Holiday Compatibility

Anne and I discussed the secret of our relationship the other day. After much silence we settled on the twin titans of fear and indolence. But, after due consideration, there is a third secret - holiday compatibility - which we seem to have in spades.

There's a great film (almost completely forgotten) called "Two for the Road". 1967, Albert Finney, Audrey Hepburn. The film follows them as a couple over a number of years, holidaying through Europe, charting their relationship from giddy first love to bitter, addled partners.

An early scene sees them looking at an old couple sat in a restaurant in silence:
"What sort of people don't talk to each other?"
"Married people"
You can guess the later scene.

Whatever else they may be, holidays are definitely a good stress-test of a relationship. One of my friends seems to have gone on holiday at least three times as a couple and come back single. And Anne and I have been witness to some extraordinary rows between couples when we've been on joint holidays. I'm not immune, one of you will remember my three day sulk in Skye many years ago.

Still, over the years we've negotiated all the UK, most of the US, a smorgasbord of European cities and islands, and thrown in the odd corner of Australia and the Far East, and through all the jet-lag, travelling, tiredness, language barriers, fear of the new, boredom, proximity, drink and hangover, we've hardly had an argument that couldn't be assuaged by something as simple as the balm of sex in a strange bed.

The only time we went truly helter-skelter was when a bike-hire vendor in Vancouver persuaded us to try a tandem. Anne took badly to the lack of control and I expect Stanley Park still echoes to the ghostly siren call of a woman's passive-aggressive silent-screaming.

Plainly, that's the secret, clearly-defined roles. Anne does the planning; I do the sunburn. Anne does the talking hopefully in pidgin-European to perplexed foreigners, I stand behind her giggling. Anne does the driving; I do the sitting like an armchair-jockey shouting instructions at Tony McCoy, even though he's never even sat on a horse, as I wonder out loud why, after around 20,000 attempts at it over her driving lifetime, why Anne is so fucking useless at parking. (Well, Ok, one argument then...)