Flexible tourists

(stock photo)

Susan and her 12-year-old son Leo were vacationing in France.  They were visiting Versailles.  Leo had been studying French, and she knew they would both enjoy visiting the famous palace.  But they found themselves there on a holiday weekend -- the grounds were inundated with tourists, and the lines were long.  With nervous regret, she abandoned their plans; they rented bikes, and spent the day riding about the extensive grounds of the palace.

She didn't regret her decision.  They had a wonderful day, far better than a day spent waiting interminably in line to crowd into a hot and stuffy château.  Leo was happy, and Susan was happy.  So happy, that they drove south to the Loire valley, where they went on long bike rides through the countryside.  When Leo got tired biking, and wanted to go back to the hotel and play gin rummy?  They went back and played gin rummy.

This was a feature article written by Susan Dominus in the New York Times.

It was a happy story, and it made me happy.  Then I had other thoughts.  The obvious ones, of course, were of the billions of people on earth for whom such a vacation would be beyond even the realm of fantasy.  Of the great disparities of wealth.  Of how unfair life often seems to be.

On the other hand, I could hardly argue without hypocrisy that the author should have given all her money to the poor and stayed home, sharing a crust of bread with her son.  And -- while the argument may be too facile and self-deluding -- it's true that money and the experiences money buys don't guarantee happiness.  Many people -- impoverished but satisfactorily fed and sheltered -- have lives filled with greater happiness and joy than those who occupy their hours flying first class about the world.

My more complex reaction occurred to me this afternoon, sitting outside a Starbucks on the Seattle waterfront, watching the tourists walk by.  How few of the passing children looked as though they were studying French in their spare time.  How few of their parents looked as though they might hop on a bike when their sightseeing began to feel too cramped.  How few looked as though they might ever find themselves traveling on their own about France.

The best family vacation of my childhood was a car-camping trip from our home near Portland to Glacier, Yellowstone, and Jackson Hole National Parks, with a quick excursion down to Salt Lake City, before returning home.  Besides gas for the car, we spent little along the way.  In most ways, it looked like the sort of travel that many of those passers-by on the Seattle waterfront might enjoy and might find affordable.

With three of us kids, ages two to ten, in a cramped car, I don't know how enjoyable that trip was for my parents.  But for us children, it was an adventure in wonderland.  It was one of the most memorable experiences of my childhood.

Where am I going with this?  In some ways, I suppose I'm contemplating class differences, but the differences are only indirectly related to class.  I guess, sitting in front of Starbucks, I began thinking about individual differences in experience and in desires, differences that exist independently of differences in wealth, education, and class.

Susan's decisions were largely based on what she felt Leo would most enjoy.  She did not disregard her own happiness, but her happiness derived from that of her son.  As she mused, Leo would soon be at the age where his life would be something she could observe, but not really share.  She wanted to share now his excitement and happiness, not his tiredness, frustration, and irritation.

Many parents would consider this attitude to be "coddling" the son by putting his wants ahead of their own.  That's one significant difference among groups of parents.

Many, many mothers would not feel comfortable riding a bike for any distance, with or without the company of their child.  My own mother was enthusiastic, and in some ways adventurous -- but I don't picture her biking around our home town, let alone along the roads of France.  Other mothers, especially today, would love the experience.  I watch them bicycle down my street daily. 

Susan initially showed some tendency to follow an itinerary rigidly, but she overcame that tendency after some reflection.  Many people feel, rationally or irrationally, committed to a plan once that plan has been drawn up.   They feel a fear of chaos, of ambiguity, of improvisation.

I could go on.  One could devise as many categories of tourists, perhaps, as there are tourists.  In my thinking, however, I was considering a duality between those who would love the kind of vacation that Susan and Leo ended up taking, and those who would have felt much happier if they stuck with Susan's original plan.  Today we shall see Versailles Palace, barring some natural disaster, because that's the plan.

Were my parents rigid or flexible on that highly satisfactory trip to Yellowstone? I was only ten; I don't really remember. I suspect we had a plan, but I also suspect that when we got fussy, or when my dad found a place he wanted to fish, or my mom decided we needed to find a motel where she could take a bath, they freely made adjustments. On the other hand, our parents had their own interests; keeping us happy was a significant objective, but only one of their objectives.

As is too often the case, I unconsciously classify people who think like myself as in some way superior to those who don't.  Susan's my kind of gal, and, to me, Leo's a lucky kid.  But if the parents love their child, even if that love causes them to be somewhat strict and rigid, things tend to work out fine, and everyone's happy.  People come in many flavors.  None is necessarily "better" than the other, any more than "sweet" is better than "salty," or "bitter" is better than "sour."  De gustibus, etc.

But personally, as I say, I think Leo's a lucky kid.