Fannypack and I met at a bar in New York’s meat-packing district in early 2010 and started dating. He is a high frequency trader and after a particularly devastating transaction said he needed to escape for a few days, so he booked us a weekend in the Caribbean. Going away with someone for the first time is like lifting the curtain on a production and seeing what goes on behind the scenes. Welcome to the show.
THE FIRST TRAVEL DATE
Setting the Stage: When the robot overlords created me, they forgot to put in the chips for patience and moderation. When I read the book Free, Perfect, Now, I wondered why it wasn’t called, “Free, Perfect, Now, and MORE.” FannyPack on the other hand is more pensive and self-restricting than Steve Jobs. You bibliophiles guessed it – FannyPack and I are Foils.
Act I: We got to the airport around 7AM and I said that I needed a Venti coffee immediately. He raised his eyebrows and informed me that this would be a good time to start restricting liquids so that we wouldn’t have use the airplane bathroom. I responded by walking to Starbucks because anyone who speaks to me before I’ve had my coffee just sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Once we boarded the airplane, he pulled out his fanny pack, that was loaded with crumpled cash, expired Advil, a loose black Amex, and old Kleenex. This time, I raised my eyebrows and informed him that this would be a good time to put that sh!t away. He responded by putting on an eyemask. So far the weekend was going swimmingly.
Act II: Once on the island, Fannypack said we would visit a few hotels to find the best spot because we didn’t want to make any rash decisions – you know, like booking a hotel in advance. When we walked out to the cab line, FannyPack tried negotiating a new fare to “the place where the hotels are.” And just like that, the sand ran out of my hourglass. My blood sugar hit zero. I stamped my foot. I turned coat, stood next to the cab driver, and argued on his team for the higher fare. When the debate ended, he drove us to the first hotel, but since this was spring break season they had no vacancy. Surprisingly, the cab didn’t wait for us out front like we agreed. Thus we began our personal Oregon trail – dragging our roller board suitcases down a dirt road from one resort to the next before we finally found a place that would take us.
Intermission: Since we had very different vacation agendas, we ended up spending some time apart. At the all-inclusive we were staying at, I tried to consume everything in sight. I spent most of the next day drinking pitchers of sugary booze earning an intense sunburn, whereas FannyPack was intent on logging three hours in the gym and reading non-fiction. That evening, I went solo for dinner and a glass (read: bottle) of wine. FannyPack wanted to squeeze in another binge exercise sesh.
Act III: As I stumbled back to the room from dinner, I swung open the door and found that FannyPack hadn’t gone to the gym. Instead, he had been running in place for 75 minutes, wearing his fanny pack, and watching Spanish telemundo. I walked over to the mini-bar, grabbed a $684 jar of mixed nuts and crawled in bed to watch the grand finale to our vacation. Cue slow clap.