Surprise!

There are things we expect – gravity is a constant, the sun comes up, milk past the “best by” date is to be avoided – so that we don’t have to spend each day reinventing our understanding of the world around us. When we can take some things for granted, the unusual tends to stick out.

While visiting an historic home, we admire the period furnishings, the beautifully detailed moldings and the wire mesh doors in the library bookcases. The upstairs, we are told, is open for viewing but not furnished. We find a warren of rooms, some filled with empty display cases, and a mannequin, but peeking around the corner into a bathroom shower stall, we find the disembodied tentacles of a giant octopus wrapped around an office chair. Maybe this explains the mysterious death of the owners?

One evening on the train I was tired enough to close my eyes and I must have drifted off. Awakened by the jostling of the car, I looked out the window and saw we were going in reverse. As adrenaline activated my flight response, I wondered how I was going to get home, and why no one else seemed bothered in the least. Then I realized that I was in a seat that did not face in the direction of travel. I tried to compose myself as we approached the stop, hoping no one had noticed my hand reaching for the emergency brake.

On the way to a job interview, I headed to the elevator bank. Instead of the normal “UP” button, I was prompted to enter the number of the floor I wanted. When the elevator arrived, I jumped in, the door closed, and I saw there were no buttons inside at all. In the few awful seconds when nothing happened, I took a mental inventory of what foodstuffs I might have in my briefcase for the anticipated extended ordeal (gum, an old peppermint) and how I could avoid soiling my suit while climbing through ceiling hatch into the waiting arms of the fireman. Ding! The door opened on the right floor and I stepped out, a bit dazed and grateful.

I’m used to dodging surprises on city sidewalks: dog doo, take-out leftovers, abandoned electric scooters. Occasionally there’s a dead bird that appears to have dropped unharmed from a limb, feathers intact. I come upon a dead squirrel, not particularly unusual, except that it is outlined in chalk with the words “Ongoing Investigation” lettered next to the body. I look around for the cameras and actors’ trailers of Chicago P.D. I want to write to my alderman about society’s moral decline that allows a rodent to be left on display this way.

When you know where to look, the unending stream of surprises starts to feel like the new normal.

Road Less Traveled

Years ago, any trip would mean finding a hotel. Lately, we’ve been choosing Airbnbs instead. It’s like choosing a local diner instead of the McDonalds near the off-ramp. You may not know exactly what you’ll get, but it’s an adventure in local flavor.

We didn’t book an Airbnb because we were staying for a month and wanted to cook every meal for ourselves. It started when we couldn’t find a hotel close enough to the neighborhood we wanted to visit. A short-term rental wasn’t extravagant and came with the added benefit of a kitchen, even if all we wanted was a very early cup of coffee in our jammies and a place to keep leftovers from a meal. 

For a family trip, renting an apartment meant we could decide to have a carry out meal while watching a movie, do laundry if need be, and plan our days together with maps and notes strewn across the kitchen table. Sure, you might need to wash the odd dish or two, but we got to see what it’s like to have your whole place outfitted from IKEA.

After our very first stay, when we discovered that we were sharing a one-room apartment with the owners (they were very nice but we had to climb a ladder to reach our bed), we learned to study the property listings and read between the lines. “Why is that condo showing us pictures of a flower arrangement instead of the bathroom? They say it’s a two bedroom place, but it looks like two pictures of the same bedroom. Is someone going to have to sleep on the floor?” Still we ended up in the “cozy” apartment that reminded us of a Hobbit dwelling with low ceilings and a very tiny kitchen and bathroom.

Overall, the experience has been delightful. We enjoy slick updated kitchens and luxurious beds, front porches and back decks. Instead of visiting the Starbucks in the hotel lobby, we “live like a local” at the corner coffee shop and bakery, then walk through a nearby historic neighborhood lined with beautiful Victorian homes.

