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?

The Essay Submission Process

I like this essay. I should have no trouble publishing it. I’m so proud for taking the editor’s advice the last time we corresponded. It’s timely, the correct length, and she hasn’t published anything else like it. I’m sure she’ll take it.

When she says “yes,” the essay will go viral around the globe, and I’ll finally get an agent.

Let’s see, the other times I’ve submitted to her, I was either accepted the next day, rejected the same day or 10 days later, or she didn’t respond at all. How long should I wait to bug her since I need to publish this by next month?

*Rereads essay. Yep, I still like it. Maybe she’s busy.

*Checks Twitter.

If she has time to tweet, she has time to read my essay.

*Checks Twitter again.

Crap, she’s dealing with a social media shit storm surrounding another essay she just published. I’m screwed.

I bet she’s already read it.

My essay is total nonsense. The other time she published my work was a fluke. I should quit writing forever.

Stop it. You think this every time, and every time it eventually works out. Keep going.

*Refreshes email. *Refreshes email again. *Tries to write something new. *Can’t. Too distracted.

She hasn’t had time to get to it, and she’s not thinking about you at all. Calm down.

*Makes a list of other places to send the essay and tries to decide how long to wait for the editor to respond.

*Waits a week and sends a nice, pressure-less follow-up email and hopes it doesn’t annoy her. Doesn’t hear back.

I only have time to send this to maybe two or three more places before this “timely” piece is obsolete. Shit.

I’m totally going to end up posting this to my blog, and 23 people will read it.

I’m never going to publish my memoir either, but that’s okay because if I did, everyone would hate me.

*Rewrites essay.

*Sends it somewhere else until someone finally says “yes,” even if it takes years.

*Comes up with an idea for a new piece. Gets excited to write it.

*Repeats steps 1-21.

Every Greater Los Angeles Rental Listing

Posted 22 days ago. (This place is already rented, or something is wrong with it.)

See photos here. (See one ill-framed photo of outside of building from across the street. Posted twice.)

CHARMING (tiny-as-fuck) one bedroom (studio with a dividing wall) mere steps from the ocean (approximately 11,255 steps). CLEAN LOWER UNIT. GREAT for quiet, active professional. (If you’re never home, you’ll be happy living here.) Upstairs neighbor stomps back-and-forth and drops bowling balls at unexpected times. Hours she’ll be quiet: 4:00 AM to 6:00 PM. Her mattress contains full Pepsi cans and squirrels. She has a new boyfriend. He will be living with her (sponging off her) within three weeks. She works odd hours. (He doesn’t work.) Remember sleep? You don’t need sleep. Sleep is for pussies. (Bonus: constant police helicopters.)

Newly remodeled (fresh coat of paint). NEW laminate flooring (not hardwood). NEW hardware. (We spent a few extra bucks on drawer handles.) Water damage to ceiling is minimal. (Apartment might contain mold.) MUST SEE to appreciate.

GREAT LOCATION! Peek-a-boo view of sliver of saltwater if you stand on your tiptoes and crane your neck to look through bathroom window. Bathroom is airplane-size. Shower fits one person if you don’t raise your arms. Watch your elbows. Shower drain will be plugged within two weeks.

Includes kitchenette. (An Easy Bake Oven and a half-size refrigerator against a back wall under a two-foot strip of linoleum.) Microwave optional ($50 fee).

Walk-in closet (as long as you bend down so you don’t hit your head). Other storage space: small cabinet under bathroom sink and two kitchen cabinets (that won’t be tall enough for your glassware, but you won’t realize it until you move in, and then it will be too late). Shelf paper necessary (not included).

Small outdoor patio three feet from neighboring building, which will be under construction indefinitely. (Patio furniture not allowed.)

Coin-op laundry in creepy basement dungeon no one will ever clean but you. Washing machine holds equivalent of half a load. Dead cockroaches free of charge. Other tenants will use your detergent.

Street parking only. Parking available between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM Monday through Friday. (Approximately the same hours you’ll be able to sleep.) All other hours: Build in an extra 30 minutes of drive time, waiting for someone to leave so you can parallel park approximately 1.3 miles from your front door. Between 10:00 PM and 8:00 AM, don’t bother coming home. Use Lyft often. Must move car twice a week for street sweeping. Expect front license plate to be smashed during the first six months of lease.

Five-year wait list for one-car garage.

Easy drive to the 405. Good luck once you’re on the 405.

Best wishes hanging framed posters in plaster.

Squeaky ceiling fan in lieu of A/C.

