Not the Opposite of Loneliness

“Do you like Seattle?” I asked my friend, whom I hadn’t seen in eight years. He’d been living in Washington for three. Before that, he’d spent most of his adult life in San Francisco and Los Angeles, where he once spent a summer on my former roommate’s couch so he could use the house copy of Final Cut Pro to edit his feature film.

Seeing him for brunch in September after I moved to the Pacific Northwest made me feel less homesick.

“No,” he said. “Sorry, I know you just moved here.”

We laughed.

He wanted to move back to California in part because he hadn’t had long-term luck dating and making friends and was caught up on all the Netflix shows.

Seattle “has no culture or diversity,” he said. “They think they do, but they don’t, and people hate when I say that.”

We talked about being in our 40s, not having our own families, and living in perpetual limbo.

“Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?” he asked.

I don’t own a couch because I’ll just have to move it again at the end of June—to where, I have no clue.

“I don’t know,” I said, but I understood what he meant.

***

One night a couple weeks before Christmas, when I, too, grew weary of Netflix, I ventured out to check off a cocktail bar from a recommended list of go-to Seattle spots.

I chose The Backdoor, a self-proclaimed speakeasy. Modern speakeasies are usually quiet and classy, perfect for a whiskey-sipping old lady like me. I fixed my hair, took off my day jeans, and put on my night jeans—my version of dressing up.

When I got there, a sign on the door said it was closed for a private party for 30 more minutes. I considered scrapping my solo date night and heading to Whole Foods, but I waited.

The Backdoor is not a speakeasy. It was too bright; they played loud hip hop and bad 80s music, and there was a disco ball. It reminded me of Taco Tuesdays in my 20s. I was the oldest person there by 15 years. No one glanced in my direction.

Being an invisible middle-aged woman is drama-free, but that doesn’t mean I always want strangers to look through me as if I don’t exist, especially now that I live in a state where I can count on two hands how many acquaintances I have, and I don’t see most of them, except my uncle and my roommate, who is usually traveling. As I suspected, a lonely telecommuter is much lonelier in a new place.

I tried another bar—a place I’d already been a couple years ago when I was visiting: Bathtub Gin. In 2016, when I told a bartender there, who was also from Long Beach, “I like rain,” he said, “Wait until it rains every day for a month.”

I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

Bathtub Gin is a speakeasy, and I felt hip knowing where the hidden door in the alley was without circling the street confused—like last time. Inside, I beelined for the busy upstairs, ready to mingle.

A server stopped me and said, “There’s plenty of room in the downstairs library.”

“Okay,” I said, deflated as she guided me away from possibility.

In the quiet, dim downstairs library, where low-level jazz music played, I was relegated to a high-backed leather chair, sitting across from two older gentlemen from the UK and three Millennials who huddled together as if to keep warm. A tiny, fake Christmas tree stood in the corner.

I sunk into the chair and ordered a drink called a Dapper as Fuck.

I smiled a couple times at the UK dudes and eavesdropped on the Millennials’ conversation, trying not to be too obvious and creepy.

“If he comes by my desk and swings his balls in my face, it doesn’t work for me,” I overheard, but I missed the context of that juicy nugget.

I was as incognito as the little Christmas tree.

The leather chair swallowed me like a toddler. It took work to reach over the armrest to grab my cocktail. As people chatted around me, I scrolled through Twitter on my iPhone, which is what I would have been doing at home. Here, I was alone in a crowd, and it was more expensive.

I went home having talked to no one aside from wait staff. That night I was invited to an LA literary community facebook page. I joined.

***

Recently at a trade show in San Diego, several people asked, “How do you like Seattle?” I said, “I want to like Seattle.”

When I drive around, I think this place would be cool if I had a life here.

It’s so pretty! It’s so green! The neighborhoods are so cute!

Before winter, I put in more effort. I signed up on Meetup.com to find other hikers and writers with whom to congregate. I joined a hiking group for singles in their 40s. All the invitations for day hikes, however, went something like this: “Let’s meet at 6:00 AM for coffee on Saturday morning, drive two hours, hike eight miles, and then drive back!”

I did the math: an eight-hour Saturday starting before the sun came up, none of which included food or bathroom breaks. Plus, the invitations had multiple grammatical errors. This was not what I signed up for.

Who are these fanatics? I wondered. What about hiking four miles locally at a reasonable time, then hitting happy hour?

And the one legit writing group I found meets on Wednesdays at 3:00.

Don’t these people have jobs?

I deleted my account.

Then I signed up on Bumble. Again.

I have never been on one online date, despite having scrolled through more than one dating app on more than a few occasions.

The last time I was on Bumble, I came across a friend’s abusive ex-boyfriend with court records to prove it, who is now married with a small child. I reported him to Bumble and deleted my account. (Bumble thanked me.)

This time, I was curious to find out if the men on Bumble in a new location might be more appealing than the ones I found in Los Angeles.

Spoiler alert: Online dating profiles are the same depressing charade everywhere, only more men in the Pacific Northwest post smiley photos with giant freshly-caught fish, whereas in Southern California, one can’t swipe twice without matching with an avid surfer.

I swiped right on about four or five men, only one of whom liked me back. Our conversation was limited. I introduced myself. Ten hours later when I was in bed watching TV, he responded, “How’s your night going!!!” with three giant red exclamation points. I waited until morning to respond because “I’m watching HBO, falling asleep” isn’t sexy, and his timing was presumptuous. He didn’t write back.

I deleted my account. Again.

***

Did I mention my stalker?

One of the perks of my apartment complex is a bright, clean gym in the leasing office. Early on, I used it often. But one day, as I walked through the door, a guy dressed in street clothes pretending to lift weights greeted me, stood next to my machine, and talked to me through my entire workout. He was from the Midwest, so I chalked up his friendly exuberance to origin.

We exchanged numbers with the intention of going on an innocuous, neighborly walk sometime in the future.

I knew I’d made a mistake when, that night, I received a goodnight text. When I was working the next day, he asked what I was doing and proceeded to ask question after condescending question, until he was providing unsolicited, audacious advice without knowing anything about me. I got angry. I stopped responding. He kept texting.

So much for being nice.

Saturday morning before 9:00 AM, after I’d blown him off, he texted, “Chelsey, wake up!” and said we were going for a walk. I responded I was already up, reading a book, and feeling sluggish. “Have a good walk,” I said. Then the full-on harassment commenced. He begged and became incensed when I didn’t text back. Two hours later, he called. I didn’t answer. I was scared.

I was also pissed my exercise sanctuary was ruined.

The next time I went to the gym, I did so during lunch with an elevated heart rate before getting on the elliptical, hoping he was at work. Two minutes later, he stood behind me, asking, “When are we going for a walk?”

I told him I was leaving town, which was true.

Now I have anxiety every time I go to the gym, so I usually don’t bother, despite not having seen him since before Christmas.

When I went home for the holidays, my girlfriends’ response was questionable once we found his photo online: “He’s cute. You should give him a chance.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

I told them his full name in case anything happened to me. I’ve been listening to too many murder-related podcasts. Around a kitchen table, they held a mock Dateline interview in response to my future demise and posed pensively for Instagram photos, as if I was already gone.

“Being stalked is not the opposite of loneliness,” another friend said.

Bingo.

That’s when a long-forgotten Twitter stalker popped into my private messages. “Hi there,” he said.

I blocked him.

***

“It’s all about the people,” a fellow Californian said. She lives in Ohio and warned me before I moved. We often discuss our similar dilemmas. We were edged out of California’s steep housing market, but we spend our days missing loved ones, and the amount of money we save on housing is spent on plane tickets to visit family instead. It’s a wash, so what are we doing?

Moving to Seattle was like my first time snowboarding when I couldn’t tell what foot to put forward until I had the rental board in the snow and clicked into it left-foot forward and thought, “Nope!” and instantly knew I was goofy.

It took driving a moving truck more than 1,100 miles to figure out I don’t want to make a whole new batch of friends in a darker, wetter, colder place; I just want to see the ones I already have.

But I haven’t given up yet. Hugo House is a bright spot, where I’ve taken a few writing workshops, participated in a reading, gathered the oomph to finish a difficult essay, and realized for sure my idea for a short story is, in fact, a novel. (I’m doomed.)

