Indulging in Happiness
Love, Loss, and Aruba Aribas
When I agreed to a date at my local pub a few summers ago, I had zero expectations.
Over Beefeater cocktails and Fuller’s London Pride, a guy and I got to know each other. He was a software engineer at Goldman Sachs (I was only 65% sure this meant he worked at a bank). Born in London and raised outside of New York, he loved Chelsea Football Club, cats, and his family. He’d also focused so hard on work he hadn’t dated in five years. Seeing as I am a Tottenham fan who dreams of owning a corgi named Harry Kane, I wasn’t totally sure we fit. But something about the way he listened to me, how he looked in my eyes as I spoke while his dark curls fell against the lenses of his round glasses… It encouraged me to suggest a second date watching Premier League at mine.
This went well; so well it lasted thirty-six hours. I ended up naming the day “George” because I felt it deserved a special title. He agreed. We continued seeing each other for a month, going out for dinners and grabbing drinks and getting nosebleed tickets to the Mets. Then one night over dim sum he asked me to be his girlfriend. I think I said, “Are you sure?” before nodding my head. “Yes.”
In the three years since sharing those soup dumplings, a lot has happened for me and my partner, Max. We’ve changed jobs and lost family members. We’ve had adventures across cities, states, and countries. And we’ve had our fair share of laughter, tears, and fighting words; occasionally all in the same day. It hasn’t always been perfect. But it’s always filled with love.
Max is more into anniversaries than me. To be honest, I’m lucky if I remember the date given that I barely remember anything. But I agree that it’s important to celebrate our little milestone. Summer was kind of crazy, both of us working a lot of late nights in between long trips with our families. Most of the time we’d spent together was at people’s weddings. We needed some dedicated couple days. We both enjoy travel—and I was toeing the line of burnout—so a proper vacation/getaway was in order.
We set our parameters: somewhere on the beach no more than 6-hours away. If we were flying, it had to be direct and within an hour or so of the time zone to account for our night classes. And it would be great if it was warm with little rain. Our search results pulled up an ideal location.
Aruba: a Dutch-owned island approximately 29 kilometers north of Venezuela, a Caribbean destination safe from hurricanes where the average weather is sunny, breezy, and always around 80° Fahrenheit. No wonder it’s called “one happy island.” It sounded perfect. Indulgent, but perfect. We started booking flights and hotels, making dinner reservations and spa appointments. My excitement grew. For time logged off work, for time with my partner, for time in the sun.
We stayed at The Ritz-Carlton where staff greeted us with complimentary champagne. After checking-in to our oceanfront room, we quick-changed into our bathing suits and hit the white sand. But it wasn’t until I dipped into the warm and shallow ocean that where I was really hit me. As I breathed in the salty air and exhaled the tension I’d held inside for months, a tingle rushed down my spine. Kind of like the feeling you get when someone rubs your back. I was… relaxing. Truly relaxing. And I had ten full days of it to take in with Max and without my work email. I (literally and figuratively) floated on that peace for the next hour.
Much of the trip remained as wonderful as my first moment in the ocean. I spent hours sitting along the shores of Palm Beach reading rom-coms, falling asleep in the sun, and trying every frozen concoction on the poolside cocktail menu. Max and I enjoyed massages at the hotel spa, a sunset catamaran cruise, and a climb to the top of California Lighthouse. Plus, so much delicious food. I won’t make your mouth water with every dish, but a few highlights are a sunset meal at Barefoot, traditional Dutch beef dish Draadjesvlees at Quinta Del Carmen, and Infini’s 8-course tasting menu that surpassed many meals I’ve eaten in New York.
Vacation wasn’t without bumps, though. Specifically a bump on my toe…
Max was helping me move my lounger out of the sun when he pulled too hard and ran the chair into my foot. After uttering some colorful words—ironically, in front of the sign reminding folks to refrain from using inappropriate language—I hobbled from the shore to inspect the source of the throbbing pain. Washing off a mix of sand and blood, I noticed my big toenail had lifted away from my skin. Entirely away. Off is more accurate. I ended my no cry streak right then and there. As I tried to clean out the mess, Max read on his phone how I wasn’t supposed to swim in salt or chlorinated water and that it could take over a year to grow back. He didn’t join me in the tears but his face was definitely… worried.
By no means would I ever advocate for taking an injury on holiday. However, the moment did force me to consider why I took the trip in the first place: to get away from work, to get closer to my partner. Being down a toenail sucked for a lot of reasons, but it didn’t actually stop me from doing either of those things. I just had to make the best of it. Advice from the internet be damned.
I dipped in both the pool and ocean quite a lot despite my bandaged toe. The pain dissipated, too. I barely thought of it by the end of the trip, especially on the day of our actual anniversary. To celebrate, Max and I shared a private dinner on the beach. We watched the sunset, reflecting on our trip as the rays reflected on the water. We’d been jokingly toasting to “making the best of it” most nights. But it was about more than that, I realized. My stupid toenail felt emblematic of just how well we’ve learned to handle conflict; to see bad situations and face them with positivity. It’s amongst our biggest accomplishments in our relationship, so I suggested we make a slightly different toast.
To us: all the ways we’ve found happiness together so far, and all the ways I hope we continue to do so in the future.
Rachel’s Weekly Recs:
I binged the first season of Showtime’s Couples Therapy on my flights. The docuseries follows psychologist Orna Guralnik and four couples she treats in her New York practice. It’s raw, real, and revelatory. Anyone in a relationship will definitely learn a thing or two.
A little late to the party, but I started Amy Poeppel’s Musical Chairs on the tail end of my vacation: a soapy dramedy about Bridget, a professional cellist, and her dysfunctional family and friends over a summer at her dilapidated Connecticut farmhouse. Read alongside this classical playlist the author compiled for the full vibe.
One of my favorite New York reading series is Miss Manhattan, featuring 3-4 nonfiction authors each month at Niagara, an iconic punk bar in the East Village. Stop by next Monday to see McKenzie Wark, Elizabeth Teets, and Brian Gresko. And of course, fabulous hostess with the most-ess, Elyssa Maxx Goodman.