So, what is the purpose of our trip? Where are we going? We left Denver without answers to these questions. All we knew for sure was that it was time to get out of town, and not just for a week or two, but for at least a year. Simply put, life had come to seem stale, and often repetitive: same restaurants, same movie theaters; same friends; same thoughts in our heads. And one fact was inescapable: time was running out.
Late life crisis? You could put it that way. I can only speak for myself, of course, and I’m 71. Julya is 52, and has her own version of events. (Hopefully, she will share them in this blog.) But crisis suggests something dramatic and of recent origin. This volcano has been heating up for a long time. Like for 10 years, when I returned from Delaware and my stint as a prison guard in a maximum security prison. That’s another story.
I was debating investment strategy with my financial adviser not too long ago, and he was sticking with his usual advice to invest “for the long term.” What the hell is the long term when you’re 70 years old? I demanded. Jesus. The actuaries say I have 10 years left. Let’s spread whatever I have over that period and call it a day.
If I had to use one word to describe the purpose of the trip I would say “renewal.” I didn’t want to trash my life, or recycle it, I wanted to open it up. The problem was, we weren’t sure how to go about it, other than to stop working, rent the house, load up the car and head east.