We’ve just had new friends come to stay for a few days. Five years ago on safari in Africa we’d come from opposite ends of the earth, shared a jeep (for about 6 hours a day) and chased wild dogs together, watched awed together as a pride of lions fought over a wildebeest kill only a few metres from us, enjoyed a surprised breakfast in the bush, and chatted at the bar over excellent South African wines.
After only a couple of days they left, but our connection was such that we vowed to keep in touch; and we did.
They came to New Zealand this month to see family, but made the trek south to see us for a few days. Wellington put on its best and worst weather, so we drank welcome glasses of wine on the waterfront in uncharacteristic heat, toured the city the following day, and then when the rain set in we had a lazy morning, visited the museum, and went out for dinner. And we talked and talked and talked.
They don’t have kids, and neither do we; we don’t know why they don’t have kids, and they don’t know why we don’t. It was never an issue. And that was ... well ... freedom.