If It Was Easy, They'd Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon (27 page)

“Do we have an air mattress?” I asked, surveying the towering piles of camping gear, every last bit of which seemed to be the same shade of camo-puke green. I’d been camping exactly once in my life, as a child, and the only thing I remembered about the experience was the neat orange shag carpet that lined the roof of the Winnebago. I had dabbled in Brownies but didn’t quite make it to Girl Scouts, and I had never slept in a tent in my life. You could leave me alone in a room with nothing but two sticks for all of eternity and it would never occur to me to rub them together and see what happened. I’d said yes to camping easily, because I hadn’t really given the idea any thorough thought. Once I had, I have to admit that the knowledge that the only thing between me and the God-knows-what that was lurking in the forest was a flimsy sheet of nylon unnerved me more than a little bit. Plus, what if it was cold? What if it was hot? What if it rained? And how
did
a bear shit in the woods? But I was trying to be game, so I purposely employed the “royal we” construction there, because we were married now—and apparently
we
were campers.

“We have inflatable sleeping mats,” Joe replied.

“Can I see them?” I asked, trying really hard not to sound too skeptical.

Joe handed me a tiny bag.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Our sleeping mats,” he said.

I looked at the sack in my hand. It was smaller than the lingerie bag I take on a long weekend away.

“I’m going to get an air mattress,” I informed him.

When we were all packed up, the truck looked like it belonged to a family of nine about to embark on a crosscountry expedition. We had lanterns and propane tanks, firewood and bear spray (Dear God, we had
bear spray
?), bug repellent and biodegradable soap, hiking boots and hydrocortisone, a cooler full of booze and a massive three-room tent we had affectionately dubbed the Taj Mahal. Oh, and a king-size pillow-top air mattress that I planned to lovingly envelop in our butteriest sheets and top with a fluffy down comforter.

“You’re not serious,” Joe demanded when I’d set up the Taj’s master suite. The luxurious bed was flanked on either side by a pair of upturned crates serving as nightstands; on top of the crates stood matching lanterns. Our pillows from home perched happily at the bed’s head; there was a small rug at the foot of it all for our dog, Sam, to curl up on.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, hurt. I thought the whole thing was impossibly cozy.

“We’re
camping
, Jenna,” Joe reminded me unnecessarily.

“Oh, I didn’t realize that meant we had to be miserably uncomfortable and sleep on a bed of rocks and freeze our asses off,” I pouted.

“It doesn’t mean
that
,” he replied, sounding more than a little defensive. “It’s just that it doesn’t really feel like camping if you bring the whole goddamned house with you.”

“So it
does
mean that!” I accused. “You think it’s a more
authentic camping experience
if we are cold and uncomfortable and drink disgusting instant coffee and eat beans out of a can instead of steak on a real plate. Admit it.”

“That’s not true,” he said, utterly without conviction. And then the last part of my statement seemed to register. “Did you bring plates? And
steaks
?”

“Of course I brought plates and steaks!” I howled. “And Starbucks coffee and half-and-half and homemade lemon scones. Do you have a problem with that?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Joe said, shaking his head.

I
was unbelievable? Unbelievable!

After roughing it up and down the California coast, I have to say that one of my favorite rustic retreats is a central California hotspot called El Capitan Canyon, conveniently located about twenty minutes from my front door. Technically a campground, the canyon claims on its website to cater to “luxury campers,” which if I have to classify myself as any sort of camper, that’s the one I’d choose. You’re welcome to pitch a tent at El Cap, as it’s known, but why would you when you can bunk in a charming two-room cedar cabin that features a fireplace, full-size refrigerator, wraparound deck, enormous soaking tub, and a handy gas grill? Before you say “What’s the point?” let me draw your attention to the fact that the deluxe cabins have skylights
and
outdoor showers
and
huge glass French doors, so there are ample opportunities to enjoy all of nature’s wondrous bounties that surround your pastoral pad. Plus the cabins don’t have honor bars or room service, which means you have to remember to bring your own Pringles and smoked almonds, and if you forget your corkscrew, there’s no bellhop on the property to rescue you, so it’s not like you’re staying at the Bellagio or anything.

“Do me a favor,” my sister said after I sent her the link to El Cap’s website and told her we’d be spending two nights there during an upcoming visit. “Call it ‘staying in the cabins,’ not
camping
.”

“Okay, but why?” I asked.

“Because if my husband and kids think you can camp like this, I’ll never be able to get them to sleep in a tent again,” she explained.

It took the better part of a decade to help Joe revise his camping definition to look a little more like mine, and on more than one group outing we have sat hungrily watching our friends inhale their hot dogs and beans while waiting for our prosciutto-stuffed chicken breasts and marinated portobello mushrooms to cook. But in the morning, it is always
them
asking
us
if we can spare a cup of French roast or a splash of cream; never the other way around.

My husband and I travel quite a bit, and he can endure discomfort much better than I can. Because of this I have had quite a few meltdowns, including one very famous one at Kensington Palace when I had had enough walking and wanted to take a cab; you know, a car you pay money for? My husband had a big problem with cabs . . . until my meltdown in front of Princess Diana’s palace. It was loud and quite legendary. Now he knows that wherever we are, if I say the C-word he starts whistling.

