They never told anyone about the abandoned house on the Gulf coast, the one that saved their lives. Though neither one of them would admit it, they had their doubts about the trip. They took trips so rarely with just the two of them, maybe a weekend every other year, which already created some strain on their time away. They wanted to give each other something memorable that they could reminisce about during their tight schedules of work and school, activities and meals. And the idea of a Honeymoon several months after the wedding seemed ridiculous not because they weren’t in love, but because that word “Honeymoon” implies new love that has an excitement and naivety that they just didn’t have after a decade together and three kids. Nor did they need romantic labels to define their time together. Couldn’t they just take a trip? And did it have to be somewhere exotic?
When they shared where they were planning on going, everyone had something to say about New Orleans. There was suddenly an impressive list of all the food they must eat and places they must see in four days. Of course people were just trying to be helpful and were, perhaps, nostalgic for their own trips, but it felt like this subtle pressure to form their trip from those suggestions. As if people would be offended if they had made their own trip.