When you live far from the place where you grew up, holidays mean freedom from traditional obligations. Without family or in-laws nearby, you can lay a Martha Stewart-inspired Thanksgiving table or eat KFC standing up in front of the sink. You can open presents on your own schedule - no arguing about whether Christmas Eve or morning is the right time. No fighting about whose turn it is to host. You can sleep in. You can go to the movies. No one will complain that you let them down.
I know my preference for holidays free from family is not typical, possibly even unhealthy. It's not that I don't love my family and wish we could be together - I do and I do. But, as this site attests, not all my family holiday memories are rosy. A lot can go wrong - and frequently did. Why push it? I make it a point to see my family several times a year. The holidays are not included in those times.
While others brave pat-downs and blizzards to get to their loved ones, I give a Mona Lisa smile when asked if I'll be visiting family. But I'm quick to point out that I always hated traveling over the holidays. Both my sister and a cousin got married over Thanksgiving weekends, in New York and Milwaukee, respectively. I understand the thought process behind their decisions. I myself got married over a July Fourth weekend. But that no longer seems like such a great idea. (Neither does marriage, but that's another story.)
Of course, now 'tis always the season for crammed flights, delays and jacked-up hotel rates. You don't have to wait for the holidays to suffer like it's the busiest travel day of the year. The airlines are working overtime to make every day a holiday - in the hellish sense, that is. Parents with young children no longer get to board early. No one gets a pillow. Food selection is comparable to your local 7-11, but two or three times the price, and exact change please.
Back in my married days, we always traveled for Thanksgiving, to somewhere a drive or train ride away from Los Angeles: El Encanto in Santa Barbara, the Ojai Valley Inn, the stupendous Hotel del Coronado in San Diego. These beautiful spots were well worth the price. Turkey in a hotel restaurant is always without tears because you don't know anyone else in the room.
These days, I do spend Thanksgiving with family - other people's family. For the past five years, several dear friends have graciously invited me to share the table with them and theirs. The holiday tension in these homes is minimal. I talk to my own family in the morning, then hop in the car. I bring some home-baked food, help with clean-up, and in between bask in a family environment that, although not my own, is warm and welcoming. And not the slightest bit hellish.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Without Reservations
Joseph LaMountain of SparkLight Communications in Alexandria, VA can laugh now about holiday travels, but he wasn't laughing 15 years ago when he took off without reservations. Playing it by ear is not for the squeamish!
Before we were married, my wife and I took our first European vacation over the Christmas holidays. We had little money, and didn't plan very well, but figured that with our names (I'm Joseph and my wife is Mary), could smooth over any potential problems.
On Christmas eve, we departed Geneva, Switzerland we entered Italy's pristine Val D'Aosta region. Absolutely nothing was open. Starving, we pleaded with a local restaurateur to feed us in the late afternoon. He declined even though we could see the place was full of locals enjoying the day. We eventually found a small convenience store that was open and we stocked up on bread, fruit, cheese and water.
Looking for lodging was even more treacherous. We made it to Turin, but nothing was open except a small place near the train station. After a short tour, we realized that it was THE place in town where ladies of ill repute entertained their clients. Other hotels were full and despite our pleading ("Giuseppe et Maria!!"), we had no luck. And then I developed a raging sore throat.
We soldiered on, eventually finding a hotel off the highway in the town of Novara, Italy. I plopped on the bed and consulted my travel guide; Novara's claim to fame is that it is Italy's largest producer of cement. On Christmas Day, through a driving snowstorm in the Appenine Mountains, we made it to the small port town of Portovenere where, the next day, we proceeded to eat a huge meal and drink too much wine.
It was awful at the time, but fifteen years later we can look back on it and laugh.
Before we were married, my wife and I took our first European vacation over the Christmas holidays. We had little money, and didn't plan very well, but figured that with our names (I'm Joseph and my wife is Mary), could smooth over any potential problems.
On Christmas eve, we departed Geneva, Switzerland we entered Italy's pristine Val D'Aosta region. Absolutely nothing was open. Starving, we pleaded with a local restaurateur to feed us in the late afternoon. He declined even though we could see the place was full of locals enjoying the day. We eventually found a small convenience store that was open and we stocked up on bread, fruit, cheese and water.
