Wild Blog post

During a stop to fill up the tank, I had a conversation I did not expect. I entered the convenience store at the gas station to have some coffee and buy some supplies for the road. All I could see on the news was reports of those two women going on a crime spree across the country. It was around noon and the store was somewhat busy, so I was not able to hear what was being sad. I grabbed two cans of soda, almonds, chocolate bars and ordered take-out mac and cheese. Usually I do not eat unhealthy like this, but it was a time to treat myself after all I had been through in this trip. I got in a long check-out line. I was not in a hurry at all and I enjoy talking to strangers, so I initiate a conversation with this woman who was ahead of me in the line. She seemed tired like me. She told me she has been traveling around in a sort of quest to get to know herself better. One could easily say by her clothes and appearance that she had been through a lot. I immediately empathized with her. Suddenly, we hear a gentle voice coming from behind us at the store’s entrance “Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a robbery. Now if nobody loses their head, nobody loses their head”. Great! I was in another dangerous situation. Soon all the costumers were laying down on the floor. Somehow, I was not scared this time. By the authority emanated by her voice, this lady seemed to know what she was doing. It did not feel like she wanted to hurt anyone, but just get her money and go. I looked at the lady who was in front of me in the line and she seemed very calm as well.

All the action didn’t take longer than a minute. In no time, the robber was gone. People started standing up, a woman began to cry uncontrollably while other costumers tried to calm her down. I brushed the dust off my shoulders and things got back to normal – or at least were slowly getting there. By the cashier’s calmness and facial expressions, it seemed like it was not the first time that an armed robbery had happened there, nor it would be the last. The tired woman and I resumed our conversation. As a way to stimulate our connection and keep the conversation alive, I told her about my story – how I had left home to pursue my desire for a new life, but as a result had abandoned my family without further explanations, and how I knew they were feeling betrayed. Telling it was a lot easier than I imagined. I guess I had practice justifying it to myself so many times that it just came out automatically. Also, I did not care anymore about how others would interpret my story after this turbulent journey. For my surprise, she was very interested in my story and understood my side. She herself had gone through a process of breaking ties with her family. She had been loyal to her mother during her entire life, until her passing sometime before. Like me, she felt like it was time to follow her instincts, even if we weren’t quite sure of where they would take us. Our respective quests had been tiring for both of us, but I believe we wouldn’t have it any other way.

The hours flowed like a river. It was early evening when she realized she had to leave. I asked if I could contact her in the future. We exchanged numbers and hugs. This time I didn’t forget to ask for the person’s name – Cheryl. Such a genuine character! This conversation was another boost I needed for this journey. How could someone I had just met be so relatable and care about my story and me? Hitting the road may be sometimes boring, sometimes insane, but there’s no doubt that it can provide moments that we will cherish for the rest of our lives. After finishing a second round of mac and cheese, this time for dinner, it was time to get to the road again. The news was reporting on those two criminal ladies. Taking a quick look at the TV, I immediately recognized one of them. It was her – the lady who had robbed the store earlier. I giggled and left.

The front door- final post

The scuff marks on my shoes are like a road map from New York to Colorado. I wiggle my toes and am relieved they still have feeling. I lift my hand to the door in a defensive fist- 

but lower it again.

I turn around to look back at the lawn. The grass looks tired, but the bushes are trimmed to perfection. There’s little cement stones with the handprints of loved ones leading up to a rusted bird bath. I can picture the movement of dogs and cousins across the lawn.

I pull my hair behind my ear and run my nervous fingers through the knots a few times to be sure a piece hadn’t escaped. Then, my fist, slightly less defensive, tapped on the door like a ball bouncing across the ground.

I intertwined my fingers behind my back and felt the sweat gather on my palms. Then, I heard a ferocious bark that was met with an overly confident dachshund. I was so enamored with the dog I hadn’t even notice the man who stood in the shadow calling for his wife. He was frozen by shock, but his wife moved swiftly to the door like the house was on fire.

Before I could rehearse my explanation, I felt her arms around my shoulders and felt her tears meet my hot skin. She smelled so much like the gingerbread I often dreamed about when my next meal seemed far away. 

The next few hours passed like a dream. The steam of the shower, the fuzz of the blanket, the salt from the green beans. I know they wanted answers, but for now they were content with my presence.

I wish I could tell them I made it big, I was married, I had four children. I wish I could tell them I was right for leaving so many years ago. 

But, the reality was much better than that. In losing my way for the person I thought I loved, I found myself. The past few weeks I saw myself reach peaks after falling into valleys.

I no longer felt like I owed him anything, and I no longer felt like I had to prove to myself that my decision so many years ago was right. 

