In October of this year, we left for Italy. Our last trip there was scheduled for March of 2020. I think about that a lot – about the alternate reality in which that trip was still possible. I remember the date of our departure approaching, and my concern about this new flu spreading across Europe. I remember Rand finally cancelling our tickets, that mixture of relief and worry.
“What if we ended up cancelling them for no reason?” I asked.
“I don’t think we’ll regret it,” he said.
This time around, whether or not we’d go remained a question until our actual departure. The hope I’d felt this past summer was gone as quickly as it came, the rates of the Delta variant rising. I kept asking Rand if it was safe, if it was responsible. Italy’s caseloads were lower than ours. They were taking precautions – demanding proof of