Here in MN, winters last long and test sanity. So we create curious pastimes that might strike Californians as crazy—like ice-fishing, snow-shoeing, and (of course) snow-sculpting. Some call me the Snow Whisperer.
This particular creation required fast photography action, or the flowers that dot the i would freeze and droop, just like we humans do. But faith pays; even the longest winters eventually end. As will this one. Someday…
Looks to me like someone stole a sweet weathervane from a barn in Iowa and plopped it under the ESB in NYC!
While the vane actually sits atop a building near the ESB—not on the ESB—they make a lovely pair. It’s true: You DO see it all in New York!
What you see here is indeed a tiny house. For ice fishing, mostly. Similar castles dot Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes by the gazillions for months, and then must disappear by midnight the first Monday in March, as mandated by the MN DNR. We call it a bittersweet sign of spring.
To out-of-towners, this endless trend seems bizarre—further proof of our faraway, Minnesota-meets-Fargo quirkiness. To us (and, trust me, not everyone participates) the allure of the ice house is quite simple. And it’s not the fish (should you get lucky), the c-c-c-cold (most huts are actually heated), or the adult beverages (though the bar is often open).
No, it’s the art of getting away. And honestly, the experience can be beautiful, even magical. I have an interest in one and my shanty shindigs are always packed! Some gatherings chill, read, play games or music, do a date, spend the night. One Sunday sundown tradition with my brethren is singing familiar hymns in harmony. “Take it to the Lord in prayer…”
But usually, it’s a party. A Getaway party.
Out East, tiny houses are popping up thanks to a venture called Getaway, as created by entrepreneurs John Staff and Pete Davis. Their vision for your less-is-more quest includes natural surroundings, eco-friendly digs, and an unplugging mentality. Any guests spotted using their phones are immediately, and aggressively, kicked out. (Kidding.)
Those seductive words appear as one of Getaway’s website headlines, and suggest the uber-busy lifestyles of their clientele: A day off apparently challenges the calendroid, while turning off devices evidently tests their digitalia addiction. Clearly, these people NEED that getaway! Or rather, they’re just like people just about everywhere.
Check out ongoing press, instagrammers, simple recipes, and T-shirts.
I’ve long fantasized 68-hour retreats with BreakAway experts, good food, and parties (optional). Possible diversions from focus might include yoga, mindfulness, travel planning, and financial coaching. Everyone would leave with an ACTUAL plan. Or, at least depart refreshed and re-faithed.
Until then, ice fishing will do. As will Getaway’s tiny houses. Sign me up!
THINK TINY!
For six weeks around Christmas every year, Kenny Irwin transforms his 2-acre yard into what may be the world’s biggest, unique-est light display, Robolights.
He uses found art, bizarre garbage, constructed creations, and endless holiday lights. Art? Kitsch? Trash? That’s for the visitor to decide. And visit they do—at least 40,000 annually—transforming the neighborhood into a crowded chaos of shock and awe.
Advice to parents: Run away with your kids. Far away. Which, in this photo, meant ambling alone through Hamlet’s Kronborg castle in delightful Denmark. Sounds cool, right? But my son wasn’t buying it. And I get it: Travel at times feels so foreign, so laborious, so irrelevant.
Still, my children have seen the world, experienced extended and exotic stays, and even survived months of home schooling with assignments like creating a travel blog, BreakAway Kid. So they’ve learned things schools can’t teach—including that post-castle activities might include invigorating midnight-sun Frisbee on the beach.
Now THAT sounds like something even Bill Shakespeare would enjoy!
Everyone wants to get away. It’s particularly cool when a hot August day feels like another planet—yet you’re close to two cities. That’s the Fair!
What do you see? I see one sheriff who looks grumpy. Another who wants to go home. Lots of pale faces seeking sunburn. And beer—lots of beer—because the Fair has relaxed its rules and been over-run by umpteen craft beer vendors and upscale eateries.
Why not? It’s a party! It’s summer! No wonder 200 million fans attend the 11-day get-together each year. I rarely go. But this year’s visit resulted in dozens of great shots—including this one of my new best friends.
