Going to the beach with kids makes you realize a lot of things. I don’t understand how the idea of going to the beach makes people so excited. Starting with me. Let me be clear. I’m not thinking of a deserted beach in the Caribbean, with white sand and turquoise water, where palm trees lean over the sea defying gravity, etc. I’m talking about an overcrowded-grey-sand-turbid-waters type of beach, where the only thing that leans over the sea and defies the law of gravity is your flesh after three pregnancies. Every year I can’t wait to go there, and every year I can’t wait to LEAVE.
The other day I saw a documentary from the 60s when people really started “going on holiday” in the summer. They weren’t afraid of packing with children then! The whole family could fit into a Chevy. And when I say the whole family I mean the father, the mother, the four kids, grandma, and grandpa… And even a canary cage! Really? In the roof rack, two small suitcases. REALLY?
Traveling with children dramatically changes the idea of what travel means. I have friends who are “backpacking” mothers. Or so they say… although I don’t really believe it. Or maybe they have the wrong concept of what a backpacker is… The first principle of every backpacker is freedom, uncertainty, the ability to improvise… concepts that clash head-on with the condition of being parents and, therefore, with the fact of traveling with children.