We were at a beautiful resort in Cancun, and I was furious with my husband, Rick.  Based on my vast experience as a married woman, I can say with some assurance that it’s no less miserable to be in that angry space at the beach than in your laundry room or at the Corryville Kroger’s.  It may even be worse in a place where you’ve come expecting fun.

What were we arguing about? It doesn’t even matter.  We were just having one of the three arguments we’ve been having for 47 years of marriage.  Like most marital spats, this one was rooted in the mistaken notion that my spouse would change, coupled with the conviction that I didn’t need to.

We followed our usual pattern.  He retreated to the couch with his computer; I hunkered down in bed with a book.  And, if I were to be honest, I was plotting all the ways I was going to punish him for being exactly who he is, which is very different from exactly who I am.  I would withhold my usual witty quips, my service, my conjugal affection.  That would show him!

Every time I woke up during that night, I churned about this.  About 9:00 am, I had an epiphany:  This is stupid.  Why do I play these games?

What could I do to reboot our vacation, to reset our communication, to stop being pissed off?  Why not play some different games?

I walked out of the bedroom. He looked up from his laptop, wearing a question on his face.  He was probably thinking, okay, here it comes.  But he was surprised by what I said.

“Let’s play a game.  I challenge each of us to come up with twenty memorable travel experiences we’ve shared. Have your list ready at dinner.”

He was very concerned that he was following the rules, probably thought this was some kind of test he hadn’t studied for, and periodically throughout the day he asked me to repeat and clarify the instructions:

“Does it have to be someplace we traveled together?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.  I thought, You didn’t listen to me.  I said “shared.”

“Does it have to be a good memory?”

“No.”

“Really, twenty?”  he said.

“Oh, for crying out loud.  This shouldn’t be hard.  We’ve been to seven continents!”

That night in our hotel room, we sat down to our catch-as-catch-can carry-out dinner—a couple bananas, yogurt, nuts, some leftover quesadillas from lunch.  And his favorite cupcakes I bought him.

We took turns, each naming one memory.

Him:  “The million peso meal.”

Me:  “I have that one, too!”

We ate a million peso meal first time we were in Cancun, probably 30 years ago, with my parents, my brother and his wife, and our kids.  The two cab drivers highly recommended a (cousin’s?) restaurant in Old Town, and they took us on a circuitous (and expensive) route to get to the hole-in-the wall (agujero en la pared) cantina (swindle).

Several waiters kept the kids’ soda glasses and the adults’ shot glasses filled.  Lots of soda; lots of tequila.  The kids just had nachos, and the rest of us had typical Mexican fare.

It was my brother’s turn to treat.  When the bill came, he looked puzzled.  He put on his glasses.  Then he asked for an itemized bill. He squinted, then threw his credit card down in defeat.

The bill was a million pesos—at the time, about $300.  They had charged us for every soda and drop of tequila we never asked for and assumed was complimentary.  From that day forward, whenever we pay a restaurant check, we say, “At least it’s not a million pesos.”

Now, if this were a chapter in a romance novel–or if we had a better marriage—Rick and I would have had identical lists.  But of the remaining 19 memories we had listed, we didn’t have any more in common.

However, we both recalled each other’s memories, though because I am who I am, I was obliged to make corrections to details in his stories.

His turn.

“Three days in a North Canton Hospital,” he said.

“Oh, yes!  How could I have left that off my list?”

Memories washed over me of the three days after our first granddaughter was born while we waited for the birth mother to sign the legal paperwork allowing our daughter Stacey and her husband, Nathan, to adopt our precious Danielle.

While the birth mother recovered in a nearby hospital room, Rick and I, the adoptive parents, and our newborn grandbaby waited those three days in a waterless, windowless storage room down the hall. There were paper towels stacked to the ceiling.  An orphaned computer on the desk along with our pizza boxes and McDonald’s bags. A bassinet in the middle of the room.

“And remember, as we followed Stacey, Nathan, and the baby back to Cincinnati, a rainbow appeared?” Rick said.  I had forgotten that sweet serendipity.

My turn.  “Apartment hunting in New York City.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.  “That was a good one.”

We were like the Clampetts in Beverly Hills. We were stunned by the prices, like $2,000/month rent for one room with a bathtub in the kitchen.   Our daughter got a late acceptance to her favorite law school and we had one month to find her an apartment and move her in.  It was an eye-opening experience for mid-westerners.

He remembered eating crickets in Cambodia, a dust storm in Morocco, a picnic at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, eating “octopus balls” (balls made from octopus) in Japan, and hiking to the top of Mt. LeConte.

I remembered walking the Great Wall of China, the whole family crying when we left the Peaceful Valley Dude Ranch, and eating pot brownies in Amsterdam.

I had extended an olive branch, and now we were having fun. We both felt a seismic shift.    So I proposed the next challenge:

List ten memorable people we both met in our travels.

The next evening, over deli sandwiches and salads, we shared our people list.

