I Have Two Weeks to Live
A vacation metaphor for life (Muse #60)
Actually, five days would be more accurate.
And no, this isn’t a dark, depressing, dystopian story.
It’s a celebration of travel. And a metaphor for life’s journey.
Let me explain.
It’s the first day of a two-week vacation that I’ve been planning and anticipating for months. My departure date has been staring at me like a lighthouse in the dark for months, fueling anticipation similar to a kid counting down the days to Christmas.
But from the moment I reach my destination, time starts ticking, shrinking the trip’s finite duration. So with each passing day, I have a game I play in my mind.
At first, it’s “I’m so happy: The entire trip’s still ahead.”
Then, “A few days down, but I still have a lot of vacation left.”
After the first week, it gets a bit funky. “Well, halfway done, but at least there’s still seven days to go.”
Then, “Just a few days left, make the most of them.”
Then, with streaks of melancholy, “It’s almost over. Been fun. Go out with a bang.”
Then, “Bummer, it’s done. Start planning the next one.”
In short, wanting the days to last longer, the experiences to linger, and for it all not to end.
So there I was not long ago, in the mountains of New Zealand, on the tenth day of a two-week trip, when it hit me like a brick:
What if I’m in my metaphorical second week of life, the “just a few days left, make the most of them” part of the journey, somewhere between Tuesday and Wednesday?
Viewed this way, I have but four or five days to live. (Math: each day of vacation = about 6 or 7 life-years). Ouch.
Aside from having newfound sympathy for dogs, which, if they could reason, would howl at every birthday knowing they’ve just burned seven human years, I found the analogy distressing.
Might as well go to Cafe Du Monde and gorge myself with beignets. Or worse yet, binge-watch two seasons of Schmigadoon; pain masking pain, if you will.
Week One Recap
Now, to be clear, my mathematical life expectancy didn’t change one bit after the metaphorical two-week vacation awakening. What will be, will be.
But my perspective did. So as I marveled at the awe-inspiring Southern Alps of New Zealand’s Fiordland National Park from a helicopter window, my mind couldn’t help but wander off.
I thought about my life’s “first week.”
How I had a panic attack in public school phys ed class when told I had to climb an idiotic rope hanging from the ceiling, as eight-year-olds mercilessly mocked and heckled me.
How I mangled my braces when trying to loosen them and almost perforated my cheeks in the process.
How, while other kids were receiving awards for math, science and debating skills at middle school graduation, I was handed a typing medal. (Yes, I was that fast.)
How, to pay my bills in college, I had to drive a pizza delivery car that was missing a door on the driver’s side, could barely get up a hill, and smelled like pepperoni.
How my first job was writing menus for the JP Morgan Chase cafeteria … and then the first catalog for a cosmetics company branching into sex toys.
And so forth and so on. Eventually, an epiphany: I was dwelling on trivials and negatives when I had so much to be happy about: Good friends, a loving wife, wonderful kids … and many great travels to remember.
More so, up there at about 10,000 feet, it dawned on me that the second metaphorical week of life may actually be better than the first. I just had to approach it the right way.
The Hodophile’s Oath
So with about five metaphorical days left, maybe six if I’m lucky, I concocted my Hodophile’s Oath.
(Hodophiles are people who love to travel. This particular phile is derived from the Greek word hodos, meaning ‘pathway’ or ‘life journey’. Be careful not to confuse them with Frodophiles, who only want to travel to Mount Doom.)
It goes like this:
I will channel Chef P.P. every day
I will go now, not later
I will embrace being called a “tourist”
I will still climb mountains with help
I will turn two weeks into three
Channeling Chef P.P.
I’ve met several people on my journeys so far who treat every day like a vacation.
They embrace simple pleasures, take joy in what they do, are impervious to boundaries, and are a powerful reminder to live in the moment.
One such person is Chef P.P. at the Dead Valley Lodge in Namibia’s Namib-Naukluft National Park. Every night, like clockwork, he grabs his djembe drum and, with the demeanor of a rockstar welcoming a stadium crowd, regales its guests about to supper on the resort’s dinner buffet with a “Time for Dinner” chant.
I don’t know PP’s backstory, but I do know this: he’s not counting his days, he’s living them.
Watch him here:
If you’re prone to earworms like me, you’ll be reciting this tonight, and nights after, before you start your dinner. Try it; it’s infectious.
When I decide to retire — call it early Wednesday in the two-weeks of life vacation metaphor — I’m going to fly Chef PP to my office party and have him regale my guests with “Hey, Holly Ho, it’s time for him to go!”
Until then, I commit to channeling the P.P. lifeforce every day.
Go Now, Not Later
It’s so easy to delay and deflect. “The flights may get chaper.” (They most likely won’t.) “I can’t take off from work.” (Yes, you can.) “There may be an invasion of locusts there this year.” (Not gonna happen.) “I’m waiting until Trump is no longer president.” (Well, may not be a bad idea.)
But, as they say, you can get hit by a bus tomorrow, so seize the moment. (Personally, I’d prefer to be ingested by a jet engine.)
So I commit to taking those bucket-list two-week vacations sooner, not later.
Embracing Being Called a Tourist
Somehow or another, I’m a traveler. Everyone else is a tourist.
It’s a form of denial. Elitist? Maybe. Delusional? Definitely.
It’s time to face reality: if you’re visiting from out of town, you’re a damn tourist. Accept it. Embrace it.
With just five days left to live, why fight it? Just be a good tourist. Respectful of local culture. Willing to learn a new language. Eager to explore. Courteous and kind.
So I commit to not being like this guy. Ever.
Continuing to Climb Mountains
Many of my two-week vacations are to take pictures for richfeldmanphotography.com.
Which means I’m typically carrying a 20-30 pound camera bag on my back up a mountain. It’s what it takes to get shots like this:
But it’s also what it takes to get shots like this:
Point being, when you only have five metaphorical days to live, it’s not as easy, or smart, to keep climbing those mountains with a heavy pack.
But keep climbing, I must. Bring fewer lenses, I tell myself. Use your dang iPhone if you must. Hire a Sherpa. Whatever it takes, do it.
So I commit to not let the extreme exhaustion, threat of heart failure, or the embarrassment of moving slowly stop me from reaching new heights.
Extending the Stay
It’s interesting to me how the anticipation, then compounding memories, of a vacation often yield an outsized sense of satisfaction compared to the actual trip itself.
One reasonable explanation for this phenomenon is that the travels are brief (a week or less for 70% of American travelers, according to one study, which is a sore topic of its own).
Plan and book a vacation many months, or even years, out, and the anticipation stretches much longer; meanwhile, memories last as long as your lucid mind.
The alternative: live the life of a nomad, like my Substack idols Brent and Michael, who are going places. They sold their house and now move to a new country every few months.
In living a perpetual vacation, I’m guessing that there is less time looking forward or back, and more time just being there.
That might be the best way to turn five metaphorical days left to live into something that feels much, much longer.
But, alas, it’s not in the cards. At least not right now.
Which is actually ok. I have two weeks to live. Many times over.
If each vacation day equals six life-years, I just aged in reverse.
What's up, Rich?
Hope all is well on your end?
You’d think that as a former travel magazine editor I’d be familiar with the word hodophile. But no. Thanks for introducing me to it. And to Chef P.P. Bang a drum!