DP and I have been together for nine years, and this is the second trip longer than a weekend that we’ve taken that didn’t involve visiting family. The first trip was our honeymoon. For the honeymoon, we went to a cabin in the woods and chilled the fuck out after our wedding.
We travel the way we live. During our honeymoon, we sat on the porch and stared at the mountains (avoiding the truly terrifying spiders under the eaves). We drove around some scenic towns, ate well, walked in the woods, and watched rivers and waterfalls from small-town bridges on our way to bookstores and then a brewpub (What can I say? Vermont is heaven on earth. If only it weren’t so cold.).
“You’re going to [city redacted]?” Our friends said about this trip. “You must do [this], you must see [that]!” For the first few days we wandered around and got acquainted with the neighborhood where we were staying. But yesterday we went to the famous part of the city. Surrounded by tourists and crowds, we immediately became squirrely.
Maybe there’s something we’re missing? We tried to hold on long enough to go hear some music. But you know what? We hate crowds. We hate tourists. We are not smoky jazz bar people. And so we took a cab back to where were staying, and then went out to the funky bar we went the first night we got here.
“Did you guys just move to the neighborhood?” the bartender asked. It was a slow night, and we were so obviously at home at the black-painted bar. We could smell the smoker from the street.
I ate duck hearts and veal tongues and bacon brownies. The owner came out and watched us eat, to see how we liked duck hearts, veal tongues, and bacon brownies. They comped us drinks. The bartender and I shared stories about barbecue, and the guy at the end of the bar talked to DP about bicycles. No one was creepy or irritating or sloppy drunk (not even me).
“I wish,” I said.
How do you travel?