Bye, Bye, Miss America Vanilla

I didn’t notice it until a fellow traveler relayed it to me. There on the menu board of a Patagonian ice cream shop, spelled no Spanish (or English) word for vanilla. Where it should have been, “American” stood in its place.
We smirked at the implication: America is vanilla.
I don’t know if that’s an indictment of political correctness and/or superpower myopia running its course—or something tamer and unintentional. My mind jumped to connect that realization with a comment that our guide (and my pastor), Woody, said earlier in the week. He’s climbed the tallest mountain in South America and in Africa and MANY lesser peaks across the globe—both as an explorer and a guide (even a guide trainer). He noted that we six Virginians represented some of the few Americans in El Chalten, the base-camp town for Fitz Roy and the surrounding glacier highland treks. “You’ll find that to be true in most rugged places around the globe, actually,” he divulged.
I still wonder why that is—and if it has anything to do with vanilla. It probably links somehow with the obesity and unhealthiness of our 50-state culture, among other applications. I don’t know. So, I filtered the idea through my personal experience.
My life has catapulted away from any vanilla it might have had, since I opened myself up to the respite of nature and unfettered worship in the out-of-doors. Since my freshman year of college—and maybe even before that—I’ve lived my life as though it were short. I’ve always tried to suck the marrow out of every journey, every relationship, every memory. I’ve just ramped it up in the recent years that self-employment has opened.
I am amused at the reactions of others to my bungy jumping and sky diving, waterfall repelling and down-shift driving. “I could never do that! That’s so crazy [or ‘dangerous’ or ‘nuts’]!” Having walked through all those thresholds, I remember the apprehension I had before the adrenaline rushes but look back with calloused eyes. I value my life more than people insinuate. I like to think I value it more, trying to add para-vanilla experiences to it. I’ve seen my life literally pass before my eyes; life gets easier to prioritize and enrich after that.
“How is that a vacation?” I’ve been asked. For me, no matter where I escape, vacation must be cathartic to be worth the time away from income production and from the benefit of routine. If the only difference between home and my vacation spot is the lack of an office and a different [usually more expensive] location to eat, sleep, and shop, where is the value of the travel costs? From what are you escaping other than the baneful side your routine? I mean, where and when do you evaluate the space and trajectory of the months between your last respite and this one?
Give me adventure (and introspection), or give me death!
When the basement journalist at the paper has to write my obituary, I don’t want my abandoned community to read, “George is survived by [insert names here].” I hope it communicates that I didn’t survive life (nor did those closest to me). I wrestled it, drank it, radiated it—until the last day, when I relinquished what life I still held into the hearts of others.
Who knows where Crystal or Timmy or whoever will scatter my Mason jar of ashes. But if they’re eating ice cream at my funeral, it’ll be double chocolate or cookie dough.