Everyone has been gracious, but I’ve only made one friend there so far, a lovely woman I’m meeting for dinner this weekend, weather permitting.

Turns out, while Seattleites are pros when it comes to rain, they have no idea what to do with snow. With the snow came the shutdowns. Everything was canceled. The grocery store was some Red Dawn end-of-the-world shit. The bread aisle was empty. The water and other survival goods were cleared out. I didn’t know whether I should be more worried, or if everyone else needed to calm down.

The ducks outside my apartment weren’t concerned. They were frolicking in the fluffy white wonderland. I was giddy at first too. Snow is a novelty, but the novelty has already melted. I’m not sure how people do interminable winters confined indoors. My cabin fever has spiked, and right now I just want to go home. Wherever that is.

Welcome to Portland?

“I’ll be in Portland around 5:00. The Multnomah Whiskey Library is closed on Sundays. Other bar suggestions?” I texted my sister after a two-day trek from Long Beach in a 12-foot Penske truck that stored everything I own.

I had one more short drive before becoming a Washington resident. Two years ago, I did this same trip, but it lasted five weeks, with a return to Southern California. This time, the drive was one-way—for at least 10 months. She suggested Clyde Common. I’d been there. I told her I wanted to try something new. She sent me a list. I settled on the Teardrop Lounge, but the second I walked in, I thought shit, I’ve already been here too.

I ordered a fancy cocktail and even fancier deviled eggs. The yolks were extra whipped with wispy toppings: a ribbon of pickle, diced green onions, and a sprig of something one might find on a Christmas tree. The guy three seats down asked about the gourmet eggs I was shoveling into my mouth.

He said he preferred the simple deviled eggs his “grandma used to make.”

“My grandma made good deviled eggs too,” I said.

He was unassuming, wearing a light-colored polo shirt and jeans, with an extra layer around his middle, like he might have played high school football and hadn’t exercised since. We determined he was a year younger than me, and his reaction was like the girl in Trader Joe’s who carded me for a bottle of wine last month.

“There’s no way you’re 45!”

He was sitting next to an older gentleman who had white hair and a friendly face. They’d met an hour earlier. Soon I moved a few seats down to join them. We were an unlikely trio of strangers who somehow managed to get on the topic of dead celebrities.

“I’m still sad about Chris Cornell,” I said.

“I know his family,” the 44-year-old said. “My mom is good friends with his mom.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea you knew him.”

I changed the subject to Robin Williams. The white-haired man replied, “He was one of my closest friends,” looking as if he might cry. I learned our new older pal had the perfect film career: a steady one that didn’t make him famous. He later told us he was partially responsible for Naomi Watts getting cast in The Ring because he told Gore Verbinski, “There’s no way J-Lo’s ass will fit in that well,” as they stared down into it.

Soon the younger guy declared we were going to dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant. The deviled eggs weren’t enough, so I was in.

By then he’d mentioned the tall building across the street. “I live there,” he said, pointing to the sky. He’d also pissed off the bartender when he said, “This is my favorite dive bar.” (It isn’t a dive bar.)

He paid the tab, and we were off.

Film Guy and I tagged behind the big spender as he explained, “I tried to buy that building,” nonchalantly indicating another towering structure, “but they wanted over $8 million for it, and I could only offer them three…”

What does this guy DO? I wondered.

“I started an app,” he said, after greeting the owners of the Italian restaurant on the corner. They grabbed us a table the second we walked in. “Lorne Michaels is on my board.”

Get the fuck out.

I asked about the app. The name was a glib one-word title with an apostrophe in place of missing letters to appeal to whatever comes after Millennials: Generation Z? The last generation before a manmade apocalypse? The kids who will never grasp complete sentences—or complete words?

As I googled his app, he ordered a nice bottle of prosecco and told us, “Order anything you want on the menu.”

We all ordered the same delectable seafood pasta dish. Then the celebrity name-dropping started again. George Clooney came up.

“I know him,” Film Guy said.

Of course you do.

“He just sent my son 30 grand. My son cut off his fingers on set.”

There were pictures. He held up his phone to show his son’s gruesome, mangled hand to App Dude, and since we weren’t eating yet, I said the three words I usually regret: “Let me see.”

I wish I hadn’t seen.

By the end of dinner, App Dude had invited me to a festival concert once I reached Seattle. He said he had pull for VIP all access passes. I checked the lineup.

“I want to go on Sunday,” I said. As a borderline old woman, festival lineups perplex me. I have no clue who any of the bands are anymore, but I recognized a couple on the last day, and backstage didn’t sound terrible.

He ordered another bottle of prosecco. After we each took about three sips, he suggested, “Let’s go to a strip club.”

Who IS this guy? I wondered.

Film guy and I both hesitated.

“I really want to go to Powell’s tonight,” I said. I fully intended to visit Portland’s best bookstore while I had a chance. It was walking distance.

“But it closes at 11:00,” I said, looking at the time on my iPhone. It was early, and I wasn’t worried. I didn’t think any remotely upscale strip club would let me in. I was wearing ripped jean shorts from yesterday’s sweaty voyage through the thick, smoke-filled skies of Redding and a worn LA Kings t-shirt.

But App Dude was convincing. He played down the strip club as if it wasn’t a real strip club.

“Have you been to Jumbo’s Clown Room?” I asked. (He hadn’t.) “Maybe it’s like that.”

The one time I went to Jumbo’s on Hollywood Boulevard, women in bikinis wore see-through stilettos, twirled around poles, but never actually got naked. My handsome, unofficial date hit on the sleeziest pseudo-stripper there, then walked me to my car like a gentleman and kissed me goodbye for the second time.

“I can’t wait to go to your reading,” he said. I never saw him again.

We left almost a full bottle of prosecco behind, as App Dude paid the bill and led us out onto the street, where a car appeared as if by magic. He waved it down and talked to the driver like he knew him. He seemed to know a lot of people in Portland.

A few minutes later, we were inside a strip club, and all I wanted to do was go to a bookstore.

Everyone greeted App Dude with a firm, familiar handshake. Film Guy and I were mystified. Based on my google search, his app didn’t seem that cool.

App Dude whispered something into a young man’s ear who had front row seats at the main stage. The young man and his friend got up and walked away, relinquishing their seats with zero prodding. Film Guy and I sat down as App Dude disappeared.

“Is this place only topless?” I asked, just as I craned my neck to see a fully nude, impeccable woman with perfect mocha skin dancing in the corner.

“This place isn’t like Jumbo’s,” I said.

Then I noticed every woman there was stunning, as if all their Victoria’s Secret runway wings had recently slid off their shoulders.

“Who the fuck is that guy?” my white-haired buddy asked, as we watched App Dude chat with people in the hallway.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Usually guys like that are total bullshit,” he said.

“But I don’t think this guy is full of shit,” I said.

“Yeah, I don’t either.”

App Dude reappeared with three stacks of ones in 100-dollar bundles and threw them down on the table next to me. I was reminded of the months I spent sprawled on a bank vault floor in 1993, counting piles of green paper. As a teller at Wells Fargo, occasionally I would look at the money in front of me, remember it wasn’t fake, and think, “This would pay off my student loans.”

When App Dude fell into the cushy seat next to me, the dancer on stage leapt into his lap and threw her arms around his neck.

“Hiiiiiiii!” she cried.

He handed me a stack of ones and told me to have at it, leading the way by throwing a fistful into the air. The money fluttered down like giant, dirty confetti, and before I could stop my stupid mouth from spewing garbage, I yelled, “Make it rain!”

I will never not be ashamed by the dumb shit I say.

I tossed a wad into the air. The girl from his lap made her way toward me, so I could slide bills into the back of her g-string. I was new at this. I fretted over etiquette, afraid I would break a club rule if I accidentally touched her. I slipped three dollars over one butt cheek and three over the other because I wanted it to be even on both sides.

“This is fun!” I cried to no one in particular.

When the song was over, she crawled around the shiny floor scooping App Dude’s money into a bucket. I fought the urge to help her, feeling useless sitting on the sidelines watching.

Film Guy and I continued to distribute App Dude’s money. At one point, we discussed when we should leave.

“I still want to go to the bookstore!” I yelled over the music,” now a pro g-string stuffer. I put money in the front of one dancer’s g-string as she dropped it to the floor. I squealed.

