While celebrating our ninth anniversary over lunch today, my wife and I were talking about our favorite trips and vacations.
There was the midnight run to Virginia Beach early in our relationship. A lazy evening on the couch turned into late night pizza on a pier.
Visiting the Grand Canyon and Wupatki Ruins in the Painted Desert, one of my most favorite places in the world. That evening in the hotel wasn’t too shabby either.
Every trip to the Outer Banks: honeymoon, pre-baby, post-cancer, thanksgivings. Every last one.
The less-than-24 hours in San Francisco before my grandmother’s funeral, sleeping baby strapped on as we hung off the side of a cable car. I packed as much of the two years I lived there into the time we had, but there are still plenty of hidden staircases and tiny restaurants for next time.
This time last year, Baltimore’s dolphins and Philadelphia’s cannolis (and a desperation St. Pat’s dinner at Hooters with our two-year-old).
Driving to Wyoming through Wisconsin and South Dakota and back through Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Tennessee, featuring the Grand Old Opry, the badlands, Mount Rushmore, Wall Drug, cheese curds, the Roanoke Star, a highway porn shop, a bloody hotel room, and cases of Fat Tire.
Freshest on our minds was last month’s trip to an isolated cabin in the Blue Ridge. While I wouldn’t have sought a location without internet access or cell reception, the fact that we didn’t have the former and could only occasionally get the latter probably made the hot tub steamier, the strawberries sweeter, and the sex spicier. I know, you have innocent ears. You’ll recover. We didn’t just romp though, we hiked, jumped streams, explored, and meditated by the river. We returned absolutely refreshed. For my part, it was exactly what was needed.
Traveling with my wife is one of the things I love best about being married to her. She’s wonderful and amazing and I’m incredibly lucky. And incredibly in love. Another nine years to come? I hope it’s far more than that.