We had just one person in common:  a Cuban fisherman.  This gentlemen was about our age but his weather-beaten skin made him appear older. Through a translator, he told us about his family.  We learned he had had several heart attacks and could no longer fish from the boat but could only cast from the shore. There was something so resilient, so dignified, so kind about his lined face.  This fisherman’s photo is one of the best Rick has ever taken, and I am grateful in this way we were able to take the fisherman home with us.

On our lists were tour guides (Chisako from Japan for me, and Bergie from Iceland for him) and annoying tourists (the compulsive shoppers in Japan; the Trump-supporting Russians in Iceland).  Rick recalled discussing the war with Vietcong generals.   And although Howie was only my list, when I said his name we both recalled the down-home, slow-talking manager of the Highlands Condominiums in the Smoky Mountains where we stayed about 30 times.  We have lost track of Howie since the Highlands burned down in the 2017 forest fire.

We both remembered all the names on the two lists, and our conversations about them jogged our memories about other people who have passed through our lives and made an impact.  We wondered if we would make anybody else’s list if they were playing the game.

“What’s our next challenge?” Rick asked.

“Ten memorable meals.”  I was worried Rick would reject the food category outright, as he is completely neutral about food.  (“It’s just food,” he thinks.  He should be in the circus.) The next day, we shared our memories of remarkable meals over forgettable take-out.

We both recalled a bed picnic we had in an attic room.  We remembered going to a small market to buy bread, cheese, and wine, and that the teenage cashier said to us in her thick accent, “I love your accent!”  We also remembered that after our picnic we went to a terrible American movie in a small, rundown theater.  What we can’t agree about is if the attic, market, and theater were in Ruthven, Scotland or Ruthin, Wales.

We remembered the infamous green beans exactly the same way.  It was my first meal at his house, back when I was 16, and Rick’s mom dropped the green bean casserole on the way to the dining room from the kitchen.  She and I worked together to scoop the mess into the garbage, and we went on to eat what was left.  I passed some kind of test that night.

Rick remembered our first date at Parkmoor Restaurant, and talking about the fried chicken and Monster Malts made us nostalgic for days when we thought nothing of our arteries.  And although he doesn’t love it, Christmas mock turtle soup made it on his list.

I recalled our progressive dinner with our kids in Amsterdam when we went to a half dozen restaurants and shared a couple of dishes at each.

“That was some good eatin’,” I said.

“Maybe it tasted so good because you had special brownies as an appetizer,” he said.

Now that all the anger that initiated this series of challenges had dissipated, I thought it was safe to get a little lovey-dovey with the next chapter.  “Tomorrow on the plane home, you will tell me ten times you felt a surge of love for me.”

He picked some low-hanging fruit:  when I agreed to go out with him the first time and when I agreed to marry him.  He acknowledged my care for his mother, our daughters, and my friends.

I remembered that when my mother was in a rehab facility for a month, Rick had a little present waiting for me under my pillow each night when I returned from visiting her.  And I loved Rick for golfing with my dad who cussed and threw golf clubs and offended everyone on the league at one time or another.  And in his final years, when my dad could summon only enough energy to swing the club, Rick drove the golf cart right up to the hole.

We came home and, although we were caught up in the flurry of laundry/bills/mail/plants/phone messages/emails/dust, we realized we were on to something with this game.  All of our common experiences were the ballast of our marriage, keeping us afloat even when the tempest of discontent swelled.

As we sat at our kitchen counter working through the mountain of accumulated mail, I said, “Okay. Here’s the next challenge.  What are the ten objects in our apartment most important to you?”

As we finished dinner a couple nights later, he reminded me of the challenge.  We had only one object in common: our matching La-Z-Boy recliners that sit side by side in our living room.  Where we park our pajamaed senior citizen selves by 7:00 at night, our laptops in our laps, our big screen tv playing the news or some Netflix series.  I placed a small rug over our newish carpet where our feet land.  Our old carpet had plate-sized worn spots there.

I’d like to think that when he put the recliner on his list, it wasn’t just because it is so comfortable, durable, and attractive, that it represents the coziness a long marriage can bring to life.  But his other answers make me doubt this.

I listed my wedding ring, which has been resized a couple times to accommodate weight change and an arthritic knuckle.  And my daughter Stacey’s baby spoon, which she used even into her teen years to eat yogurt.  My friend Stella’s painting, and a large canvas print of one of Rick’s photos.  My collection of boxes, none of which is valuable, but they come from far -lung places we’ve traveled.  A stack of journals, dating back decades.  My grandma’s tea service, which I love so much I am giving it to my daughter.

My husband’s list was of a different type:  his computer, cameras, cell phone, TV.

It occurs to me that we are so different, and that is a challenge.

And a gift.

 

If you enjoyed this post, you may enjoy these:

How Facebook Almost Ruined My Trip to Morocco
How to Travel With Your Husband Without Killing Him
My Husband Travels Without Me.  It’s All Good.
We Don’t Talk Anymore
Isn’t it Romantic?  Not So Much

 

 

 

 

 

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