“I’ll go with you whenever you want to leave,” Film Guy said.

App Dude returned with more cash and asked, “Are you having a good time?”

“Yeah!” I said. “But we’re leaving soon because I still want to go to the bookstore.”

“I’m not trying to fuck you,” he said.

The thought had never crossed my mind.

Another naked woman slid up to me, grabbed my calves, threw them over her shoulders, and pulled me toward her, my dirty black Converse dangling in the air behind her, my grimy road trip shorts close to her chest. I giggled.

“Scoot back,” she said.

I scooted forward, then laughed at my mistake.

“This is the most action I’ve had in months,” I said. I said “months” instead of the truth, which is “years,” because I didn’t want her to think I was a total weirdo in dire need of help, which I probably am.

“Well, we know she can grind,” she said, as she slithered away.

I threw more of App Dude’s money at her.

By the time Film Guy and I left the club in search of the bookstore, we’d dropped some $600 of another man’s money in the span of an hour, and I’d been hugged by a naked lady, who introduced herself with a handshake first.

“You’re beautiful and such a good dancer,” I said. Because it was true, and what else was I supposed to say?

When we left, App Dude hugged me goodbye and mentioned the festival concert again.

“I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s my concert. I can hook you up.”

What do you mean YOUR concert?

“I really want to go!” I said.

I haven’t heard from him, and I’m sure I won’t because that’s how these things go.

“What just happened?” I asked Film Guy when we were outside again.

We made it on foot to Powell’s by 10:57 PM, but the doors were already locked. We stared through the window, admiring the stacks for a few minutes before I accepted I wasn’t getting in.

Later, my Lyft driver asked, “How’s your night going?”

“I’m driving a moving truck from Long Beach to Washington, and I’m here for one night, and I just came from a strip club.”

I told him about the high roller who dragged us around town.

“We do that for everyone. Welcome to Portland?”

Other moving notes:

• I nicknamed the Seattle-adjacent city I moved to “Atlanta-heim” because my cousin says it looks like Atlanta threw up on Los Angeles, and she’s not wrong. (My lease is for 10 months. I look forward to exploring the city and finding yet another new place to live at the end of June.)

• In my first week as a Washington resident, I bought a Subaru and a North Face jacket. I feel like the lame guy who wears the band t-shirt to see the band.

• I wake up every morning in a panic, wondering how I got here, thinking, “I know almost no one in this state,” which is a) scary as fuck, and b) cool, because I have more time to exercise and write.

• I signed up for a one-day writing workshop, RSVPed for a literary event, bought tickets to two concerts, and started a Meetup account, so hopefully I won’t become a total hermit.

• As of Saturday, I’ll have my own designated parking spot. Coming from Long Beach, where I often parked a mile from my apartment after circling for 45 minutes, that’s huge.

• My roommate is better than your roommate. The first night he spent hours setting up our Internet and never complained once.

In Search of Home

The unkempt woman with missing teeth said she’d show us the available ground-floor, one-bedroom apartment. Strike one: The apartment wasn’t upstairs, and I swore I’d never again live under late-night, lumbering footsteps. As we passed a grubby man changing a tire on a crappy car in the oil-stained parking lot outside my would-be apartment, I already knew I’d never sign a lease there. The stairs led down to the ground-floor living space. The woman from the leasing office made an offhand comment about it, as if gloomy basement dungeons were standard “first floor” rentals.

The apartment was akin to other empty apartments we’d seen that day—and those I would subsequently trudge through multiple times that week, feeling increasingly distraught. It was dismal, weathered, and claustrophobic. With three large steps, I was able to see all 675 square feet. (And that was larger than the other one bedrooms.) Depressing shades of decades-old brown covered every surface: brown outdoor paint, brown carpet, brown cabinets, and a brown fireplace. I nodded, thanked the leasing agent, and thought this is the place where sad, lonely people like me go to die.

I glanced at my uncle with big eyes, and we shook our heads hell no behind the lady’s back.

My uncle later said, “If it’s that dark in the summer, imagine it in the winter.”

Yes, and imagine all the rain I’m not used to.

On the way back to the leasing office, where I would retrieve my California driver’s license and escape this white trash refuge of misery on the outskirts of Seattle, we witnessed a young couple in another beat-up car parked with the hood up. They were screaming at each other. The leasing agent pretended not to notice. Instead she reminded us of the small, unclean gym and leaf-strewn, vacant outdoor pool. She said parking wasn’t “too bad,” and rent came with all-night security.

“The rent on the one bedroom is $1,325,” she said.

Fuck me.

***

I lived in my last apartment for 15 miserable months. When a slick, chatty landlord says, “Trust me,” don’t trust him. When you never meet him, even though his mailing address is a block away, don’t trust him. When he says the building is brimming with other women of a certain age—a readymade coffee klatch—don’t trust him then either.

I moved into a large downstairs studio in a vintage building with eight other studios on the border of Alamitos Beach and downtown Long Beach four blocks from the ocean. Tons of light, wood floors, a full kitchen, an extra vanity space adjacent to the bathroom, two giant closets, and a do-able price tag of $1,075—not including $45 for parking from 9:00 PM to 8:00 AM at the sketchy laundromat across the street.

My windows faced an empty building, an inviting backyard with a picnic table, and a high fence. On the other side of the fence was the patio of a day spa. It seemed I’d struck cozy and convenient housing gold. The landlord said, “If you don’t sign the lease by tomorrow, it will be gone.” On the spot, I decided this would be my new home for at least a year.

Within three weeks, it was clear the 27-year-old whose floor was my ceiling was nocturnal, and although the landlord promised one individual per unit, her glassy-eyed, Medusa-haired boyfriend with no ostensible employment unofficially moved in. I determined she worked in more than one bar to fund their questionable lifestyle, and when they’d return late on weeknights, it wasn’t with the intent to sleep. The first time I heard the repetitive slamming of her solid wood headboard against the wall, I was at my desk working in the late morning. At first, I thought a new tenant must be hammering nails. But then the same noise awakened me in the middle of the night.

The volatile lovebirds developed a maddening routine. They’d barrel through their front door between 1:00 AM and 4:00 AM, their brash, indecipherable voices echoing through the hall. Within 30 minutes, he’d be pummeling her. From my limited memory, the jackhammering was what I could only assume was terrible sex. You’re doing it wrong, I thought. My apartment was an earthquake at least four nights a week, until my landlord convinced them to move her bed. Her scrawny boyfriend trampled a nonstop path to the bathroom with his apparent elephant feet. Muffled pillow talk lasted for a couple more hours before they’d finally fall asleep just before my alarm went off.

Despite repeated attempts to reason with her, and my landlord’s stern threats to evict her, there was a mental disconnect between her actions and consequences. It was baffling. I tried to remember if we were like that in our 20s and thought if someone had ever threatened to evict me, I’d have been mortified. But I did recall oblivious shared-wall parties and close-proximity screwing and thought payback is a real bitch. In a constant sleep-deprived stupor, my anxiety and anger spiked to epic, sweat-producing proportions. I stumbled through life in a bitter haze.

She finally gave notice to move in with her boyfriend officially elsewhere and packed her belongings. In the middle of the night. Then they broke up. She swore he was out of her life and begged our landlord to let her stay. He said, “Okay, but you have to be as quiet as a church mouse.” She agreed. That night she unpacked and moved furniture. In the middle of the night. At that point, I was convinced she was a cokehead or a speed freak. Two weeks later, the boyfriend was back, and their regular habits began anew, just as I’d promised my landlord would happen. I came unglued.

I’d lie in bed, my heart pounding with dread, my stomach twisted, questioning every decision I’d ever made that led me to the point of being 44 years old living in the equivalent of an off-campus dorm, with no prospects for love of my own. My incapacitating loneliness, however, did not translate into jealousy of the girl getting regularly fucked upstairs. I didn’t wish I was her; I just wished they’d shut the hell up.

By the time my neighbor was officially asked to vacate the premises, I’d survived a year of agony, frequently retreating with a backpack and a pillow to my parents’ peaceful home an hour away to regain my sanity. On moving day, the sound of a dresser being lugged down the stairs was joyous. Get out. Get out. Get out! I thought, jumping up and down.

