Red chile soaked into seared tortilla: a shifting bed for stewed beans, melted cheese, and scrambled eggs. Across the table, my friend sprinkled fresh jalapeños over her nachos and nodded—confirming my suspicion.
“This is such a small town.”
I’d recently submitted my resignation from my toxic job, the impetus for which was so rich with drama that, in resultant stress-induced insomnia, I crafted a comic strip from it. And barely two days later, I’d been given a week’s notice to vacate my RV park. Suspiciously coincidental, the timing made me recall my friend’s statement—her implication intoning bell-like.
And people talk.
Crumpled notice in-hand, I re-read the short paragraph and stared into the setting sun—fractured light dancing across Bertie: immovable, broken-down.
And just how am I going to fix this?
***
The next day, before I could sit completely, the property manager shoved the freshly printed page across the cluttered desk—the paper’s warmed edges catching on the splintered tabletop.
“I wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward situation.”
I nearly laughed out loud at their hypocrisy.
Thanks to a friend, I’d been able to leverage renter law, and indicated that the original notice they’d furnished was illegal; the revised notice resting in front of me gifted me a full month to determine my next steps. It was the closest I’d get to an apology. And there would be no further negotiation.
Even still, I’d never been given a reason for the forced removal. As curious as I was livid, I pressed for an answer.
Their hands shook, not from a nervous palsy, but rather broiling anger—the depths of which ran bizarrely shallow. As they launched into an empty rationale, they clutched their coffee mug with such force that I expected it to shatter with each emphatic enunciation—their lips curling carefully around patent mistruths as each burned into my brain.
Minutes later, they nodded once more: my cue to leave. I rose, flustered and upset. Hours afterward, I’d recognize the motives for what they were: a collection of anti-environmental views peppered with violations of freedom of speech and probable anti-queer discrimination. But in that moment, exhausted and fatigued, I slipped the revised notice into my pocket, and pulled open the warped, turquoise-painted door.
Their hollow “God bless” followed me out.
As I approached Bertie and eyed my homemade directional sign to the ad hoc recycling center alongside Bertie’s backside, I laughed at the delicious irony of being displaced due to upsetting the status quo by having an environmental conscience—my driving motive for transitioning into tiny living.
The departure from my job hadn’t been wholly different—a crucible in which I was forced to choose between either honoring my ethics or perpetuating white supremacist praxis. My decision was clear; with my back sore from repeated stabs, I leaned fully into the ensuing uncertainty—wearing with pride the label former complicit coworkers had applied to me: disruptor.
Over the following weeks, through a series of conversations, my boyfriend J and I determined how our respective new chapters—scoped fully outside the state, our eyes fixed on the southeast—would intersect. We both recognized that New Mexico was not our place, and there was comfort in acknowledging it.
We’d move beyond the high desert—gleaning from it the richness of experiential lessons, each of which would help propel us forward.
***
Weeks later, snowplows arrived in the layered parking lot—skimming packed lenses methodically, the trucks’ wheels performing mechanical ballet.
Thick flakes slowly descended from laden grey clouds as I scanned my laptop’s screen—my southerly route paved in fat blue lines to Alabama. Powdery blocks cleaved away from the coffee shop’s eaves and exploded across the icy sidewalk. A car’s spinning wheels reminded me that I’d left Bertie’s snow chains in my car, stored with J in Albuquerque. But I quickly reminded myself that I wouldn’t know how to fasten them anyhow; they were more of a security blanket—one I hoped I wouldn’t miss.
Sighing, I took a deep pull from my coffee, imagining the journey over the next four days—my mind juggling multiple variables as my bank account emptied.
More snow fell from the roof, mounding into frigid piles.
The Land of Enchantment had morphed into the Land of Entrapment. I narrowed my eyes, answering an unasked question.
But you can’t have me.
***
Just as snow began to fall again, I pushed aside the blanket draped inside Bertie’s door, and dusted off my hair. JoJo wriggled around in one of her nests, rolling over for reassuring rubs. I nuzzled her nose with my chilled cheek.
“Bear with me, little bean. We’ve got a tiring journey ahead.”
