FROLIC AND DETOUR
/As I write this, Duncan is driving around the Canadian Fundy Coast in a sky-blue convertible. He sent me an email this morning, saying that he felt like a kid on the first day of summer vacation. That's a big deal for a middle-aged guy who spends his days behind a desk, dealing with the estates of dead people.
Ever since we were first married, Duncan and I have taken separate vacations at least once a year. Usually, it involves visiting our respective families, but it always involves some sort of fun. Our friends think it's weird. But I've noticed that more and more of them are now doing it themselves. Whether it's called "the annual guys' fishing trip," or "the ladies' spa weekend," it all means the same thing: there's a lot to be said for couples spending some time apart.
Especially when the couple works together, like Duncan and me. We are in each-other's faces 24/7.
My favorite separate vacation was a cruise to the Arctic Circle with my dad, who was the most playful person ever born. Every day with him was an adventure. Plus, he was incredibly handsome, so I had a blast watching the single ladies on the ship drawn to him like moths to a flame. I knew they never stood a chance.
One afternoon, Dad and I, together with a few other passengers, took a tender to an abandoned stretch of sand on the small, remote island of Spitzbergen. (To quote Dudley Moore in the movie Arthur, "Rhode Island could beat the #*^# out of it.") Right away, I noticed something was odd. We were met by a small group of people in inordinately large fur hats. They were gathered around a makeshift bar, laughing and drinking (not necessarily in that order). The bar was draped with a crisp, white tablecloth and topped off with huge, ornate silver candelabras.
I asked myself, "Is this for real?" Remember, we were in the middle of Baltic nowhere, standing on a remote outcropping of glacial ice and frozen tundra somewhere between Norway and the North Pole. I couldn't imagine that any other human life form had actually found its way onto this alien atoll. And the fact that someone had dragged the fancy bar accoutrements across the ocean onto this spit of land seemed incongruous to me.
Word got around fast, however. We had fallen into the company of 50 vodka-drinking Russians. Of course, we no choice but to join them. There was plenty of ouzo and even more laughter. We even joined in a little foreign-relations jig. And all the while, during the merriment, a handful of crew members circled the periphery with high-powered rifles. They were the only thing between us and the polar bears. Which made life seem even more tenuous, and, therefore, precious.
My second favorite "on-my-own" vacation was my trip to a dude ranch/spa in Wyoming. Suffice it to say, the wrangler responsible for our little group of riders was fired at the end of the week. I guess no one ever told him that we weren't supposed to gallop through the Salmon River. Duncan says our little folly was incredibly stupid. But he wasn't there. He never felt the thunder of the horses' hooves under his saddle, or saw the ethereal beauty of the spray coming up from the rocks in the river. Rarely have I ever felt so alive, even if foolish.
Duncan's most prized vacations typically involve Scotland, castles, and steak. Occasionally, he takes long road trips with one or both of our sons. They call it "iron-butting." For all I know, they wear testosterone-laden loincloths. Believe it or not, they say they are going to drive to Uruguay. It must be a guy-thing, embedded in male DNA. I'd rather fly, and get to the spa sooner.
I'm sure you all take family vacations, which are priceless. Keep doing so. But I hope you also take some time to indulge in a bit of frolic and detour, on your own. Go explore new places. Let your ordinary life become extraordinary. For a few days, be a wrangler or a Scottish laird. Leave all family responsibilities behind and enjoy the liberating, and often exhilarating, feeling of wanderlust. With, or without, polar bears. Or Russians.
