The Distance Between Here and There

How do you sum up the best and most needed vacation you've ever taken?

Honestly, I'm not sure you can.

My husband and I just returned from a trip we had been talking about for well over a decade. Every time we started planning it, life stepped in. Work. Bills. Responsibilities. Something always seemed more important.

This time, we did something different. We paid for it in advance. There was no backing out. No postponing it until "next year."

Besides, it was our twentieth wedding anniversary. If there was ever a time to finally take the trip, this was it. I was determined we were getting on that train.

We started in San Francisco, spending a few days exploring the city before boarding an Amtrak bus to the station. From there, we climbed aboard the California Zephyr and began making our way across the country.

We started the journey in coach. By the time we reached Chicago, we'd upgraded to a roomette.

Worth. Every. Penny.

Over the next eleven days we crossed mountains, deserts, farmland, rivers, and cities. We stopped in Salt Lake City, Denver, Chicago, and finally New York City. Every place had something different to offer. Every train ride felt like a reminder that slowing down allows you to notice things you'd miss at thirty thousand feet.

Maybe the distance between here and there isn't measured in miles at all. Maybe it's measured in what we're finally able to notice along the way.

I filled my Notes app with ideas. Some ideas belonged to the book I'm writing now. Others belonged to books I haven't even started yet. Apparently inspiration likes train travel as much as I do.

Of every stop we made, though, New York left the deepest mark.

I expected the 9/11 Memorial to be emotional.

I wasn't prepared for the Statue of Liberty. Standing there, looking up at her, I found myself unexpectedly overwhelmed.

Maybe it was thinking about the millions of people who saw her as the promise of a new beginning. Maybe it was the hope she represented. Or maybe it was simply the weight of standing in a place that carries so many stories.

Then we crossed the city to the 9/11 Memorial. Emotionally, I don't think I'd recovered from Lady Liberty before walking into another place carrying so much grief and resilience. It was almost too much for one day.

When we finally made it back to the hotel that evening, I was exhausted in every sense of the word.

Physically.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Spiritually.

We showered, put on our pjs, climbed into bed, turned on the television, and settled into the kind of quiet that only comes after a full day.

Then the room started to vibrate.

Three Marine One helicopters flew overhead, followed by several Ospreys. The sound echoed between the buildings and rattled the windows.

Apparently the city had other plans for a quiet evening.

It was the first truly loud moment we'd experienced all day, and it broke the spell just enough to remind me that life outside our little adventure was still happening.

If I had to sum up our trip in just a few lines:

Perfect weather.

Amazing food.

Good conversations.

Beautiful scenery rolling past the train windows.

Eleven days that somehow felt both slow and impossibly fast.

Then it was time to come home.

Naturally, the skies opened the moment we boarded the plane. We sat on the tarmac for two hours while lightning rolled across the airport and rain pounded the windows. Somewhere nearby, a baby expressed exactly how everyone else on the plane was feeling.

Brian and I looked at each other, smiled, put in our earbuds, turned on the shows we'd downloaded, and settled in for the wait.

If that wasn't the universe saying, "Paradise is over. Welcome back to reality." I don't know what was.

And honestly? I'd take every delayed flight, every screaming baby, and every minute on that tarmac if it meant I got to have those eleven days again.

Because sometimes the greatest distance isn't measured between cities. It's measured in the space we give ourselves to slow down, to notice, and to return home with grateful hearts.

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