I recently read several memoirs referencing someone’s Gap Year,
an event more common in Europe than the US, but also typically available only
to those college graduates from families of wealth or stature. During their Gap Year most students gain life
experiences, often through internships, volunteering in a service program,
learning a new language or indulging in artistic pursuits.
Anyone
who knows me knows that I am not a member of a wealthy family, and while I am
seventeen kinds of fancy now, I most certainly wasn’t when I graduated from college
in 1993 and returned to the bustling metropolis of Tylertown, Mississippi. My triumphant return to the boons of my youth
(having moved 5 whole hours away from my family in an effort to live “somewhere
else”) found me clad in pleated shorts with a braided belt and Birkenstocks, and
rocking
a goatee, do you hear me?
I don’t know if I was delusional,
scared, forgetful or simply unaware that one is supposed to find a job before
one receives one’s diploma from one’s college, but I returned to the Cream
Pitcher of Mississippi armed solely with a very expensive piece of parchment, bereft
of position. Unsure what my next step would be, I received a fortuitous
invitation from my college bestie (John Allen) to travel out of the country to
visit his family at their lodge on the shores of Lake Kakagi, or Crow Lake if
you don’t care about the Native American way of life or language, which is rude. Allen’s Crow Lake Lodge is located just
outside the charming Nestor Falls, Ontario, Canada.
When I presented the plan to my
parents, The Dad looked at me like I looked at him that Christmas he gave me a
rifle instead of an argyle sweater. My mother
asked how much I thought it would cost to fly.
Unsure, we researched it and after a few calculations, she informed me
that our family was wealthy enough to offer a Gap Fortnight via Greyhound Bus.
Surprised and excited we could
afford anything, I proudly boarded that majestic transporter of common folk, in
McComb, Mississippi and arrived only a short 36 hours later in Duluth,
Minnesota, where John’s brother lived.
From there it was a short drive to Ontario. This was, of course, way back in the day when
all you needed to cross into this outpost of Great Britain was a valid driver’s
license.
I boarded the bus, full of excitement,
which turned to wonder, which turned to confusion as to why the floor was
sticky and why it smelled like urine. I
perused the faces and outfits of my fellow passengers and found none to my
liking, taking a seat by myself, filling the adjacent seat with my travel
accoutrement. The driver told me I had
to share my seat with someone. I
informed him that he should fill the bus around me and if, at that time, there
was a need for someone to sit in the adjoining seat, I would gladly let them.
After a bus change in Memphis there
was a 4-hour layover in Chicago, where the sweet lady who ran the lunch counter
let me sit behind it with her because, “[you] don’t look like you belong here,
hon”. I concurred and ate my
complimentary pie and coffee with 24 inches of Formica countertop between me
and the unwashed masses. What? I’m not being a snob, I promise you I smelled
‘armpit’ and ‘butt crack’ and ‘cigarette smoke’ in equal measure.
After we re-boarded, I spent the trip
to our next bus change in Madison, Wisconsin, steadfastly avoiding eye contact
with the elderly gentleman across the aisle whose left hand remained down the
front of his pants, while his right hand shoveled Funyuns into his gaping
maw. Okay, that was somewhat snobbish. Mea
culpa.
Suffice it to say, I arrived in the
sparkling city of Duluth (Germanic Midwesterners are tidy, y’all; no litter and
no grafitti!), and was met with a banner unfurled welcoming me to the Great
North. After a quick stay in Duluth we
headed north to Ontario where I spent the next two weeks doing my version of
outdoor activities like:
·
Pretending to enjoy catching, cleaning and
cooking fish; actually enjoying eating it;
·
Popping a wheelie in a canoe because I weighed
at least 100 pounds more than my passenger (cabin boy Stephen; his paddle didn’t
even touch the water, he was so far in the air);
·
Being pushed off a 60-foot cliff into water so clear
you could actually see me struggling not to drown;
·
Inadvertently shoplifting a braided leather bracelet
on our one trip into town, because I got so excited that trendy accessories actually
fit my meaty wrist; and
·
Being too fat and/or uncoordinated enough to
water ski for the first time. It didn’t
even work with me trying to start from a sitting position on the end of the
dock.
John returned me from my successful
Gap Fortnight via a non-stop road trip from Ontario, Canada to New Orleans in a
gold Ford Tempo with a cat, cooler full of baloney sandwiches and Mello Yello,
ketchup-flavored chips (popular in Ontario) and enough No-Doz to keep 67
college students awake for finals. I don’t
remember much from that road trip except that we either experienced or hallucinated
a tornado in Missouri and drove so fast past the St. Louis Arch that, to this
day, I am uncertain if I saw it.
If the measure of success of an
experience is that you learned something, I can say this was a successful Gap
Fortnight. If nothing else, it drove me
to graduate school to ensure a future with enough money to fly wherever I
needed to go, resulting in the bougie wonder you know and love.
Carpe
Experientia, y’all!