Cable ready. (The unit will be cable ready as soon as you call the cable company and have them install cable. Your DVR will never quite work correctly in this CHARMING 1920s building.)

Owner pays for cold water and gardener. Gardener comes at 7:00 AM on Saturday.

NO DOGS. FUCK DOGS. YOU CAN’T HAZ DOGS. Cats are fine.

Note: If you own a bike, it will get stolen.

CALL FOR MORE DETAILS. Do not email us on this super convenient website. We will not respond, nor will we check messages, defeating the purpose of this super convenient website.

Rent is $4,950. Deposit is $5,025. Extra deposit for your cat (NO DOGS): $500. Due at lease signing: first, last, second to last, deposit, pet deposit. Available yesterday. Contact immediately. Competition is fierce. If you’re reading this, it’s probably too late.

Price comparison:

This one bedroom (287 sq. ft.) is cheaper than the average one bedroom in this area by $237.

Netflix and Chill

Netflix and chill and drink decaf tea, but not the kind that says “Sleepytime” because it’s only 4:40 in the afternoon. Watch Broadchurch season 3 episode 2 and promise yourself you won’t rewind it when you don’t understand what the Scottish dude is saying. Turn up the volume just enough not to annoy the neighbors. Strain to listen. Miss chunks of the dialogue. Realize it doesn’t matter. Try to remember who killed the boy in season 1. Fail to remember if the murderer was convicted in season 2. Berate yourself because you should be writing instead. Read three pages of a new book. Put it down. Continue to feel unproductive. Open the bottle of pinot you were saving for Christmas Eve. Decide you can buy a new one tomorrow.

Shiver in your lounge chair while you watch the rest of Broadchurch season 3 episode 2 because the space heater doesn’t heat your apartment quickly enough, and you’re too lazy to get a blanket. Play “crank” in Words with Friends and open a triple against the friend who beats you every time, but you continue to play against him because you’re a glutton for punishment. Fret about the giant gouge you made in your cellphone glass yesterday because you haven’t paid off half of your iPhone 7 yet. Delete your embarrassing Facebook posts from 2008 under the “On This Day” tab. Refresh your Twitter feed. Stress about nuclear war and whether or not your imbecile president is becoming a dictator. Wish Paul Ryan had food poisoning. Refresh Twitter feed again. Look at photos of the SpaceX launch. Decide it looks like a flying jellyfish. Google Elon Musk. Decide you have two years to become successful.

Facebook stalk the love of your life. Facebook stalk the other guy you wish you were fucking. Try to remember how many months it’s been since someone kissed you. Remember it’s Friday night. Google “dating apps for writers.” Find only one, and it looks janky. Think who am I kidding? Daydream about an invisible personal chef or an imaginary husband making you dinner. Realize that’s not going to happen in the next 15 minutes. Scrape yourself out of the chair to stir fry enough vegetables and cook a large enough steak to have leftovers. Pour a second glass of wine. Turn on Judd Apatow’s new standup special. Wish you had children. Google how old Judd Apatow is. Determine you have six more years to become successful. Berate yourself because that literary agent never replied to the best query you’ve ever written. Eat the whole boneless ribeye and shovel all the zucchini and mushrooms doused in butter and olive oil into your pie-hole. Top off your wine glass.

While you pee, wipe strands of hair off the floor with toilet paper. Stare at your reflection in the mirror. Determine whether it’s time to take off your make-up and put on pajamas or venture into the world and interact with people. Consider taking a hot bath and lighting multiple candles as an attempt at “self-care.” Laugh because you have yet to do that since you moved into this apartment a year ago. Shower. Remove your make-up. Put on pajamas. Brush your fine hair. Wish it was longer. Wish it was shorter. Wish you were younger. Wipe up more strands of your hair that just fell out. Berate yourself for dying it red because you already wish you were blond again, and you’ve done this before. Contemplate whether your broken scale was correct when it said you were five pounds lighter than you thought you were. Decide it was wrong. Check the clock: 7:54.

Clean the dishes. Decide it’s early enough to drink more tea. Make the kind that says “Sleepytime.” Consider taking out the trash. Don’t because it’s cold, and your wimpy California ass can’t handle 51 degrees. Light a fancy soy candle. Thank the molecules in the air you don’t have to argue with your nonexistent children about bedtime. Berate yourself for only publishing two essays this year. Remember you rewrote a whole damn book, have a craft essay coming out next month, and wrote three more essays to publish next year. Give yourself a fucking break. Pee three more times because you drank half a bottle of wine and two cups of hot tea in the last four hours. Search your own Facebook page for old photos to post to Instagram for Flashback Friday. Don’t find any you haven’t already posted. Feel pathetic. Check your fantasy hockey scores. Realize you should have started that crappy defenseman after all. Contemplate your worth as a human being. Blow out the candle because you might be allergic.