We make mistakes, but we can always find our way home. 

Assassination Vacation Blog Post

            Sally and Ben were both in high school—God bless ‘em, they weren’t as rowdy as the children of my other friends—and I decided I’d treat them to a fun spring break trip. Well, at least “fun” in my eyes. Sally was in 10^th grade and Ben in 11^th, so they weren’t that far apart in school. Sometimes I laughed about Ben’s paired obsessions. He was one of the best players on the football team and from the gossip I heard from other mothers, it seemed that all the young women at the school lusted after him. Yet instead of going on dates on the weekends or treating one lucky lady to a soda pop, Ben would spend hours in our backyard conducting science experiments. Secretly, I was proud that I had raised a true nerd at heart. Football might get him a scholarship to college, but it wouldn’t keep him afloat in the real world forever. Science, on the other hand, might.

            Sally was different, bookish. She reminded me of myself in the few years that I had been able to attend high school. Her stack of library books was tall, and she was even inspiring me to check out a few lower-level reading books from the local library to brush up on my (almost non-existent) reading skills. Sally and I would read together most evenings on the couch, and she was often throwing out random historical facts. She was taking a class on “U.S. Presidents” and I figured I’d combine her interests with my desire to take the kids to Chicago. There were so many things about the Windy City that I loved, and I hadn’t been there in God knows how long. I figured I’d pair my lust for the city with Sally’s lust to visit the hometown and grave of her self-proclaimed “favorite” president, Abraham Lincoln.

            I was tempted to do a cross-country road trip and really show the kids what traveling was like but at the last moment I decided to book plane tickets. A couple days in the car with Sally and Ben and just me sounded like a lot the more I thought about it. Anyway, on the first Monday for spring break we set out for Chicago. The Windy City was a blur. It was COLD – it was only March – and I don’t think I had really packed for the kids enough. They seemed to be shivering the entire time and I ended up buying more sweaters, beanies, and scarves than I had planned on purchasing. Damn. My spending money felt like it was being ripped out of my pocket every day. We rented a cheap, beat-up car and drove to Springfield early one morning the day before we were set to fly back to California. The air was cool and crisp, and I could see my breath outside as well as inside the car. So much for that “fabulous heating system” the car rental place had jacked up the price for.

            We drove to Lincoln’s grave first. And I’ll admit, I was spooked. Who would come to a grave? Why? What was the appeal. It was also still early morning and mist hung in the air. I would’ve opted to stay in the car but I couldn’t very well let Sally wander all over the place by herself. Ben refused to come, bundled up in his coat and half asleep, and I didn’t have the energy to wake him and drag him out to this godforsaken monument.  As Sally and I walked towards the grave, we spotted another woman in the distance. She was bent over the inscription on Lincoln’s grave, and seemed to be tracing it with her hands. When she spotted us she bolted upright and made a beeline for my daughter, who was a few paces ahead of me. I quickly sped up, wondering what this woman wanted with us.

            “Have YOU been here before?” She asked eagerly. Too eagerly.

            Sally’s face lit up with excitement: “no, no I haven’t. This is my first time and I can hardly believe my eyes. Lincoln was my favorite president.”

            The woman’s eyes shown with admiration at my passionate teenage daughter.

            “That, my dear, is the best thing I’ve ever heard.” She introduced herself briefly to me, and before I could even choke out my last name had linked arms with my only daughter and was strolling towards the moment, explaining this and that, and, I’m sure, filling her head with crazy stories that were either complete lies or complete truth. Who knew?

            All I knew was that this woman didn’t seem weird. Maybe she had a personal connection to Lincoln? Maybe she lived around here. Maybe this was a regular thing she did? Hell, I didn’t even know maybe she was a goddamn docent or tour guide or whatever they called tour guides of goddamn cemeteries. I set off at a casual walk behind them, not ready to be immersed in an in-depth conversation about Lincoln’s grave – I didn’t really give a shit—but I wasn’t about to let my daughter walk off with some completely random women.

Marge de Beauvoir (Colette + Tony)

I was finally back in Chicago, home sweet home. I had left from my second interview this week at the UChicago hospital, and I was walking around downtown to celebrate. I walked into a pizza place for some deep dish, but the restaurant was crowded, so once I got my pizza I asked to sit down at the one empty chair by an older woman with a feathered hat.

"Bonjour, parlez-vouz francais?"

"Huh?"

"Sorry, hello. Your dress.. I thought you looked a bit French."

"Oh, no, sorry." I touched my beret self-consciously. I knew I should have worn something more nurse-y to my interview. "Um... Je mapple Cee." I had only taken a year of French in high school. I tried my best.

