Wanderlust and love
Why did I always believe that geography could cure what was wrong in a relationship?
On my honeymoon last July, I was struck by a couple who would often sit in the chaise longues in front of me on the beach. I was observing them on my own, my husband having chosen to jet ski and myself having chosen to read the latest Stephenie Meyer vampire saga. This couple seemed moody and discontented, even though, through eavesdropping, I’d learned that they, too, were on their honeymoon. They were always bickering about something -- how much to raise the umbrella, how much to tip the waiter from the beach bar. One day, the woman got so angry about something she dumped her pina colada on the man’s feet and stomped down the beach, her sarong flapping in the Caribbean wind. For some reason, I thought of a card my mother once gave me with a scowling cartoon girl on the front, a bright red inner tube around her waist, standing in knee-deep water, other children happily swimming around her. “Wherever you go,” it said, “there you are.”
This couple from the beach really stuck with me. I thought about them back at the hotel and again on the plane to Boston. It occurred to me that even though the new husband and wife might have been having issues or experiencing tension, they probably thought these things would magically go away once they landed in the heady sun of St. Martin. That simple geography would be enough to make it disappear.
I saw myself in this couple. In previous relationships I’d fallen madly in love and refused to believe it was over, even when all signs indicated otherwise. In high school, my boyfriend and I would have horrible, below-the-belt fights. They would always end with us going for a nature walk, pointing out the trees and the birds and the sky, distracting ourselves from the vicious things that had been said. Walking was something we used to do in better times, when we first met. It was almost as if we were trying to find ourselves in the woods, a different version that didn’t fight quite so much.
My college boyfriend and I were great friends who bonded over afternoons watching old movies and walking around the city. But our relationship never really progressed past that “friend” level. I yearned for the passion I just knew we were capable of -- if only the time and place were right. We ended up buying a condominium together. I lovingly painted the walls -- tangerine, lavender, grass green. As I was painting, the roller moving up and down the bright white walls, I realized with astounding clarity: No amount of paint can fix us.
I think of other relationships, too, and the images come to me like a movie montage of a couple’s best times -- of us snowboarding in Vermont; of us on a boat, the wind moving through our hair; of us on a road trip. Us . . . trying to be something we’re not. Sometimes I wonder about my intense need for the geographical cure. Did it make me desperate, or hopeful?
Now that I’m married, I’d like to believe I’ve outgrown my propensity for geographical whimsy. Luckily, I’m in a relationship where ordinary days seem to shine the most. I’m still stunned that driving in rush hour, cleaning out the attic, and scrubbing greasy pots and pans can actually be a source of joy, given the right person to do it with. I’m stunned that when life doles out disappointment and hardships, I long to be in my imperfect apartment, with the creaky stairway and scratched-up walls and floors, sitting with my husband on our couch full of dog hair.
Don’t get me wrong -- I’m still prone to dream. On days when stress or boredom gets the best of me, I’ll search Expedia for travel deals to San Francisco or Tuscany or Vancouver. I’ll search Zip Realty for homes that are way out of our price range. I’ll rearrange the pictures in the living room until they look absolutely perfect. We might go on a fabulous trip, or buy a lovely home, or finally have an apartment that’s decorated exactly the way we want it. Or we might not. In the end, these things are fun to dream about, but that’s about all. Because, as that old card reminds me, there we are.
Jaime Heidtman is a middle school teacher and writer. She lives in Watertown. Send comments to coupling@globe.com. Story ideas Send yours to coupling@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to ideas we will not pursue. 
