Love, Death, and Steve Jobs
The decision to take a one-year sabbatical with my wife to travel the world was made urgent by two deaths and our growing love affair.
This was the first story published in 2014 on my travel blog Somewhere Pretty Cool. I’ve since lost my father, welcomed a baby girl to my family (with №2 on the way), and remained deeply in love with my wife.
Outside of a basilica in Barcelona on a cold, Catalan evening I found love. Tiny and French Canadian. Exquisite. Tender. Incisive. After the Spanish guitar concert, wine, a midnight walk along the Mediterranean, and a weekend of small kisses I was done for. Completely hooked. That was four years ago. We’ve been married for six months.
Death vacillates from a purely abstract darkness to the most real state in the known universe. The death of a loved one crushes you with that realness. Losing my uncle Jack, a beautiful man in his fifties enjoying early retirement, unlocked the fragility of this life.
Six months after my uncle passed away, Steve Jobs died from pancreatic cancer. Sure, I own a few Apple products and impatiently await the release of the next iThing. But the emotion of that day wasn’t just the sadness of lost things; the overwhelming feeling in my bones was dread.
What better way to celebrate finally being together.
One night while sitting on the couch with my wife in a tangle of legs and wine glasses, the idea of a sabbatical arose. She was a PhD candidate dreaming of the life of an academic scholar. A life that affords the opportunity to leave for one year every seven or so in the name of research. It wasn’t a very serious conversation at the time: adventure, traveling the world, a year in Paris. It was mostly a thought experiment.
Due to her immigration status and nearing the end of her thesis, we faced a decision. Do we move to Montreal, close to her family? Do we move to DC near mine? How about somewhere new? Vancouver, Austin, San Diego. Through this process we kept coming back to the sabbatical idea. Why wait for a university-sponsored opportunity? Why not take a year off as soon as she finishes her PhD? For a couple that has had to fight through the difficulties of a long-distance relationship, what better way to celebrate finally being together.
We don’t live forever. And we often don’t live as long as we’d like.
In his mid-fifties and only a year older than my father, my uncle’s passing was a shock to the system. Death never felt so close. My parents’ generation wasn’t supposed to be facing annihilation. Not yet. They had retirement and grandkids and golf trips and weddings to enjoy.
Beyond the grief, it was the loss of Uncle Jack’s golden years that hurt most. He dedicated his life to the fire department, rose through the ranks, and deserved his early retirement and pension. He bought a Harley. He was ready to enjoy his youngest son’s baseball career and to see his grandkids play in the backyard. He and my father wanted to “build stuff” — remodel the kitchen, re-shingle the roof, extend the patio. All this was lost.
The day Steve Jobs died I decided to travel around the world.
The dread I was left with when Jobs passed was based on fulfillment. He had a lot left to give. More ideas, more designs, more ego. He had a vision for the world that I was interested in experiencing. That vision would be unfulfilled.
For me, seeing the far corners of this world is fulfillment. I want to laugh in other languages. I want to eat mystery meat from a food stall. I want to take pictures of people taking pictures.
Still processing my uncle’s passing, the urgency of my dream became overwhelming the day Jobs died. We’re not guaranteed a full retirement or a healthy life. Death is indiscriminate. This dream can’t be postponed. If I was going to see this world, I had to do it now.
Over two years ago we committed to it: We will save money, research air and hotel loyalty programs, decide on an itinerary, select a volunteer program, and GO! Everyday since, we have dreamt of that first flight. And now we’re only five months away.
