Mrs. T and I encountered some difficulties when we took a vacation earlier this summer, most of which, I freely confess, were of my making. Having had only modest experience with full-fledged vacations, I crammed too many activities and too much travel into not enough time, making us completely exhausted by the time we returned home. We then launched into the usual frenzied coast-to-coast round of visits to summer theater festivals, which ran us both down still further. At some point along the way, it occurred to me that what we needed was a second vacation–one during which we would do nothing whatsoever. To this end, I hacked eight precious days out of my schedule, and last Monday we packed our bags, hopped in the car, and headed west.
Never let it be said that nobody learns from experience. This time around I arranged things so that I had no shows to see, no deadlines to hit, and no “improving books” (thank you, Jeeves) to read in my spare time. The only books that I brought with me on the trip were a half-dozen mysteries by Rex Stout and Georges Simenon. I packed my laptop and checked my e-mail more or less regularly, but I kept my communication with the outside world down to a fairly bare minimum, and I didn’t write a single word for publication, or for this blog, while Mrs. T and I were on the move.
Longtime readers won’t be surprised to hear that we divided our time between Bridgeton House in Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania, and Ecce Bed and Breakfast in Barryville, New York, two lovely, immaculately run inns situated near different stretches of the Delaware River. I’ve raved about both places before–Mrs. T and I actually honeymooned at Ecce–and I knew that our hosts would treat us like crowned royalty. We slept well, ate well, and spent long spans of time listening to the Delaware River flow. Otherwise we emulated the sound advice that Jack Nicholson failed to take in Chinatown: we did as little as possible.
The effects of all this masterly inactivity can be summed up in ten happy words: I can’t remember the last time I felt so rested. I knew I was tired, but I didn’t fully understand how tightly wrapped I was until the knots came undone and I started to relax. By the time we returned to Connecticut late yesterday afternoon, I’d shed my cares and felt like myself again–or, rather, like the self I ought to be. It helped that I took further care to arrange things so that I won’t be going back to work again until Saturday, when I’ll return to New York to see a preview of Edward Albee’s new play. Until then I mean to ease back into the world an inch or two at a time.
And then? The trick will be to figure out to unwind in the interstices of my working life. I don’t expect to be very good at it. I have half a lifetime of bad habits to unlearn, and some “lessons” have to be learned over and over again. But at least I’ve found out how it feels to be completely unwound, thanks to Mrs. T and our kindly hosts at Bridgeton House and Ecce. May their efforts not be in vain!
Terry Teachout on the arts in New York City