A ladder rested precariously atop my infrequently used bicycle, which balanced haphazardly across three lidded garbage cans packed with wrapped inventory for my future vintage shop. The air, heavy with the smell of rubber muck boots, warmed slowly from the faithful tower heater.
Out from my laden grocery bag, I wrangled a large wedge of cornbread—JoJo angling for any errant crumb as I inhaled the buttered bread, leaving no trace on the wrinkled plastic wrap. I stared out the window.
Within 24 hours, I’d unmoor my home and leave New Mexico. Whereas some RVers enjoyed driving days, I never did—my mind consumed by the chassis’ incessant clattering from offending potholes, as the hours expanded with the asphalt snaking toward the horizon.
JoJo licked my hand, and I smiled down at her before looking back outside. Eyes darting from snow-covered junipers to the muddy arroyo beyond, I murmured again.
Sliding through predawn darkness, my car fishtailed toward a snowbank along the canyon’s edge as a semi listed sideways, bearing down in my askew rearview mirror—the oncoming lanes choked by a pileup.
Amid my brain’s cacophonous, contradictory flight-and-fight mental directives, I attempted to maintain some semblance of composure—feeling a momentary sense of relief that I’d remembered to tell my parents where JoJo was being boarded. She might not appreciate Alabama’s humidity, but she’d enjoy my parents’ cozy fireplace—quickly forgetting that curly-haired man who’d so selfishly taken time for himself, and subsequently hurtled down a mountainous gorge.
But before my car’s back bumper skated into the snowbank and over the side, I regained control and slid further along the obscured canyon pass turned bobsled chute. Decelerating, I put “Heroes” on a loop, straightened my mirror, and refused to exceed 10 mph until the road revealed itself beneath the thickening layer of ice and snow. Behind me, the semi pulled off, leaving me and a rust-speckled Tercel shuddering down the corridor alone.
Eyes trained on a strip of blue sky bursting through the snowy veil, and knuckles clenched over the steering wheel, I cautiously reached for my nearly cooled coffee as my salt- and snow-caked rental sedan’s wheels finally reunited with hole-pocked asphalt.
Sun glanced across the snow-smeared windshield. And as I watched the behemoth monuments rising from the landscape—their jagged, brownish-red formations stark against the snow—I took a long, deep pull on the lukewarm dark roast and melted into the music.
“We can be heroes just for one day.”
Image description: taken from far away, the shot features an expansive blue sky with a few white clouds. A few brownish-red peaks are visible above the snowfall on the ground; the bases of the peaks are covered in snow and sage brush.
***
Naivety bookends travel, and travel infantalizes us: everything is new, awe-inspiring; we’re jellyfish floating in an expansive sensorial sea, drifting into and longing to experience its deepest depths.
Two days before my foray into the canyon, I locked my apartment and felt a mantle of anxiety lift from my shoulders. I had a very schematic outline of what I intended to see and do over the ensuing 3,200 mile road trip, but left most of it open to chance. As my windshield defrosted, I familiarized myself with the rental car’s most vital functions, and slipped my crowbar beneath the driver’s seat.
Hours later, I passed quietly through southeastern Washington’s green, amoeba-shaped agriculture fields and wine vineyards with aged, woody plants wrapped tightly around cracked pergolas. Manicured stretches along the horizon gave way to broken, upturned trunks and tilled fields. Treed oases shrouded weathered clapboard houses and trailers with glowing porch lights: tiny beacons welcoming a new day. The rising sun bathed the fields in a lavender glow, and outlined the snow-flecked, rolling hills against the steeply rising mountains far into the distance.
With an impatient produce hauler tailgating me, I eased into an abandoned convenience store parking lot to snap a few photos of an array of midcentury chairs encircling a fire pit. Across the road, coyotes perched atop the hills, keenly attuned to the hoards of bloated finches gliding down over felled, shattered trees. Down a produce farm’s cottage-lined gravel road, a school bus rumbled out with its charges: tiny bodies clamoring over the seats, lowering the fogged windows—shrieks of laughter and curious, wide eyes as they passed me: the stranger regarding the entire spectacle.
I lingered out in the chill, taking in a panoramic view, listening as the sounds of the morning crept into the air. Hairs pricked on the back of my neck, cajoling me back into the car’s encapsulating warmth. Sections of the sky remained forebodingly dark. And as my sedan glided through northeast Oregon and across Idaho’s wide, empty fields, I felt an encroaching storm stalking me.