Return to your comfy chair—with a blanket this time. Wish you hadn’t watched all of Ozark season 1 already. Press play on the next episode of Broadchurch. Strain to catch all the dialogue. Miss 20%. Wonder if it’s too early to go to bed. Be grateful you have lunch plans tomorrow. Refresh your Twitter feed again. Check out who has watched your latest Instagram story and realize it’s the same 25 people as usual. Write a 900-word blog post. Contemplate whether or not to share it. Floss. Post your blog to Twitter, recognizing maybe two people will read it. Wonder how many more Friday nights you can Netflix and chill.

In Defense of my Solo-ish Essay

Two months after I published an essay in The Washington Post, I read the comments. Here’s my response.

On January 18th, I published an essay in The Washington Post titled “I’m not an extrovert—and that makes it harder to find love.” It was an ideal publishing experience. I pitched the essay. The editor accepted it the next day. The essay was published the day after that. Plus, the editor did a superb job of cutting a 1,700-word essay to fewer than 1,000 words without changing my original intent. I was impressed.

I’d published essays before, but never on a highly visible site that included a comments section. I was tempted to read the 47 comments that followed, but after reading the first one accidentally, I heeded the advice of authors everywhere who say the number one rule of self-preservation in publishing is “don’t read the comments.”

I waited two months, long after my standard publishing anxiety dissipated. The way I saw it, if I had Internet trolls, I’d made it.

Then I read the comments.

Those who understood what I was trying to convey validated my work, and the ones who bashed me fascinated me. The part of me that’s intrigued by online trolls is the same part that took abnormal psych in college for fun. Trolls project their own adverse experiences onto strangers without appreciating a flesh-and-blood human sits on the other side of the screen. A lack of empathy accompanies blistering online arguments because anonymity makes it safe.

I don’t understand why people bother. How often have people’s minds been changed after a heated social media exchange?

Exactly.

Hell, I’ve only ever written one Yelp review.

But after reading the WaPo comments, my first inclination was to react immediately to each unfavorable post. I didn’t.

One sentence in the essay riled readers most: “I can tell within five minutes of meeting someone if there’s a chance we’ll fit together.”

Key word: “chance.”

I have written more personal essays with grittier details than this one. I hadn’t anticipated these 16 words would touch so many nerve endings. Besides, the editor revised this sentence, which first read, “I know within five minutes of meeting someone if there’s a distant chance we’ll fit together.”

If the word “distant” had been left in, would this declaration have angered people less? Maybe, but I doubt it.

Readers complained I “judge” men within five minutes of meeting them. They presumed I “audition” prospective romantic partners with a quick “evaluation” and subsequent dismissal. (Isn’t that “speed dating?”) Part of my problem is I don’t audition people at all. I don’t date. I don’t remember how.

Readers ascertained my persona based on 992 words without knowing anything else about my life or meeting me face-to-face—equivalent to the swift individual assessment for which they criticized me.

Here’s what I meant by the gut reaction I have when I first meet someone new: I have fallen in this-may-be-love at first sight more than once. In my experience, the cosmic connection—or whatever you want to call it—has often been immediate. And my intuition turns out to be correct 98% of the time. I’m usually a decent arbiter of character early on. Where I go wrong is when I employ logic to negate my instincts.

Case in point: When I met the man I married, I didn’t feel an instantaneous magnetic pull in his direction, but after six months of friendly interaction, I gave it a shot—just like the readers of my WaPo essay advised I should do. Four years later when I signed divorce papers, I thought back to my first impression: He’s not really my type. I kicked myself for not sticking to the “let’s be friends” talk I had with him after the first night he stayed at my apartment.

Second, I made a friend playing Yahoo! Hearts online the night before I turned 26. I slid him into the friend zone after meeting him and kept him there until nine years later when we finally became romantically involved. He disappeared shortly thereafter. If I’d kept him in the friend zone, we might still be in contact. As it stands, I’m flummoxed by his vanishing act.

This is not to say experiencing that swift spark in the beginning means two people are a long-term match, but, for me, it works best if I at least start with attraction. When I meet someone I really like, there tends to be a twinkle of “perhaps” from the get-go, accompanied by reverberating thoughts of, “I must know this person”; “Where has he been all my life?”; “There you are. What took you so long?”; “That guy. Is he single?”

