Vol. 104 - Shaken, Not Stirred

On the Best Part of My Solo Trip

Traveling alone as a parent is bittersweet.

At least, it is for me.

Every sight, every meal, every stuffed animal or toy truck I pass in every gift shop hits me with a pang of regret that I am unable to share these journeys and create these memories with my wife and our kids.

Whenever I’m away, I wish they were there with me and make a mental note to return to a place with them in tow. Medora, North Dakota, Shenandoah National Park, London. I have views, things, smells, and tastes to show them in all of these places and more.

On the other side of that coin is the leisure and the ease that comes with traveling sans children.

There is nothing to schlep, no groaning tummies to fill, no lousy attitudes due to jetlag or travel exhaustion.

For as long as you’re away, you can move at your own pace, eat where and when you want, and sleep as late as you wish (which, for me, is only about five minutes later than I normally would when my kids are around).

Recently, I took a weekend trip to London.

Last Christmas, Emily got me a pair of tickets to see the Mets play the Phillies in the city. For a minute, we thought we might go together. But in the end, we decided that I would go alone, owing in large part to the fact that we can’t really leave our kids with anyone for three or four days.

I left late on a Thursday, flying overnight and landing in London at 7am local time. The next three days were jam-packed with friends I hadn’t seen in years. Sure, I saw a few sights (after all, it was my first time in the UK), but when I travel, I always prefer to see people rather than places.

I spent a ton of time with a dear old friend from Italy who is now living north of the city. I had lunches, dinners, and plenty of beers with friends from my years in New York City, who are now living in London. I saw a rugby championship with 80,000 other fans and watched the Mets win in the bottom of the ninth.

Early Monday morning, after seventy-twoish whirlwind hours, I took the train out to Heathrow and flew home to my wife and babies. There was so much to tell them.

It was one of the best trips I’ve ever taken. But, if I’m being honest, one of the best parts of my trip happened before I ever left American soil.

As my flight was international, I checked in and made my way through security much earlier than usual. Considering as much, I had plenty of time to kill at Raleigh-Durham International Airport.

And, with no kids to chase or attention spans to sate, I decided to have myself a little drink before taking off.

I sidled up to one of the airport bars and ordered a martini (vodka, preferably Ketel, with a twist, FYI). And I sat there, enjoying the absolute fuck out of it. I drank it slowly and I looked around, taking in the sights of the evening airport. I took long pauses between sips, letting the vodka swirl around in my cheeks for a few moments. I cherished every moment of it.

I finished it, checked the time, and ordered another. After all, you always need a second martini. But only a second (a wise man once told me that martinis are like boobs; three’s too many and one’s just weird).

I don’t have much time these days to enjoy a slow, meandering drink. If I’m drinking, which is increasingly rare in my life, I’m drinking with friends. And when I drink with friends, I get excited, like a puppy let out of his cage, and drink way too fast. And, as I almost never drink at home, a slowly sipped, late-night cocktail is never on my radar.

It was an anomaly, that long, slow drink (and the second long, slow drink), which made it even more enjoyable.

There were so many highlights of my trip to London, far too many to list here. And for almost all of them, I wished my kids could be with me. But one of the best moments, one of the things I’ll remember for a long time, was an aimless drink at a unspectacular bar, with no one yelling at me that their screen wasn’t working, their toy was missing, or their stomachs were growling.