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I haven’t exactly said either to Jay while traveling, but of course actions speak louder than words. In any case, I didn’t bicker with him over our dessert of fresh, quartered, naked figs served by candlelight on the French Mediterranean and garnished with just-as-fresh raspberries. We were on our honeymoon. Not that that meant we were fully compatible travelers yet.
When we first met (out in North Dakota, made almost exotic by our fascination with each other) we spent the last of the four days up late talking at a Perkins. (Again, our enthusiasm provided all the necessary charm). Though we hadn’t kissed or even really flirted yet, we planned our world travels together excitedly, I promising to take him to Prague and around Belgium, and he vowing to show me India.
That was October. By March we had been engaged for three months and I had invited him to join me on my trip to England to visit my granny in Leicester and meet my great-uncle Peter and his family in Manchester. Jay is Irish by heritage, so we added in a train trip through Wales and a ferry ride to Dublin (and then took a night buss across the country to Ennis, the hometown of his ancestors).
It was a full trip, made up of both the new and familiar. We had home cooked Belgian dishes with my granny but spent more time exploring skin than the nearby village (which I had seen many times before). Then, on to Nottingham and uncharted territories of both place, people and, to my surprise, self.
By the time we got to Manchester, I was so surly I could hardly stand myself. Or understand myself. I loved traveling, I loved Jay--what was wrong with me?At Nottingham castle he climbed ivy-covered stones and swung like a kid fromthe long metal railing going up the drive. I took his picture only to mask my annoyance. When I posed outside of Grumpy’s pub my scowl was heartfelt and a relief.
So, after meeting my relatives I finally begged for a chance to split up. We each photographed the city independently, and I felt much more friendly when we reunited at the fountain by the train station. But I also felt like a bad dog who had snapped at the leash and run off for the day and now, at dinner time, had snuck guiltily back--covered in muck and trying to appear winning and penitent, but not regretting a moment of independence.
That night we took a walk after supper and found a Gilbert & Sullivan play at a small theatre. Afterward, in an attempt to bridge the gap with my rather silent fiance, I made up a story on the spot as both explanation and request for forgiveness. It went something like this:
Turkey Lurkey and the Big Hurrumph were out walking. Turkey Lurkey was so happy! “Look at the sunshine! Look at the swans! Look at the red telephone booths!”
“Hurrumph. Hurrumph, hurrumph,” said the Big Hurrumph and looked at nothing.
“Oh, let’s go to that cafe!” cried Turkey Lurkey in excitement.
“Hurrumph,” said the Big Hurrumph and shuffled by.
“Ok, ok, I know--let’s go to that museum! Or to that theatre!”
“Hurrumph. Hurrumph!”
No matter what happy little Turkey Lurkey suggested, the Big Hurrumph refused, settling deeper and deeper into the gloom, until at last it spread to Turkey Lurkey and he grew quiet.
They walked in silence for a while. And for a while longer. Turkey Lurkey didn’t point out the funny mail boxes or the double-decker buses. He didn’t suggest they get cornettos and walk through the park. The light beganto fade but Turkey Lurkey didn’t seem to notice anything. The Big Hurrumph started to miss all his cheerful chatter.
“Hurrumph?” said the Big Hurrumph hopefully, looking over at Turkey Lurkey from under his shaggy eyebrows.
Turkey Lurkey didn’t look up.
“Hurrumph, hurrumph?” said the Big Hurrumph again, opening his mouth into a tentative, craggy grin.
Turkey Lurkey only sniffed.
“Hurrumph!” cried the Big Hurrumph. “Hurrumph, hurrumph!” He hopped up and down and pointed at the mail boxes. He pointed at the swimming swans. He pointed at the tiny cars going the wrong way down the narrow roads.
Turkey Lurkey straightened up a bit and looked warily at him.
“Hurrumph, hurrumph, hurrumph!” he shouted madly. He grabbed Turkey Lurkey’s hand. “Hurrumph, hurrumph!” and he started to run; he started to skip as hard as he could. Turkey Lurkey dragged along in amazement for a moment, then a grin broke out over his face and he kicked up his feet, too, and Turkey Lurkey and the Big Hurrumph skipped crazily down the street until at last they came to a little cafe spilling light out onto the cobblestones and they ate chocolate eclairs and lady fingers and drank Irish coffee and got whipped cream mustaches and laughed and laughed, though the Big Hurrumph’s laugh still did sound mostly like “hurrumph.”
Jay and I walked in silence for a while after I told that story, me still with the guilty-hopeful-naughty puppy look. We both knew which one of us was which in the story. How did he feel about a future spouse like that? Turns out, the same way Turkey Lurkey felt about the Big Hurrumph. We held hands the rest of the way home.
Sometimes I am still the Big Hurrumph, but at least now I know it, and he knows it and we don’t feel so doomed about taking precautions: allowing me time to explore alone. Because for whatever reason, that is how I still think of travel. Maybe it came down in my blood from my solo-traveler mother. Maybe it’s my artistic nature or my oldest sibling nature or the fact that though I’m very socially capable, I’m actually an introvert. Regardless of the reason, our trip to England taught me that no matter where I travel or with whom, (and no matter how much I love either) I must take a half or full day to myself by Day Three to keep the Hurrumph at bay.
Still, I romantically mused that this need for Me Time wouldn’t apply to our honeymoon. I was wrong, but thankfully we recognized the tell-tale signs right away. Jay left our little hotel for the morning and I wrote in my journal on the balcony looking out over the residential part of the city and the sea beyond. With much less fuss than the first time we resuscitated our enjoyment of the Cote d’Azure. We walked to the beach and bought a parasailing ride in a double-harness parachute pulled high up over the waves by a skipping speed boat, the rest of the world far below us and the two of us dangling our feet and holding hands in complete delight. We swam and dove, we watched old men playing bocce ball. We ate crepes and read aloud to each other on the sand. That night, after a day full of both time alone and time together, after a rich meal and a bottle of mellow wine, we savored the complementary freshness and simplicity of our tender figs, our thin-skinned raspberries, and we began to learn how to do the same with ourselves.
*from “The Art of Travel” by Alain de Boton
**from “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran
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