In my experience, these fervor-at-first-sight observations almost always end up substantiated with an easy flow of conversation. And if a guy I’m drawn to is smarter than me or makes me laugh—or both—I’m toast. So, that’s why I said it only takes five minutes to have an inkling of the possibilities.

We are, after all, an amalgam of our past experiences.

Other reactions to the essay focused on my aversion to online dating. People encouraged me not to dismiss the process entirely and advised ways to make it work. I get why they made suggestions, and I value the guidance, but, if they knew me, they’d know it’s not going to happen. I’ve scrolled through hundreds of profiles; they terrify me. While I’m adept at conversing with new people I meet casually in person, the thought of forcing an encounter with someone I don’t know under the guise of potential romance freaks me out.

Recently, I met an acquaintance for coffee so she and I could get to know each other better. While I waited for her in the coffee shop, it dawned on me how I would feel if I was anticipating an online date. My heart started pounding. All I could think was thank God this isn’t a Bumble date. (We had a fantastic time.)

Here’s a further example that was cut from my WaPo essay:

“Not too long ago, I listened to a story on The Moth podcast in which a mathematician working on his Ph.D. optimized his OKCupid profile while fiddling with a supercomputer by cracking the website’s algorithms. He treated 88 coffee dates as an experiment until he met his future wife. While the story was compelling and amusing, the idea of 88 brief coffee dates filled with awkward, fidgety chitchat with strangers is right up there with listening to the dulcet sounds of a neighbor’s tile saw outside my window. I don’t have it in me to treat dating like a job hunt. There’s not enough Xanax in Los Angeles.”

As one like-minded commenter wrote, for people like us, it’s about “self-preservation.”

One commenter advocated I join a community theater group; another said I should go to church. Those are the last two places you’d find me, right behind a Coldplay concert and a monster truck jam. I’d rather join Tinder. I’m more apt to whisper “hello” to a future mate in a hushed library where no one is mingling, and everyone’s faces are buried in books.

To the person who instructed me to “get off [my] couch,” I say this: Last weekend I hiked Sedona and wine tasted in Jerome and Cottonwood by myself. I made the effort to talk to new people. I talk to new people all the time. There’s a great restaurant a few blocks from my apartment I’ve dined in alone quite often. One night there I interacted with a friendly, normal, responsible, age-appropriate man. We got along well, but I wasn’t attracted to him. When he handed me his card at the end of the evening, I thought I will never sleep with you.

Believe me, I wish meeting a prospective partner was as simple as bellying up to a neighborhood bar for some gourmet fish and chips. As I mentioned in the essay I wrote for The Manifest-Station, having the pieces align for a lasting partnership sometimes requires good old fashioned luck.

But if I had all the answers to my relationship struggles, I wouldn’t have written a whole book about them. Wait until that more comprehensive remnant of my blunders is available. The online rabble-rousers haven’t seen anything yet.

Thank you to everyone who read my Washington Post essay and took the time to comment or private message me, even acrimonious cyber-goblins. If you had an emotional reaction of any kind, I did my job.

Except for the guy who said he wished the essay had been written by a man and that I’d fail any man’s five-minute test; he can jump naked into a rushing, icy river.

Lollapalooza 25: Music Festival Musings of the Elderly

On Feb. 3, I saw a Twitter hashtag in which people were sharing their #myfirstlolla stories about the first time they ever attended Lollapalooza, a pre-Coachella era “alternative” music festival started in 1991 by Perry Ferrell of Jane’s Addiction. The show used to tour; now it’s held every summer in Chicago’s Grant Park, and the breadth of music styles has broadened from “only the likes of Nine Inch Nails and Siouxsie and the Banshees” to “this could easily turn into an unruly rave if left unchecked.”

I had been to Lollapalooza once when I was 21 in 1994 at Cal State Dominguez Hills. I bought four tickets on a whim, thinking it would be easy to sell them to friends. Between the time of purchase and the day of the show, the variations of who would attend with me shifted multiple times. I vowed to never buy tickets upfront for others again. The drama involved with early 20-somethings discussing funds and rides was ridiculous. In the end, I only remember my then boyfriend being there; I believe the other two tickets went to friends of his.

