When I was a kid, family vacations were a special level of hell reserved for the worst miscreants imaginable.
And it wasn’t the Hades we learned about in Bible class, the kind of place you go after a long lifetime of misdeeds. Nope, family vacations were a more immediate form of punishment for every bad thing we did during the year. Every time we fibbed about cleaning our rooms? One hour in the car on family vacation. Every time we stayed up hours past our bedtimes listening to the Yankees on our crystal radios? One hour in the car on family vacation. Every time we told our mom we were going to the community pool and then snuck through the barbed-wire fence on Mrs. Pratt’s posted land to hunt frogs and salamanders and skinny-dip in her stock pond? Three hours in the car on family vacation.
And if you think I’m overstating the comparison between family vacation and hell, then imagine what a disgruntled set of parents driving an old three-hole Buick that needed a ring job and had no air conditioning, a back seat filled with fighting boys and a long drive across Death Valley in August looks like. We actually looked forward to breakdowns because it got us out of the inferno that was our Buick for a couple of hours.
When John Milton imagined all those levels of hell in “Paradise Lost,” he didn’t have enough imagination to finish the job. He never imagined a family vacation like ours. Even his genius could not conceive the torments involved in a 2,000-mile car trip with the Bean clan. If he had even dreamed such a thing, he would have quit writing and become a Tibetan monk.
I’ve told this story before, but it was out of control to the point that one year, my mom became so fed up with my dad, who would never ask for directions, that she got out of the car at a stoplight in downtown San Francisco, hopped a cab to the airport and flew home by herself. The drive home with our father was a punishment that should have been reserved for ax murderers, but we suffered it in enforced silence.
Needless to say, the combination of poverty and my previous experiences meant that my own kids didn’t get much in the way of family vacations. Sure, we’d rent a beach house once in a while, or maybe go camping, but that was about it. I’m ashamed to say we never went to Disney World as a family, or anyplace else that involved much traveling. We tried a two-hour plane ride to Wisconsin one summer and almost killed each other, so we never did that again.
But then, last Christmas, we were desperate for a diversion, so my wife booked a trip to the west coast of Puerto Rico, and we discovered paradise. The place is so beautiful and colorful, the weather so perfect and the people so friendly, you can’t help falling in love. My sons loved it so much, in fact, that they began work on getting their scuba certifications and trying to figure out a way to move there for good.
My wife and I loved it so much we went back again last week.
As I said, the hotel where we stay is located on the relatively rural west coast, and the complex is mere steps from the beach. It’s very family friendly, and seems to be a particular
favorite with local families with young children. It’s not an all-inclusive place like Sandals, or a cruise ship, but I like to set my own agenda. Here’s what a normal day looks like: • Wake up around 8:30 with the sound of the waves and an ocean
breeze coming in through the open door. Sit on the balcony and watch the ocean while you sip strong Puerto Rican coffee and nibble fresh fruit.
• Amble down to the beach around 10 a.m., find yourself a good spot and watch the ocean for about three hours. Occasionally jump in the warm water and slather on more sunscreen. Watch the surfers and guys on boogie boards zip across the waves.
• Mosey on down to the open-air grill about noon for a big, gooey cheeseburger and a fruit smoothie.
• Go back to the beach until about 3 p.m., then go jump in the swimming pool to cool off. Paddle on over to the swim-up bar for a Reef Urchin with extra cherries.
• Go to your room, open the door to the breeze, turn on the ceiling fan and nap until 5:30.
• Hop in the car and find a little restaurant near the beach. Any place that has crushed gravel instead of carpet or a deck overlooking the ocean will do, but just let your nose be your guide. If your mouth starts to water as you’re driving by from the good smells within, that’s a good sign.
• Eat dinner, watch the sunset over the Caribbean, then order dessert. If they have it, I highly recommend the Tres Leches.
• Head back to the hotel around 9 p.m. and sit in the courtyard to listen to the live acoustic music. Sip a couple of snifters of Barrilito, which is sort of the cognac of local rums. If you enjoy the occasional cigar, as I do, this is a good time to light up. Make sure you sit far enough away that your smoke doesn’t gag anybody.
• When the musicians are done, head back to your room and slip into your swim trunks; then go down to spend a half hour in the hot tub while you watch the progress of the Little Dipper and listen to the waves.
• Notice you’re completely relaxed for the first time in recent memory and drift off into perfect sleep.
• Wake up in the morning and do it all again, unless you want an adventure, like driving through the mountains or the rain forest, or snorkeling in the bioluminescent bay, or horseback riding, or exploring the nearby Camuy Caves, which is the third largest cave system in the world.
Granted, that is a completely self-indulgent way to spend a vacation, but it amazes me that at my ripe old age, I have finally learned how to travel in a way that doesn’t feel like punishment (the airlines suck some of the fun out of this, but that’s another story).
If I’m a very good boy, maybe they’ll let me go back again.
Gregory Bean is the former executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can reach him at [email protected].