Within the space of one week, I had plans for 2.5 vacations fall through. I say 2.5 because two were excursions I was involved in planning, and one was an invitation from a third party that I had to turn down. I’ll admit that two and a half vacations in one year seems pretty extravagant. But the idea of going on no vacation at all makes me frown and think the word pauper (yes, in italics and everything). It also makes me think that the plans we make for our spare time and money are so fraught with pitfalls that I might actually prefer furrowing my brow and thinking the word pauper to actually going anywhere.
As a surly teenager, I went on family vacations with the requisite headphones, paperbacks, and that adolescent resignation that most of us probably felt on family outings – I had fun, but not having a say in where we went, how often we stopped, or what sorts of places we ate rankled my youthful longing for greater idependence. Like most teenagers, I couldn’t wait until I was the grown-up, so I could unfold the map, make the reservations, and do what I darn well pleased. And, yes, like most teenagers, I didn’t realize until I tried it that doing what you darned well please (if you have any other people in your life at all) comes at a price, and at certain social peril.
There’s a lot of facets to travel, a lot of choices. If you can’t fly (for medical or financial reasons) it narrows the field, and simplifies the matter in one way: you can’t go as far away. It complicates life in another, however. You’re the rube with resentful friends who remind you that you either a) don’t get to go with them or b) are the sole reason the group opted for a simple road-trip instead (as a bonus they’ll jab you with how crappy they think that is). Even settling on the simple road-trip, unfortunately, gets less simple every time you glance at the calendar.
People don’t all like the same things. And, unless they’re teenagers, they get to have a say in how their time and money gets spent. Maybe you and Uncle Lou decide to go on vacation together. But you want to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and he wants to spend three days at a casino, and neither of you can afford to be gone more than four days. This leaves two possibilities. You either spend three miserable days sitting around a motel room, or you feel like a world-class jerk while you go on a hike and leave Uncle Lou sitting in the car reading National Park brochures. Suddenly, the vacation that freed you from chores at home and work at work has shrunk to a prison of bitter dimensions. You’ve squandered your time and you’ve spent your money to choose between being miserable, or being a jackass.
Now, you’d think, dear readers, that you’ve got a third choice, a compromise between misery and jackassery. You think that if you were willing to bear the travel expenses alone, that you could just take your spare time and money in both hands and do whatsoever you wished. But when you have friends and relatives, they wait in the wings with everything from horror to condemnation. Road trips, taken alone, aren’t really the safest of ventures. We’ve all heard one too many stories about the missing camper, the driver never seen again after leaving the stalled vehicle, and the grisly deserted-rest-area murder. Friends and relatives may be loathe to waste their time and money accompanying you on a five-day Mining Museum tour, but they won’t be shy about telling you seven good reasons you shouldn’t go.
And probably, especially if you’re willing to foot the bill, someone of uncommon valor will step to the fore. Someone will agree to go with you, sacrifice the vacation time they wanted to spend elsewhere, and go along to safeguard you against mishap and random violence. Maybe they’ll even be gracious about it. Maybe they won’t tell you museums are boring, or complain when you stop to read every roadside sign proclaiming its historical interest. But, because I’m into honesty these days, I assure you, that unless the person of uncommon valor is your mother or a very doting aunt, they don’t want to be there, and you’ll have been selfish to accept their offer. (Even if Uncle Lou insists he’s happy to sit in the car reading brochures all day, it’s wrong of you to let him.) And no matter how generous a soul serves as your chaperone, they don’t want to know that you own a copy of every rendition of ‘Scarborough Fair’ ever recorded (much less actually listen to them), they don’t want you to drive with the windows down, and they don’t want to hear your impromptu lecture on the the social and economic implications of martial law in mining camps. (So much for your measure of freedom, or the other person’s.)
The simple truth is this: if all you can go on is a road trip, you can either do what you want, or what someone else wants. And if you’re going to do what you want, then you’re going to feel guilty, either for dragging an unwilling companion along with you, or for going alone and making people worry unduly. You’re an adult, you can do what you darned well please – but it’s going to be expensive, and one way or another, people will think you’re a jerk.
Suddenly the word pauper, italics and all, doesn’t look so bad.