Highlights and lowlights of that day: The Breeders and the Beastie Boys were awesome. My boyfriend and I rode a ferris wheel above the crowd during the latter trio’s rendition of “Sabotage”; we drank free beer all afternoon that was passed to us through the back of a tent because of a connection to a festival employee; Perry Ferrell drove past us on a golf cart while we waited in an endless bathroom line to use porta-potties on a slant; the line outside to get into the festival was about two hours long, wrapping around campus; Green Day played while we were standing in the sweltering sun outside, and we were pissed; at one point, my boyfriend and I got into a fight about whatever; we walked out on the Smashing Pumpkins because Billy Corgan’s voice was painfully off-key—yet, Gish and Siamese Dream were two of my favorite albums.

So, when I saw the #myfirstlolla hashtag trending on Twitter earlier this year, I thought that looks fun, and I posted this: “#MyFirstLolla was 1994. We walked out on the #smashingpumpkins, but #thebreeders and #thebeastieboys killed. #freebeer connection was key.”

Three weeks later, I received a private message from the official Lollapalooza Twitter account informing me they liked my post so much I had won two free four-day passes to the 25th anniversary show this summer. I never win anything, and I didn’t realize I’d entered a contest. Lollapalooza started following me. I was flummoxed. I thanked them and waited for the line-up to be released; I decided I’d spend the money to travel to the show if the bands met my old lady standards—that is, if I’d heard of any of them.

The line-up came out weeks later, and I was underwhelmed, except for one bright light: Radiohead. And I had already seen them at Coachella in 2004, my second and last foray onto the Empire Polo Club field. On that day, at 31, I swore off all-day festival concerts while standing in line for a mediocre chicken sandwich for an hour. It was crowded and stifling, and I was sweaty, tired, and starving. I turned to my best friend and said, “I’m never coming back here.”

“Not even if…” she said.

“Never.”

That week I read a recap in the OC Weekly, where a writer said she wouldn’t attend Coachella again if The Beatles reunited.

Yep, I thought.

So, if I couldn’t handle one day at Coachella in my early 30s, I wondered how I could handle four days at Lollapalooza at 43. When I perused the line-up of back-to-back shows on eight stages, I thought who the hell are all these people, and why won’t the Red Hot Chili Peppers just go away already?

But, but, Radiohead.

A couple months later, I decided it wasn’t worth the money to fly out to see one band, so I emailed the kind folks at Lollapalooza and reluctantly released my grip on free passes. They thanked me for letting them know I wouldn’t be there, and I moved on with my life.

Until a few weeks before the show when I received another email from them confirming my four-day wristbands would be waiting for me on the guest list at will call. Suddenly, my attendance seemed like destiny; the words “guest list” taunted me. I started monitoring Stub Hub and determined I could subsidize my trip by selling my second wristband, and for enough money, maybe both of them. Hell, one girl on Twitter had already offered me a $1,000 for one pass the day Lollapalooza announced I’d won. So, I pulled the trigger at the last minute and got on a plane.

One day I was at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles watching Flight of the Conchords; the next day I was walking down Michigan Avenue mentally running lines for my new role as ticket scalper: Anyone need a four-day pass? Anyone want a four-day pass? I have an extra four-day pass. Make me an offer. I’ll give you a deal. I won these!

I would make a terrible salesperson.

The idea of selling one or both of my free wristbands caused me anxiety, as did the thought that perhaps terrorists would target a 25th anniversary show that was expected to draw hundreds of 1,000s of scantily clad kids pumped full of Ecstasy. Lollapalooza must have had the same fear because when I reached the entrance, the park was surrounded by a skyscraper-high fence, the holes not large enough to get a foothold, and police officers swarmed the street on horses. I wanted to hug them all, but then I saw a sign on the fence warning ticket scalpers they’d be prosecuted.

Signs like this deter rule-followers like me.

So I decided on Plan B: Pick up the wristbands, find a quaint Italian restaurant nearby, order a glass of vino, Tweet that I had an extra wristband or two available, and then wait for the offers to roll in from desperate LCD Soundsystem fans who no longer cared how much money they forked over to get into the sold-out event. As I ate my tasty linguine and clams, nothing happened. Crickets chirped on Twitter. One person liked my Tweet. That’s it. I checked Stub Hub again. Plenty of tickets were still available, and the show had already started. Now that I’d made the trip, it seemed I couldn’t give my extra wristband away, which was now safely nestled in plastic in my purse. And I had yet to put my own wristband on in case I ran into anyone who wanted two passes for the right price.

I struck up a conversation with a server and explained my predicament.

“Do you know anyone who wants a four-day pass to Lollapalooza?” I asked.