The woman began to chuckle, which grew into a full throated laugh for about ten seconds, until she composed herself. She sniffed, and her expression grew neutral again. By this point I was laughing too.

"Hello, Cee. My name is Marge." She reminded me of the woman I had met when I first started this road trip. The French maybe-Communist one. I asked her about politics, and she answered with a similar reserve.

"I met this French woman a few years back, the first time I was driving through the United States. Pretty close to here actually."

"Funny, my niece was here a few years ago..." she said thoughtfully. She finished her pizza and left the restaurant. I walked outside, glad to be home.

10 years

After that first road trip I took by myself, I always knew that I would take another one. I ached too much for the beauty of the winding, blank road, the miles stretched out before me, the feeling of wind skirting through the cracks in the window and blowing loose curls away from my face. I missed the feeling that I was at once a fluttering nobody in a sprawling universe and also entirely grounded and whole with myself. 

And so here I was—right back in San Francisco, where I started my first road trip. Except now, I didn’t sit in contemplative solitude. She sat next to me, her eyes closed momentarily as she leaned back into the seat, the sunlight filtering through her dark eyelashes, her lips curved up in a slight smile. 

We met in a records store in Portland, Oregon, where is where I ended up, after my tumultuous young adult years. She reached for the same Simon and Garfunkel vinyl that I did; we struck up a conversation that lasted hours. She scribbled her phone number into the palm of my hand with an inquisitive smile. She moved into my apartment by the end of the winter. 

In the end, I had always wanted to come to a home. It was fun to wander and go around, seeing new people and pushing myself to my limits, but in the end, I wanted somewhere to return to. 

But what I’d learned was that the home that I started out of didn’t have to be my home forever. I knew, somewhere along my first road trip, that I would never be able to again fit into the life I had fit into earlier. I couldn’t slip my old life back on like a cocoon. 

I could make my new home where I wanted to; I knew I was capable of holding my own in this vast country. As the years went on, through the marches and chants that I saw over TV and in the cities I went to, slowly, I was able to love who I wanted to; to kiss a girl in a bar and not feel an overwhelming, shaking guilt the morning after. 

In the end, I wanted an escape; I wanted to leave my old home and my old life. And so I made a new home for myself; I became a new person, and now, on this second road trip with her, I felt once again like I was starting anew. 

Wild

The first time I saw her, at a rest stop on a Pacific Crest Trail, I was taken aback.

Her clothes were streaked with mud, her face shining from perspiration, carrying a monster pack on her shoulders. She emerged out of the craggy formation of rocks, some frozen over with ice and snow, and staggered to the ground. 

I wasn’t in the best shape myself—after nudging myself toward on a stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail, just to experience something challenging, I was exhausted, out of breath, and delirious with effort. Still, she looked to be in worse shape than me. 

I hobbled over to her. “Are you all right?” 

She lifted her head, her dirty blond hair falling over her eyes. “The fox,” she whispered. “It’s gone.” 

I wasn’t sure of what to say. “What fox?”

“I can’t explain it,” she said shakily. “All I know is that—“ she broke off, her voice hoarse. “A fox came, and I felt like my mother was there.”

She sat on the ground. She was tanned and strong, it seemed, from weeks and weeks of exertion. Yet she looked weak in the moment, staring at her hands as if she didn’t know what to do with herself. 

“I lost my mother,” she said, in a cracked voice barely above a whisper. “I lost my mother and I’ll never be able to get her back.”

Later that night, we set up camp together. We huddled around our tents and settled in the sleeping pad,  while she told me the story of how she came to lose her mother in only a couple of agonizing weeks. How she got wildly lost, with the men she was with and with the substances she started abusing. At the core of this all was the deep-seated ache that gnawed at her; the fact that she had lost her mother; it was something that was irreparable and permanent. 

Did I miss my mother? I guess I should have. As much as I wanted to call myself a free spirit, I missed feeling the caress of her soft fingers as she knelt alongside me and stroked my hair. I missed her trying to reach out to me, after all these years, trying to make up for my father’s taciturn silence. I missed her warm presence. 

And yet when she heard about what I’d done That Night—after the neighbors’ gossip got around to her—she had turned a cold shoulder to me. I caught her glares from across the room, the disapproving silences. My entire family, in essence, had shunned me. 

Was it worth going back for them? During this entire journey, there were times when the homesickness was so acute, so painful that I yearned to be back in the safety of my little home, surrounded by a serene, peaceful quiet. 

What I wanted most was for my family to take me back again. To accept me for who I was. To love me the way they did before what I did shattered their perceptions of me, the perfect daughter. 

I didn’t want to be like this woman, heartbroken and motherless.