The thing about working “on the Internet” is that it becomes almost impossible to ever STOP working. Signing on to write on this blog entry, I find myself drifting to the social accounts I manage for work – it’s muscle memory at this point to visit the homepage, shift to Facebook, to Twitter, to analytics software – to the same behemoths of data that dominate my paid hours. Before I had even begun to pen this post, I was an hour into working on things for my other job, and I hadn’t even shifted from my position on my bed.
Of course, the alternate side to this is that when you end up in a location that lacks any Internet connection it becomes virtually impossible to do your job. This is the situation I found myself in over the weekend. Faced with a rare four consecutive days off (in honor of Independence day), myself and the cadre of college friends with whom I share New York City packed our bags and headed east. I traded Proust for Fitzgerald this weekend, opting for the Anglo American savoir faire of the Hamptons (which, for the uninitiated, is the bastion of East Coast wealth upon which The Great Gatsby is based).
New York City is remarkable for many reasons, but one of them is that it takes so little time and such insignificant geographic distance to move from its unique urban sprawl to a different universe. Two hours north of the city you can find the sleepy towns of the Hudson. Two hours northwest is an impoverished town in the foothill of the Catskill mountains. And two hours east lie gorgeous beaches peppered with landing pads for private jets. So after a brief drive (made even shorter by our shared excitement to be away from our jobs and from the humidity of New York in July), my four friends and I were at our destination. Proust has a choice phrase about the behavior of time in different settings:
“The time which we have at our disposal every day is elastic; the passions that we feel expand it, those that we inspire contract it; and habit fills up what remains.”
We found a cheap motel outside of Southampton (made cheaper by our lie to the owners that we were a party of three, not five) and loaded up the trunk of my friend’s car with the sugary kind of alcohol that should not be consumed away from a beach. We ate out for dinner and I swallowed my panic as my bank account balance shrank every day. I lay in the sun upon the sand for the first time in what I realized was two years – but not before I had paid the price for my forgetfulness with a sunburn that debilitated me for 24 hours of the trip.
It was the shock of my sunburn that jolted me towards the realization that these four days were the first vacation I’d had in months. The last time I had gone this long without working was my family reunion in Vermont, almost exactly a year before. That trip was potent with nostalgia, with the strange sense of deja vu that permeates familial reactions, the awkward comfort of seeing your nose resting on a near-stranger’s face. This trip was in many ways a mirror image of that last urban exodus: a journey east of New York instead of north of Washington; a beach made of sand, not rocks; days spent with the family I’ve found, not the one I was born with.
The trip was not without nostalgia: for past summers at the beach with childhood friends; for the drives at college where my roommate and I wound through cow pastures on our way to nowhere, discussing our anxieties over upcoming tests and the ways in which our hearts had broken and mended. But memories follow us wherever we go (as Proust would be the first to point out). This trip didn’t feel like a visit to the past, rather, it was a serene four days where I truly disconnected and, in taking stock of my life from afar, got the distinct impression that it was moving forward. The four days felt even longer, not from tedium, but from, as Proust puts it, the expansion of my passions that stretched the elastic fabric of time. I came back to New York with peeling skin and sand in my hair, but, upon reconnecting, find that this interlude carried a latent sense of propulsion. Maybe enough momentum to finish these damn books – and write on this blog more than once every five months.
Postscript: Rather than begin this post with my apologies for the long delay in my posting, I decided to begin with a normal Proust Book Club post. I will say here: if you’re still reading, thank you. Thank you Maeve for your gentle reminders and for keeping this domain warm while I sorted out my life and felt overwhelmed by the prospect of being alone with my emotions and my words. Once I have resumed the swing of things, I will explain my absence… or perhaps I’ll just use Proust’s words instead of my own, as they once again seem more apt:
“Had I been less firmly resolved upon settling down definitively to work, I should perhaps have made an effort to begin at once.”