“I do! But I have to work,” he said. “How much are you asking for it?”

“Good question. I won them, so I kind of wanted someone to make me an offer.”

He stood there for a second scrolling his mental Rolodex for possible friends who’d want to go. He came up with nothing.

“If you wait to sell it after tonight’s show is over, you probably won’t get very much for it. The big draw this year is that it’s four days instead of three,” he said. “I have gone for the last 13 years in a row, but the crowd is getting so young.”

I stared at him. He looked 29.

YOU’RE so young, I thought.

“I’ll probably be the oldest one there,” I said.

“Nah,” he batted me away.

I asked him if he knew any good cocktail bars within walking distance. Maybe I could sell my pass there. He suggested a bar with a bunch of beers on tap. I thanked him and headed in that direction. Halfway down the block, I stopped and looked at my watch. It was only 8:30. I realized if I went to the show right then, I could still catch the last act.

What am I doing? I thought. I should go to the show!

I did a 180 on the street and headed toward the front entrance. I was the only person entering the show at the end of the day; plenty of exhausted, sticky tweens, however, were leaving. I overheard a girl proclaim, “Boring!” about Lana Del Rey, who was currently performing. I wasn’t familiar with Del Rey’s music, but I’d heard positive feedback, and now that a snotty teenager had called her boring, I definitely wanted to check her out.

Once inside, it was immediately apparent Lollapalooza had improved its organization since the last time I attended 22 years ago. Everything was spread out. It didn’t feel crowded, at least not then. The Married with Children fountain was the eye of the Mollypalooza storm and was lit up with blue and green lights. I admired it while I looked at the map on my Lolla app to find the right stage.

Walking toward Lana’s show, I figured I would get nowhere near the stage. I was wrong. What young concertgoers haven’t figured out yet is if you walk to the right or left of the stage, instead of packing in dead center, you can move up much closer to the artist. Fucking rookies. I skirted around small groups that formed the swaying masses. I couldn’t tell if they were rocking back and forth because they were drunk and stoned or because Lana had moved them; I gathered it was both. The piercing screams between songs from the front of the crowd sounded hollow and canned, but her fans were rabid.

Lana Del Rey looked like a flower child throwback, with her short, white lacey dress with long bell sleeves, chunky white heels, and daises in her lengthy bang-less brown hair. She was straight out of the Manson family. The two mini-mes who flanked her fanned themselves with white handheld fans. Lana’s immobile stance suggested she was either two valiums in, or she couldn’t be bothered to exert energy.

“It’s hot up here,” she droned into the microphone.

But here’s the thing: Her singing voice is fucking beautiful. I was entranced. I was a new recruit into her undulating minions spread across the grass. She didn’t have the edge of Fiona Apple, but I didn’t care. I was in.

I got that summertime sadness too, baby.

Maybe it was the enthralling, gloomy tunes, or maybe it’s because I’m a generous person, but it was then I thought I’m going to find someone cool to DONATE my extra wristband to. Most people at the show sported one-day wristbands, so I figured I’d make someone’s weekend by providing them with an additional three days. I left my post to walk around and observe the crowd.

“Don’t leave!” some guy yelled toward me.

“I’m not,” I said. I told him my charitable plan. He thought it was cool. Maybe I should have given him my extra pass, but I wanted to carefully vet the zygote love-in first.

How had I not noticed this before? Lollapalooza is a Coachella-style fashion show, replete with boob doilies and other crochet tops, and cut-off jean shorts that maximize skin visibility.

I was at a Fleetwood Mac concert in 1976 when I was three, when these clothes were homemade and worn by dirty hippies, rather than purchased from Forever 21 by Generation Z to impress each other.

I sidestepped a girl who spun around in circles with her red plastic cup held high in the air like a beacon of drunkenness.

Notice me!

Then a skinny boy in a Lakers jersey headed toward me.

Hey, Los Angeles sports! Where I’m from!

It wasn’t hockey, but it was home, so I thought I might give it to him. Until he passed me. I turned to look at the back of his jersey, which read, “Bryant.”

Ew. Never mind.

It would be harder to find a worthy wristband recipient than I thought.

There were fluorescent glow-stick necklaces and long roller rink socks with green stripes; another Bryant jersey worn by some douche in sunglasses after dark; girls with tight Princess Leia buns who wore their training bras on the outside; chokers and braids; under-eye glitter strips; flowy spaghetti strap dresses; sparkly henna tribal tattoos that circled fat-free biceps, and crystals that pinpointed the center of foreheads like secret initiations for those who were too young to remember 9-11.

