Working in Manhattan didn't exactly feel like a vacation. We were bound to our computers during the weekdays, mere feet from one another, contorted by the worst ergonomics possible. Coding from a sofa feels like a breakfast-in-bed luxury for the first few days, but then turns into a certain kind of bedridden-needs-breakfast.
On the horizon for 2013 vacation proper were the final two ever UK weekends for All Tomorrow's Parties, the music festival for music fans that hate music festivals. A quick jaunt to Paris (my first time in France) was a lovely bit of escape from playing the role of rooster in our 6-person henhouse.
I'm normally of the mindset that the more work you put into organizing your trip, the more fun you can have in letting go once you are there. While "winging it" certainly has its advantages, I typically only save that for slow travel, and slow travel off-season. I quickly realized in my living among 5 other people that I was in no way a wh[at/en]ever roommate, and perhaps I've turned into a four-letter creature of comfort.
There's a certain kind of mental shift you go through in your younger years. You become charmed by unusual philosophy (fuck you Ayn), jaded by hierarchy and authority (fuck you Hubbard), and often come to the conclusion that the people in charge are as-if-not-more clueless than the ant you realize you are. Unfortunately hippie hugs and chill pills are useless in the face of why-are-there-no-clean-coffee-mugs and god-dammit-my-socks-are-wet-again.
I slowly realized that communal living is all about establishing lowest common expectations, and there's usually one person that wants the bar higher than everyone else. This marked the first time I've been that person, and it was interesting to see just how much the cheese stood alone. Benevolent dictatorships are in no way the democratization of friendship, but in both business and otherwise: they get shit done.
I've historically saved Thanksgiving for friends and Christmas for family - savoring the vast differences in the gatherings year after year. Previous Thanksgiving highlights were renting houses on the Oregon coast for the sole purpose of slow-moving gluttony and excuses for extended road trips. This year the six of us spent far too much money on a single night in a fantastic London flat. The owner was leaving as we were arriving, her partner wearing a chainmail coif in a non-ironic manner, her son of years past artfully featured in giant photo-frames scattered around the 4-floor house. The glitter-covered horror movie posters completed the wonderful surreality in an otherwise modern, uppity home. We were by far the loudest Brits in a nearby Indian restaurant, and coming back to a chilled, celebratory, duty-free bottle of Veuve Clicquot was the perfect pinnacle to this feast so very far away from home.
Flying back to New York was shortly followed by flying back to Seattle, and the silence in being back is near-deafening (but that could easily be the lack of car horns). There is a palpable gap when you remove yourself from the social flow, and re-insertion often comes with the answer to the question "will I be missed when I'm gone?". My closest circle is either thinly spread across the world or knee-deep in babies, and I'm struggling a bit trying to count time in the double dutch back home.
Though I must say the ease and thrill of leaving will never ever give you that warm sense of joy in opening your actual front door - utterly exhausted, and forever thankful.
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