Having finally arrived in Salt Lake City, I scanned my phone screen with heavy, drooping eyelids, and then screamed. The clerk inside the gas station raised their head, momentarily scanning the dark parking lot for the source before returning to their newspaper. Through a combination of exhaustion and ineptitude on my part, and clever subterfuge by a third-party hotel room reservation platform, I’d unwittingly blown most of my lodging budget in my first night. Once I abandoned my futile attempts to find loopholes in the cancellation policy, I pulled into the hotel’s parking lot, wandered into the brilliantly gleaming, gilded and colonnaded lobby, and asked for my room keys. An apartment-sized suite appointed with an uncomfortable bed and mint green accents in its superfluous living room area all but greeted me with, “Welcome, sucker.”
I lay prone on the king-sized bed, willing my anxiety to dispel and enthusiasm to surge.
It’s ok. Everyone fucks up. It’s a learning moment. EVERYTHING’S FINE.
It was nearing 8pm, and my residual anger combined with overwhelming hunger fueled a speedy restaurant reconnaissance walk. I inched up to the stoop of a highly rated sushi bar on my list, opened the door, and faced a wall of hard, accusatory stares from hipsterish poseurs and wannabe influencers taking selfies and rapping out captions—most of which undoubtedly included #YOLO.
As I turned to exit, I cut a sideways glance at two bouffant-capped tweens in acid-washed mom jeans and Carhartt jackets—clothing reminiscent of my earliest field clothes as an archaeologist.
Silly Salt Lake City children. You won’t out-hipster me. I’m from fucking Seattle.
Twenty minutes later, I took a deep breath, straightened my brilliantly vibrant sweater, flecked my conditioned curls, and charged back inside—bulldozing my way through the hipster gauntlet to the host’s stand.
“Name for the waitlist, Matt. Seat for one.”
I flicked off my generic gloves with an air of decided disinterest in the entirety of the belabored, attention-seeking social positioning unfolding around me, shoved a crumpled jacket toward its owner, and seated myself at the end of a crowded waiting bench. I smiled into my phone’s dark screen, and turned it over. Looking up at the ostentatious light fixtures, I closed my eyes and rested my head against a bank of planters.
It’s all a performance. Just keep dancing.
***
With the canyon and Salt Lake City behind me, I parked at a rest stop to soak in the sun and massage my tense shoulders. Albeit brief, my visit to Utah’s capital had been remarkably uneventful, bland. Everywhere I went, I sensed an air of subtle surveillance, which only amplified my desire to leave quickly.
Overhead, open, blue skies streaked with pillowy clouds entreated me to keep moving forward; I felt more at home there, at a rest stop, than I had in the entire city.
Back on the highway, as the air whipped my hair, I hollered into the vastness—whooping at the arching rocks, the stoic cliff faces, until my lungs felt like tattered rags.
Image description: taken uphill, the shot focuses on an arched geological formation dusted with snow. Sage brush grows in the foreground.
Hours later, as I stooped in thigh-high snow to capture a few shots of a mural stretching along an abandoned storefront, a man pulled up in his Bronco. Immediately, my shields went up, and I angled toward my car; he called after me.
“Hey, you trying to get Horsehead?”
Unsure if this was a local proposition, I stared, vacuously cow-eyed.
“Up there, just near that triangle of trees,” he continued, angling over his seat and pointing far uphill, toward a mountainous stretch.
I aligned myself with his outstretched arm.
“Oh! Yep, I see it.”
He leaned back and smiled.
“So, you’re from Washington, huh?” he said, adjusting his cap and nodding toward my license plate. “What part?”
“Seattle.”
“OH, Seattle,” he crooned nostalgically. “My wife and I go up there once a year. We moved here to be closer to her family. I’m from there. But it’s so expensive now.”
“Yep, it is. I’m sort of on a mission to get out of there myself,” I replied. “On my way to Santa Fe.”
“Welp, yeah, you got a ways to go, but it’s nice.”
He finished by reciting a complex roadmap for reaching Horsehead Canyon. I knew it wasn’t on my way, but waited until he was done, thanked him, and waved him on.
