On Traveling Alone

And A Remarkable, Blissfully Quiet Mother’s Day

Blindfold me and dump me anywhere in the world and I will procure an invitation to an eccentric local artist’s home for dinner. Before having kids, I said yes to any offer that came with a plane ticket. I went to Cusco, Peru to apprentice with an Orthodox Jewish wigmaker, and Upper Peninsula, Michigan to research and design nuns’ habits in the basement of a church. As the Creative Director of Chopt, the fast casual salad chain, I climbed ladders to peer inside barrels of soy sauce in Kyoto, I huffed

400 year old factory in Kyoto, spear fishing in Phu Quoc,and D.O.P. Parmigiano Reggiano

Parmegiano Reggiano in Emilio-Romagno, and spear-fished uni in Vietnam. Life was unpredictable and thrilling, and these experiences cultivated in me a refined taste for freedom. Now, as a mother of two, the cadence my life is dictated less by kismet, and more by naps, snacks, playdates, and a weekly date night. I might be the happiest person you know, but I still miss arriving in a new city, making friends with friends of friends and eating more in one day than you probably eat in a week. 

When we had our first child, Red, the fun changed but it didn’t stop. We brought her in a carrier to dance parties in Hydra and she slept in a black-out Slumber Pod at the foot of our bed in hotel room.

Left: napping in an SF crystal shop, Middle: partying in a Greek restaurant kitchen, Right: Red escaping the Slumber Pod

With the arrival of our second, Dov Bear, we became utterly conspicuous in an airport terminal -- double strollers, a duffle bag of snacks, and public outbursts of sibling rivalry (have you ever seen a child bite another’s head?). Where there were once charmed smiles from fellow travelers, there were now unsolicited reassurances -- “we’ve all been there” -- or worse, clucks of disapproval. (We are currently packing for a summer trip to Sicily, God help us. More on traveling with kids here). 

Lately, I have been thinking about how, why, and when I travel alone, now that leaving home comes at a cost to the collective. “Business trips” seem unimpeachable, but what about the times when I just want some quiet? (I stash ear plugs all over my house; I am curious about these, specifically for parents). Is it ok for me to take a day to write, read, and think, without expending a drop of energy on answering questions? Why does it feel like the most entitled, selfish thing in the world to make a little space to sleep, poop, write, read, or eat, without interruption? 

In retrospect, I guess I subconsciously sent out a bat signal when I wrote a Mother’s Day post detailing my fantasy to spend the holiday alone. Still, I was embarrassed when my husband made arrangements to take the kids to his parents’ house in Orange County so I could spend 48 hours alone at Hotel Joaquin in Laguna Beach. While other moms were picnicking with their children, I was skipping down the street carrying one water bottle instead of three. As I treated myself to the precious first bite of my own croissant, it dawned on me that this was the making of an annual tradition. 

I sat down in a café to read Annie Erneux’s Simple Passion, a work of auto-fiction in which the narrator willingly submits to a love affair with a married man. Without a trace of shame, she upholds passion above all else, her kids included, and yet somehow, we don’t judge her for it (and it’s not just because she’s French).

Left: Room for one at Hotel Joaquin Right: Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux

“Children will always refuse to see the truth reflected in their mother’s absent stare and silent behavior: at times, they mean nothing to her, in the same way that grown-up kittens can mean nothing to a mother cat longing to go on the prowl.” The protagonist doesn’t apologize for indulging in her most intimate desires/obsessions, even as they compromise tightly held assumptions about what a mother’s interiority can/should look like. She sure as hell doesn’t double back with that rote qualifier, “Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids.” Sitting alone with a cappuccino, reading a book on Mother’s Day, it was far from Ernaux’s portrayal of her elicit affair, but still, I felt buoyed by her example.

When I returned home the next day, Red and Dov Bear wanted to know everything about my rather mundane trip -- what I ate, where I slept, and, “really, nobody else was there?” I didn’t come back with gifts from a far away land as per usual, and I had no adventuresome stories to tell. Instead, I encouraged them to imagine the unimaginable — their mother, not cooking, not working, not folding laundry, but just sitting still. Now there’s a story fantastical enough to live alongside unicorns and fairies in their little minds.

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