The Husband and I have adopted the habits of a couple in our early 50s. We don’t have kids and aren’t big partiers, although I have been known to dance until the wee hours. It’s just us and the dog in our apartment in a complex full of other drifters who decided to retire at the ripe old age of 30 (you know, the types who wear lots of flannel and refuse to work in an office and make art out of paperclips).

We’re comfortably coasting along between life-phases. Post-Quebec, we’re no longer DINKs; we’re SINKs. (Hire me. I speak broken French and promise to keep a drawer full of Swedish fish at all times. I can also pitch left-handed for the company’s softball team).

Agritourism: Not Just for Hicks

Weekend getaways are our thing and have always kind of been our thing. We’ve traveled cross country three times together and the car is naturally condusive to talking. No Xbox. No running away from me. Just us and the open road.

Being the awesome husband he is, he planned a surprise trip to the Lavender Festival in Sequim, Washington.

He hates lavender. Hates the smell of it. Hates the sight of it. He’d rather eat live shrimp than lavender-infused anything. Even I, a lavender-lover, admit it has a strange taste.

The point of this agriculture adventure was to do something I would like and he wouldn’t. It’s not a compromise if no one suffers. But this time, we both suffered.

The surprise trip to Lavender Festival went awry the moment we woke up. Poor husband.

1) Our car was towed off of our street for a neighborhood parade. No, not everyone loves a parade. Especially after paying $150 because you forgot to read illegible script on a sign.

2) We had to drop the dog off at boarding at 10 am. We had to carry-walk him a mile down the street because we had no car and didn’t want to wake our friends (yes, 10:00 am is early to some of us). The Dog also refuses to walk more than a block.

3) We took the bus to the tow lot and then walked a half and hour in the wrong direction because the Blue GPS Dot stopped, flung up its hands, and said, “I don’t know where you’re going. It would help if you got out from underneath that goddamn viaduct.” Blue Dot then walked off the path, leaving us in an industrial wasteland. A soused rat was the only living thing we saw for miles.

Stressful as the day started, the rest was absolutely wonderful. Light eavesdropping on the farm tour bus said told us that Purple Haze Lavender Farm was the one to visit. (We showed up so late, we only had time to tour one farm).

It was petal party central. A band played Talking Heads covers as we wandered about the farm, breathing in the sweet scent and taking pictures in the lavender swaths.

Lavender ice cream, mohitos, and beer were served to visitors who ranged from their late 20s to their early 70s. We were going to buy a lavender bushel, but The Husband worried our house would perpetually smell like dryer sheets. When the plant inevitably came to its demise, plain, non-scented air would remind us of dirty socks, diminishing the quality of life previously enjoyed. Ignorance is bliss.

Agritourism is really fun and interesting at any age. I finally saw baby peacocks. Although fuzzy and cute, they don’t have the impressive plumage of the adult birds. They’re a mottled sandy brown, but all signs of future handsomeness are there.

And I also got to buy a bunch of locally made products for our house. Lavender honey and chocolate? Oui, oui.