SWEET IDLE

72 hours in Lake Como might sound like a whirlwind. But as Paulie Dibner learned, when you stay at the exact right place, time stands still.

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" I feel like we should go to Italy that weekend." It had become a small tradition in my home to get the hell out of Dodge after important or stressful medical appointments a welcome distraction from the interminable waiting for results delivered bloodlessly by a no-nonsense nurse. And so, in advance of another tedious interlude that April, I stuck my head unceremoniously into my husband's office and announced my plan.

All our previous jaunts to cool our heels had kept us close to home: a weekend upstate, a few days out east. This time, I decided that we needed to stray farther afield, but Owen wasn't fully convinced. He'd never been to Italy before, and I think my slapdash plan to zip us over to Lake Como had him slightly nonplussed.

"Can you even do Italy in three days?" It was a fair question. My otherwise well-traveled husband, much to my perennial disbelief and, if I'm being honest, slight annoyance, had never in all his years even been to Rome, and the 72-hour time frame seemed to be a deal-breaker for him.

But now wasn't a time for sass (mine) or buzzkilling logic (his). First on the agenda was scrapping the idea that we were "doing Italy" this was no two-week, see-the-Sistine-Chapeland-kiss-under-the-Bridge-of-Sighs-in-a-gondola holiday.

Second was scrapping any agenda whatsoever. After years of creating spreadsheets to track appointments and medications and insurance coverage, of seeing to every practical and emotional nuance in our lives, all I wanted was to turn my brain off and have someone take care of us so I didn't have to.

And so, without too much thought or point-finagling, I booked us on the red-eye, direct from New York to Milan, taking advantage of an overnight flight to make the most of our quick trip.