My landlord screened possible new tenants with supposed care and then chose another 27-year-old girl who worked weird hours in the food and beverage industry. She’d heard the story of the prior nightmare and appeared sympathetic to my plight. She warned me she was having a housewarming party one night that might last until 11:00 PM, and another night I drank wine with her, lounging on her bed. I was sure my life was about to improve. It didn’t.

Within six weeks, she had a new boyfriend, and all rules of etiquette dissolved. There was no headboard, only a broken-down mattress that was surely housing small, squeaky rodents and full cans of sloshing soda. Precious sleep continued to allude me.

I kindly mentioned we lived in the same house and asked her to be considerate in the dead of night.

“But I’m dating now,” she whined. So, fuck your ability to function during business hours.

This time, I’m the one who left.

***

I’ve found temporary refuge. My belongings are in the same storage facility as when I went on an extended Pacific Northwest road trip two years ago. I chose to leave a previous problem apartment in favor of living out of my Honda Civic, Airbnbs, and my uncle’s serene four-bedroom house in Maple Valley, Washington, the mortgage of which is the same as my sister’s current two-bedroom place in Long Beach, where I now sleep under a staircase in a tiny room that used to store my nephew’s toys before I rolled out a beige rug and moved in my mattress, an IKEA nightstand, and baskets of clothes. It’s fewer than 60 square feet of tranquility, complete with a built-in bookshelf, a glass door, and a window that opens to fresh air. My generous sister allows me to use her living room as an office, and my five-year-old nephew didn’t squawk when I acquired his walk-in closet. Every day is a “sleepover,” he says. The three of us have been sharing a bathroom since March, and it’s the most at home I’ve felt since I lived in my childhood home, where my parents still reside.

But if home is where the heart is, home is no longer a place but a longing. When I started looking for new apartments before escaping entitled neighbor hell, I made a list of what I needed to be baseline happy: the ability to sleep uninterrupted in a larger bed than I currently possess; my desk and bed in separate rooms (no more studios); no non-family roommates—unless romance is involved; a companion puppy (in lieu of a boyfriend); a gym in close proximity, since the one I used to go to closed; and a parking space. (Adding 30 minutes to every drive-time makes me insane.) This list doesn’t mention a literary community, excellent restaurants, close friends, and decent hiking spots, all important too. (I’d also someday like to date again, if I could only remember how.)

I’ve had the same quality job for 12 years; I’m not poor. But I’m also not independently wealthy, a doctor, lawyer, tech guru, or salesperson—the types of required professions to now be able to afford housing in desirable areas, I’ve learned. While in survival mode, combatting a contingent of self-absorbed Millennials, I didn’t notice I’d been priced out of the market in a state I’ve lived in since I was born, apart from a stint near Atlanta, where I’d have an ample dreamhouse if I hadn’t called off a wedding. (I still maintain I made the right choice.)

For the last couple years, I’ve debated the same dilemma with no answer: live near family and friends in a diminutive apartment that will never feel like home, stagnating in well-tread water, or move away from almost everyone I love to have a shot at creating my own life, where I run the risk of further isolation. It seems counterintuitive for a solitary person to become even more self-contained, so I promised myself if I did move, I’d force myself to interact with new people in new ways. (Online dating? Oh, the panic-inducing horror!) My excitement for a fresh start is tempered by the thought of missing out on my nephew growing up. What I want is impossible: to move and take everyone with me.

***

Scouring Hotpads, the exhaustive search for a new apartment in Southern California becoming increasingly futile, I zoomed out to look at a map of the rest of the country. In the back of my head, Seattle and Denver have always been options, so that’s where my eyes focused. What I found in and around Seattle gave me hope: one-bedroom apartments that were the same or less than the studios of Los Angeles. I made lists of places to visit, repeatedly returning to the photos of a newer building with an island in the kitchen and laundry in the unit. What I failed to remember while perusing these glossy, photoshopped photos of open space, staged, matching furniture, and rolling green hills was website photos LIE. Even the basement dungeon looked promising online. And the apartment I was most hopeful about was, in real life, a soulless, high-rise structure surrounded by nothing but parking lot. Plus, it was low-income housing, not mentioned on their website. I didn’t come close to qualifying. How does one who makes less than $44,000 a year even afford this place? I thought as I left the leasing office.

I put 16 apartments in the “no” column on my visit to Washington, some of which I only drove past, and one of which was a place I knew I couldn’t afford before visiting, with its rooftop jacuzzi and an expansive garden. By then, I wanted to see something spectacular, even if I couldn’t have it. The leasing agent asked, “What’s your budget?” after sharing the one bedrooms started at over $1,700. I stifled a laugh. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. She showed me a studio with a den. It was new, but it wasn’t bigger than what I was used to, and I wouldn’t have wanted to live in that fancy building anyway. It was a gleaming hotel in a shitty neighborhood.

One bright light that week kept me going: the neighborhood across the street from where my uncle lived before he bought his house eight years ago. It was grassy with a dog park, a lake, a high-ceilinged gym, and a large, sparkly pool. We were shown an already rented apartment that hadn’t been moved into yet. It was upstairs on a corner with tons of windows and light and a gorgeous green view. The rooms were bigger than the square footage suggested. The second I walked in, I had a glimmer of hope for a home.

“That one,” my uncle said.

“Yep.”

If it had been available then, I would have signed a lease. Instead, the friendly woman at the front desk took my information and told me to call her on July 11th, when the next round of notices would be given. She had streaks of purple in her platinum blond hair, and her arms were sleeved with pastel tattoos. I liked her immediately. She lived there herself and had gotten a dog the previous day, an auspicious sign. When I returned a week later before heading to the airport to inform her it was the only place I’d liked all week, she said, “That’s what I like to here.” She put my name at the top of the list, emailed photos, and restored my faith in 27-year-old women.

One problem: The rent there fluctuates based on supply and demand and spans from “I can swing it if I don’t eat out as much” to “I’ll no longer be able to pay for my expensive bladder medication if I live there.”

It would be a stretch, but maybe a stretch is what I need.

I’m still unsure if I have the courage to move out of state alone, even though I continue to live in a treacherous state I know better than any other: limbo. Limbo is an internal home I’ve cultivated over many years of succumbing to fear. I telecommute; I don’t have children; my last real relationship ended 10 years ago. By all accounts, no middle-aged woman is freer, and yet I feel trapped. I can’t escape myself by retreating to a new landscape. The toy room is safe. In some ways, I’ve always lived in the toy room. But I can’t inhabit it forever.

So, what should I do?

Reflections of a Road Warrior

Moving Out, Not In

From January 2014 until the end of April this year, I lived in a miniscule studio in Long Beach next door to a narcissist with a penchant for ongoing home construction and chicken coop tending. His pasty white children had multiple outside gangster-rap themed gatherings under my window in their backyard, but thankfully those ceased after Chicken Man had a blowout with his daughter. Thankfully, my sister and nephew lived in the front house on the same property. They were the best neighbors, but living and working alone in a small space with constant noise became too much. I didn’t realize how much anxiety the situation was causing me until I was no longer in it.

So, I planned my great escape. I would move out, but I wouldn’t move back in somewhere else. Instead, I would throw my belongings into storage and take an extended road trip to the Pacific Northwest, with the idea I’d move in with my uncle temporarily near Seattle. He owns a four-bedroom house and lives alone; he has the opposite of what I was used to: space. I decided to take advantage of my freedom as a telecommuter who’s worked from home for eight years—and has been with the same company for almost 10; I could work anywhere, so I would. When I told people my plans to hit Napa, Ashland, Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver, they were envious and called me “brave.” I didn’t feel brave. I felt desperate. I was driven more by loneliness than courage. I needed more legroom. I needed a change of scenery. I needed out of the same crazy headspace. There weren’t enough wine bars within walking distance of my studio that could change my mind. (Bonus: there’s a wine bar within walking distance of my uncle’s house too—with a stunning view of Mt. Rainer.)

What I didn’t realize is how difficult it would be to plan a life in flux with next-to-zero belongings. When I rented a 5 x 8 storage unit next to the Long Beach Airport a month before my departure, I had to figure out what I needed to keep and what I could live without for an extended period of time. First, I boxed up my books: eight legal-size boxes full. (I’m not getting a Kindle.) I neatly stacked them against the wall of the unit, along with other items I thought I wouldn’t need for a while. I freed up more space in my cramped apartment every few days. I felt better already.

