Hundred Degree Heat and a 4.5 Year Hiatus

As I sat in the bus, surrounded by people I can only describe as “my peeps”, I smiled. The sun beat down and the hot breeze rippled through the slightly-scorched threes, and I just thought, “Yeah. I…want to.” 

I thought back to all of the other solo travels I had attempted - all the missed connections, the “survival food”, the anxious moments, and the moments that made me glad I was alive; and how on so many of those travels, I had reveled in recounting those experiences. How I would see an entertaining exchange between the 2-year-old and her Dad in the row in front of me and chuckle as I thought about how I would describe that moment later for all of you. 

Or maybe, I am starting to realize as I lie here by myself, sprawled across a king size bed in Vegas, I did it for myself. Maybe writing about those scary moments, those jaw-dropping views, those fleeting feelings I wanted to catch and hold onto forever - maybe that was my way of processing all of the overwhelming experiences that solo travel is sure to throw at you; one, after another, after another…after another.

Regardless of the reason, I realize from my vantage point of McCarren International Airport from the 27th floor of the Excalibur Resort Hotel, that I love writing. And I am ready to try again - after a very brief, 4.5 year hiatus. 

I also realize the no one blogs anymore. But when have I ever been one to do what everyone else does? The thought of doing this has been exciting me for the last hour - most of which was spent waiting to check in. Please keep in mind that the only thing I have eaten in the last 9.5 hours is Gatorade and Fritos (the lunch of champions, my friends!).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m not sure if anyone wonders WHY I end up somewhere or another anymore - some of you have probably just accepted that any given week I might be somewhere different than the week before. Some of you haven’t known me long enough to realize that for years, traveling was my life. But regardless of all of that: I am in Las Vegas. For no particular reason.

Blurry view from my window, thanks to my dinosaur phone.

The thought process leading up to this 24.5-hour stop was as follows: June 27, approximately 8pm I land in Vegas for a 3-hour layover. Not long enough to leave the airport but long enough to realize that this is a one-of-a-kind place. July 2, desperately searching for reasonable flights from Mexico City back to Seattle. Nothing; nothing; nothing; a lot of nothing with layovers in Las Angeles, or - you guessed it - Las Vegas! Now… if I’m going to be stopping in Vegas anyway, why not make it worth my while?! 

So here I am. 

Still not convinced it was worth my while, but at least I am crossing state #44 off my list. 

Maybe it’s the heat (100+), maybe it’s the hunger, or maybe I am just out of practice, but the details of the trip have already started to escape me. There are snapshots…

• Repeatedly asking for directions around the CDMX airport and receiving contradictory information.
• Sitting with G, drinking coffee and discussing the logistics of our families’ international travel for an upcoming wedding. (Surprise! It’s ours…)
• Getting stopped in security and having my emergency, pocket corkscrew confiscated. (It’s ok tho, I guess, cause there’s no minibar in my room anyway.)
• Trying to board the plane while a very confused family of 5 attempted to wander up and down the aisle trying to find seats. (Have you ever seen 5 people try to wander up and down an airplane aisle together WHILE others are still boarding?!)
• That overwhelming feeling of smug delight realizing that on an ALMOST full flight, I had a window seat and the middle seat was - wait for it - - - EMPTY! (OMG YES)
• IS THAT THE FREAKING GRAND CANYON?!?!? 
• Sitting on the tarmac for half an hour waiting for a gate, listening to phones going off like crazy. 
• Breezing through customs but being asked multiple times if I had any food or drink. (Just Gatorade and Fritos, guys. Chill.)
• Catching a minute to charge my dead phone, catch up on work, and figure out the local bus schedule. 
• Missing the local bus by 52 seconds. 
• And being secretly relieved that I got to sit in the airport (air conditioning) for a few extra minutes - 40 to be exact. (There’s something about sitting in an airport, not having anywhere to be, that has always been incredibly cathartic for me. I remember so many airports… just, sitting, waiting, watching. Knowing that I was not late for anything, I had nothing to rush for, I had nothing at all to do but wait and watch.)
• But 32 minutes later I went to go look for the bus, and there it was with no driver, doors closed, a little, concrete waiting bench. That bench seemed like a nice idea after 10 hours of airports and anxiety. I’d been sitting on it for about 32 seconds when I started to feel like my ass was melting into the concrete. But I was committed. I sat and waited for the driver. And then he showed up; after what seemed like 30 minutes of excruciating, unfortunately NOT fat-melting heat radiating up from that bench through my entire torso (it was only 3 minutes).
• Driving past a McDonalds and wondering, "Was that the one where Chris McCandless worked??" (Spoiler, no. That was edited in the movie...)
  