It was as if Stevie Nicks had thrown up all over Grant Park.

In my 30s, I would have been jealous of the ultra-thin youngsters; now I just wanted to pat their tiny heads.

How high can you cut those jean shorts anyway? I can see your labia. Where’s your mom?

By the time I reached the left side of the stage, Lana’s guitarist was playing a final solo, and the swarms were spilling out toward the exit.

Some fans, leaving early.

One girl observed, aghast, “Is the bar closed right now?”

Another girl remarked, “Hey, I didn’t pass out once today!”

What a feat!

Then a short girl with one leg on crutches emerged from the crowd, where she’d braved the sardine-like conditions up front.

I didn’t pity her; I was impressed. I wanted to give her my extra pass, but I didn’t want her to think it was charity, so I hesitated and then she was gone.

I gave up on my quest for a laudable Lollapalooza goer and headed for the exit, thinking I might be able to pawn off the wristband on day two.

It was at that moment I stepped in what can only be described as a puddle of post-rain, muddy, Lollapalooza “liquid.” My whole left black Converse shoe was submerged up to my pant leg. I looked at my watch: 10:05 PM on day one. And to think I almost traveled with only one pair of shoes for the first time in my life.

Near me, a young couple dry-humped on the lawn in front of everyone leaving the venue, the girl on top of the boy. They took “public display of affection” to new levels, writhing in unison; if they’d been naked, we’d have been watching porn. I stared at them for a few seconds, my mouth open, thinking I might witness orgasms. No one seemed to notice but me.

That’s when an exasperated teenage girl approached me.

“Can I use your facebook to contact my friend?” she asked. “My phone died.”

She’d lost her friend in the crowd. I looked around and noticed half the people were on their phones, annoyed, searching for misplaced friends.

“He said ‘right tent,’ but there’s like fucking four of them,” one guy said.

No one could find anyone.

Go to shows alone like me, kiddos, I thought.

What I found humorous about the request from the girl standing in front of me was she took for granted that I had a facebook page. If she’d asked me to Snapchat her friend, she’d have been shit out of luck.

I tried to get on the Internet to help her, but it was spinning; Lollapalooza had crashed the Internet.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll figure something out.”

She disappeared into the usual post-concert cattle herd.

If you’re out there, Yolanda Rodriguez, your friend is looking for you.

As I moved toward the exit, a blond girl and her two guys friends, all about 20-years-old, were yelling into the crowd some phrase like “shit yeah!” because they had enjoyed the day so much. I recalled the one time I’d attended the KROQ Weenie Roast when I was 27, and my best friend and I were near the stage on the field of Anaheim Stadium, and we joined the guy next to us in rousing chants of “oh hell yeah!”

The blond girl and her buddies were wearing four-day wristbands. She noticed I, too, was part of their special club.

“Four days!” she screamed and high-fived me.

“Woo hoo!” I yelled.

I’m flying home on day four, I thought.

“I won this,” I said, pointing to my wristband.

“No way! From who?” she asked.

“From Lollapalooza!” I said.

She looked at me like I was a unicorn.

“How?!” she asked.

“I told a story on Twitter about another time I went to Lollapalooza,” I said.

“Oh, you mean like last year’s show?” she asked.

“Um, no. Like 1994.”

“Whoa, who played then?” she asked.

When you were in the womb?

“The Beastie Boys, The Breeders, Smashing Pumpkins…”

Her eyes grew big.

“Good looking out!” She said.

Huh? I can’t decode Gen Z speak.

“I have another wristband in my purse. Do you know anyone who wants it?” I asked.

She looked at her guy friends, and they all said, “Noooo…” at the same time.

“I tried to sell it on Twitter,” I said.

“Don’t do that!” she said. “Go to the official Lollapalooza facebook page instead. That’s where people are trying to buy them.”

“Okay, thanks!”

Just then I saw a female scalper in her 50s on the side of the street who looked even more out of place than I did. She was holding up a sign she’d written in black marker on a giant piece of ripped cardboard that could have doubled as a breakdancing mat. It read, “I buy Lolla bands.” Clearly she wasn’t deterred by the signs out front discouraging secondary ticket sales.

“I have one,” I said to her.

“It’s not used?” she asked.

I got the sealed wristband out of my purse. She inspected the square “cashless” scanner contraption on it and was satisfied.

“How much do you want for it?” she asked.

Face value was $335, and the first day of the show is over, so…

“How about $200?” I asked.

