I wish I was back in school. When I was growing up, the school year would begin with the teacher asking us to write a paper: “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”
Most children would read of their adventures to places like Six Flags and Branson, or visiting relatives in more exciting places than St. Joe, Mo.
For me, though, every year it was the same. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
We didn’t go anywhere or do anything except maybe a drive-in movie. Oh, there was the time that my dad picked up an old used boat and took us to the lake. I must stress that this boat was the result of a trade my dad made, having won (and I use the term “won” loosely) a dilapidated moped in a poker game.
Now that you have an idea of the boat’s worth, picture a family of six wearing orange-and-mold life jackets, sitting in it while it’s towed from the middle of a lake called Contrary. Not once, not twice, but three times.
I was to begin the fifth grade that year and you can bet I wouldn’t be writing about that. I could only hope that my identity that day was concealed by the red flush of embarrassment and the green mold that had rubbed off on my arms and neck.
In 1986, my agent and I went to Costa Rica after she saw an “amazing deal” advertised for a tropical oceanside resort with black sand beaches. What they failed to mention was there was nothing else. No radio, no television, no air conditioning. No pool, no bar/restaurant and no telephone.
We had to send a telegram to the transportation company, whose van was no doubt just 20 minutes into its return trip to San Jose when we made these discoveries. We had to wait two whole days for that guy to come and get us. I read a trashy Danielle Steel novel twice and fashioned the aluminum foil that came on our meals into aerodynamic forms which we would race down our twin beds, propelled by the breeze of the ceiling fan.
When my kids came along, I wanted to make sure they had something to write at the beginning of the school year, so we took an annual summer vacation to the area around Charleston, S.C., for our yearly dose of fried food, history and patriotism.
But they grow up and go their own ways, which don’t usually involve spending 12 hours in a minivan with their parents to “relive the olden days.”
So this summer, I’ve more than made up for it. I’ve become the new Don Webster, the white-haired former weatherman for Channel 5 who has spent his retirement hosting trips to exotic locations.
My first was July 5-15, when I co-hosted a trip to Ireland, accompanied by my daughter. The magical Emerald Isle is everything they say it is, truly beautiful and filled with the kindest and funniest people you’ll ever meet. There was something about the country that spoke to my soul and as I look at the pictures, I am transported back again to lush green hillsides dotted with sheep, and the pubs full of people and pints and pleasant conversation.
Our group visited the beautiful Cliffs of Moher, and felt the eeriness in Cobh, where the Titanic picked up its last passengers in Cork Harbor and the original buildings, streets and piers are still standing. We learned about busking in Galway, where musicians played on the streets for donations, and we even watched salmon try to swim upstream.
Most of all, we made memories, my daughter and I. I was a happy mom who got to give that opportunity to my girl.
Thankfully, I did not give her the hideous illness I’m sure I contracted after kissing the Blarney Stone at the Blarney Castle. It’s supposed to give you the gift of eloquence. All I got was a really bad bug that I carried home with me and which manifested itself two days later, when I was back at the airport to begin hosting a trip to the Canadian Rockies with my youngest sister and about 40 adventurous Cleveland-area folks.
Once we crossed into Canada, I was only down for about a day before I joined the liveliest group of “mostly retirees” that you ever did see. Our oldest guest, Tom Coltman, told me he was 93 and his companion, Roberta Hill, was 91. They didn’t flinch crossing the Capilano Suspension Bridge in Vancouver, which spans 450 feet across and 230 feet above a river.
He was a recently retired dairy farmer, and it was my understanding that he didn’t travel much and he was going to see everything there was to see.
I got lost with two sisters from Brunswick in the famous 53-acre Butchart Gardens in Victoria. In Banff, I hoisted a German beer in an Irish pub with our Serbian guest from Parma. My sister and I took pictures of people taking pictures at Lake Louise, and from the safety of our motor coach we all watched a grizzly bear eating berries about 30 yards away.
Yes, it was a grand summer. I saw things I’ve only seen in movies and I forged greater bonds with the two women closest to me. I learned you’re never too old for an adventure, and that what travel writer Tim Cahill said is true: “A journey is best measured in friends rather than miles.”
Two countries in 22 days and 70 new friends.
And that, dear reader, is how I spent my summer vacation.
Contact Robin Swoboda at Robinswoboda@outlook.com.