Placing my camera on the passenger seat, I chuckled to myself.
Of course I encountered one of the most open, friendly people from Seattle in New Mexico.
That night, as I drove along streets sprinkled with adobe buildings bedecked with bright tiles, porch arches glutted with hanging chiles, mammoth Cottonwood trees towering overhead, and low, Gaudi-esque walls outlining succulent-peppered greenways, I exhaled.
This feels better.
Image description: an adobe facade with an entry gate, which is made of wood and metal. There are colorful tile mosaics flanking the gate; urns sit atop pedestals on either side of the gate.
***
Fueled with multiple helpings of scrambled eggs slathered in green and red chiles, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and began traipsing around Santa Fe.
Within the first hour, I found myself near tears in the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. While her art has always been inspiring to me, what continued to swirl in the back of my mind was how she described her affinity to New Mexico—the landscape, the beauty of natural forms—and how much of a foil it was to her life in New York City. Blocks away, in the Museum of Contemporary Native Arts, I became even more overwhelmed by the place-based narratives on Native life and traditions, and the destruction wrought through colonialism, and its modern day avatars—all reflected through generations of artists.
Exiting the museum, I ran into droves of people leaving the main square—pink hat-wearing Womxn’s March participants, most of whom were coupled and white and clearly satisfied with their annual contribution to democracy. I scanned the area, landing on the pavilion where Native speakers continued addressing the rapidly dwindling crowd, calling for Indigenous rights to be recognized, honored, and protected. Scattered applause from the crowd faded, melding into the rising conversations from nearby cafe diners and shoppers. Methodic drumming began onstage, rising as the bells from the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi intoned.
Everywhere, this country’s violent history collides.
***
Over the ensuing days, I explored the city center, and ventured out to the periphery—always observing, contemplating, absorbing everything: spiced drinking chocolate; green and red chile; cheese-slathered enchiladas; honey-sopped sopapilla; lime-infused caramels; baskets of bloated bags of homemade red pepper flakes; soft lavender soap; and dark piñon coffee.
The strong, arid air that sucks the moisture right from your skin while refreshing your lungs with its deep, cool gusts. Passersby who acknowledge you and smile.
And, of course, I forced myself to face the downsides: I’d have to buy a car, and I’d probably have to wave goodbye to any hope of a romantic life—but I could probably rustle up a few LGBTQ+ retirees to commiserate with.
On my last night, after a whirlwind jaunt to Albuquerque and dinner in Española, I watched the blood moon rise. A formidable, massive orb, it hadn’t yet flushed red; from my vantage point, it hovered between two shadowed peaks. Its massiveness in the desert’s vast emptiness made it one of the most beautiful moonrises I’d ever witnessed.
Everywhere here, there is natural beauty.
***
With my sights set on Taos, I made a short detour to Abiquiú, again marveling at the richness of the landscape. Soon thereafter, I crisscrossed winding roads, and felt my excitement build as I began noting the amorphous, small hills dotting the Greater World Community: earthships. Walking through the model earthship was like stepping into the future—or, more appropriately, how the present should be. Experiencing an off-grid, sustainable building constructed with recycled materials—tires, plastic bottles, cans—was indescribably inspiring.
About a mile down the road, I crossed the Rio Grande gorge, and spotted my last lodging in New Mexico, spread along the Taos Mesa: a hotel of vintage travel trailers arranged next to a brewery.
Image description: two vintage green and turquoise trailers with a connecting deck, taken an an oblique angle. Snow is on the ground.
Once I stuffed myself with sweet potato fries and tofu tacos, I settled into my small trailer, and peered out at the sprawling, snow-covered mesa. Approximately 15 feet, the trailer had everything I needed: a functional heater, bathroom, bed, and kitchen—as well as ample storage. Given my desire for a more mobile, longer-term living situation, I’d wanted to experience this, in all its imperfect glory. And while the space was expectedly small, it felt effortlessly comfortable.
I gazed out the windows as snow fluttered down, and the heater kicked on.
I think I could do this.
Image description: me wearing a bright sweater, laying across the trailer’s bed, and looking out the window.
My eyes drifted to the empty storage shelves and cubbies, and I mentally populated them with my belongings from home.