• And then there was that moment, sitting at the bus station, watching the burning wind dance through the pale green trees. That moment when I remember that writing has also always been cathartic. 

So here I am. Writing. 

And also gearing myself to go back out into a world full of very vacationing people, sparkling, spinning, screaming slot machines, and hundred degree heat. (Mostly because I am hungry.)

Milwaukee Wanderings, Part 1: Musings of an Escapee

All I knew was that I had to get away. 

From what? 

Who knows. 

But somehow my cozy, quirky studio and happily hectic job had become a maze that I simply had to escape. And somehow Milwaukee seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel. Or at least a skylight. 

I jumped in my car, a list of possible Thing To Do In Milwaukee in my head, Dierks Bentley in my stereo, a bag of raisinets in my front seat, and a burning need to see something new in my heart.

It was dark and the wind coming off the lake made it incredibly cold by the time I got there. And on top of it all, the burning in my heart had turned into an anxious knot in my stomach.

Anxiety? About traveling? About exploring?!

What in the world is going on. 

This is what I do! 

So I did the thing that any sane wanderer would do: checked into my first AirBnB ever, munched on string cheese, and looked over my options for tomorrow's exploring. All while watching reruns of an old familiar Netflix show. The anxiety eased as I fell into a restless sleep in the rustic 4-poster bed.

(How is it that I was so excited, and it somehow turned to anxiety? About Milwaukee. Please...)

Sunday came bright, cold, and beautiful. And I did something I haven't done in too many years to count. 

I went to a church service. 

No, not because it was Easter. Not because I thought I would hear anything new. Not because I wanted to indulge in nostalgia. But because, as I always do when exploring new territories, I wanted to observe what a large portion of the natives do on a regular basis. And the building was impressive. 

Normally I go see the local churches on Thursday afternoons or Saturday mornings when I have the place to myself. There's something haunting about empty cathedrals. 

I'm not sure which is more haunting tho: an empty church or a church full of people who look empty inside. But that's none of my business - I was just there to observe. 

But the service ended and the brisk wind, artisan coffee, and unusual art were calling. 

Oh, and did I mention the lake?

The colors. The wind. The waves. The views. The brave souls enjoying all of that in 30-degree weather.

Exploring the North Point Lighthouse, I couldn't help but wonder what Milwaukee was like back in the 20s. And before. When did people sail on Lake Michigan? And what were they doing out there? And the people who stayed on the shore, were they always so painfully oblivious to the rest of the world as the idyllic lion-guarded lighthouse felt that sunny day? Was this feeling of being in a time lapse the way it had always felt, or was the lighthouse somehow trapped in a timeless moment that left an observer feeling lost in the past while being simultaneously lost in the present?

A quick look back at the lake broke the spell, however. The wind woke the wanderer from any kind of profound and nonsensical musings.

And the path led back to reality. 

...but with one more quick stop.

Suspended there between a frozen sky and a bravely thawing ground, several thoughts cascaded over my balancing brain.

What had I been anxious about last night?

Why had I created a life that made me want to escape? And how could I go back...

What had everyone else in that church been seeing and hearing?

The bundled up strangers walking by - why were they smiling at me?

I hadn't done anything on my Milwaukee To Do list.

It is so much easier to be where I am when I am alone, and un-distracted.

But I missed a tiny part of my Madison life. 

Weird.

Anyway!

When I come back, I should probably go to the public history museum, to answer some of those questions the lion and the lighthouse had inspired earlier.

