5/13/2011 - Go!. . .

As a kid, my parents would regularly make the four-hour drive to Reno for weekend getaways.  I loved Reno, something about all the lights, the fun, the energy.  Whenever I would visit my grandparents in their high-rise apartment in Oakland, I would look out of the window onto the city lights below and remark how much it reminded me of Reno’s neon and glitz, and how I wished I could be there. 

As soon as I learned of an impending trip, which could be weeks prior to the actual departure, I would tear through the house in search of quarters.  I would need quarters for the arcade, for the air hockey tables, for all the carnival games at the Circus Circus.  This hunt allowed me to channel my excitement into a physical activity where otherwise, I would have gone mad with anticipation.

One of my favorite games at Circus Circus was one my parents dubbed, “1, 2, 3. . . Go!,” a virtual horse race driven by players sitting in front of their personal pinball machine-like console, truncated to only include the iconic pinball plunger and ball.  Cocking and releasing the plunger would send the ball up to the top of the console, where it would ricochet against rubber bumpers before rolling down a narrow channel, and depending on the channel, the machine’s designated horse would gallop a certain number of steps, from one to three, on a giant digital display around a giant digital track.

The game inflamed my otherwise dormant competitive streak, that tiny, indiscernible spark that apparently only appeared when useless trinkets and stuffed animals were at stake.  My mom said that I would fall into a trance at the sound of the starting bell, eventually chanting quietly to myself: “1, 2, 3. . . Go!  1, 2, 3. . . Go!” to time my release of the plunger so not a second was wasted with my little silver ball sitting still.  I had an almost overwhelming sense of excitement as I counted to three, almost trembling at the hope that with every ‘Go!,’ my ball would tumble into the prized middle column and push my horse three steps and past all over horses, keep mine beyond reach.

How I loved “1, 2, 3. . . Go!”  And like that instant I would release the plunger and set my ball in motion, each trip to Reno ended just as quickly, and I never felt like I had enough time to play to my heart’s content.  As anyone who has ever gone on vacation can attest, an hour is not always an hour; 60 minutes are not always comprised of 3,600 seconds.  An hour can be a leisurely cocktail on a breezy beachside as the sun sets across the water, or the most spectacular story unfolding through pages of a book.  This hour is not the same hour as the one whiled away on a slow day at work, when it is nothing but minutes, nothing but agonizing seconds ticking carelessly by.

I became aware of this ‘temporal discrepancy’ early in my teenage years when I first discovered Cirque du Soleil.  As I wrote a few weeks ago, when a Cirque show came to town and appeared in my horizon, it became my singular focal point, my raison d’être.  Time could not move fast enough, but at the same time, I approached its arrival with much trepidation.  By the time I sat in my seat and Cirque’s traditional pre-show shenanigans began, I would feel an acute pang in my heart; the knowledge that what I have been waiting for, all that I have been able to think about would soon commence, soon be over, was almost more than I could bear.

Of course, as expected, I would fall into a mild depression afterwards, not because Cirque du Soleil disappointed me in any way, but because it had simply moved into the past, forcing me to ask of myself: what can I look forward to now?

Just like how I felt post-Reno.  Just like birthdays.  Vacations, weekends, Christmases, everything that had an endpoint, I mourned their passing like the loss of loved ones.  So, then, everything.

Fortunately, I got older and learned to regulate myself and appreciate moments as they unfolded before me without worrying about the moments after.  But even now, as an adult in my 30s, I still find great satisfaction in the anticipation of something, often more than the thing itself; in the anticipation, all is full of potential, riddled with possibility, and perfect.

Last night, Sam and I sat down and rattled off a list of possible vacation destinations, just something short and close to home.  Because my parents have offered to take care of Grr in our absence and Grr would likely have no objections to being taken care of by them, what seemed impossible a couple of months ago, now just needed a plan to become real. 

I first suggested Lake Tahoe, enjoy some sun by the lake and maybe a hike in the warm spring air.  Then I learned that Tahoe is still typically in the low-50 degrees around this time.  Not exactly balmy, and splashing around in the lake might not be all too pleasant.

Palm Springs is in the mid-90s, but also an eight-hour drive away, and we would essentially only get one full day to ourselves before we’d have to turn around and come home.  Santa Cruz is closer, but we’d be there in a month for my sister’s graduation anyway.  Vegas is always a possibility, but it would cost $400 for the two of us to fly there.  Hawaii is too far; Sacramento too familiar.

Who knows if we'll actually go anywhere, as we may find ourselves paralyzed by options, though really, it almost doesn't much matter.  I found myself reveling just in having options, and I could have talked all night, came up with other ones, new destinations and activities.  All I can think about now is this potential trip that we will take together, and in bed last night, I thought of Reno (even though I have no intention of going there), how I used to adore everything about it, but the planning most of all.  I may no longer have quarters to scrounge around for, but as I fell asleep, I counted silently to myself.  “1, 2, 3. . .”