Now Airbnb is promoting adventures. Instead of starting with the location, you pick the type of property. You can stay in a treehouse, a boat, a barn, a castle, a farm, a cave. You can get a grand piano, an artist studio, a pool, a chef’s kitchen. We’ve stayed in some lovely hotels with room service, multiple restaurants, a gym and spa, but I find I’m curious about what it would be like to stay in a camper. I have joked about spending our retirement years roaming the country in an Airstream. Now I find we could stay in a stationary one that somehow contains two queen beds, and is on a lake. This option may ensure a longer retirement if I don’t have to careen down the highway or try to maneuver into a campground parking spot. 

Lazy Day

I imagine myself in a hammock, rocked by gentle breezes, a cool drink at hand. Rather than getting comically twisted in the fabric, I’m cocooned. I feel a nap coming on. Yes, definitely a nap.

I often find myself oversubscribed with tasks and things I feel obliged to do. The condo meeting, volunteer work, the stack of library books. That home improvement project that declines in importance the closer I get to considering it, or the urge to explore summer events or new restaurants I’ve read about. 

The potentially ambitious start to the day is a walk, but the rain drives us back inside. I do some overdue cleaning while rain drums on the skylight. Any ideas I had for galavanting and exploring are dissolving away, and the couch is calling to me. And what erudite diversion should I select? National Geographic? A PBS documentary? Oh no, People magazine.

Our Entertainment Weekly magazine subscription devolved into what we called Entertainment Sporadic until the publishers gave up the print version entirely. As recompense, they are now sending People magazine. So, what may have been a grocery store check-out line guilty pleasure is now squarely on our coffee table with shocking frequency. It is the emblem of my fallen standards, but somehow I can’t face the nearly six month backlog of National Geographic. 

Instead of deepening my understanding of the climate impact on our forests, I am mesmerized by the photos of complete strangers who look like twins, and the identical twins who married identical twins and are now having what look like identical babies! The engagements and divorces of young actors I’ve never heard of, harrowing speculations about the Royals, and someone who was abducted by an internet predator.

It’s like a little vacation from regular life. I’m not thinking about inflation, or war, or the downward trajectory of my 401K. Maybe I’ll work up the energy to make one of the dishes in the back of the magazine, as long as I don’t have to shop for any new ingredients. Maybe this is the day for a carryout delivery. I’ll just lay here for a while longer and think about it.

More!

One of the signs of a good story is when the characters continue to occupy your mind long after the last scene. You imagine what they’ll do next and desperately hope that there’s another chapter somewhere if you could only find it. We long for more, but the proliferation may be more than we asked for.

Some stories are constructed so that the characters can live on for the next adventure. Detectives, in particular, have more than nine lives as they dodge bullets and bad guys. Even after 25 or more in a series, I always wanted more. You may be treated to flashbacks of the protagonist’s youth, pivotal moments in their development, but generally you stay squarely in their life span. 

Star Trek expanded well beyond its beginnings, not just because of the spin-offs and films, but from the fan fiction that strives to keep the characters alive, fills in the empty spaces in the constructed worlds, and imagines alternate outcomes. I continue to be entranced by the different iterations of Spock, whether or not his home planet is destroyed, and the imagined beginnings of inter-stellar travel.

When a tale is crafted so well that the ending is solid and satisfying, what else is there? You go back in time. Imaginative writers think, if you like that character, let’s find out what he was like in his callow youth. So we get to see Endeavour Morse as a brainy and sometimes insufferable upstart policeman. We meet young Anakin and hold our breath as he descends into the Dark Side regardless of Obi Wan’s ministrations. We wonder, who fought Sauron when he first rose to power, and are surprised that the long lives of our beloved elfin characters put them squarely in the story of Rings of Power. Years of death, destruction and debauchery in Game of Thrones apparently wasn’t enough, so we want to see how the Targaryens manage to lose the Iron Throne and their greatest weapons in House of the Dragon.

Now, on the screen, it seems there are only a handful of stories out there. I guess given the cost of producing, a “part three” or a prequel is a safer bet than something new, even if the quality may decline. Our heads are turned when we hear Harry Potter, and the Upside Down. Somehow we can’t get enough, even if the characters are better left in their original story.

I’d like to claim that I can resist old favorites spun out in new forms, but I’m surprisingly ready to curl up in that comfy place. Please, just tell me one more story.