According to the calendar, it's spring. Although the snow on the ground may argue otherwise, now is the time for rebirth and regrowth. The time for new beginnings. The time to take expensive trips to exotic locations while drinking heavily without regard for standards of deceny or morality.
Personally, my Spring Breaks tend to be boring. I've ended up with harsh exam schedules every year I've been here, which have helped to stymie my more expansive plans. My dream vacation? Let me tell you a story...
When they retired, my North Dakotan grandparents decided to throw evolution on its head. They returned to a simpler pattern of life: that of migratory birds. Although they still lived their summers in the north, they chose to pass winters somewhere far warmer, as North Dakota winters are biting cold, windswept and soul-sucking. A condo called the Tiki on the ocean shores of South Padre Island served as a suitable paradise.
South Padre, for those unfamiliar with the minutiae of ocean geography, is a barrier island off the coast of Texas. It's about the exact opposite of North Dakota (pleasantly warm, breezy to the point of perfection and spiritually satisfying), and throughout my childhood my family would visit every year, eager to get away from the north.
Our vacations consisted of hours spent on the beach, relaxing among the waves and the never-ending sand dunes. However, the perfection wasn't meant to last. When I was in middle school, my grandparents left the Tiki and bought a new condo on the opposite side of the island, away from the best beaches and, as they called it, unruly neighbors.""
Eventually, my grandparents stopped going south altogether and my Spring Breaks have since kept me confined to Wisconsin. As I entered college, I had the same stereotypical vaction plans as everyone else: Mexico. The Bahamas. Bermuda. Hawaii. Beloit. But one day, something drew my attention back to South Padre.
Late one night, watching Comedy Central's Secret Stash - which, through its uncensored nature, feels like an automatic anti-government protest - an ad came on. Steel drums, bright lights. I sighed. It was another cheesy spot for ""Girls Gone Wild."" As always, there were drunk women revealing normally taboo portions of their anatomy in exchange for strings of beads or promises to not share the footage. (Incidentally, this tradition led to the collapse of the great Crimean civilization, which used beads as currency).
But this time, something was odd about the ad. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was definitely something different about this particular advertisement. I looked at it more intensely. Nude women? Check. Annoying announcer voice? Check. Beaches? Check. Anonymous beach-side resorts?
Wait a second.
A smile crept over my face, for directly behind the foreground action (groan) was the Tiki. And there, in front of the camera, were all of the ""unruly neighbors"" that my poor grandparents suffered.
So now, each year, I've tried to find a way to get myself back to the Tiki. For relaxation purposes, of course. I need to get away from the grind of Wisconsin winters. Away from the biting cold. Away from the ice storms and the crushing depression when I realize that today the sun will rise at 10 a.m. and set at 4 in the afternoon. And it will be cloudy the entire time.
Of course, drunk girls flashing everyone and everything in sight - ""Hey, jellyfish! What do you think of THESE sand dollars?"" - has nothing to do with it.
Nothing at all.
Keaton's attempts to return to South Padre Island have mostly failed. This year, he was stymied by a trifecta of terrible tests scheduled for this week. Although he cursed the heavens and prayed to his statue of Hugh Hefner, it just hasn't worked out. Yet. E-mail him at keatonmiller@wisc.edu.
