Browsing in a used bookshop, I picked up Tamara Shopsin’s book because of its title: Arbitrary Stupid Goal. It’s a memoir set in early ’80s New York.
But that isn’t why I bought it.
I bought it because of the opening paragraphs:
The imaginary horizontal lines that circle the earth make sense. Our equator is 0°, the North and South Poles are 90°. Latitude’s order is airtight with clear and elegant motives. The earth has a top and a bottom. Longitude is another story. There isn’t a left and right to earth. Any line could have been called 0°. But Greenwich got first dibs on the prime meridian and as a result the world set clocks and ships by a British resort town that lies outside London.
It was an arbitrary choice that became the basis for precision. My father knew a family named Wolfawitz who wanted to go on vacation but didn’t know where.
It hit them. Take a two-week road trip driving to as many towns, parks, and counties as they could that contained their last name: Wolfpoint, Wolfville, Wolf Lake, etc.
They read up and found things to do on the way to these Wolf spots: a hotel in a railroad car, an Alpine slide, a pretzel factory, etc.
The Wolfawitzes ended up seeing more than they planned. Lots of unexpected things popped up along the route.
When they came back from vacation, they felt really good. It was easily the best vacation of their lives, and they wondered why.
My father says it was because the Wolfawitzes stopped trying to accomplish anything. They just put a carrot in front of them and decided the carrot wasn’t that important but chasing it was.
With the exception of the past three months, I spend more time traveling than at home. Often—okay, usually—I go somewhere with a purpose in mind. To see something I haven’t seen before. To compete in a sporting event. To eat certain food. To visit with friends.
After reading the opening of this book, I decided my next trip would be devoid of aim. I would put a carrot in front of Husband and me and chase it, without regard to where it took us.
But what should the carrot be? Traveling to places named “Phelan” wasn’t feasible. There just aren’t that many of them. “Twist” wasn’t much better. I know, I know—I could hardly believe it either.
I finally settled on the first letter of my first name. Towns, hotels, restaurants, attractions, activities—all had to start with “T”. Names that began with “The” didn’t count.
Husband and I threw our bags into a rented Tesla—yes, I chose a “T” car (plus the doors are really cool)—and took off from Denver on Highway 25. (Or, in case you missed it, Highway Twenty-Five.)
We drove from Taos (town) to Tahoe (lake), zigzagging and doubling back as we found “T” towns, roads, and activities. We ate tamales in New Mexico and grilled tarragon tofu in Tempe, Arizona. We hiked the Thumb Butte Trail in Arizona and took a tour at the Temple Square Visitors Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. (We also bought a tire there after driving over a screw.)
Husband and I played table tennis at a Telluride hotel and went telemark skiing in New Mexico.
We rented costumes for Old West photos in Tombstone, Arizona and panned for gold near Tonopah, Nevada. We stopped by a taekwondo tournament, a truck jam, and a track cycling race.
Meals included picnic supplies from various Targets and trout for lunch at Twist, a restaurant in Breckenridge, Colorado. (But we skipped Taco Bell.)
We spent the night in a treehouse in California and the Tahiti Village Resort in Vegas. (Tubing! Tiki torches! Two-for-one rum drinks with paper umbrellas!)
Three weeks (or, if you prefer, twenty-one days) later, we returned home. Like the Wolfawitzes, we ended up seeing more than we planned, and lots of unexpected things popped up along the route.
And also like the Wolfawitzes, we felt really good.
We decided our aimless excursion won’t be our last. If a road trip is in your summer plans, you may want to consider chasing the carrot, too.
After all, couldn’t we all use a little feeling really good?
