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Summer Vacation Tip: Don't Travel

Why accept the aggravations of going abroad when so many exotic delights can be had at home?

Summer is in full swing. Blue skies beckon to faraway places. Warm weather promises ease of movement. The very birdsongs put you in mind of the novel accents heard in unfamiliar locales. Bon voyage, everybody! I'll be waiting for you when you return.

Yes, yes, I know. Travel takes you out of yourself, expands your horizons, unburdens you of your customary worries, blah blah blah. Well, you'd have to pry me out of my majestic lawn chair with a crane to move me an inch beyond my quarter-acre kingdom.

Peter Oumanski

Go schlep up to Machu Picchu. This evening, I'm taking the family in our air-conditioned car through quiet, tree-lined streets to our favorite Peruvian restaurant—with free parking. Then it's back to the yard, a last trip down the water-chute for the kids and a nice glass of Balinese liqueur for my wife and me. Look, the fabulous marmota monax is standing on our lawn! (OK, it's a groundhog.)

Please think of me on my regal lounge chair, protected by fence and stone wall, as you helplessly watch a TSA professional grope your wife and lunge toward your children while, in a panic, you Google to learn whether Lexapro, Nexium and Zocor are vulnerable to electromagnetic waves, even as some state-sanctioned troglodyte confiscates the $40 bottle of wine you and your wife were bringing along for the first night there.

Oh, that arroz con pollo tasted good. The car was still outside when we left the restaurant, too.

At home, I confess I feel that little travel-tickle. Ensconced in my leather armchair imported from Italy, I suddenly long for Italy. Buon giorno, Netflix and Amazon! A few clicks and I am immersed in a remarkably vivid new documentary on Tuscany. Who needs a stomach-heaving jet-stream when you can stretch out your legs and just stream? Arriving in San Gimigniano, I journey into the kitchen to pour myself a cold glass of vernaccia. I don't have to worry about the train leaving for Siena while I'm gone, either. I just hit pause.

There's a lot of wonderful travel writing out there, too. I like to take M.F.K. Fisher's book on Provence into the backyard on a sunny afternoon, read a few pages aloud to wife and kids, and throw some thyme in the air.

Speaking of the kids, there are, well, the kids. Do you want to get the detainees in Guantanamo talking? Send them on a trip with a 3-year-old. It is one thing to be asked, over and over again, who your contact was in Dakar. It is quite another thing to be asked, over and over again, in intensifying bouts of rage, for 10 days straight, for more cheese puffs.

Whether traveling with children or not, there is also the question of maintaining that precious exercise routine. Sure, the advances in equipment-free workout time have been phenomenal. The 10-minute workout became the seven-minute workout, which is now the three-minute workout. Scientists are reportedly on the verge of discovering the benefits of the no-minute workout, in which you simply stay awake and look around. Until then, though, you are going to have to choose between your daily surge of endorphins and your strict sightseeing routine.

And don't forget about preserving those healthy eating habits, which have taken so long to adopt—decades in some heroic cases. I've found that the Mediterranean diet only works when you are thousands of miles from the Mediterranean. "I'll have the bucatini all'amatriciana, please—hold the salt and cheese, and the amatriciana."

Even if you do manage to overcome these formidable obstacles to savoring the travel experience, chances are that when you get to where you're going, you won't see anything anyway because you'll be too busy reading and sending email, Snapchatting, and following yourself on your GPS locator as you take two steps forward, and then two steps backward.

Now let's say that you are finally out there in Morocco's Atlas Mountains, where you've dreamed of going ever since you saw those unforgettable pictures in National Geographic as you sat in your dentist's waiting room when you were a kid. Here comes an actual Berber.

You greet him, and he greets you. He taps on his chest and says, slowly, "Amazigh," which unbeknown to you means in Tamazight what you call "Berber." He gestures to a village behind him. You touch your chest and say, "Terry. Englewood Cliffs." Reaching into your shorts, you look up "Berber" on your iPhone. He takes his Samsung Galaxy out of his haik and does a search for "Terry" and "Englewood Cliffs." You both tap your keyboards furiously. Then, briefly looking up and smiling, the two of you go your separate ways, still tapping and searching.

You were better off in that dentist's waiting room, weren't you? You knew what "Amazigh" meant, too. Animated by those National Geographic articles, your imagination could bring you farther into the Atlas Mountains than any "real" experience of them could. The best part of traveling is reliving where you've been in your memory anyway—not to mention the secret pleasure of being able to complain to envious co-workers that you spent $12,000 on that Berber holiday.

So for me, it's destination-home this summer, sprawled out on my monarchic lawn chair, under the massive umbrella, surrounded by books and travel DVDs, with our trusty Peruvian restaurant a patio stone's throw away. And if it gets too hot, or too boring, or if it rains, there's always the vernaccia.

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