A pretty rough start, late on the first leg of an all-day journey, but in the chaos of the past season, I’m not surprised we forgot to confirm flight times, failing to note that our 10:22 a.m. departure had moved without us to 9. Hailing from a tiny regional airport, the next one out wouldn’t be till 1:30. But we were on vacation. Already. Having dropped off three kids at various spots on the way to the airport, changing sheets and towels and putting dinner in the crockpot for my mom’s arrival later that morning, and packing late into the the previous night (because we decided hanging out with friends trumped being prepared), I was ok with a little quiet time as a voyeur in our own little airport. For four hours. Todd was tense, visibly frustrated. It would all work out, I kept telling him. To his annoyance. Our late start triggered a domino effect, and we were routed through Denver to Chicago and supposedly Baltimore. But because of a mechanical failure we stayed overnight in Chicago (deposited by a wicked-fast cab driver weaving his way through late-night traffic at a slightly oldish hotel about 20 mins from the airport). Left at 6 the next morning to make our eventual way to DC. But that’s how vacations go. Not like the glossy brochures. Not always according to itinerary. A vacation is a deviation from normal life, an opportunity to experience life in a different way. For just a little while. So in my eyes, we had already been doing that the minute we said goodbye to our lanky driver of a son as he left us at the airport. Todd and I were alone together. On our way to a continuing ed vet conference in North Carolina with a few days tacked on to celebrate our twenty year anniversary.
Once we landed in Washington and left the confines of the airport rental car lot, the stresses of the city quickly relegated themselves to a distant memory. Trees shrouded our paths, and we discovered the wonderland of Southern color, having arrived just at the peak of fall tourism. Over the next four days we meandered through Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina, taking in the vistas of three national parks and spoiling ourselves with Bed and Breakfast retreats. The same type of trip we embarked upon years earlier as newlyweds, feeling just as we did back then: too young for this sort of thing but not caring. Enjoyed luscious breakfasts, cozy old-fashioned rooms, HGTV, staying up, sleeping in, and antique shopping. Conserving where we could, we dined on trail mix and baby carrots for lunch from the grocery store but found quaint local restaurants for dinner, a challenging and rewarding endeavor each night. We hiked mountain trails immersed in fall color, providing enchanting views new to our Western eyes. Cascading waterfalls tempted us; we conceded, awe-inspired, never tiring of water streaming over shiny rocks and cliffs, meandering creeks and still rivers. It was all so rejuvenating, soothing. Cathartic.
We perked our ears at random conversation, delighted by the drawl and cadence of the South. We toured homesteads, mills, and farms. We happened upon an obscure mountain cemetery plot bearing tombstones with no names and woke to birds right outside our sleepy bedroom windows every chilly morning. In one B&B we camped out in a room from the 1800s furnished with a rustic, perfect-to-us, open-faced wood-burning fireplace, the ideal complement to the night air we beckoned in. A dreamy combination.
We sampled grits and spinach cakes, fish tacos and fried chicken on waffles. Hailing from Montana, we’re partial to beef and potatoes, but we felt pampered and spoiled at every turn. We collected pinecones and acorns. And purchased our souvenir of choice: national park cds; we have one from every park we’ve visited. A few pens and candy for the kids, never anything fancier than that. We tried on Little Switzerland and Gatlingberg, TN, paying $10 just to park our car for a rare lunch out. Relished and savored Five Guys, not caring that it wasn’t indigenous fare; but we couldn’t abide the harshness of the town and quickly found a way back to the slow and winding Blue Ridge Parkway. We likewise tickled our senses with downtown Asheville, NC, but with a similar exit.
One of the most interesting detours was an hour spent at the Dutch Girl laundromat in a seedy part of Asheville, about half-way through our trip, furnishing the ideal time to catch up with our college freshman son on the phone. A natural people-watcher, I noted the various patrons, some who had a story or two to tell, having seen some life; a few middle-aged single men; couples from various countries, a young mother-daughter duo. This breather reminded me of all the hours I’d spent in laundromats throughout my life, and I soaked it all in, grateful to trade bundles of traveled-in clothes for piles of fresh wares. Truly lifted my spirits, as I imagine it does for most others who haven’t always had the luxury of clean clothes. Something I really do appreciate, even on a good day at home with facilities right downstairs. Just a note-worthy side trip.
Our laundry hour passed, and we basked in yet another evening without constraints. Days continued to indulge us with the symphonies of crunching leaves and soothing creeks on their way to becoming waterfalls. We knew no one, a freeing realization holding us to no standard, no worries about what we wore or looked like. We were completely alone with each other, careless about concerns back home, simply completely content in our days together.
But in a still moment, alone in a charming Southern hotel lobby while Todd was in classes, I wondered what I thought. Decidedly I felt rich. Pampered, at ease, relaxed, loved, at peace. But lacking. I knew I loved these carefree days. We were living a life from pages of our Country Living magazine. I realized if I continued much longer I’d come to resent this plush life that provided no opposition, no work, no contribution or service. A life of leisure yet without focus. But I savored our time away wholeheartedly because I knew it was temporary, simply a respite from what matters most.
I missed the association with people I know intimately, not just at a small-talk breakfast table or on the couch beside me in the lobby waiting for an airport shuttle. Mildly and temporarily gratifying, but nothing like the longing I have to know and be known, hearts intertwined and willing to share. Being a community member satisfies a desire to belong, whether it’s a school, church, neighborhood, family, or town association. To be anonymous in a crowd leaves me lonely and hungry for something deeper.
A vacation by definition is short-lived, a bit of time-off from the pressures of everyday life. And so it was just that. Admittedly, it wasn’t easy to leave the rolling hills and waters, crisp mornings and leaves, but I inhaled deeply, impressing the details of our memories within the recesses of my mind, to be retrieved at a later time. I wasn’t exactly excited to leave what we’d fallen in love with, like cutting off a whirlwind romance, but I anticipated the customary joy in feeling arms of loved ones squeezing us, purposeful work, a home craving attention. I yearned to serve, to assess needs up close, to be nearby to help where needed, to surround myself with friends who have become like family and to care for my own little chickadees who enrich my every days like no shopping center or fancy restaurant meal ever could.
So as we returned to our stack of mail dutifully collected throughout the week, worries we’d shelved for several days, and a calendar filled with commitments rather than colorfully decorated leaf trails, I’m neither sorry we went or let down that we’ve came home. I love both experiences and parts of life. Exquisitely! I’m rejuvenated from trying on a new culture and being in love. Logged memories like these have a natural way of carrying us through the heavier periods of real life, of brightening inevitable gray days down the lane. I can’t help but marvel at the precise timing of this particular trip, the abundant beauties we never tired of, and the confirmation of the love and friendship we’ve been blessed with for over twenty years. All orchestrated to strengthen us and to remind us of the beautiful life we already enjoy. Back home.
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