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.
The interns have been busy again seeking BreakAways in the News. And they got VERY excited by the news that Chance the Rapper is taking a break from his break-neck schedule to study the Bible. Other take-your-time related bits keep hitting the telegraph, fax, and carrier pigeons. Read on for news and inspiration…
Few rappers—or rock stars of any stripe—have incorporated gospel choirs and sheer spiritual jubilation like Chance the Rapper, so it’s no surprise that he’s serious about his faith. He also claims that the arrival of a new nephew has inspired him to take family and leadership more seriously. Chance has been lighting up charts and fans alike for some time now so…good for him. Oh yeah, he also claims he’ll use this time to stop smoking. Good for him.
An impressive site called Know Your Value dishes tips about re-entering the workplace for women in their, say, 50s. After, say, raising kids and getting lost in the laundry room for, oh, 20 years. One interesting suggestion: Don’t ask for help with technology. (HELP!?!)
Ginny Brzezinski serves as the site’s comeback contributor, and points out that there are as many as 5 generations in the workplace now—and that comebackers may find themselves reporting to someone half their age. Shocking, perhaps. But a small price to pay for the priceless privilege of raising your progeny.
There are only about 250 who practice this craft. They charge $100 – $400 per hour. They can help couples who argue about things other than kids, chores, and sex. And that’s a BIG market, so they’ve found a niche that begs the question…what took you so long?
Our Senior Intern Supervisor first heard about this on public radio’s wonderfully quirky Marketplace. And it catches our attention because, obviously, the #1 reason people don’t take a sabbatical is…money. Despite that most folks who would consider the idea will make millions over their lifetime. So yes, they need budgeting shrinks, saving shrinks, and spending shrinks.
Therapy is never cheap. But if it saves your marriage and/or money (and/or saves your BreakAway dream from dying), it’s worth every penny.
This site encourages everyone to break out of their comfort drone and dive into experience. The off-screen kind with fresh sounds, sights, smells, surroundings, and homo sapiens. In a perfect world, we do this by traveling the world for 3 months every 7 years or so. Meantime, we maintain our practice with music and things.
For lots of guys, diversion practice features lots of fishing, hunting, sports, beer, and Captain Morgan. For women, such activities trend toward yoga, book clubs, retreats, chardonnay, and Tupperware parties.
IMHO, however, few things bring release like live music. Regardless of your gender. In the Twin Cities alone, hundreds of venues are routinely packed despite spendy tickets, pesky scalpers, and spilt beer. Euphoric fans fill the streets, bars, and eateries hours before (and after) the show. And—never mind that funky fog—there’s a palpable buzz in the air that few pursuits can match.
I’m not sure how, exactly, one quantifiably measures well-being—but sign me up. Disclosure: the study last spring that got much ink was commissioned by London’s famed 02 Centre, a big player in the industry and perhaps not a completely unbiased source. Still, there are many such studies floating around. And they all agree on findings like…
Those are impressive numbers. But beyond any fuzzy math, this live-music buff rejoices in the way that a concert brings people together like few other things can, especially in these contentious times. Regardless of work, religion, or politics, giddy fans routinely stand up, scream, sing along, and leave feeling at least 55% better than when they came in.
02’s study asserts that regular attendance is the key—as in, seeing a show every 2 weeks or so. While that might sound ambitious, most any hobby or pastime that promises to elevate your life experience takes some commitment. And is worth it.
We all see it often: The idiot driving in front of you is all over the map—breaking and swerving, so unnerving. When this happened to me yesterday, my car-model prognosis surmised this person might be old. That’s fine; we all aspire to become elderly drivers, right? But this time, I pulled up in the next lane only to see that this aging person was also staring straight at her phone. Gadzooks!
10 years ago, the MYBA Editorial Komittee declared that obsessing with your own digitalia qualified as risky behavior—including the danger that you may miss out on the joys (and pitfalls) of Reality. Taking a 3-month BreakAway to a dream destiny offered the ultimate escape from screen fakery and other drudgery.
That was before the cell phone, as we now know it. The simple remedy for that obsession? A practice called Unplugging. But that movement has gone the way of Universal Health.
So, sadly, BreakAway has become relatively silent on that cause. Others research and write about digitalia abuse routinely. In fact, over-usage (and by that I mean normal usage) of cell phones and SM now qualifies as a veritable addiction. Among teens, it’s an epidemic, in plain view wherever they may stumble upon you.
But as the granny-driver in the relic Buick reminds us, this disease does not discriminate; all ages are vulnerable. And exposure always beckons.
Yet a guy could drive himself bonkers (and has) by asking children or other loved ones to put it away. We’ve lost. We’ve lost the expectation for focused presence of mind from others; they have somewhere better, cooler to “be”…on-screen. We’ve lost the connection of eye contact. Heck, we may have lost the art of conversation.
Consider these findings about teens from Common Sense Media, although I believe the numbers might be similar for a substantial (and growing) segment of adults (who may just be striving to be youngish, since the tight jeans didn’t work):
Although I still preach and prick the kinfolk I care about when they are phone-focused during, say, mealtime and relevant chats, I rarely sacrifice my own sanity any more. Too bad. In this case, the “simpler times” really were better.
I miss the basic human courtesies of mutual respect and attention. It’s rather heartbreaking to realize you’re less popular than a widget.
But hey, we’re not alone.
(Or are we?)
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.
