Once in Santa Fe, I stayed with my 4-year-old daughter at a prissy, disapproving B&B – the kind of place where you never realize you’re supposed to put your wine glass down on a coaster until it’s too late. The kind of place where you’re scared to dry your hands on the towels put there for that purpose.
A “three-course gourmet breakfast” was promised, but Coco and I woke up two hours early, at loose ends.
“Besides,” she said, “don’t you think it’ll be an icky breakfast?”
Oh, did I. I could imagine the teapot cozies and the fussy little spoon in the crystal sugar bowl. Worse, I could actually smell the flavored coffee.
We packed up in a hurry and headed for the car. On the way out, though, we were busted by our landlady.
“You’re not leaving before breakfast,” she informed us. “You made a reservation.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” I said. “We’re just going to … check out the scenery, and all.”
Of course that was a lie. We burned rubber on the way out of the place, never to return.
Good riddance
It was silly. I was an adult – surely I wasn’t afraid to state my plans to some innkeeper? And it was definitely sneaky. But it was also fun. We felt like we were getting away with something. Getting away with something is one of the great joys of vacation, because you have very little chance of doing it at home. Cutting and running can be an effervescent thing. I’ve done it plenty.
Years ago, I was invited to join a dozen friends in squeezing into a two-room Vail condo. It was cheap – until you added the shocking cost of the lift ticket. We carpooled, which garanteed I would feel trapped before we hit Idaho Springs. Once ensconced in front of the large TV, we began drinking watery light beer. And then everyone piled over to a raucous bar, where the band surged right into the execrable ’80s song “I Can’t Go for That,” which was never my idea of a reason to dance. Oh, and there were upside-down margaritas. It was singles-o-rama, and I was single, but I chose that moment to go outside “for some air.”
Out on the sidewalk, I saw an older couple loading their suitcases into a car. Were they going home to Denver? They certainly were. I’ll never forget the airy sensation of watching Vail disappear behind me as I sat in their back seat feeling fatalistic about the change of clothes I never saw again.
Retreat is oh so sweet
On another, more exhaustive trip, my family and I holed up in a guest house in Ho Chi Minh City, so hot our shorts stuck to our legs, our food sloshed in our stomachs, and our baby had a rash. For a few days we appreciated how lucky we were to be in such an exotic place, dodging cyclos and cement trucks and breathing incense in ancient pagodas. But when the baby developed a fever, I ran the few blocks to Singapore Airlines and sweated all over their counter until they allowed us to decamp for Hanoi right away. I was reminded of my mother’s stick-it-out principle, but I said the heck with it.
Not that there’s any reasonable explanation for this, but I swear I even like leaving places that are unique, absorbing, chic and unforgettable. Making a mad taxi dash to LaGuardia, the Empire State Building winking goodbye. Driving out of the magnificent Moab landscape, back into the regularity of Grand Junction. Unwrapping my last New Orleans muffaletta as I walk down the jetway.
Pedaling toward heaven
For antsy types like me, a bike trip is heaven. Every morning, seconds after sunrise, you take off without a backward glance. Every afternoon, when you’re so depleted that even Nilla Wafers taste good, you arrive at a new town, tank up at its Elks Club Supper, shop at its Woolworth’s and shower at its high school. Next morning, sayonara. You love ’em and leave ’em, and they’re as glad to get rid of you as you are of them.
You’d think the longing for home is at the root of this whole syndrome, but you’d be wrong. I like home just fine – in particular the coffee, the mattress and the dogs – but I’m not married to it. You’ve got your departures, and you’ve got your arrivals, and one of my favorite things to do is move from one to the other without spending too much time in either place. It’s fickle. It’s also the truth.
But, wow, look at the time! I must be going.
Robin Chotzinoff is a freelance writer who lives in Evergreen.
