Byline: Mary Schmich
Jun. 7--One college summer when I worked in Yosemite National Park, a dream getaway for millions, my tentmate and I dreamed of our own getaways--in the nearby town of Merced, Calif. A getaway in Merced?
Merced, at least in those days, was an unhip little burg at the park's edge whose primary charm was a mediocre Chinese restaurant. And yet for me and my tentmate, held hostage by our jobs in the picturesque mountains, boring old Merced offered the key ingredient for a summer getaway: a reprieve from habit and obligation. For most of us, summer is the season for getaways. Every time the season comes, I think again about the universal need to escape our ordinary lives.
More than once, I've gone somewhere that we city dwellers would think of as an adventure getaway only to discover that the local people had gotten away to somewhere else. Once on a story assignment, I went to a village in St. Lawrence Island, Alaska, only to discover that the Yupik Eskimos who lived there were off camping, trying to get away from the stress of village life. Another time, also on assignment, I went to Chatham Island, New Zealand, 500 miles off the mainland. But no one was around to interview because, well, yes, they'd all gone off camping to escape the phone, the TV, neighbors, work and the assorted other hair shirts of their ordinary lives. A couple of times I've joined the legions of other Americans who flee to Paris in the summer--and been reminded that in August Parisians flee their oppressive city for the beaches. Over and over, from place to place, I learn this basic lesson: No matter where or how you live, you need to get away. However much you love your family, your friends, your job or your latest home improvement, and even if you're not one of us battered urbanites, daily life often feels like metal bars around your brain and heart. And so we describe vacation as if we're on the lam: We flee, escape, get away. And what are we escaping? Not so much a place as duty and routine. Routine, or so it feels, denies us access to our finest selves, our highest purpose, a full measure of pleasure. If only we could get away, then we would wake up. Calm down. Be happier and healthier. Do more of this and less of that.
If only we could get away, we could march to the beat of our true natures, not to the tom-toms of the alarm clock, the boss, the 24/7 CNN roundup. If only we could get away, we could refuel the mental tank, wash the mental windshield, reset the mental speedometer and think of better metaphors. Of course, one person's idea of a getaway is another's idea of jail. I spent last week on a getaway that would torment anyone whose idea of freedom is Las Vegas. The place I went had no electricity in the guest rooms; no cell phone reception; no radio, TV, newspapers or Internet. If you insisted on using your laptop, it cost $10 an hour to recharge. Kerosene lamps provided the only light at night. There was nowhere to drive except up the 14-mile dirt mountain road you came in on. The noisiest thing around was a creek. And while I was enjoying my no-tech getaway, bands of tourists who prefer their getaways with sound and speed were traipsing through Chicago. But we're all seeking a version of the same thing--refreshment and renewal in the truest sense of the words. When you switch your place, you shift your rhythms. And when you shift the rhythms right, ordinary life starts to feel more like a dance and less like a ride on a jerky bus. The best getaways are the ones that leave you ready to resume your old routines without feeling desperate for a getaway. For at least another week or so. mschmich@tribune.com
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