Wind from a snowstorm began buffeting the sides, and the heater continued humming; I stretched over the bed, dipped beneath the covers, and slowly fell asleep.
***
Steam writhed inside the rim of my tin coffee mug and a snowy haze glowed outside; it felt like the entire world was asleep.
As I rubbed the night’s sleep from my eyes, I marveled at the trailer’s beautiful simplicity—having the necessities within reach, allowing you to melt into being present in the moment.
I looked around and couldn’t help but think: I could give up the rest of what I have to make my own version of this. After all, at the heart of it, the beautiful remaining pieces I possessed weren’t really any different than the built-in table, small shelf by the door, or ample bed with ruffled sheets: all bits of wood and metal and fabric pulled together into a workable shelter. And, as such, their faults could be sanded, repainted, darned, and mended: a patchwork tapestry encouraging growth and change, propelling me into life rather than suffocating my desires or intrigue with a burdensome mortgage, inescapable debt, or a string of unnecessary belongings.
Over my third cup of coffee, I fleshed out a scheme to steward a small parcel of land just north of the earthships. There, I could move a small trailer while methodically building an earthship hut: which, to most, would resemble nothing more than a hole in the desert. But in my mind, it’d be the manifestation of so many personal goals: a base from which I could live a more sustainable, debt-free life.
A few hours later, I made one final pass through the trailer, and then headed to my car. Soon thereafter, I punched in latitude-longitude coordinates for various parcels I’d been stalking online. Snow began cascading down, icy veins of it blowing across the road. Cautiously, I pulled off at the mouth of one of the dirt roads leading to a slew of my target acreage. With little reception and no cars in sight, I decided not to chance it.
Instead, I stood against the wind and snapped a few blurry photos. And questioned my mental state.
What a wildly absurd idea, right? I mean, this is sort of mad.
I took in one last gulp of frigid air and exhaled.
But living is all about exploring the madness.
***
Whether or not I can translate my musings to reality—be they maddened dreams or viable alternatives—remains to be seen.
But if I don’t try, I’m not living.
So, I plan to continue dreaming of a day when, somewhere out in the desert, I’ll dig a hole, and shape it into a home. Where I’ll feel the warmth of the earth around me, and admire the small place I’ve made for myself—embracing the cracks and fissures that’ve formed in my life along the way, whilst acknowledging that I haven’t let the most vital parts of who I am cleave away.
Like the ancient land around me, I’ll weather on—bathing in the starlight, reflecting all of the character and subtle gifts from the myriad turns of the sun and moon.
For approximately three minutes, I reveled in the low cost of Joanna’s first boarding experience. But then the intake technician returned from the back and said that the doctor would like to chat with me about JoJo’s stay, adding quickly that everything was fine. After retrieving the lil bean and hearing about her explosive diarrhea and vomiting that morning– and watching my bill double from her antibiotics and an injection–I scooped her up and took her home.
Following two unsuccessful attempts at hiding her antibiotic in treats, I finally smeared enough of the smelly prescribed food over the pill for her to stomach it. Seated at the kitchen table, I barely reached my tea before she jumped up and burrowed into the knitted blanket covering my lap.
As I felt her little body rise and fall under the blanket and scratched between her ears, she poked her head out, looked up lovingly, and waited until we were nose-to-nose to burp in my face. A few minutes later, I had to surrender all motion as her series of snores grew louder, an occasional fart interjected for good measure.
Outside, the cloud-cluttered sky did its best to obscure the fragments of bright blue behind them. The heater clicked on, and I let the steam from my tea writhe up under my glasses, fogging them slightly. On the last day of my vacation, I looked forward to nothing more than a quiet day at home. I hadn’t had a true vacation since my honeymoon, and I’d forgotten how cathartic it could be. Albeit just a few days in Canada, this mini-vacation was just what I’d needed.
***
As I stood about 250 feet in the air, the Capilano Suspension Bridge began swaying from the tourists herding onto it like fleets of cattle. I clutched the thick cable railings and figured that I’d plunge to my death screaming, “I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN!”
Capilano Bridge. It’s only slightly (terrifyingly) high.