Oh, I guess I'm coming back?

Why had I needed to escape, and how could I go back?

But the questions kept coming, and the clock kept ticking, and I put all the questions on hold as I meandered slowly back to the studio and the work and the stable life I had tried so hard to escape.

No amount of walking, driving, raisinets, or Dierks Bentley could answer those questions. 

And I wonder if a second trip will yield answers or only fuel the quandaries. 

Day 10,010-ish: When You Stop Wandering

Facebook memories proved quite helpful today, in a way.

It reminded me that two years ago today, I was spending my last day in Charleston, South Carolina, where I had moved directly after graduating college. A placed too humid to be called home. And one year ago today, I was spending my last day in Belem, a place I had stayed longer than any other place in several years; also a place too humid to call home.

And here I am today.

Cuddled up on the couch with a niece and nephew.

We spent the day watching Lego and Barbie videos. Playing 'feet in face', under the 'tent' that was my blanket. Cuddled up laughing about static-y hair and Disney songs. Taking walks, taking turns running, chasing, carrying, following, complaining, laughing, hugging, and watching for cars before crossing the street. Eating cheese curds and ice cream. And trying to figure out who could eat the most of what.

It's like I've hit pause on my life. My real life. My running, exploring, adventurous life. Only to discover that there is an alternate reality in the pause, in the stay, in the stable.

And I still don't know if I like it because yes, it does seem a bit boring, in a way.

Day 10,001-ish: Morning Commute

I'm not sure what you do on your drive into work. Or when it is, or even where it is.

But I'll tell you one thing: I do not love leaving my house at 7:07 - meaning I have to wake up at 6:06 - just to get to work around 7:27.

NOT MY CUP OF TEA.

It's actually quite boring once I wake up enough to appreciate the morning commute in its full regalia. So boring, in fact, that I am going ahead and writing this post half way through the day, sure that nothing that follows could possible bore me quite so much.

Let me tell you about it.

First, the sun is just barely coming up, so it's shining right in my eyes. Like, so directly into my eyes that it's impossible to see all the pink and yellow and purple surrounding it. Silly sunrise.

Second, all along my road are SUVs and vans and other evidences of family life, and wouldn't you know it? There's the school bus. So many little coats and hoods. I am assuming their are children inside, but I really have no proof of that. There are big coats too, and I assume those are parents, and they are far more boring, so far more relevant to this entry.

Third, the traffic. I was so bored this morning, that I took the time to imagine what the traffic looks like from above. Do you think we look like ants all in a row? Or more like spiders because we move so fast? Or maybe we look like praying mantises because we are all so bored.

Forth, there are always people running around when I'm driving to work. Now, I don't pretend to know their reasons, but I can only surmise that they must have the worst - or else most boring - lives, to feel the incessant need to run when there is nothing chasing them, and no prize at the end. Running I believe is the epitome of boredom.

But I have to stop now, because when I got to work, life became so vibrantly interesting, that it no longer fits the theme of this series.

My Boring Life, Day 10,000

Sometimes I look back at my blog stats and realize a trend: the times that I have the most "hits" tend to be some of the hardest times in my life. And all that time in between - was that just my boring life?

Well, call me crazy, but I am going to try something.

I am going to start writing about My Boring Life.


Starting with today, because why not.


Today we start with...

The DMV.

Do I even need to say anything else? Seriously.

I did manage to see some interesting things tho, and have at least two amusing interactions.

1. They set up a mirror next to the backdrop for the photos. Presumably they pretend to care that people don't necessarily WANT their I.D. photos to look like mug shots. Who knew. 
2. At least 5 (obviously different) ethnicities represented in a group of ~30.
3. 3 different languages being spoken.
4. Nervous teenagers trying to convince bored driving instructors why they deserve to be legally allowed to manage instruments of death. 
5. A little girl running around talking to everyone except me. She just stared at me, shaking her phone screen protector til it made a weird rattling noise. Until I shook a paper at her and she asked me, "Why are you shaking that paper at me?" Not one to be disarmed from my typical sass by a 3-year-old, I replied, "Why are you shaking your thing at me?" She looked at me, scowled, grinned, looked around like she got caught, and ran away.
6. All the bored-looking tellers/clerks. How do they not literally die of boredom every single day?
7. An old man trying to graciously figure out a self-service renewal machine. Poor guy..
8. My teller getting the idea to eat powdered donuts before and act crazy during his next review. Do I make anyone else feel like doing cocaine, or is it just him??