But when the time came for the movers to take the rest, as I packed my desk and closet, I had to decide, “Do I need this, or can it disappear for six months?” It wasn’t easy. A 2008 Honda Civic LX fills up quickly. I rationalized, “If I need it, I’ll just get it back out of storage when I return from my road trip.”

On moving day, the movers played the world’s ultimate game of Tetris. My apartment was a clown car.

How did I ever fit so many personal effects into that diminutive back house?

When the two movers saw my storage unit and how I’d already filled a third of it, I asked, “Will it all fit?”

“Oh yeah, sure!” one of them said.

They rearranged everything I’d already organized to pack in what was on their truck. They weren’t worried about it fitting until they observed the last of the boxes when my storage unit was almost full. Then it was a serious task, but the movers were methodical. We stood back to admire the floor-to-ceiling puzzle when they were done. I now have no clue where anything is and couldn’t reach it if I tried. My mattress is a wall blocking it all, and I won’t have my own apartment again until at least November.

The Drive

Once I was “home-free,” and my car was packed, I sighed. I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do: I’d become a road warrior. I was free to explore the world, leave the past behind, experience new sites and people, and all on my own terms!

But first, I had to get gas. At the gas station, I set my iPhone music app to shuffle several hundred songs. What would be the soundtrack for my trip? My newfound freedom needed a theme! The first song that came on was “No Surprises” by Radiohead: the first dance song from my wedding.

Fuck that!

I quickly hit the “next” arrow.

Song two: Arcade Fire’s “Wake Up.”

That’s more like it.

I cranked the volume and took off. I was officially free…

…to sit in Los Angeles morning commuter traffic. The smog blanketing downtown was particularly thick that morning too. I couldn’t wait to escape.

It took me two-and-a-half hours to get to Magic Mountain, but I had grander destinations in mind. I hadn’t been to Napa since 2002. I hadn’t been to Seattle for over 17 years, and I’d never been to Oregon or Vancouver.

General goals on my journey: Eat good food, hike pretty mountains, talk to strangers.

The good food would have to wait. I was stuck on the 5 north shelling roasted pistachios as I steered the car with my knee; over the course of that week, my car turned into a nutshell graveyard.

Here are some random thoughts from my drive up the barren 5 on my trek to Napa: Has anyone ever used a runaway truck ramp? Where do the people who work in fast food joints in the middle of nowhere LIVE? There are no houses here! I’m convinced every truck I pass will fall over and crush my car. I drive faster than the cars in the slow lane and slower than the cars in the fast lane. What’s the story behind that one red shoe on the side of the road? The trick to road trips is stretchy pants. Does that black and red hat alongside the highway belong to the same kid as the red shoe I saw several hours ago? Shit, I already have a new zit on my cheek. Did you know hundreds of bats live under every freeway overpass from LA to San Francisco? I didn’t.

After about three hours of living out of my car, the rubber along the passenger window peeled off and began flapping against the roof. This had happened before. Each time I’d pull on the rubber and break it off by hand. The beauty of possessing an old car is you don’t care about it. (I wish I could sell my car and fly home, but I left my pink slip in storage.)

In the background, Elliott Smith sang “Going Nowhere.”

I made it to Buttonwillow by lunchtime. My culinary choices were limited. For a millisecond I pondered the Taste of India. In Buttonwillow. Nope. That left Taco Bell, McDonald’s, or Subway. I chose Subway. Jared’s smarmy face popped into my head as I ate my mediocre corporate Subway Club. The food I would eat in the coming weeks would only get better from there.

On the inside of the bathroom stall, someone had carved “R and A 4ever.”

They already broke up, I thought.

I got back in the car, where My Morning Jacket serenaded me with “I think I’m Going to Hell.”

Along the 5, politically motivated signs bordered dry, yellow farmlands, proclaiming the bleakness of the drought’s effects. The first one read, “Welcome to California. Restricted water,” and then something I couldn’t make out before I drove by.

“No water equals no jobs,” the next one said.

“Congress created a dust bowl,” one read, and on and on, until finally, I saw a sign that said, “Land for sale.”

Who would buy it?

In the meantime, Jesus and Mary Chain’s “I’m Happy When It Rains” played as I ran out of drinking water.

When I got close to Napa, I hit after-work commuter traffic. I’d timed it so I hit traffic on both ends of the drive.

Mad Season’s “I Don’t Know Anything” played next.

Airbnb in Napa

I was a little nervous about my first-time Airbnb experience. I booked private rooms and bathrooms in people’s homes, where they were actually living. I thought about the situation from their points-of-view. From my vantage point, it was cool; it was cheaper and more interesting than a hotel. But if I were them, I wouldn’t want random strangers in my house. I came to terms with the oddness of it when I thought, “I’m paying them,” and “they chose to do this.” So, I went with it and stepped out of my comfort zone. Plus, I did my research and had a gut feeling the people whose homes I chose to invade were my kind of people. I’d even been texting my first Airbnb host. He was witty and joyful. I was looking forward to meeting him. When I got to his house, within walking distance of downtown, no one was there; he was in Hawaii with his dad. His adorable bright blue house had a porch swing, wood floors, a memory foam mattress, a delightful food-based garden in back, an all-around welcoming vibe, and a wifi password. He was very trusting to leave me the key, having never met me before. I guess it helps to have a nice headshot online. (Thanks, Mom!)

Thirty minutes later, the missing Airbnb host sent in reinforcements. His girlfriend came over to take care of me. She was a sweet girl from Iowa with a dainty tattoo on her arm, elegant glasses, and a thin white blouse with tiny wine bottles all over it. She represented the impossible triumvirate: young, beautiful, and as fat-free as skim milk. I really liked her. We hit it off right away. She looked scared when I told her about my essay collection, but she didn’t run. Instead, she offered to schedule appointments for me at the two wineries she worked for the next day.

“Do you like whiskey?” I asked. I had about a third of a bottle of small-batch Few bourbon left in the trunk of my car to share with her.

She said that while “cab is king” around Napa, she did enjoy whiskey. She drank some, even when I didn’t.

I walked downtown by myself that first night to find dinner. I ended up at an Italian restaurant after my usual painstaking Yelp search. Yelp has never let me down.

What the hell did we ever do before the Internet?

In the bar, people were ordering martinis; no one was drinking wine.

“You’re not drinking wine in Napa,” I said.

“I’ve been drinking wine all day,” one guy said. His wife had dragged him along on a business trip, and his job was to find them vino to bring home from the wineries while she was at a conference. Rough life. (The next night after visiting two wineries, I understood why people in Napa are done drinking wine by dinnertime.) The couple and their friends were from Atlanta. I told them I used to live there too, but now I live “nowhere.” It’s fun to tell people you’re “between houses” when they ask you where you’re from. One of them bought my second glass of wine before they left. This “home-free” thing was working out well so far.

About Massages

After the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time, I walked a couple miles to get a massage. Every time I get a massage from anyone other than the goddess who works near my parents’ house, I feel like I’m cheating on her. Once you’ve been to Mirinus, you can’t get a massage anywhere else, so I was skeptical. (Mirinus is magic, so much so that she’s been on George Lucas’ yacht twice.) I have to say, though, the Napa massage therapist was a close second. I was butter afterward.

I get a massage when the tension in my neck, back, and shoulders becomes unbearable. After a massage, I’m sore from the massage. By the time I’m not sore anymore, the tension is back, so really, the only time I’m not in pain is while I’m getting the massage and right after, unless you count the good pain of getting the knots out. I really need to go more often.

While I waited for my Lyft back downtown, I stood on the curb next to the therapist’s car, where her mom and children waited for her. From inside the car, her six-year-old daughter cried out, “Are you having a baby?!”

I wasn’t even particularly bloated that day.

“No, I’m not having a baby,” I laughed.

God, kid, if you only knew how wrong you are.

Her mom came outside to apologize. “She thinks everyone is pregnant.”