I’ve never been comfortable with heights, but my friends had been very persuasive in selling this particular excursion. Despite my expectation of a horrific death by falling, I took heart in knowing that, at the very least, on my way down I’d have a great view of the beautiful scenery.
Ah, the cathartic sounds of a waterfall.
After traipsing across tree house-style catwalks and chatting about the sexual promiscuity of middle-schoolers, we scampered along a few more cantilevered walkways. Soon enough, we were in the gift shop, and I capitalized on my adrenaline rush by consuming a hearty supply of fudge.
Like the evening before, that night’s dinner was filled with laughter and conversation, and more than a few drinks. Feeling heady from all the booze, I happened to look over at a nearby table where a bromance was unfolding with every pint they knocked back. The more vocal one put his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, but didn’t break his gaze from watching his single friend’s Adam’s apple rock up and down with every gulp. After they returned from one of their multiple bathroom visits together, I happened to catch the eye of the single guy. The “family” resemblance was instant—as it often is—and his gaze quickly ricocheted off of me to settle on my friend seated beside me. Had this happened a decade ago, I’d have quietly cried into my cocktail. Instead, I chuckled to myself and tipped my glass ever so slightly in his direction before whispering to my friend that he had an admirer.
Self-acceptance isn’t an easy thing—but with the past year’s revelations, I’ve found that having a sense of humor is vitally important in propelling me forward. I don’t know what’ll unfold in the coming years, or where I’ll be or with whom—if anyone—but no matter what, I intend to keep on laughing.
***
On the ride back home, I melted into a playlist of Radiohead and David Bowie and Brandi Carlile, and absorbed the passing landscapes—letting the welcomed sun warm my arms and face.
About an hour outside of Seattle, the sky darkened and hail began raining down. I slowed and watched a few cars pull off under bridge overpasses. Instead of joining them, I putted along and kept myself focused on the brightening road ahead. Before long, sun enveloped the car and Seattle’s skyline came into view.
Sitting at traffic lights, I rolled around sea glass collected from Stanley Park’s shorelines, feeling the worn surfaces abrading my palms; tossed and turned through tumultuous currents, their jagged edges had softened into something timeless.
I felt revived—like I had the necessary confidence and fortitude to push ahead. Like the beginning of a love story, not every vacation needs to be a lengthy sonnet. Sometimes, a haiku will capture it all.
I’ll just go ahead and write it. Put it out there. Feel the weight of a lackadaisical writing mantle be lifted off of me and onto the shoulders of some other, more resolute writerlyish person. Deep breath.
Using a limited vocabulary to convey just how life-changing a trip can be is, well, limiting.
(See?!)
Just kidding! I’ll never shut up, nor will I ever stop using words incorrectly.
So, here we go. The first (but definitely not last) post since the cross country road trip came to its conclusion Sunday night.
***
Like I was writing, a road trip of this scale can leave much more in its wake than an ear infection and six cavities. Because there’re certain things we learned along the way that’ll have long-lasting implications for every single thing we do from here on out.
Such as:
1. Never substitute anything for your favorite vodka. Dirty, dry martinis just aren’t the same without Grey Goose.
2. You should get drunk and watch The Muppet Show on mute in a trashy gay bar at least once. And appreciate how well their mouthing syncs with Rihanna’s music.
3. French toast will never be the same after eating at Olea’s in San Francisco.
4. When faded and tattered, Hampton Inn signage is incredibly disturbing.
5. When all else fails, and you have no idea of a city’s sketchiness factor, plug the local Whole Foods address into the GPS. You may have to fight over the last of the vegan gummy bears, but at least you won’t get knifed. And you might even see Jake Gyllenhaal.
6. If you have a visible tattoo, use it to your advantage in Bubba Land while doing your best to engage in overly butch behavior. (Yes, even in a line at a gas station Subway. Especially in a line at a gas station Subway.)
7. Celebrities are much shorter in real life. But they still sort of shine.
8. Coffee is a necessity. If trying to travel cheaply, just skip lunch. Your partner will thank you for it. 9. Always tip the silver fox valet. Well.
10. Los Angeles has a lot of charm if you’re willing to wade through some muck first.
11. Don’t ever discount a city or state without first visiting it. Almost every state has something amazing hidden away. Except Mississippi.