RANDEE

 

 

Regardless of whether you are pitching a tent or shacking up in deluxe accommodations, vacations are fun! You get to see the world, take a break from your hectic life at home (although you will have your laptop and your BlackBerry and your iPad along so that you can still feel “connected” to the home you couldn’t wait to get away from), enjoy unfamiliar cuisine, and fight in an entirely unfamiliar setting over new and different things. If you go somewhere exotic—and by exotic I mean anywhere the road signs aren’t also written in English or they drive on a different side of the road than you’re used to—the opportunities to claw at one another’s eyeballs are virtually endless.

Over the years Joe and I have defaulted to pretty static travel roles: He is the pilot and I am the navigator. And I have to say we are both extremely competent in our positions. Nevertheless, because he won’t let me buy a new car that has that sultry gal who tosses out handy navigational tips living inside the dashboard, there is unfailingly a midjourney moment (or seventeen) that looks like this:

Let me just start by saying my husband and I have very different definitions of the word
vacation
. For starters, he is a resort guy. His happy vacation is Hawaii or Palm Desert, whereas mine is New York City or San Miguel de Allende. I go away to see new cool cultural and art things; he goes away to relax and play golf. As I write this, we are in Palm Springs. He is on the balcony, which overlooks the eleventh hole (that’s a golf term), and he’s watching live, in-person, amateur golf. How fucking boring is that? Not to use a cliché or anything, but watching paint dry has
got
to be more interesting than watching golf. I’ve been referring to our balcony as the Golf Channel. I think he could sit there all day. He talks to me about golf (players, tournaments, shots), and he’ll even say “I’m boring you, aren’t I?” Of course he’s boring me. Bugging me? No. Boring me? Totally.

KIM

 

 

Although we almost always spar when we’re en route somewhere, usually we are speaking again by the time we reach our destination. This is handy because it absolutely takes two people to corral the kids and collect the bags and dole out the dollar bills to the fourteen people who are patiently waiting for a tip before you’ve even put the car in park.

“So what do you want to do?” I always ask as soon as Joe has finished unpacking his bags. Yeah, he’s that guy who fully moves into a hotel room immediately upon entering it, even if he’s going to be there for only one night. He always insists on taking the side of the bed nearest the door, too, an extremely chivalrous move born of the watertight “the axe murderers will have to get by me to get to you” argument.

“We’re doing it,” he replies, stretching out on the bed and clicking on the TV. “Grab me a beer out of the honor bar, will you?”

One of the things I love most about my husband is how generous he is on vacation. Not that he’s ever stingy at home, because he absolutely isn’t, but he goes from being the poster boy for practical, conservative spenders everywhere to Drinks-Are-on-Me Dude, and it’s one of the best reasons to go through the hassle of going somewhere besides vacation sex.

“You want it?” he’ll ask when he sees me fondling some trinket or another in the hotel gift shop. “Get it!”

“No, I don’t want to split an appetizer,” he’ll say as we scan our dinner menus. “Get your own. And save room for dessert!”

“Wow, they actually charge fourteen dollars for a can of macadamia nuts,” he’ll remark, tipping back the diminutive container and downing at least eleven dollars’ worth of nuts in a single swallow.

Even though we fight and probably because he lets me buy a lot of stuff, Joe and I have taken some amazing trips over the years and have had pretty great travel luck. We rarely lose our luggage, we’ve never regretted not forking over for the rental car company’s added collision insurance, and I only
once
had to go to the ER in a foreign country for a shot in the ass after waking up with what I was convinced was a brain aneurysm but turned out to be vertigo. Our family did spend a miserable week stuck in a cabin in Tahoe when a nasty stomach bug tore its way through our collective intestines, but we were staying with friends so at least we had someone to bring us Gatorade and fresh sheets and towels.

My husband is lazy, plain and simple. He is a travel writer and gets a ton of free things from his trips. He brings them home and leaves them lying around. These free things are not items that he wishes to keep; he is just too lazy to throw or give them away. I have offered to discard some of them, but he is particular and says that he would like to do it himself. But he has never hit me or cheated on me, and in spite of his annoying habit of being lazy, he sometimes carries my heavy bags up the stairs of our apartment after long trips.

LAURA

 

 

At the risk of stating the blaringly obvious, taking a trip requires a colossal amount of work, and I’m not even including the years you have to toil away at a soul-numbing job to make enough money to afford one. I’m talking about everything that leads up to that moment when your bags are packed and waiting by the front door, the mail has been put on hold, the gas has been properly shut off, and you are
out of there
! Just as soon as you find your fucking keys.

I have a pre-vacation to-do checklist that spans several days and includes admittedly ridiculous things like “pack clothes.” It’s not as if I’ve ever found myself checking into a hotel room and had the porter ask if he could help me with my bags only to discover that I had forgotten to pack any. Having this task on my list, however, provides another handy item I can cross off when it’s finished, resulting in a false sense of accomplishment that I rather enjoy.

If you’re anything like me, here’s how the pre-trip preparations look. Let’s start by assuming that the destination is a given, for example the annual trip to see the in-laws in Florida. (Because if you’re going away purely for sport, you can factor in an additional 357 glitches, issues, and arguments such as a debate over the merits of really experiencing the rain forest versus not having wireless Internet access from your room.) Picking a date is fun, if you enjoy spending days on end trying to juggle work and school and soccer and gymnastics schedules. Just when you think you’ve got the ideal itinerary, you remember your husband’s weekly, nonnegotiable basketball game, which means you can never be anywhere but home on a Thursday night. Ever. You settle for the backup itinerary, the one that has you traveling at unholy hours with a total of four five-hour layovers and two plane changes—which you loathe because you hate flying, especially the taking off and landing parts—but what can you do? You add
Get Xanax prescription refilled
to your list.