Napa Valley Wineries

That afternoon, I hit the wineries my interim Airbnb host scheduled for me. She welcomed me for a tasting with a chalkboard that read, “Welcome Chelsey!” in fancy lettering. (Did I mention Airbnb rocks?) As luck would have it, the first winery I visited was also a recommendation from a work-related friend who put it at the top of the list. I could see why. (If you haven’t been to Ehlers Estate, go there.)

The second place I went was less formal, lending itself to more casual conversations. At Goosecross Cellars I shared my road trip pistachios with yet another group of Atlanta residents. When I explained my journey and my lack of a residence, one of them said, “It’s the difference between a snail and a slug.”

So, I’m the slug in this scenario?

“You can get a shell and be a snail again in no time,” he said.

By the end of my tasting at Goosecross, the employees were calling me “puddin’,” and we were old pals. They even gave me tastes of the wine-club-only reserve that wasn’t on the list because I was a “friend” of my Airbnb host’s girlfriend.

Back at the quaint blue house, I envisioned a mellow night indoors watching Game of Thrones, but my gracious host asked if I wanted to go to dinner with her. At this point, 24 hours in, we were already close enough to discuss birth control and all the physical hassles of being female on our walk downtown. She called her boyfriend a “Greek God,” and I told her he was in Maui because she didn’t know which island he was on. I can’t imagine why she wasn’t upset he hadn’t taken her with him.

Remembering Shasta

Leaving Napa was bittersweet, but I was ready to head to Oregon for the first time. The drive in Northern California was lightyears more beautiful than Southern California. I wasn’t used to so much greenery. I hadn’t been to Lake Shasta since I was 12, when we took a week-long houseboat trip. It’s funny how little I’d appreciated how gorgeous and expansive it is there. I was too busy being annoyed with the stifling heat and the younger kids on the trip. The best part was feeding large flour tortillas to the deer that would come out of the woods at night. I don’t remember why we thought tortillas were the ideal snack for deer, but we fed it to them by hand, and they loved it.

I also remember the large bell on the houseboat that adults took turns ringing once an hour for a week, each time yelling, “Cocktails!” The blender was whirring nonstop. I now realize how much drinking was going on.

The day we packed up it was 125 degrees outside. It felt like death. Then my sister cried for 12 hours all the way home (or was it on the way there? Or both?) Either way, sitting next to a screaming toddler in the backseat of a car for the duration it takes to drive from one end of California to the other sucks when you’re 12. The drive through Shasta alone as an adult was much more peaceful.

Ashland

The drive into Oregon was just as stunning. The drought clearly hadn’t made it this far up. Later, as I walked around the quaint town of Ashland in the rain with an umbrella overhead, an elderly man who walked by asked, “Is it going to rain today?”

“It already is,” I said.

Apparently “light rain” in the Pacific Northwest isn’t rain. To a So. Cal. girl, a gentle mist might as well be a monsoon. (More about rain and the apparent Umbrella Embargo when we get to Washington.)

In Ashland, I attended the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Check another item off the bucket list. Beforehand, I read the synopsis of Twelfth Night on Wikipedia. (Yeah, I know. English major fail.) I’m glad I did. I would have been lost otherwise. The play was well done, but it was long. The minor characters stood out. After three hours, I had a hard time keeping my eyes open, until the end, when the cast did a seemingly impromptu song-and-dance number to close out the show. When one of the minor characters began belting out a song, I was blown away. He was incredible. For about three minutes of the three-hour production, I was wide awake and smiling. I turned to the woman next to me afterward and said, “That was the best part of the whole play!”

“That’s what I was thinking!” she said.

Normally when songs start during a play, I roll my eyes and think oh no, not this shit again. This time I wished it had been a musical all along.

The Thing about Oregon Gas Stations

Prior to my trip, a friend who’d recently moved to Portland from Dallas posted on facebook that in Portland you’re not allowed to pump your own gas, and if you do, that’s a hefty fine.

What? I wrote it off as a “Portland-thing,” and thought that’s weird. I had no idea it was state law. Still, I was a little uncertain when I stopped for gas before leaving Ashland. I didn’t see anyone working at the gas station when I pulled up, so I slowly took out my ATM card and slid it into the machine while I half-waited for someone to talk to me. Out of nowhere, a man swooped in, lunged toward me, and started yelling.

“No, no, no, sorry, I can’t let you pump your own gas! You can’t do that!”

I tensed and played dumb.

“Sorry, I didn’t know. I’m from California.”

He said it wasn’t the first time it had happened, so why was he so rude to me?

In a panic, I hit the “cancel” button on the pump, which also pissed him off. Now I was really confused. What was the protocol? I just wanted some gas. I never thought a trip to the gas station could be so upsetting.

Then he punched in a special number on the pump, took my card from me, and pumped the gas as he blabbed about the law. He said something about creating jobs and how Oregon and New Jersey were the only two states that still had this policy. It seemed like an outdated law to me, but what did I know?

While he talked, I looked to see if I had any cash to tip him, but I didn’t want to do something else to anger the gas station guy, so I asked, “Do you accept tips then?”

“Yes, ma’am, we do.”

I gave him $5 because I was happy he hadn’t fined me for trying to pump my own gas, but I felt unsettled after I left, as if I was an ashamed child and an adult had reprimanded me for stealing cookies.

The second time I needed gas during my Oregon stay was outside of Portland after a day hike. At least this time I knew what I was supposed to do: nothing.

When I pulled up, a young dude strolled out of the building toward me. He looked like the sleazy mechanic in Vacation who strong-armed Clark into handing over all the money he had in his wallet. This guy was just short a wrench and a pair of overalls.

I handed him my card.

“If you had 60 grand, would you buy this place?” he asked.

The place was shoddy and remote, but 60 grand sounded reasonable.

“That seems like a good deal to me,” I said.

Something told me he didn’t already have 60 grand and the gas station wasn’t up for sale. He explained how he’d been into day trading and had dropped out of school.

“School really prepares you for the real world,” he said sarcastically.

Yeah, it looks like you’re doing just fine without it, I thought.

There’s nothing wrong with working at a gas station. My grandfather was a gas station mechanic his whole life and raised three sons without a credit card. But this dude struck me as someone who’d have better luck running a meth lab out of his parents’ basement.

I tipped the guy two bucks and decided I don’t like the Oregon gas station law. I want to peacefully pump my own gas without having to talk to anyone. Fortunately, I wouldn’t need gas again until I was in Washington.

Airbnb Part 2

Since I had such a pleasurable first Airbnb experience, I couldn’t imagine my host in Portland measuring up. When I drove up to her old apartment building in a beautiful neighborhood at the top of a San Francisco-style hill, I had to be buzzed in the door. Then I walked up three flights of stairs because I didn’t notice the tiny elevator. On the third flight, a Danish seamstress opened her door and immediately began giving me the tour of the house before asking any questions. She was all business. “Here’s the hot water for tea; here’s your space on the refrigerator shelf; here’s a space in the bathroom cupboard; here’s how you work the A/C unit in your bedroom; I’ll show you a map of the city later to give you suggestions of what to do.”

I knew right away she and I wouldn’t be discussing birth control and female problems, but while she was less warm than my Napa host, she was welcoming all the same.

After a few minutes, she resumed sewing in her dining room, where she’d set up a business making hospital scrubs, while I unpacked my belongings. Later, when I told her I planned to hike outside of the city, she said, “Don’t leave anything in your car when you go.” Theft is a real problem in the trail parking lots, she explained. I thought about the one-person elevator or three flights of stairs and my packed car with everything I might need for the next six months, including a foldup portable mattress.

Shit. When I unload everything, she’ll think I’m moving in.

After about four trips to the car, everything I owned that wasn’t in storage in Long Beach was in my new Portland bedroom where I apparently now lived with a nice Danish lady. She seemed unfazed. I did wish her Happy Mother’s Day after all.

