Only in my dreams was I ever a lanky blonde with long golden tresses that flew in the wind as I drove my sleek 1950's red convertible on the streets of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. More than half a century later, on the winding mountain roads of Croatia overlooking the Adriatic, I almost was that girl.

We were on the island of Mljet (pronounced "Mil yet") two hours off the Croatian coast, under a cloudless sky with the temperature in the 80's. OK, our son Seth was driving (not me) and it was my short silver hair that was blowing in the wind, but that didn't really matter.

Who, at age seventy-three, gets to be driven in a bright orange convertible by their son, who pulls off a guard-rail-free road just short of going off a cliff, to marvel at the aquamarine sea dotted with random islands, gorgeous yachts and tiny villages tucked into the hills below?

The convertible, a Fiat, also served as my changing room, allowing me to don my bathing suit so that we could swim from a sandy beach in a small cove with about six other people, as three sailboats bobbled on the current about a football-field length away.

Not quite a lanky teen-aged blonde, but still, a dream come true.