I needed to get away, to “unplug” for a bit.

I needed to stream a different channel of background noise, something other than the intermittent rumblings of a commuter train or the not so hushed pitter patter of the toddler upstairs testing out his running abilities.

I needed to ignore my email box, which, lately, has been overflowing with subject lines like “Georgia. Georgia. Georgia.”

I was able to talk a friend of mine into a short road trip to the (Wisconsin) Dells area. She also needed some time away from her routine. A perfect fit. As an added bonus — she likes to drive, and, over the years, I have become less fond of sitting in the driver’s seat.

Booked through Air BnB, our lodging was described as a “cozy farmhouse on twenty-two wooded acres.”  As we could see from the nearly twenty photos in their listing online, there was also a pond out back.

How ironic, I thought, that I saw spending time “down on the farm” as being about relaxation when people who live on a farm think of farm life as WORK.

Even if for only three days, the getaway reminded me of the joy of traveling.  It doesn’t matter where you’re going or where you’re from. It’s not about the great “deal” you were able to snag on bookings.com or Kayak.

It’s about changing your point of view. What a welcome departure it is just to be willing to do things differently, to follow some local custom that you might not have thought about, one that encourages you to question the way you have habitually done things.

You can open yourself up to new possibilities after doing something as simple as eating a dinner salad after your main course instead of before. Seemingly insignificant changes can stir things up.

The act of packing, itself, is a great exercise in asking yourself what is necessary to have at hand and what is merely uncertainty or insecurity taking over. It’s so easy to convince yourself that more is better, or pose countless “What if…” scenarios.

Yes, pack your medicine, but a blow dryer, a mini-library, extra pairs of shoes…

There’s also the aspect of letting go, of not holding yourself responsible for what you can’t be responsible for.

Between pulling out from my friend’s driveway and pulling back in less than sixty hours later, it rained much of the time.

Yet, neither of us felt compelled to apologize for the weather or wallow in disappointment over picnic spreads not enjoyed at scenic overlooks. We made up our agenda based on what life presented.

We took shorter hikes. We took in a movie at a Cineplex near a family resort. We sampled a lot of cheese. Heck, we were in The Dairy State.

During our hours in the car, sometimes tunes were cranked up. Sometimes, we drove in silence.

We remembered other road trips we took. We shared observations we made while looking at the world from our side of the windshield. “Look. There’s a hawk.”  “When. did bales of hay become round?”

We had short conversations with strangers, like the lady In the cheese shop in Sauk City. After waiting out a downpour, everyone knew the names of everyone else’s siblings.

And we laughed…

Of course, I could have these kinds of experiences closer to home, but there is something about being in a new place that opens you up to seeing differently.

The entrance to the farmhouse was just off a narrow two-lane highway. There were no streetlamps. No address markings. I was tentative about guiding my steps to the unfinished wooden porch of the farmhouse at night. The phase of the moon was a waxing crescent, not even half-full, but my eyes adjusted.

Adapting your vision to see what is in front of you is no small thing.