The Best of Portland

After three nights in Portland, I concluded the city has the best cocktail bar, the best farmers market, and the best hiking. The Multnomah Whiskey Library was the first place I stopped after unpacking. It’s what other classic cocktail bars want to be when they grow up. I love places like The Varnish in downtown Los Angeles, but the Library was next level. It looks like a repository straight out of Harry Potter or Trinity College, with whiskey bottles standing in for books. A host seats you in a cushy leather chair your grandpa might have in his study. Then a server promptly hands you a Bible-thick tome with the Library’s spirits and artisanal food selection. While you look through the never-ending menu wondering how anyone ever decides what to order, your pleasant server returns to see if you have questions and introduces you to your own special bartender who is presumably there just to serve you. He rolls a freestanding bar up to your table to make a fresh drink table-side, while you lounge in Grandpa’s giant chair. For the rest of the evening, your knowledgeable server and bartender each check in with you periodically, exactly when you need them, as if they can read minds and you’re the Queen of Whiskey and the bar isn’t completely full. In the meantime, the host will seat two nice gentlemen next to you, and by the time you leave, you’ll have secured an opportunity for a side freelance editing gig.

Unlike at Seven Grand, a whiskey bar in Los Angeles, you won’t hear a wannabe hipster at her holiday party wearing an ironic ugly Christmas sweater say, “I really wish I liked whiskey. The drinks here look so fancy.” That same girl won’t cut you off when you’ve been standing at the bar trying to get a bartender’s attention for 15 minutes. She won’t look you in the eye absentmindedly and then order a tap beer after she notices you’ve been standing there longer than she has. You won’t then have to wade your way through pool players to reach the outside patio, only to watch 25-year-old douchebags in suits smoke cigars, while you realize the glory days of Seven Grand ended when you weren’t paying attention.

Nope, the Multnomah Whiskey Library fucking rules.

The Portland Farmers Market on campus at Portland State University is equally impressive. I walked down the steep hill from my Airbnb one morning in search of a breakfast burrito I’d either read or heard about. I did a loop around the market to find the burrito stand, and in the meantime drooled over every booth I passed. I bought strawberry jam, a loaf of fresh uncut wheat bread, and an Irish-flavored smoked salmon. Then I found the burritos. The line was long. The guy behind me said, “Wow, there aren’t as many people in line as usual.” I figured it was worth the wait. And it was. Sort of.

The Worst of Portland

The burrito was stuffed with eggs, cheddar cheese, bacon, green chilies, and some sort of secret spicy sauce. It was delectable. I savored every bite as I sat on a bench and people-watched under the trees, enjoying the perfect cool weather. A few hours later, when I ordered ramen at an indoor market across town, I felt a little queasy while I ate lunch, but thought nothing of it since my stomach has been off since birth. When I finished my tasty ramen and headed out of Pine St. Market to walk along the Willamette River, I had that nervous feeling you get when you’re in public and think you might need a restroom but aren’t near one. Fortunately, I’d already gotten the code for the Pine St. Market restroom and peed twice. (It’s 1 3 5 7 9, for anyone who needs it.) My internal dialogue went something like this: Is my stomach rocky because of that spicy burrito this morning, or was that one Lactaid pill not enough to last me through that frothy latte I had a couple hours later? I was worried, but I kept walking farther away from the bathroom because I’d already peed twice, and my brain was inclined to disregard how illogical my body can be.

I passed an elderly homeless man in a wheelchair on the corner at the end of the block who asked me for spare change. I shook my head and walked past. The person behind me gave him a few bucks. He reacted with something like, “Thank you! It’s a beautiful fucking day, isn’t it?”

As I reached the river a couple blocks away, my stomach took a downturn. I calculated how far it was back to the only restroom I knew was available, turned around, and started speed-walking back. I passed the homeless man again, who asked for money as if he’d never seen me before. I flew by him, ran through the bustling market, punched in the bathroom code, and picked a stall. Then nothing happened. I wrote it off as a false alarm, left the building, walked past the homeless man, who again asked me for money, and reached the river, where I hoped to take that leisurely walk. Then it hit me with one gurgle. This time I knew for sure if I didn’t reach the bathroom more quickly than last time, I’d be in big trouble. I ran down the street, past the begging homeless man, who hadn’t quite figured out he’d already seen me three times, back through the market, where I’m certain restaurant employees were now wondering what the hell was wrong with me, punched in the code to the bathroom, and back into a stall. Inside the stall, my insides evacuated. My stomach decided on a whim to reject my breakfast burrito for no discernible reason. I flushed the toilet about 10 times over the next 10 minutes as a courtesy to the several women and children who trailed in and out of that busy restroom during their Saturday lunchtime. I was mortified.

When I felt it was safe to leave and opened the stall door to find a line waiting, I warned, “This stall is out of toilet paper,” which it was because I’d used it all. I washed my hands and wiped my sweaty brow and fled the scene as quickly as possible. I gave up on my river-side stroll and headed for my car instead. I drove back to my Airbnb, turned on the AC, and lay on my comfy bed, wishing I didn’t have to eat out again for a while.

Random Portland Thoughts and Advice

• A bartender at Teardrop called Mezcal a “super food.” It’s possible he’s not wrong.

• Multnomah Falls is a tourist trap not unlike Disneyland, but without the rides. Go for the photos. Hike somewhere else.

• Apologizing to a friendly Iraqi Lyft driver on behalf of the entire United States of America doesn’t go over well.

• Never judge a young Lyft driver because he looks, talks, and acts exactly like someone else you know. When he says he attends Oregon State, a “giant community college,” and you ask him what his major is, expecting him to say “dance” or “theater” or “music,” he may reply with “business and economics” and surprise the hell out of you.

• Siri doesn’t know her way around Portland either, but don’t worry, you two will make up by the time you reach Washington.

• Flat track roller derby isn’t like bank track roller derby. Bank track roller derby is fast, with all players skating around the track at top speed. Flat track roller derby is one woman on each team whizzing around the track, while the rest of her teammates stand in one place and brawl with the opposing team, resulting in a confusing two-hour shoving match.

• There are two Laurelwood Brew Pubs. Don’t trust Google Maps to direct you to the correct one for your friend’s birthday dinner.

• If you’re waiting to have brunch with your online writing teacher, whom you’ve never met in person, and you text her twenty minutes after you’re supposed to meet and wake her up, wait for her to get to the restaurant anyway. It will be worth it.

• Road trips don’t make you exempt from open container laws. If you pack your car and drive around for an hour, not realizing you have open bottles of whiskey and wine in the front passenger seat because that’s where they fit, pull over immediately and put them back in the trunk.

Seattle: Rainy and Umbrella-free

When I finally made it to Seattle, it was sunny, but not for long. My uncle kept saying, “It’s never like this. What is that thing in the sky?” I watched him squint and hold his hand up to block the sun as if he would melt. When we went to the wine bar by his house and the large garage-style glass doors were rolled open to the patio, he was baffled.

“I’ve never seen those doors open,” he said.

Sure enough, after a few days, the permanent overcast sky rolled in.

“This is what it’s like all the time,” my uncle said.

“I like this kind of weather,” I replied.

I said the same thing to the bartender at Bathtub Gin. He was born in Long Beach, where I’d just moved from.

“Wait until it rains for a week,” he said.

“A week?” my uncle asked. “Try months.”

It rained the day my uncle and I went to Pike Place Market. We waited in a long line outside at Piroshky Piroshky for apple cinnamon rolls. It was totally worth it. Then I bought two bottles of wine at Pike and Western Wine Shop. Then my uncle took me down an alley to visit the Gum Wall, where thousands of people have filled a wet wall with hardened, used gum. It was disgusting, yet fascinating. Carrying my bag of wine down the alley below the Gum Wall, I stepped on a slippery manhole cover in my slippery Converse high tops, and before I had time to consider adjusting my footing, I went down hard on the ground, landing square on my right wrist and hip. Thankfully I didn’t break my wrist, but my brown paper sack went down with me, and I heard the distinct pop of broken glass and watched a bottle of red wine seep through the bag and trickle down the cobblestones like purple blood. I was more in shock from being unexpectedly on the ground than I was from pain; the dull muscle ache set in later. Since then, I’ve stepped over or around other manhole covers, grates, and any other wet metal on the ground in Seattle.

I went to dinner one night by myself in the city when it was raining even harder. Yet, I was the only person carrying an umbrella.

“People in Seattle don’t use umbrellas,” my uncle had warned.

Some people wore rain jackets, but most of the locals walked down the street as if they weren’t getting wet at all—and the rain had little effect on their clothes and hair. Even under an umbrella, my hair was limp and damp, but every person who walked past me had feathery dry locks like a Farrah Fawcett poster. I didn’t get it. It was as if they were impervious to water.

