If I were in the Netherlands right now, as I thought I might be this weekend, I would be driving my rental car back to Brussels from a venue known as Megaland. It's right next to Aachen, the first portal into Germany for the US Army in 1945. My ears would be ringing from a Bruce Springsteen show almost four hours in length. The euphoria would linger.
There would have been a nine-minute (so the websites tell me) walk back to the train station, then a shuttle to find where I parked my car. The flight from Brussels back to the States leaves at 11:15 in the morning but there are no late night trains, thus the rental. Knowing myself, I would be reluctant to fall asleep in my hotel room, for fear of not waking up early enough to make the airport. This would have all been preceded by a twelve-hour flight with the routing of LAX-ORD-BRU yesterday, all taking place in an economy middle seat (I did not get the upgrade I so desperately hoped for), followed by the drive to the concert, a day in the sun and light rain waiting to see Bruce, then my current seventy-three mile drive back to Brussels in the dead of night, most likely fueled by copious amounts of sugar free Red Bull.
Let's recap: Leave LA on Saturday morning, arrive in Brussels Sunday morning after a sleepless night in the dreaded middle seat, ten hours to kill before the concert, BRUCE!, long walk back to the train station, find my car, find a roadside convenience store to buy Red Bull, then stay awake just long enough to turn in my car, check in for my return flight (alas, also in the middle seat — seems like the whole world is traveling this summer), and then twelve more sleepless hours home.
Or I could just stay in this wonderful Airbnb I call home.
Now, don't get me wrong. I would have done the concert. I've done Europe on a day and then back again for research, my bona fides for Springsteen are legit. I just finished a book. Calene is out of town for a week. I have nothing to do. Why not just go for it?
Well, I'm going to see Bruce a whole lot in the next few months. But I also have a pretty sweet home. My bed is amazing. My backyard is serene. And I have two really cool dogs that I didn't want to board for three days and nights. I also enjoy a good night's rest and the luxury of having nothing to do and nowhere to go, to quote the Ramones.
So I've decided that I am treating my home like an Airbnb this weekend. I canceled my flight, returned my ticket, and settled in for an unknown experience. Never in my life have I had the chance to sit alone for a week with nothing to do.
And that's what I've done: Nothing, nada, fuck-all. Haven't written a word until right this moment. This has not been a spiritual journey or a visit to a shaman. No vow of silence. It's just hanging out. I've enjoyed the trails of O'Neill Park, paid a visit or two to my local (a fine establishment known as Board & Brew), and done more than a little bit of reading.
I have a good friend — a pastor, actually — who once confessed that when his wife went out of town, he couldn't wait to get crazy. As if, when there was no one holding him accountable, he was going to do some serious rebellious shit. I had images of him going to Vegas and blowing his home on a parlay, or maybe just doing something dark and strange, when in fact he later admitted to me that all he wanted to do was buy a Playboy magazine (it's been a while since we talked).
So this was my point of reference for my wife leaving town: fly to Europe to see Springsteen or act out in some very uncharacteristic way. I made a rather mundane to-do list to keep myself in check, just in case I wanted to bet it all on red: outline a novel, power wash the deck, learn a song on the guitar, hang the pool cue rack.
Like I said: Just a few things to keep myself in check. Just in case.
I have not accomplished a single one of these. Nor have I gone to Vegas — or Europe. The week is still young but I think we're good. I might have missed a few showers, but to my credit, the house is clean, there are no dishes in the sink or piles of pizza boxes. Sadie sleeps next to my leg as I type, ready for me to throw the tennis ball to her the instant she wakes up. Django patrols out back, barking loudly and suddenly at unseen and unheard enemies that need my attention. I just planned cross country season on a big calendar, knowing the whole while I won't pay attention to a workout I've written once the training heats up.
I am one very boring King of the Castle.
So here's where I admit something loners and introverts like myself aren't supposed to reveal: I miss Calene. The concept of being alone for a week in my wondrous Airbnb sounded like a good way to clear my head — and it has been. But there is a delightful rhythm to this life I lead with My Sunshine. She was overdue for a trip to see her friend Maureen and I am so glad she got to go. It's been a terrifying year for both of us, but her most of all. My idea of flying off to see Springsteen would have made sense if I'd had more time, yet all along I knew a Bruce concert wasn't the connection I needed.
But let's not get too profound: I would definitely have done the spectacular Europe Springsteen adventure if I'd gotten the upgrade. My days of doing middle seat economy on twelve-hour flights are long gone. Long. Gone. There's a whole travel guide to be written about how wide-body travel changed after 9/11.
So here's this:
If I learned anything this week, it is this simple truth that there's a lot of upside in hanging out with the dogs, sleeping late, reading books, rewatching Ted Lasso, and hour upon hour of solitude — all the while waiting for my sweetie to come home.