BreakAway is largely about travel, obviously, though Mgt sometimes get hitchhiked down adjacent paths. We DO still travel—if not lately in the career-break, 3-months-away model. A recent trip, though, sparked reminders of why travel is vital, and how many cool places are a mere 12-hour travel day away. : /
Like, Belize, which remains off most travel radars. It is small, after all (pop. 320,000), even though Madonna made its #1 destination, island San Pedro, famous with her 1987 hit “La Isla Bonita.” The island still embraces that nickname, of course! Belize is young, too; they only stopped being the British Honduras in 1981! Tourists will encounter some 3rd world conditions, and drugs allegedly float through.
Reality checklist recognized, Belize is charming. And booming. Waterside construction is common. And for the Retiree RE Speculators of America, it’s become a red-hot spot—with mega-developments popping up all over. Belize also happens to host the #2 coral reef on earth. So Belize offers a perfect place to thaw a northerner’s soul, re-juice the travel jones, and inspire reminders of why many of us love to travel in the first place.
Stuff like…
Although many travelers arrive with a must-see/to-do schedule, snowbirds know better when simply seeking warmth. I’ll confess: I had a sight-seeing agenda of sorts. But I think it blew off my lap and into the water I first hit the beach. That’s when you kmow you’re on vacation.
I’ve seen more stunning tropical scenery. But who cares? Belize offers quintessential Caribbean beauty; the surrounding palm trees, iguanas, puffy clouds, and aqua water were magical. And have you ever noticed how your senses notice things more keenly when exploring beyond everyday avenues.
When I boarded the packed ferry from the mainland to San Pedro, I ended up on the sunny but uncomfortable stern. Where I come from, you can’t sit there. So I asked the Creole gentlemen next to me, “Can I sit here?” Our sunglasses met, and he cheerfully answered, “DEES BOAT EES FAH WE!”
Having gotten rusty on my Carib patois—and forgotten that Belize is not so much Spanish or English after all—I replied, “For who?” “FAH WE!,” he sang, in classic Caribbean patois, “SEET DOWN AND EEN-JOY DA RIDE!” So I did, salty spray and all.
Waitresses were sunny and funny. Cab drivers discussed history—the country’s and their own—and offered logistical tips. And I again experienced that travel truism: It often seems that people who have less seem to enjoy what they have more. As natives on other islands have explained to me, just about all locals have family, food (fresh fish, fruit, and vegetables!), and a place to sleep. They consider that bounteous.
Belizeans appeared to be genuinely kind, happy to be alive, and grateful to be there.
Belize (or what I saw) showed few signs of crime, unrest, or violence (never saw a cop). Still, locals sometimes urged caution and offered safety tips—and were deadly SERIOUS about not wanting guests to become a crocodile snack!
I come from the land of Minnesota Nice. Yet we can as cold and harried as anyone anywhere. So it sure was fun to experience festive and gregarious strangers all over—like these condo neighbors from Toronto. Hey, we had OJ, they had vodka. Any questions?
On the first morning, I headed out with a friend to explore the island via golf cart (which comprise ~90% of the vehicles on San Pedro). Our first stop was a beach bar. Naturally, the owner/bartender was from MN—and had procured the bar’s namesake (Paco the giant wooden monkey) from a Twin Cities Trader Joe’s.
Small world, or what!?! Well, the next person to sit down and chat had not only grown up on my hometown, but had gone to my high school. SCREEEEEEAM!
In Belize, it’s all about the barrier reef. Oh sure, many tourists are happy just to bask in sun, sand, and surf. But only Australia has a bigger reef. So the dive boats are omnipresent, as is the dive chatter.
(Worth noting: Partying comes a close second in popular activities. To paraphrase the t-shirt of every warm sailing/surfing/diving destination, “Belize is a drinking island with a diving problem.”
Sure, the sports bars (or any place with cold beer and a functional TV) were rocking for the NFL playoff games that Sunday night. And Saturday night brought all revelers—tourists and locals alike—downtown for the bars and clubs. But the MAIN event was Sunday’s super-blood-wolf total eclipse of the full moon, courtesy of a clear sky and brilliant reflections.
Warm-weather vacations are a big thing for North Americans. But remember: When you go south, it’s winter there too. So while January temps range from ~65 – 85, you’ll likely experience varying conditions. Thank goodness for the local coconut weather-caster to help us make sense of the shifting weather!
