Earlier this summer we took a family trip to Sedona, AZ. Many people flee a place when its temperatures reach over 110 degrees. Not us. We pack up the suitcases and dive in. Because we live on the east coast now and so think 110 isn’t that bad if it’s a dry heat. Even though, as my mother-in-law pointed out, so is a fucking oven (I might be paraphrasing).
Still, Sedona in July is beautiful in that Breaking Bad, this-would-be-a-good-place-to-dispose-of-a-dead-body kind of way. Though, oddly, “dead body disposal” never shows up on the Sedona tourism literature. Instead the focus is on spiritual renewal. This is because Sedona is apparently blessed with four strong energy vortexes; swirling centers of energy which resonate at a frequency that can strengthen the Inner Being (that’s capital I, capital B in all Sedona literature).
Unfortunately I can’t really speak to the effectiveness of the Sedona vortexes since I was traveling with energy vortexes of my own, TB and TG, who resonate at a frequency that makes your Inner Being go out for a pack of cigarettes and never come back.
Yes they are amazing and a blessing and all that. But, seriously, it’s hard to get away from it all when the all you are trying to get away from is in the seat next to you asking for gum and another episode of Caillou every 5 five minutes.
On top of them, there’s all the them-related stuff. I once traveled across Europe with one backpack. We now need an excel spreadsheet just to pack our carry-on luggage for a four hour flight. “Do we have enough snacks? Diapers and wipes for TG? A change of underwear for TB? A change of pants for both of them – remember the explosive diarrhea incident. Crayons? Are you sure we have enough snacks? Paper? DVD Player? Books? The iPad? Are you SURE we have enough snacks? Good lord we cannot run out of snacks!”
Overkill, perhaps. But trust me, you do not want to be caught unprepared on a plane next to someone with a short attention span and little understanding of social norms. A three-year-old doesn’t respond well to “the journey is the destination.”
Which is why our kids actually love flying — they’ve learned airplanes are an anything goes zone; all normal rules for screen time and snack food are on hold when we’re trapped in a metal tub with strangers 30,000 feet in the air. It’s Vegas up there for them. Just a bacchanal orgy of lollipops, Pixar movies and juice. And when we finally try to put our foot down, the flight attendants cruise by preemptively throwing bags of cookies at them. My kids roll out of airplanes like they’re coming out of Jeff Spicoli’s van from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.