Or How We Accidentally Took a Vacation and Joined an Expedition
Before getting ready to visit Charleston for the first time ever, my wife Trish—AKA Cruise Director, Director of Logistics, Chief Research Officer, and Supreme Commander of Vacation Efficiency—began vigorous research to ensure we experienced every interesting, must-see, place-to-be, don’t-you-dare-miss-it attraction in the city.
You know.
So we’d have fun.
Now don’t get me wrong.
We both sat down and agreed there would be no schedule.
None.
Zero.
A free-flowing, spontaneous, carefree adventure.
“If we just sit by the pool and read a book, I’m perfectly happy with that,” I said.
“Me too,” said Trish.
We both nodded.
Then Trish opened her laptop.
That was the last time either of us saw freedom.
Within forty-eight hours there were spreadsheets.
Lists.
Maps.
Backup lists.
Alternative maps.
Restaurant rankings.
Neighborhood analyses.
Weather forecasts.
Historical references.
And enough bookmarked websites to support a doctoral dissertation entitled:
A Comprehensive Study of Charleston and Why We Must See All of It.
The pool-and-book concept survived only as a theoretical possibility.
Like world peace.
Or airline legroom.
Or my ability to walk past a bird without photographing it.
Friends didn’t help.
Friends are never helpful.
Friends hear you’re traveling and suddenly become unpaid tourism consultants.
“You HAVE to go here.”
“You MUST eat there.”
“Don’t miss this.”
“Whatever you do, don’t leave town without seeing that.”
By the time we arrived, Charleston had become less of a destination and more of a scavenger hunt.
Fortunately, Trish had organized everything into a concise, easy-to-follow list.
By “concise,” I mean it required scrolling.
One recommendation kept appearing.
The Rooftop Bar at The Vendue.
Charleston’s Art Hotel.
Now everyone told us to go.
But not because of the drinks.
Not because of the food.
No.
People kept talking about the views.
Then we walked into the hotel entrance.
The experience.
The art.
And I immediately forgot all about the Rooftop.
Well, for a few moments.
The Vendue is one of those places that seems incapable of being ordinary.
The building practically vibrates with creativity.
Historic Charleston elegance on the outside.
Artistic caffeine overdose on the inside.
Every hallway feels like someone handed a group of talented artists a beautiful historic building and said:
“Go ahead. We trust you.”
A dangerous thing to say to artists.
Wonderful.
But dangerous.
Then I turned a corner.
And stopped.
Cold.
There it was.
A giant red cello balancing on a stack of gold blocks.
Not standing.
Not resting.
Balancing.
As though gravity had filed a formal complaint and the sculpture simply ignored it.
The piece is Philippe Guillerm’s Stock Market.
A fitting title.
Because the entire thing looks like it should collapse at any moment.
Yet somehow remains perfectly poised.
Rather like retirement accounts.
And airport schedules.
And marriages.
Especially marriages.
I stood there studying it.
The brilliant red finish.
The dramatic curtains.
The archway.
The chandelier.
The gallery beyond.
Everything seemed intentionally arranged to create a moment.
Even the gentleman sitting in the background appeared to be contemplating one of life’s great mysteries.
Perhaps:
“How is that cello still standing?”
Or maybe:
“Should I order another cocktail?”
Both valid questions.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
We had come to Charleston with absolutely no schedule.
No agenda.
No pressure.
And somehow found ourselves standing in an art hotel admiring a giant cello balancing on gold blocks because a dozen friends insisted we couldn’t miss the view on the Rooftop Bar.
And they were right.
Again.
I hate when that happens.
The rooftop was wonderful.
The city was beautiful.
The food was nourishment. (That’s as positive as I can be)
But the memory that stuck with me was this impossible red cello.
Because travel isn’t really about checking boxes.
It’s about those unexpected moments that stop you in your tracks.
The moments you never planned.
The ones no itinerary can guarantee.
Even when that itinerary was assembled by a woman who researched Charleston so thoroughly she could probably qualify as a local historian.
And for the record?
We never did get around to reading that book by the pool.
Maybe next vacation.
But I wouldn’t put it on the schedule.
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