were sick of TV and in the mood for Ben & Jerry's. Could we pick some up?

"C'mon," he said, touching my shoulder. "I really want to go home."

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