There you have it. My Boring Life. Day more-or-less 10,000.

In other news, no one did cocaine in the making of this blog post, and I am now a legal resident of the State of Wisconsin.

Yay?

The Familiar Puzzle Undone

There has been a puzzle sitting undone on my coffee table for almost a month.

Normally, a 1000-piece puzzle would take me a week to finish. Normally the colors separate themselves before my eyes – the shades become clear, the shadows compliment beautifully. Normally the shapes stand out on their own – the corners pointing themselves to their destination and the curves winding their way into their partner pieces. Normally the patterns seem to draw lines across the whole and through my mind – edges forming natural borders and each individual piece forming a distinct part of that easily-recognizable and easily-creatable whole.

Normally.

Yet somehow, this time, the puzzle sits; the colors blend, the shapes meld, the patterns swirl slowly into an ambiguous clutter of cardboard and empty spaces.

It has been a long time since I have been in once place for so long.

My days used to stand out – each one strong and colorful – replete with new face, new foods, new feelings, and new places. My thoughts used to flow simply from one to the next, pointing themselves along the lines of each new subway track, flickering hopefully and colorfully with the landing lights at each new airport. My feelings used to curve palpably from highs to lows and back again – uninhibited, each forming an easily-recognizable part of the Whole that was me.

But nothing is “normal” anymore.

I see new faces every day. But each day leads seamlessly into the next with the same coworkers, the same neighbors, the same bus drivers, and even the same bus passengers.

My thoughts now flow on countless levels – each project, person, and now-familiar place creating deeper and deeper furrows into my aching mind.

My feeling struggle ceaselessly against the rising tide of a life that is become so familiar that it forces me to dig deeper in order to go where I have never been before.

And I wonder – how is it that so many people have only ever lived this life?

The slow suffocation of familiarity that calls me to work ever harder to find the thrill of the New that kept me alive as each colorful piece fell into its own curves. Would I never feel the slow ache of the Old, had I never felt the explosive rapture of the New?

So I think to myself that perhaps those who have learned to love the faces of their familiar lives, are the wise ones afterall.

But the puzzle remains undone - full of palpable empty spaces.

Writing About Writing: When the Words are Lost

The last three months have been a glorious torture.

I want to write. I NEED to write.

But for the first time in my life I am overwhelmed by the immense impossibility of expressing what is inside. I come home from work, full of thoughts, fears, hopes, experiences, and like that twelve-year-old child unable to wield a paint brush to her own satisfaction, I stare at my fingers as they lie numb on the keyboard. I NEED to express all of what is inside – if I keep it there, it will destroy me. But the words won’t come.

I start to write, it feels like sweet release. But then.

The thoughts tangle. The feelings drown out the words. Like long strands of colorful thread that I cannot seem to isolate, my words become knotted and undistinguishable. A thought here, a feeling there. An anecdote that leads only to a loose end and a profound realization that turns back into the chaos with no resolution.

Writing for me was always the art form that allowed me to makes sense of everything. I could never seem to say all that I needed through painting, and drawing only seemed to stunt the progression of my thoughts. Music made me cry because I felt so much, and expressed so little. And dancing was simply never enough.

But writing!

With the words flowing from my heart through the filters of my questions, musings, and surprising conclusions, I captured the world! My mind cleared, my heart stilled, and the world became knowable; expressible.

And now, as I sit staring blankly at a vacant screen, my mind and heart raging but my fingers still, I wonder if I will have the stamina to push through this unexpectedly severe and profoundly painful setback. The colors and threads blur and run together forming a swirl of grey. A threatening cloud.

What if my last and most sacred form of self-expression is simply – gone?