It’s vacation time, and it’s been so long since I’ve had one of these, I hardly know what to do with myself. Vacation time is not the same as time off. I know from time off. I do it every day. And I’m pretty good at it. As for vacations, I’m partial to the kind that involves me sitting on a beach and reading a book. Probably a cold drink at hand and a plate of nibbles within reach.

Now that’s a vacation. So I was wrong when I said that vacation time is not like time off. My dream beach vacation is simply a prettier kind of time off — doing nothing (except nibble and read), just chilling.

Then there’s the other kind of vacation, the kind where you’re on the go from the moment you open your eyes each morning. There is no sleeping in on this vacation. We’re off to Loch Ness or the National Gallery or the Writer’s Museum or something else equally as important. Resting is not part of this vacation. That’s for later when I get home and can take some time off.

This is more like a study vacation: a one-week intensive on Edinburgh (with a side trip to the Highlands), followed by a two-week intensive of Ireland. It couldn’t have happened to two nicer places.

I was starting to think while I was sitting in traffic on the way to the airport — to catch a flight to Boston to pick up my friend Celeste and together fly to Scotland courtesy of Jet Blue — that maybe there are some things better left to someone else who’s not me. Like figuring out how to get to the airport on time.

What was I thinking (a question I ask myself more frequently these days)? As in, what was I thinking that it was an hour drive to the airport. I know, we all do, that the way to Seattle is one big traffic jam. One hour doesn’t come close to covering it.

And while I’m sitting in that jam, more thoughts arise when the yellow gas tank light comes on. A) I can’t ignore it and B) I have no clue where the closest gas station is, or any gas station for that matter. Looking it up on Maps while maneuvering over to the right lane in an unforgiving full-on traffic standstill is not in my skill set, so off I go, hoping for the best, as I sit in the standstill traffic exiting the same off ramp. Those of you who know me can picture what degree of freaking out is going on in my head as the clock ticks on. I simply can’t miss my plane. Many, many blocks later, I come to a gas station and fill up, with nothing to do but get back on the highway and continue being an inchworm. This little detour has cost me an ill-afforded 15 minutes. But just then the gods of light shone down on me and showed me (with the aid of frequent road signs) that although I got off at 85th Street, I can get back on at 80th, which means I’ve eliminated five city blocks’ worth of real estate on the at-a-standstill traffic on the highway. I even fantasize that I might have picked up some time.

The short of it is that once past the city, it’s smooth and over-the-speed-limit sailing. I find a parking spot in short-term parking, then kind of half run into the airport and into the TSA Pre-check line, which looks a little long, but nothing compared to the regular line. I make a mental note of thanks for belonging to that class of people who have the ability to pay the government in order to jump the queue. It’s a bit of a scam, isn’t it? Two-tier security. But for one brief second there, I feel like one of the rich.

But rich only gets you so far. I look up and the sign says “TSA Pre-check, 20-minute wait. The good news is that the TSA line is moving faster than the traffic was on I-5.

What do you know? I get to my gate with 10 minutes to spare.

The moral of the story: An hour to the airport is plenty of time.

P.S. I don’t know what time it is in your part of the world, but here in Scotland it is Sunday night, so it’s time for me to post. We’re having a blast here in Edinburgh. I’ll give a you a taste of it next time.

In the meantime, this week I feature Bob Marley …