Love can’t be forced even in the most romantic of cities. Take my trip (nearly five years ago — bah!) to Paris. I mean, everyone’s taste in romance is subjective. But PARIS, MAN! Paris should knock your socks off with its vibrancy, its cityscape, the countryside, the wine… its cheese.
LOVE IN ALL CAPS.
Romantic holidays should never, ever be spent with a significant other WHO HASN’T TALKED TO YOU IN OVER 12 HOURS. That doesn’t count the plane ride.
Why the hell am I remembering this trip? (Why the hell am I thinking of this asshole, mostly). Memories are stirring because I’m talking with friends about a potential overseas trip, and my Western European Road Trip adventure was my last time, well, in Europe. I MISS THE HELL OUT OF THAT COUNTRY. I miss the hell out of foreign travel. And there’s so much that I had planned to see by now. I want to go back to Prague (even more romantic than Paris, if you ask me) and visit Budapest, and figure out what it will finally take to get the boyfriend on board with planning a Scotland-Ireland trip (besides Scotch. I’ve tried.)
A romantic vacation is necessary at various intervals of relationship status — even if they don’t pan out as planned. And especially if you don’t have anyone else to love (hello, finding yourself in Rome!). Fall in love with a foreign city. Now that’s some romance. Mexico doesn’t count.
For us… we go camping. Or, Cleveland.
(I’d rather be backpacking.)