By Mike Leidemann
Advertiser Columnist

It hits me in a cafe on Crete. Or maybe it's Capri.

Suddenly I am absolutely certain I am not going home. No more mortgage. No more car payments. No more commuting. No more daily grind.

"We've got to go," my wife says. "We're going to miss the boat."

I take another sip of my Campari.

"Aren't you listening? If we miss the boat, we'll never make it home. We could be stranded here forever."

I consider the possibility with a smile. I watch a Greek (or maybe she's Italian) beauty strolling the dockside promenade. I take another sip of my drink.

"Hear that whistle? That means the ship is leaving without us," my wife says.

A couple of old Greek guys playing checkers eavesdrop on our conversation from the next table. They watch my wife like she's nuts.

Finally, I speak: "I'm not moving. This is it. End of the line. My new home. I'm staying right here in Chios."

"This is Corfu," my wife says.

"It doesn't matter. I'm staying here anyway."

My wife looks at the ship. She looks at me like I'm nuts.

"What about our next stop in Croatia?"

"It's Corinth. And it doesn't matter. I'm staying here."

"What about our plane tickets? Our clothes on the ship?"

I shrug, like the Greeks do, making it clear that I am now an expatriate. I raise my glass in salute to a beautiful woman on the promenade, who is passing by with armfuls of fresh olives and pistachios.

"What about our home back in Kailua? Our friends? Our family? Our jobs? The kids?"

"We don't have kids," I say. As for the rest, I shrug again.

"Do you mean to tell me that you are going to sit here the rest of your life sipping some bitter-tasting red drink?"

Sounds good to me. I raise my eyebrows to order another Campari, or maybe it's a cappuchino, from a passing Italian, or possibly Croatian, waitress.

The ship sends up a moan: "All aboard!"

"There are worst places to be stranded," I say. "Lots of worse places."

Suddenly, the Italian beauty I've been ogling strides toward me, drops the olives on my lap and slaps my face.

"Wake up," she says. "You don't belong here."

I wake up. The clock on my bed in Kailua says it's 7:15 on Monday morning, my first day back from my vacation.

"I don't belong here," I tell my wife. "I'm supposed to be in a cafe on Crete."

"Just keep telling yourself that," she says. "You're going to be late for work."

At work, I start planning my next vacation. Only 12 more months to go.

I'm thinking of going back to Corfu. Or maybe Capri. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that I never leave again.

Mike Leidemann writes about transportation for The Advertiser but would rather be an olive farmer. Reach him at 525-5460 or mleidemann@honoluluadvertiser.com.