San Pedro caters largely to northern tastes. Yet local color rules. And most eateries served creations with Caribbean twists. Flavors aren’t shy, and fresh ingredients abound; a stop at a F&V stand will land you a football-sized papaya for around $2. And as for seafood? It’s so fresh you might eat it raw—like this sublime tuna poke on crispy plantain cakes at Rojo Lounge and Beach Bar.
As vacation days fade away, workaday worries feel much less relevant than, say, kicking back poolside. In fact, that book may go untouched due to the urgent distraction of repose. The clock disappears and Island Timegently kicks in. Nothing better.
Like some of these pics, vacations quickly seem blurry. After a few days of January chill back home, the left brain rightly asks, “Did that just happen?”
Well yes, it did. And God willing, it will again. So embrace the souvenirs and stare at the pictures. And of course, start scheming the next vacation, the next destination, the next BreakAway…
TGIF! And finally, a new feature! The photo trove is full of pictures that are worth at least 1,000 words—ideal both the writer’s frozen fingers and today’s readers’ attention spans.
This image comes from a panoramic overlook near popular Portland (OR) last March. The grandstander on the bridge is my fearless friend, Brian. Naturally, the wind was as gusty as my pal is gutsy. But no, he didn’t fall off!
NOTE TO READERS: This is the 25th cancer-related essay on BreakAway since announcing 2+ years ago. Your reading and support marks this milestone and has helped this Survivor get this far. THANK YOU!
HNY! While others were making the rounds of holiday parties, I was making my medical rounds with Mr. Monkey. Santa skipped me this year, I can’t imagine why. But I got the best-est gift of all: NO SIGN OF DISEASE. My doctors grinned. Mr. Monkey wept. And into the arms of The Future I leapt.
I keep thinking the test cycle will change and become more breezy. But instead, this time brought a blizzard of jitters. Maybe it’s the season—the holidays usher in ghosts of Christmases past and the dismal darkness of December. Maybe it’s cancer flashbacks—the clinics trigger gloomy memories and forever feature real, live cancer sufferers. Maybe Mr. Monkey was the wrong companion—as comedy sidekicks go, he didn’t exactly kill it with impatient patients and frazzled staffers.
But hey, he was a hit with mychildren—back in the day. Tastes change, I guess.
I brought Mr. Monkey because I’ve grown weary of one question medical humans often ask: “Are you alone?” I suppose they ask because, if they deliver bad news, they want someone to sneak you out ASAP so they can stay on schedule, obscure the drama, and save on Kleenex. But it gets annoying anyhow.
So this time, I had my snappy one-liners ready. “I’m NOT alone, obviously. I’m with Mr. Monkey!” Or, “No, my caravan of immigrants is on the way.” Or, “No, my evil twin is right behind you…don’t look!”
One thing that won’t change: Waiting rooms remain strange. I have my rituals. Like, bring many diversions, choose a window view, and sit away from the masses. This time, that was a bad idea. You see, the door that takes you into the scanning suite is high-security. So when the nurse opened Oz and called, “Kirk? Kirk?” I waved and gathered up my stuff. BUT—imagine this—the elderly gentleman right by the door popped up and beamed “That’s me!” And away they went.
Who ever heard of such a thing? I mean, typically a guy isn’t all that eager to visit Scan City, have an IV jackhammered into the arm, and be given 32 ounces of blech® to drink in an hour (“sip it like a martini!” said this cycle’s clearly lush-y orderly). But…things change. I suddenly found myself pounding on the door shouting, “Hey! That guy stole my spot! What if you confuse our cancers and give me his chemo?”
The check-in clerk watched me from afar with that look that says, “What is wrong with you?”
Eventually, they corrected the situation. When they returned the jolly old man, the nurse explained, “He’s hard of hearing. That’s why he sits by the door. His name is Bert. HE THOUGHT I SAID BERT!” she shouted at him. So they laughed and bobbed their heads as though this were the best joke on open-stage night. I slapped my knee and bobbed along.
“Hi, I’m Bert!” said my new friend. So I replied, “Hi Bert, I’m Ernie” with swift wit. The nurse frowned. And Bert automatically blurted, “What’s that? You’re who? I can’t really hear you…” And we left him there to steal other people’s scans.
On the next day, when the oncology reckoning came with Dr. Zen, the unusually packed waiting room meant wait…wait…and waiting room. So I took one of the remaining seats—and was overcome by a rare, omnipotent need to nap.
