Most days, when taking a seat at our computer, I land on the page of another city in another state: proof that my husband has been researching fantasies about where we might retire. Stimulating yet peaceful towns with pristine air, tall trees, crystal bodies of water, artful but cheap real estate—you get the picture. Countless visits to diverse online real estate markets have made him an expert on the subject, but he swears he does not wish to put this expertise to productive postretirement use as a real estate agent. He is simply researching our future.
Would that the pull of grandchildren, a paid-for tract of land, or a geographically specific occupation might facilitate our selection process, but none of these factors apply. “Here and now,” I urge him. “Polish your present house, relish your bayside city.” (Our locale is attractive enough but, we fear, too costly for a life of leisure.) My wisdom floats past him as he researches Amherst, Austin, Albuquerque, Bellingham or Boise.
Lately, his inspiration has taken a new turn. For our precious annual vacation, we’ll travel to these dream towns, one by one, and compare impressions. The catch is that we must do so when the city is at its most inhospitable. In that way we’ll determine whether we’ll be able to endure it if we were to retire there, when frequent travel may not be an option.
Thus we visited Astoria, Ore., one of the West Coast’s wettest towns, in February. The heaviest rains and the flash floods were over. Large falling branches were no longer causing major damage to houses, roads and yards, but the picturesque little river town was plenty drenched.
The storms had caused tourists, except for us, to change plans. We’d timed our visit to coincide with the Handel Festival at the Liberty Theater. How cozy it would be to enjoy Water Music accompanied by refreshing rain! Alas, that potential highlight of our trip had been cancelled because only three people had signed up for tickets. So we visited the Columbia River Maritime Museum and charted the course of unfortunate sailors who perished where the mighty river meets the Pacific. Such an experience, such an education for our winters to come!
In August it was Austin. Our week in Texas coincided with a string of 105-degree days. In the first four days the protective bubble of our resort hotel and its pools offered respite. However, Bert grew restless and drove us into the scorching hill country several times on real estate jaunts, complaining frequently about how difficult the road signs were and how his new progressive lenses didn’t quite seem to work.
To savor the true summer Austin experience, we moved to an urban hotel for the final days of our visit. Trudging down Congress Avenue, too tired to walk to the Capitol, we might have expired from heat exhaustion save for the welcome proximity of the LBJ Museum. There we learned about Lady Bird’s legacy: the wonderful wildflowers that weren’t currently blooming. I bought a book of floral postcards so that I can identify them should we ever return at a saner time of year.
Our next leg of the trip was Chapel Hill—a perfect time to discover the joys of peak humidity in North Carolina. Although passersby had muttered something about beating the storm, the torrential rain still came as an exhilarating surprise. Passing UNC fraternity row in my drenched white T-shirt, I felt as if I had frolicked at a kegger some three decades past my graduation.
So far, I’ve gone along with these vacation missions, spending our earnings to visit towns at their most wretched. But when Bert mentioned his plan to discover Amherst and Albany in dead of winter, I drew the line. Why choose one’s retirement city by one’s ability to endure it? Isn’t falling in love the more time-honored selection method—be it for a partner, a career, a belief or an artistic pursuit? It’s the memory of love that forgives wrinkles and extra pounds, hours of grunt work, disillusionment or tedious practice. Should not that same optimism and hope apply to choosing a new city in our world of many choices?
When the time comes to plan our next vacation, I will promote my own views. “Let’s fall in love,” I’ll tell him. “Give us Astoria during Indian summer, Amherst in golden autumn, Austin when the bluebonnets bloom, Amsterdam when the tulips glow.” And in winter, we’ll always have Maui.
DOROTHEA VAN JOOLEN BARTH, ’72, is a writer in Vallejo, Calif.
