The question was simple enough. A friend asked for information about the waterfront house that I had rented for vacation. My answer was equally simple ”“ in a word, “no.”
Not that I needed to be so blunt; luckily my friend had thought to ask whether I considered the house a private find. In fact, I did.
“I feel a little funny about this,” I explained, aware that my territorial stance seemed, at best, odd. There I was, being possessive about a place I didn’t even own.
My friend easily backed off. Still, I felt silly and sheepish, though curiously right. I wasn’t protecting some rental house from invasion by a friend; I was shielding my own experience, removing it from the gaze and comment of others.
In truth, I didn’t feel possessive about the physical house itself; I was laying claim to a set of customs and rituals ”“ seal-watching, late-night meals, rowing to a nearby island ”“ that were part of staying there. The house may not have been mine, but my experience of it belonged to me in some absolute, non-negotiable sense.
Vacations aren’t generic McGetaways. They’re as individual as the people who take them.
I know a couple, for instance, who revisited their honeymoon island villa to celebrate the wife’s 50th birthday. A lovely, romantic idea, to be sure. Less romantic was the notion that a group of friends had been invited, too. At another time, perhaps, this notion of re-casting an intimate event might have sounded more appealing. But so much these days has become social, communal, public ”“ even money and sex, those two old bastions of privacy, now figure prominently in the most mundane chatter.
At a time when Facebook and Twitter offer the most minute, personal details of strangers’ lives, some of us want to run for cover. “Fifteen minutes of fame” is the catchphrase that describes the sudden splash of attention some people seem to crave. For the rest of us, though, 15 minutes of privacy is the antidote we seek.
In the end, the basic defense of my stance goes back to a primal sense of territory ”“ of what’s mine, as distinct from yours. My experience, adventures, memories are mine, alone ”“ part of the blueprint of who I am and how I see the world. These are not transferable, like tickets to an event; they’re unique, singular. One can choose to widen, or narrow, the sphere into which other people are welcome ”“ to revisit the honeymoon villa en masse, at one extreme, or to conceal a much-loved vacation spot, at the other.
Back to my friend and the vacation house. When I declined to give out information about the place, I was telling her only half the story. I felt equally odd about sharing, or not sharing, information ”“ about refusing, in effect, to assist with my friend’s plans. Surely not all vacations are sacrosanct. Nor do all of one’s memories and experiences need to be shrink-wrapped to guard against the taint of de-personalization.
I suggested some alternatives to my friend, tips about other places that I was glad to pass along. The point wasn’t to be a curmudgeon ”“ just to strike a balance between one’s private and social self.
— Joan Silverman is a writer in Kennebunk. This article originally appeared, in slightly different form, in The Christian Science Monitor.
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