The cat, who is too fussy about his accommodations to travel well. And Ballet Mommy, because someone has to take care of the cat. (Who is exhibiting separation anxiety before anyone even leaves, because he is now very familiar with the ritual of packing.)
Generally the dancer also leaves the overbooked accompanist/husband behind also. This year, he's going along. Not too surprising given that the dancer nearly didn't come back from last year's trip. The accompanist made a lot of friends there, hanging out in the ICU waiting room, as well as in the various places one goes to escape the ICU waiting room. People who have never been to the ballet before (not even to Nutcracker!) will go this year, just to cheer on The Dancer Who Did Not Die.
For me this is a glimmer of light in the gathering darkness of Know- Nothings.
So if I manage to get the house clean (not likely, since there are many other fish to fry) it might stay that way for a hot minute. Until the cat swats something in a demand for attention. Until the boys come home and the luggage explodes all over. Then again, my own tour anxiety may ambush my better muses and drive me to cleaning anyway. Pushing the hands of the clock around until the door opens and they're back and the luggage explodes.
Because last year one of them almost didn't come back. Now both of them are going - south, no less, to a notorious red state. So there is that at the back of my mind, which wants them to be out and proud, displaying their love in the same simple little ways straight people do all the time. Then there's the dread in my heart, which knows that those straight people can get pretty nasty when they get on their "do as we say not as we do" hobby horses and start going to town.
But one does not choose this life. The life chooses you, and you are what you have been born to be. Not exactly safe, but then life, when fully lived, is never without peril. So the sun comes up, the curtain rises, and we go on.