In the HBO Max comedy Hacks, 30-something Ava (Hannah Einbinder), left, and 70-something Deborah Vance (Jean Smart) form an unlikely friendship.Crave/Supplied
Travel is about comprehension. Of the world, of ourselves and of the interface between those two things. It’s supposed to add dimension, to broaden your horizons.
That’s the cliché, isn’t it?
You know what would really broaden your horizons? Time travel. Yes, time travel. Somewhat difficult to arrange, you opine, with an arched brow. But it isn’t, really.
If you want to experience life beyond the narrow confines of your immediate time and place, you don’t have to book a flight, arrange accommodation or haul out the suitcases. All you have to do is build intergenerational friendships. Make friends with people who are at entirely different points on the space-time continuum. Leave the country of your cohort. Set sail for the fabled lands of your past and the mysterious country of your future.
Of late, I’ve been thinking a lot about my neighbour, Margaret. Margaret died last year. Her death wasn’t unexpected – she was 93 – but I miss her terribly. Though decades older than me, she was the most modern woman I’ve ever met. In her nineties, time was measured in thimbles but acumen came by the ladleful.
Over pots of Earl Grey, we parsed human conduct, declawed uncomfortable truth, shared anecdotes and dispensed wisdom. One of Margaret’s gems was her premier parenting tip: Be unshockable. Coming from a white-haired grande dame, I found this, in itself, shocking.
Margaret would not suffer fools nor would she compromise her decorum, advising that you should never let anyone decide for you who you are. Not one for self-pity, her eyes were asterisks of bemused delight when she announced, “I’m living with cancer, but dying of old age.” She wondered aloud why she and her husband, both in their tenth decade, were still here. With a shrug, she answered her own question: “Maybe we’re here to be an example.”
Age-gap besties: How these Canadians found friendship decades apart
“Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.”
Isn’t that lovely? It’s widely attributed to Voltaire, but its authorship has been tied to an interpretation of his work. I think this is what Margaret was getting at. Sing while you can. And dance. And laugh. Be kind. Be principled. It’s one thing to read insightful words, it’s another thing entirely to witness people approaching their personal centennial with grace and aplomb. Margaret made old age seem like a gratifying destination. Now that she’s gone, I often wonder: Is it up to me now to sing in the lifeboat? If so, can I carry a tune?
Like Margaret, my friend Diana was decades ahead of me but she was incandescent with raucous vitality and charm. Diana died at age 79 a decade and a half ago but she left a touchstone I keep close at hand to this day.
I remember my hand-wringing declaration that I must be doing it wrong – “it” being life. Diana snorted, patted my hand and, looking me squarely in the eye, said: “Like there’s a right way?” To this day, that little chestnut rivals any antidepressant.
Given a month of Sundays and 14 pitchers of margaritas, none of my contemporaries could have made such a sage pronouncement. And even if they had, their statement would have been suspect as, surely, it would have lacked gravitas and maturity. My contemporaries were likely to be just as bewildered as I was and nowhere near as benevolent as Margaret or Diana.
On the other end of the spectrum, I sat alongside a weary young woman as she unpacked the realities of motherhood. She roiled with exhaustion, simmering tension with her husband and surprise that her first-born wasn’t ecstatic with their squalling new arrival.
This time it was my turn to pat a hand, explaining as I did so that the first-born’s purpose is to make the second one’s death look accidental. She fixed me with a quizzical look, then erupted with laughter. I assured her that it would all get better and watched the corrugated lines on her brow melt away.
The talk turned to boundaryless in-laws and the tribal customs of matrimony. When she left, I felt like the Oracle of Delphi advising monarchs. These exchanges make me feel seaworthy; a seasoned traveller. I’m reminded that I got through all of that, that I’ll get through whatever else lies in wait for me.
The shipwreck is inevitable. The most we can hope for is to loudly sing in the lifeboats. If you want to learn the lyrics, best spend some time with the choirmasters while you can. This is travel where no passport is required.
Jane Macdougall is a writer based in Vancouver
