Reality — that paler, starker version of our imagination
Dear friend —
For years I’d been saying I wanted to visit Ojai, and for years I’d not gone — it was just so close by I felt I could go at any time, which ended up being no time. Just a couple hours from Los Angeles, Ojai is a small, hippie-ish town known for its resort hotels, farm-to-table restaurants, and relaxing vibes. I dreamed of going to Ojai without actually going to Ojai for so long that the place took on almost mythic proportions in my mind: preternaturally blue pools that induced a hypnotic level of calm, food so delectable as to alter states of consciousness, sunsets igniting the sky like a Rothko-inspired aurora.
Last month, I went, and did all the things. I spent hours by the pool stretched out on a chaise lounge, catching up on New Yorkers. I dined on an organic chicken dosa at a restaurant that specialized in “healing, balancing and harmonizing food.” I browsed leisurely at Bart’s Books, a spacious, treasure trove of a secondhand bookstore. I happened upon a farmers’ market and picked up homemade marmalade from a woman who had me taste test close to a half cup of jam. I shopped at cutesy shops. I watched the sunset. It was nice.
And then I thought, is that all there is?
Whenever I take a vacation I realize I expect too much out of vacations. I don’t mean that I was disappointed by the dosa or the bookstore or the marmalade. I mean that I had the mostly-subconscious expectation (hope?) that the marmalade and everything else would not only be delicious, but also transformative, that it would change me in some fundamental way.
A vacation to me connotes an erasure of the day-to-day self, the mind suddenly peaceful and blithe, freed of its usual ruminations. There’s the projection that I’ll not just feel renewed by the break but actually become new, the old me baked away in the sun, slept away in dreams, until I’m transmogrified into something lighter, brighter.
This is, of course, a lot to expect of anything. Still, it’s easy to attach extravagant, seductive fantasies to what we’ve yet to experience.
Once, when I was in grad school, a friend told me about a mutual classmate who had a crush on me. “But he doesn’t even know me,” I said, incredulous. I’d only ever seen the guy in passing. My friend rolled his eyes. “We don’t have crushes on people we know,” he said. “We have crushes on people we can idealize. And objectify.”
I understood what he was saying, in the same way I understood I would never return this classmate’s crush — I didn’t have to get to know him to figure that out. After that conversation, whenever I saw this classmate around, I watched him curiously out of the corner of my eye. What was it that he imagined me to be? What wonderful qualities had he gratuitously projected on to me? And did I have them?
I wondered about this classmate as I simultaneously avoided talking to him, not because I was creeped out or uncomfortable, but because I didn’t want to disappoint him. Because isn’t that how it goes with any object of desire? Get too close to any fantasy, and it’s sure to disappoint.
The reality of a vacation is often a paler, starker version of our imagination of the place, provided one has an active imagination and an overdeveloped capacity for longing. All the things that were promised to be there will be there, but we’ll look at them and think — I thought there’d be more. But why would there be more? When you go on a beach vacation, you get just that: you on a beach, no more, no less. When you go camping: you in a tent in nature. When you visit historic sights: you elbowing your way through the crowd to see the sights, which are always smaller than you expected, and bleaker in unphotoshopped light.
It’s the same way with parties, which are sort of like mini-vacations. I don’t mean parties aren’t fun. I like parties! Keep inviting me to them! But I’m not the only one who’s excitedly gone to a party, even a good one, and thought — but it’s just people hanging out. It can be disappointing, even though surely we all know by now that that’s what parties are: people hanging out.
A couple months ago my friend N asked me to go to a KCRW event at The Bungalow in Santa Monica. The flyer promised a DJ, food trucks, a bar. And when we got there, that’s what there was: DJ, food trucks, bar. We ate a lobster roll, had a drink, bopped to the music, just like everyone else there was doing. We had nothing to complain about. But I could tell N was disappointed, with this wistful expression on her face. She had expected something more.
What is it that we hope will happen at a party, on a vacation? Asked, I’m not sure we can even articulate it. I suppose sometimes there are concrete things we want — a room with an ocean view, better weather, some attractive stranger to appear out of nowhere and come worship at our feet. But usually what we want is murkier than that. What we want is to experience some ineffable feeling — a feeling we’ve been chasing all our lives, a feeling that heretofore has proven elusive, though maybe, just maybe, we’re really close to it, we just need to go to the next party to find it, the next vacation, some new special place, maybe Ojai.
It’s possible a new place will give you a new frame of mind. It’s also just as possible you’ll feel much the same, no matter where you go. It’s almost definite you won’t feel much different at all if you go to a place that’s less than two hours away from where you already live.
Because let’s face it: Ojai’s not that different from Los Angeles. Yes, it’s quainter, and yes, there’s less traffic. But the weather’s basically the same, the farmers market boasts pretty much the exact same farmers that are at L.A.’s farmers markets, and the people dining out and shopping and lazing by the pool are all from fucking L.A.!
Not that that’s such a terrible thing. What I’m saying is: As I did all the things in Ojai, I couldn’t help but think, I can do all these things in L.A. Poolside reading, local jam tasting, farm-to-table dining, gorgeous sunset watching — L.A. has all of that, plus the beach, world-class museums, and beautiful rooftop views of the city lights. If all those things can be had at home every day of the week, is it any wonder that vacations can feel a bit is-that-all-there-is?
What I’m really saying is: I’m lucky. In my better moments, I remember that, though it’s one of the hardest things to do, holding onto that feeling of having. It’s so much easier to want, as much as the longing pains us. And in that sense, maybe vacations do transform us, by forcing us to see what we have in a new way, to experience our non-vacation homes as something other than the humdrum background of our boring day-to-day lives. Maybe the vacation we really long for, have always longed for, is just so close, so always accessible, that we don’t realize we’re already there.
Love,
Siel
P.S. Three links you might enjoy:
Theme song for this love note, courtesy of Peggy Lee
How to become a ghostwriter for Prince
Let’s all quit online dating
P.P.S. Some microreviews of books I recommend: The New Me by Halle Butler, Open Me by Lisa Locascio, and both books by Sally Rooney.
P.P.P.S. I’ll have more next week for paying subscribers. Not yet a paid subscriber? You can become one now:
No pressure though — You’ll still hear from me once a month, free 💝