Maybe when the stress maxes out, you pass out.
I became like that guy who can’t stay awake in church. I tried the position with your head hanging—and eventually toppled over like a tree. Then I slept with my head in my hands—until they gave out and I tipped onto the nice lady next to me. Then I slid my body forward so I could put my head on the back of the chair. This worked until I began to snore and sleep-slide further forward such that no one could walk around my legs. I awoke to see the cancer crowd staring at me with irked expressions, while one group was trying to wheel Grandma around or over me. I’m pretty sure she thwacked me with her cane.
“Sorry,” I said, “I guess I’m pretty tired.” “We’re ALL tired,” said someone (who was not a monkey) from Grandma’s entourage. “Get a room!” snarled Grandma as she wheeled by, perhaps not aware of what that expression typically means. I was tempted to “accidentally” flick her wig off, but then was overcome by a slap of compassion.
I look forward to when this routine becomes humdrum. But maybe that will never change. And maybe that’s okay, because it offers fresh adventures for my cancer journey and updated inspirations for my cancer comedy career. Not to mention…these scenes force new opportunities to work on grace, grit, and gratitude—survival virtues that can always use a tune-up.
When the appointments subside and the good news settles in, the gray grass seems a little greener. Stepping in frozen dog poop elicits a shrug, not a curse. The crusty lake ice seems perfect for a sundown skate, after all, and the sky rewards with a brilliant explosion of colors.
(Do you realize the sun never really goes down. Stay tuned…)
Mr. Monkey survived his cancer scare and has returned to hibernating in the ever-shrinking bin of my children’s memorabilia. I’ve returned to the (almost) flashback-free reality that is life between Testing Time. And blessings like friends, family, and music remain the vital remedies to weather life’s storms and to heal life’s ills.
As the Flaming Lips so sagely sing,
Change. It’s the only constant in life. I got this.
Thanks for listening…
PS Got 4m? Please click that Lips’ lyric/vid link. You’ll be glad you did.
Start seeing Career Breaks! They’re OUT there, perhaps calling YOUR name. While the interns have been busy digging up these highlights, the first story hardly requires a bevy of underpaid minions—because it’s getting a LOT of online ink. Clearly, human nature remains fascinated with the rich and fabulous.
Did you know that the top 1% worldwide now has more $ than the rest of us combined? They must find that boring. So they’re seeking rare-critter safaris (with helicopter spotters to make sure they don’t get skunked), dancing with the sharks, and RTW family adventures with nannies and tutors in tow.
In general, the more exotic and extraordinary the itinerary, the better. Think: Bragging rights. This story going viral proves, we believe, that the even 99%-ers (who must have everything) harbor getaway fantasies. That’s the good news. We wish the well-heeled happy trials. And hope we all can afford a BreakAway someday.
Nicki Minaj and Lady Gaga are doing it. Or rather, they’re NOT doing it—and are thus are part of a trending “sex recession” caused by women taking a sex sabbatical.
As this website preaches, BreakAways come (or don’t) in all shapes and sizes. And each one needs a mission. For the ladies who abstain, reasons range from rebooting careers to redefining Mr. Right to rethinking the partying and promiscuity morass. In the case of Ms. Minaj and Ms. Gaga, it’s all about bumping up creativity.
As of press time, 800,000 employees of Uncle Sam still work without pay while our Wallbuilder in Chief plays Russian Roulette with people’s livelihoods—which includes another 4.1 million contractors who depend on the business flow. One longs for days of compassionate civility. But meantime, we gain new insights into the budgetary train wreck crushing so many Americans (and our gov’t).
Like, 78% of US workers live paycheck-to-paycheck. So do 10% of those making more than $100K. (CareerBuilder.) And as BreakAway and some of our media partners reported months ago, 61% in the US have no plan or nest egg should a 6-month emergency emerge from the shadows.
Once again, we implore our dear readers to practice Fiscal Fitness, whether you work for Uncle Sam or yourself. Not only will you increase your odds of surviving an unexpected, “You’re fired!” you’ll also have a better shake at a dreamy break.
1 kid, 5 islands, 69 days
Here's my son’s blog from an '08/09 BreakAway in the Caribbean.
1 planet, countless cultures, 120 days
In 00/01, when the internet was a pup, I went RTW and posted these words and pics en route.