12. Only stop at Mississippi’s visitor’s center if you want to be offered apple cider laced with Jesus.
13. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is always a good default. Culinary safety blankets should never be underestimated.
14. If you want a primer on what’s wrong with America, spend approximately six minutes at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.
15. Alabama’s red clay has restorative properties.
16. Traipse around the woods and talk about life. It’s incredibly freeing. Even if you’re not talking to anyone.
17. Daydreaming is the basis for action and change.
18. Frustration and borderline migraines will dispel after the first bite of well-cooked chow mein. Even at 11:00 PM. On Christmas.
19. Always carry an umbrella in San Francisco. And remember it may not always fit between construction scaffolding.
20. Strong drinks and antiquing should almost always be coupled.
21. Silence can be just as meaningful as conversation.
22. Brandi Carlile should be on every traveler’s playlist.
23. Wait for that overnighted fleece. You will reap the rewards your entire trip. Even if you have to admit that he was right.
24. Never eat at a Vegas casino. It’ll just make you sad inside. And your insides sad.
25. Sometimes, you just have to quiet that inner food critic and eat something because, as Andy says, “It’s warm. And you can chew it.”
26. The Grand Canyon will take your breathe away. (Or is that the 14 degree weather?)
27. A Post It that reads “Duvet covers & sheets are clean for your arrival” probably means exactly the opposite. And that a porno was just shot there.
28. The comfort of holding hands in silence cannot be overstated.
29. Deciding that you can’t grow anymore in a place you love means it’s time to move on. Not that you’ve failed.
30. Revel in the ambiguity, for it’s all that we know.
***
I know what you’re thinking. Chow mein, really?
Alright.
But at least a few of them are serious and slightly sentimental. (Or are you crying because you have a wicked New Year’s hangover? At least now you know Point 1 is valid. Booyah.)
So, while I’m downing medication for my agitated ear and sinuses, and Andy and I are setting our sights on the future, there’s plenty more to figure out.
Finding someone who tolerates my quirks and finds most of them endearing was hard enough.
Combining households, thus subjecting him to my neurotic OCD-ADD-informed organizational structures and unyielding design aesthetics, was fraught with the usual hiccups when any two people move in together.
(Okay, so not everyone has to deal with a partner who has OCD or ADD or both or squirrel!)
So. Deciding to drive across the country together hasn’t really seemed like a big deal.
I mean, sure. It’s across the country. Like, from here to there.
Over mountains, through woods, to a rusted-out bus in the middle of the Alaskan tundra.
Kidding!
At least about the bus.
***
We’ll have ups and downs and plenty of turnarounds and screaming matches with the GPS and little spats and possible tears as we pass through Oklahoma and Texas to New Mexico without Starbucks.
Still, we’ll have an amazing adventure. Something we’ve both wanted to do individually, but are now fortunate enough to do together.
And while I know that we’ll have plenty of moments that’ll make others pale in comparison, I’ll still savor the quiet moments, no matter how brief they’ll be.
Like the sun slowly warming the car.
Like me reaching over to rest my hand on his.
Like the exhilaration of passing into another state we’ve never visited.
Like eating great food at random holes-in-the-wall.
Like catching up with far-flung friends.
Like laughing at our fleabag accommodations along the way, and dreaming of the amazingly beautiful, swanky California hotel rooms that await us.
Like making a peanut butter sandwich on the side of the road while contemplating a visit to the Grand Canyon.
Like making macabre references to Thelma & Louise.
Like forgetting all of the work-related bullshit that’s been weighing us down.
Like sleeping in until 7.
Like a threesome in The Standard’s rooftop pool with Joseph Gordon-Levitt or Ashton Kutcher. (Hey, it could happen!)
Like enjoying life a little bit.
***
Maybe I’m less concerned about the what-ifs because I’ll have a copilot.
A copilot with a printed Powerpoint presentation of our trip.
(Yes, I’m a lucky bastard.)
Regardless, I know we’ll be fine. We’ll make it work. Because we’ve made far more stressful things work before.
And this time around, we’ll have the wind behind us, the music blaring, and the knowledge that we’ll be free for a few weeks calming our nerves like a vodka tonic.
With nothing but open road ahead of us and a dust cloud in the Prius’s rear-view.
