Every time I’ve least wanted to get away has been a time when I’ve most needed to getaway.
A few weeks ago, pressed by all that needs to get done, apprehensive about travel, especially in a Covid world, I was ready to erase this destination date from my calendar. But, I went anyway, and as usual, was happy and grateful that I did.
Work is always waiting; the opportunity for special memories with family isn’t. How often do I get to step into crystal clear water on a tropical beach, watch my grandchildren’s wonder-filled eyes at the waves splashing over them, peek into the ocean’s underworld while snorkeling, and start each day with a breakfast omelet?
The time I had dreaded passed too quickly; it seemed that it was over as soon as it started. Stepping on the plane for the return flight, the stewardess kept repeating to everyone who boarded: “Welcome back to reality. Welcome back to reality. Welcome back to reality.”
I didn’t like it, not a bit. Beneath my mask, I snarled; I grimaced; I gnashed my teeth. I felt like I did when as a high school teenager, in a deep sleep, my dad would barge in my bedroom in the morning and announce: “Time to get up, better get going.”
What was worse, the stewardess seemed to enjoy reminding us, like she was a grade school teacher reminding kids recess was over and it was time to get in our desks.
The fact is, I love my “real” world. Even on chilly days in October and November, I sit for at least a while on my back patio and take in God’s handiwork: the sun highlighting the field behind my house early in the morning, the sweet aroma of fresh coffee brewing, the routine of work I love. I have all I need right here. I suppose that’s why someone usually has to nudge me into going somewhere else for a vacation.
But once away, I discover I like that world as well. Sipping my coffee, pouring more butter and syrup on my French toast, I wondered: what would it be like to live this way? What if someone stood close, ready to refill my coffee cup? What if I could take a stroll along a sleepy avenue, enjoy lunch at a sidewalk café, come back to my resort and sit back in a lounge chair on the beach while watching the sunset? What if that was my “real” world?
If it were, I suppose I would come back to see my relatives in Kentucky, and as I got back on the plane to return to my tropical island, the stewardess might say, “Welcome back to reality,” and I still wouldn’t like what she said.
Travel is good; it opens our eyes; it broadens our horizons. One as spiritually sensitive and theologically astute as St. Augustine recognized the value of appreciating what travel offers: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
Augustine was right, but we do return to our “home page.” That doesn’t mean we can’t bring a little of our travel book back with us.
As I shimmied down the aisle on the airplane, the stewardess was still sing-singing her mantra: “Welcome back to reality. Welcome back to reality. Welcome back to reality.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I thought, “I know digging my toes in the sand on a tropical island, spying exotic fish, and eating a full breakfast each morning is not my “real” world.
But what she couldn’t know is that I had taken a tiny piece of the island’s real estate with me in my imagination, carrying it with me into my world, giving it the freedom to expand the horizons of my reality and stretch my homeplace into something a tad more intriguing, a smidgen more fascinating.
And so, having arrived home, I stepped on my back step, breathed in the crisp night air, looked up at the shining stars, and whispered to myself, “Welcome back to reality.”