"I'm so jealous." "I think it's wonderful that you can do what you love for a living." "I think it's wonderful that you love what you do for a living." "You have the best life." "I wish I could figure out a way to make my passion my career." "You really seem to have it all figured out." And then, "How do you make it all work?" It may sound ridiculous, but when people I meet hear what I do for a living, they often impose on me their fantasy for a no-more-gazing-out-the-office-window, active, outdoor, comfortable clothing-attired lifestyle. In their imagination, my life is wholly populated by smiling children and their enlightened parents, large well-trained dogs, an easy pace, local produce and, apparently, a pile of Krugerrands sitting at home to count after a long day in the mountains. Depending on who the people spouting the fantasy may be, there may be a Prius in the driveway, a low-impact green modern home with an organic herb garden, and a trout stream running through the back 40 for leisurely days of fly fishing in the warmer months. I wish I were joking about this. Though I understand and appreciate this line of thinking, it's clear that none of these people have ever depended on the income from teaching skiing for a living and none of them have ever lived full-time in a hard-working Vermont town that pre-existed the ski industry. I love what I do and where I do it, but my now well-rehearsed cautionary response is to 'be careful what you wish for, you might just get it'.
As I have for the last few years, following the end of the ski season here in Vermont I've just spent some time in London visiting my sister and her family and catching up with some friends who live in the UK. It's a terrific way to decompress from the season. This time, my week-long trip turned into 11 days with the stoppage of air traffic due to the eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland. Thankfully, I have no particular responsibility to anyone other than myself at this time of year, so it was not a problem for me to extend my stay a bit. It's not that the extra few days was stress-free, but it's not as though I had a pile of meetings and paperwork to come home to after the trip. The stories of people stranded and spending thousands on cabs from one end of Europe to the other, waiting in long lines in hopes of getting a train seat, and pulling their hair out with the logistical challenges of running international business without the ability to fly were certainly interesting and entertaining. I, however, got a kick out of merely shrugging my shoulders when asked whether it was a bad thing for me to be stuck. I mean seriously, there really was no hurry, and some of the people I encountered were a bit putt off by someone who clearly had no reason to be stressed. I enjoyed it, frankly. I am a man of leisure in between seasons and, pile of Krugerrands or not, that's just fine by me.
It's not as though my extended stay was without costs to me. I do tend to make my way through my sister's cupboards and refrigerator with precision, speed and strength and London is an expensive place to spend time, especially when compared to Ludlow, Vermont. But these things and the agita that results are hard to quantify. So, the simplest version of my balance sheet for the trip looks like this: on the asset side was four more days of hanging out with friends and chasing and being chased by my niece and nephew and their posse of neighbors on scooters like an episode of The Little Rascals Goes to London. On the debit side was the cost of parking my car at JFK. $260.10. The eruption of Eyjafjallajokull cost me $260.10. It was a small price to pay and I didn't even have to learn to pronounce the name of the damn volcano.
The photos above and below are from a number that I took of the Thames Barrier, the Albert Memorial in London's Kensington Gardens, and some views in The Cotswolds respectively.