I rounded a corner and almost ran into a pedestrian. He regarded my umbrella, winced, threw his head back as if I might stab in the eye with the end of it, and gave me a dirty look.

Amateur, I imagined him thinking.

“Sorry,” I said, apologizing for what? Being dry?

That night I ate the best thin-crust mushroom pizza I’ve ever had. I sat next to a young woman who looked like a seasoned local. I struck up a conversation with her and asked where she lived. She pointed up to the ceiling; she lived above the Italian restaurant.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“A week,” she smiled. She’d moved from Washington, DC, for a job, and her boyfriend wouldn’t follow until July.

“Oh my god,” I said. “I’ve been here longer than you!”

We laughed.

Now I didn’t feel like such a stupid tourist as I walked back to my car proudly holding my umbrella, carrying half my leftover pizza wrapped in foil.

At least I don’t have soggy pizza, Seattle!

I haven’t used an umbrella since.

Back to Work

The thing I’ve noticed since I got here and resumed working again after my week-long road trip: Telecommuting is telecommuting anywhere. I knew that going in but didn’t realize the novelty of working from a new place would wear off so quickly. I’m still on my computer by myself, but now I don’t have construction noise as part of my life’s soundtrack; this is better. The only noises around my uncle’s home in Maple Valley are calming, or at least not maddening like in Long Beach: the synchronicity of frogs croaking in the storm runoff pond next door after dark, the birds chirping, and the kids laughing at the bus stop. Even the woodpecker that slams his beak repeatedly into the back windows in the morning doesn’t bother me. It beats my LBC neighbor’s obnoxious son revving his motorcycle engine at all hours. I still ponder making an anonymous call to the police to inform them about my ex-neighbors’ pot farm.

Meeting John Doe

While emailing a friend who lives in Los Angeles, I said I was sad to miss a literary event she was participating in at Book Soup. She suggested I find readings in Seattle. I hadn’t thought of that. Five minutes later, I found an event I couldn’t miss: John Doe in conversation with music journalist Charles R. Cross at The Elliott Bay Book Company. John Doe is a Los Angeles punk icon. I’ve loved the band X since I was a child. John would be in Seattle promoting his new book Under the Big Black Sun.

At the bookstore, John told funny stories about the LA punk music scene when X was new, a period of time he said only lasted from 1977 to 1980, when I was age four to seven. I missed it. John said the scene was over when Darby Crash from the Germs died but ask any 15-year-old at the Vans Warped Tour this summer, and he’ll say, “Punk’s not dead!” That same kid will also ask, “Who’s Darby Crash?”

X originated when John Doe told Exene Cervenka he loved her poetry and wanted to use it for his music.

“She said, ‘That’s the only thing I have, so no.’”

John then told her she needed to learn to sing so she could sing for his band.

“She said, ‘Okay,’ and the rest is history.”

During the Q&A, John said X charged $5 for shows on the Sunset Strip early on, $7 if there were a lot of bands playing.

“Then Adam Ant came to the Roxy and charged $10 or $15, and we were like, ‘Fuck that guy!’”

Waiting in line for the book signing, I tried to think of something to cool to say to a guy who’s been in a band I like for almost 40 years. I couldn’t think of anything. I decided to wing it. I suck at winging it.

As he signed my book, I said, “I’m from Southern California, so your music was always a big part of my life.”

“Good for you,” he said, with no hint of sarcasm.

“I think I bought my first X album when I was 8 or 9,” I said.

“And your parents let you?”

“Yeah, my parents were cool hippies.”

“Okay…” he said because a) he wasn’t buying it, and b) he doesn’t like hippies. “It seems like it turned out okay. Sometimes someone says, ‘Your music changed my life!’ but they’re totally screwed up.”

I backtracked on the hippie thing. “No, it’s all good. My parents were sort of fake hippies because they were upwardly mobile.”

This was when I decided to shut my mouth.

“It was nice to meet you,” I said.

“It was nice to meet you too,” he said.

It doesn’t matter that I’m turning 43 in less than two weeks; I always feel like such a dork. Some things never change.

Next stop: Canada!

Northern Road Trip

As of May 2nd, all my belongings will be in a 5 x 10 storage unit, and I’ll be on the road. I’ve been daydreaming about bailing for several months. While the standard American road trip involves heading west, I already live in Southern California and ache for fresh scenery, so I’m aiming north. I want to leave my shoebox studio to the termites. I want to tell my neighbor and his sons, “So long, suckers!” I want more time off the grid. I want to take my solo life where it rains, and I have that option because of the unique situation in which I find myself.

I’m a telecommuter who’s worked from home for eight years. I spend my days listening to silence (or my neighbor’s ongoing construction site), wondering if other people exist on the planet outside of facebook. Office politics are not in my vocabulary (thankfully). I don’t have a husband or children anchoring me to a fixed spot (sadly). I’m free, and yet I feel trapped by my circumstances. I am stuck, and I want to be unstuck. I want to take advantage of a lonely situation, flip it on its side to see it from an alternate angle, and turn it into a positive experience. Plus, I need some new shit to write about.

I’ve often joked I desire a milder version of Wild: a sort of Wild Light. I want the enlightening journey without tearing up my feet and running out of water in the middle of the desert. I want the writer’s retreat without the yoga. I want the Eat Pray Love without the Pray, and I don’t anticipate Love, so maybe I should call my next book Eat Eat Eat. (That’s the only section of Gilbert’s memoir I liked anyway.)

And yes, wine will be involved.

First stop: Napa, a wino’s wonderland. I’ve only been there once, and it was in 2002 when I’d started dating my future ex-husband three weeks before. To say, “I’m in a different place now” is like saying, “Donald Trump is a wee bit narcissistic.” Second stop: Ashland to see Twelfth Night. As an English major, I’m required to love Shakespeare; it’s part of a literature lover’s DNA. But I haven’t read any Shakespeare plays since I quit teaching—also in 2002—so I’m rusty when it comes to Early Modern English. And I have a dirty confession: I’ve never read Twelfth Night. I don’t know the story other than a meager reference at the end of Shakespeare in Love.

What kind of English major am I?

Third stop: Portland. I’m a 42-year-old Californian who’s never been to Portland. How is that even possible? I’m not sure what I’ll do once I get there, but I know hiking and whiskey will be involved. Look out, hipster tree huggers. Next stop: my uncle’s house in Maple Valley, Washington. I’m setting up camp there for at least a month. I hope to see as much of Seattle and the surrounding islands as I can. I haven’t been there since my 20s, when my family’s destination was Whitefish, Montana, so this will be a novel experience too.

Final stop: Vancouver for my birthday. Yes, I’ll finally set foot in Canada. I was hoping I’d get to see a Canadian hockey playoff game, but the Canadian teams are in the basement. (Part of me can’t help but be amused.) So, I don’t know what Vancouver holds, but you’re all invited.

Other than dates and locations, the trip is a giant question mark. I’ve never given up an apartment when I didn’t have another permanent home lined up, but I did it this time. I also signed up for Airbnb, and I already have a storage unit full of books. (It pains me to say I think it might be time to get a Kindle.) This will be the first time I hire outsiders to haul my furniture across a doorframe; it only took a slight midlife crisis and an immediate family replete with back problems.

I’m giving up Netflix and my precious DVR—for now—to see more of the outside world. (No Game of Thrones spoilers please.) I want to meet new people in new locales and see old friends I haven’t seen in ages. I want to plow through the unread books on my nightstand and trek through greener pastures. Mostly I just want to do something other than what I normally do. I’m done with the status quo.

I’m nervous and excited. I’m sad to leave my loved ones, especially my sister and nephew, the best neighbors a girl could ask for, but don’t worry, Tessa. I’ll be back.

My uncle says, however, “You may not want to go back once you get here.” I don’t have a return date to California yet, which is way out of my comfort zone. As a nitpicky organizer who doesn’t leave much to chance, I’m trying to stay open to wherever this journey takes me, even if it loops me back around to another tiny apartment in Long Beach after six weeks. At least I’ll have had a voyage that hits the reset button on my current claustrophobia. Who knows what will happen in the meantime? I sure don’t. That’s the point.

See you on the flipside.

Side note: All Pacific Northwest suggestions are welcome. Also, if you live in any of these locations, hit me up!