Looking for lodging was even more treacherous. We made it to Turin, but nothing was open except a small place near the train station. After a short tour, we realized that it was THE place in town where ladies of ill repute entertained their clients. Other hotels were full and despite our pleading ("Giuseppe et Maria!!"), we had no luck. And then I developed a raging sore throat.
We soldiered on, eventually finding a hotel off the highway in the town of Novara, Italy. I plopped on the bed and consulted my travel guide; Novara's claim to fame is that it is Italy's largest producer of cement. On Christmas Day, through a driving snowstorm in the Appenine Mountains, we made it to the small port town of Portovenere where, the next day, we proceeded to eat a huge meal and drink too much wine.
It was awful at the time, but fifteen years later we can look back on it and laugh.
The First (Hellish) Thanksgiving
I've lived through another Thanksgiving. This one was good, or at least relatively calm, although I must admit I drank a lot of wine so I've almost blocked out the slight disagreement on etiquette we had on the way to dinner.
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. The pressure to enjoy being with a dysfunctional family, the nightmare of travel, the overeating—there’s so much that sets up the inevitable disappointment. Other holidays can be nightmares in their own ways, but Thanksgiving will always be number one in my hardened heart.
I wised up years ago: we now check into a hotel or go to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner (her own crazy family is amusing in a way mine can’t be). I refuse to travel by plane or drive more than 100 miles, which precludes seeing immediate family. Overeating remains an issue, but I can’t completely blame the holiday for that.
Despite the coping mechanisms, years of hellish Thanksgivings continue to haunt me, and I know I’m not alone. We all have our history of high-anxiety gatherings with battered, battling or blended families. We all have the dread of seeing those people, and the guilt over the dread.
My first hellish Thanksgiving was when I was 15, the year my parents got divorced. My mother had the misguided idea to invite Dad to dinner. “He probably doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” “Yeah, you’ve seen to that, Mom.” Let the festivities begin!
My friends’ parents fought all the time but stayed married. My parents never fought in front of us—until that Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to be together any more that made them so open in their hatred of each other. Maybe they wanted to stave off those “will you two get back together?” questions from the younger ones. Maybe it really was about the money. All I know is the experience was so traumatic for me and my siblings that all six of us didn’t share a meal again until my wedding 15 years later. And even then, we sat at different tables.
The difference today: these bitter family gatherings are being captured on video and shared with the world. Not everyone is willing to expose the craziness of their own flesh and blood, but luckily for the voyeurs among us, there are plenty who are. Personally, I get a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family when I see how bad some other people have it. Sure, we’re nuts, I know that. But it could always be worse.
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. The pressure to enjoy being with a dysfunctional family, the nightmare of travel, the overeating—there’s so much that sets up the inevitable disappointment. Other holidays can be nightmares in their own ways, but Thanksgiving will always be number one in my hardened heart.
I wised up years ago: we now check into a hotel or go to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner (her own crazy family is amusing in a way mine can’t be). I refuse to travel by plane or drive more than 100 miles, which precludes seeing immediate family. Overeating remains an issue, but I can’t completely blame the holiday for that.
Despite the coping mechanisms, years of hellish Thanksgivings continue to haunt me, and I know I’m not alone. We all have our history of high-anxiety gatherings with battered, battling or blended families. We all have the dread of seeing those people, and the guilt over the dread.
My first hellish Thanksgiving was when I was 15, the year my parents got divorced. My mother had the misguided idea to invite Dad to dinner. “He probably doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” “Yeah, you’ve seen to that, Mom.” Let the festivities begin!
My friends’ parents fought all the time but stayed married. My parents never fought in front of us—until that Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to be together any more that made them so open in their hatred of each other. Maybe they wanted to stave off those “will you two get back together?” questions from the younger ones. Maybe it really was about the money. All I know is the experience was so traumatic for me and my siblings that all six of us didn’t share a meal again until my wedding 15 years later. And even then, we sat at different tables.
The difference today: these bitter family gatherings are being captured on video and shared with the world. Not everyone is willing to expose the craziness of their own flesh and blood, but luckily for the voyeurs among us, there are plenty who are. Personally, I get a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family when I see how bad some other people have it. Sure, we’re nuts, I know that. But it could always be worse.
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