"Should we take this treasure-laden passageway in the souk or that other one?"
"Should we keep driving south to San Gimignano or scrap it and head for the Dolomites?"
"Should we be safe and order the chicken kebabs or live on the edge and brave the sheep intestines? After all, when in Istanbul..."
But on the home front, the thrills of equivocation can also loom large, especially when faced with a glossy stack of brand new, untouched, waiting-to-be-pored-over monthlies.
(Sunday lunch, The Kenmore Arms)
Piero and Luca were off doing something testosteroney, the house was quiet and I found myself craving a pulse-quickening dose of paper. I fixed myself my new favorite lunch (wok-sauteéd sugar snap peas with hoisin, grilled chicken burger topped with peanut satay sauce -- cooking time twelve minutes start to finish, including cleaning the pans), I fanned out the magazines and while I ate, deliberated with no inconsiderable gravitas over which one to open first. Each promised lush locales, stylish adventures and a rich reservoir of inspiration.
Would I plunder The World of Interiors and lose myself in some Austrian nobleman's castle retreat? Or leaf through Vogue or W and live vicariously through some indie designer's Corsican getaway? Or drool over Gourmet's Old Master-like spreads of cuisine as fine art?
There were no wrong answers because, just as in travelling, all paths lead to knowledge.
Who says domesticity doesn't still provide the occasional adrenaline rush of blood to the head?