“I got one for $160 earlier,” she said.

“Sold.”

She handed me a hundred dollar bill and three twenties. Problem solved, but it nowhere near covered my travel expenses. At that point, I didn’t care. This was an adventure.

I headed to a Walgreens on Michigan Avenue for a bottle of water. I walked past a row of cut-rate, flowery sundresses down one of the aisles, and thought if I bought one of those and wore it to the show tomorrow, no one would be the wiser.

A lengthy line of kids with the munchies formed. They were on their way to after-parties, stocking up on Doritos, Oreos, and Band-Aids. They couldn’t decide if they would pay for their snacks together or separately.

It was almost 11:00. All I could contemplate by then was a shower and a pillow. But first I had to do the back stretches my physical therapist had prescribed.

I drank my water while waiting to pay for it. I really had to pee, and my feet hurt. And it was only day one.

I looked out the window. A group of girls huddled together on the street debating their next move. One of the girls was topless—not “topless” like the rest of the girls who had on barely any clothes. I mean topless. No shirt, no bra, only boobs the size of cupcakes and quarter-size nipples. She didn’t seem bothered she’d lost her shirt, or that she was standing on Michigan Avenue surrounded by thousands of people and cops directing traffic. It was as if she’d spent her whole public existence comfortably naked. Because she didn’t care, it seemed perfectly normal.

If men can do that, why not women?

It was a fitting end to the first day.

The next morning on the train, I sat near a noisy group of high school age kids who were on their way to the show. I overheard the loudest girl say, “Isn’t alcohol, like, supposed to be good for you?” I kept glancing at her chest because her billowy shirt was cut down to her belly button, and I couldn’t tell if there was a tight skin-colored top underneath, or if that was her skin. Were her boobs taped into her blouse? I couldn’t figure it out. Their earsplitting voices echoed off the ceiling. I cursed myself for leaving my earbuds in my car at LAX.

I’m definitely not going to the concert until after I eat dinner, I thought. I can’t take a whole day of this.

Radiohead wasn’t scheduled until 8:00 PM, but I wanted to check out a few bands first. I headed to the venue in time for Sunflower Bean and Wolf Alice, bands I’d Googled when I’d first looked at the line-up. I only waited about 10 minutes to get inside, and security didn’t even really search my purse. “Step through,” they said. Apparently I don’t look like the type to haul a bag of pills into a festival. I don’t know whether to be grateful or offended.

In any case, I treated day two as a journalist on her own personal assignment: I observed the crowd, took photos with a real camera, and made notes on my iPhone. Young girls everywhere were eating bags of Skinny Pop, which I determined to be diet popcorn. Isn’t regular popcorn “diet” if you don’t drown it in butter? These girls must be part of the same demographic who are fooled by the term “skinny margarita” too. If it has “skinny” in the name, it must be good for you, right?

To defeat the purpose of Skinny Pop, all the ladies were carrying around their own giant plastic see-through thermoses of Cupcake white wine. I asked someone about it.

“It’s an entire bottle for $27!” she said, as if that was a bargain.

That’s more than a 100% markup. No wonder everyone was so drunk. A full bottle of sauvignon blanc in a differently shaped container made it okay for music lovers to drink 750 milliliters of pedestrian wine straight from the source without sharing it with their friends. What a great marketing ploy.

Cups are so passé, you guys.

If you still listen to 20-year-old music or earlier and think of it as contemporary like I do, you may have caught yourself at some point saying, “They just don’t make music like this anymore.” Unless you were talking about The Clash, you’re wrong; you haven’t looked hard enough. Sunflower Bean and Wolf Alice kicked ass. They both produce fresh, energetic rock-and-roll that’s simultaneously reminiscent of old school alternative rock. It was nostalgic without being a rip-off. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face while watching either band. Sunflower Bean’s guitarist gets extra brownie points for wearing a Joy Division shirt. I love that a musician who was never alive at the same time as Ian Curtis understands quality music. They drew a bigger crowd the longer they played.

But, after two cocktails at my early pre-show dinner, I had to pee. I found a row of porta-potties in the direction of the stage where Radiohead was scheduled to play later. My plan was to find a convenient spot to watch them about thirty minutes before their show started. Otherwise, I knew I’d end up being so far away from them I wouldn’t feel like I was at the show, like when I saw them at Coachella.

The lines for the porta-potties were solid but surprisingly single file like we were elementary school teachers’ pets. I picked the wrong line. Call it Drysdale karma. While other lines moved quickly, mine stalled, which gave me time to make friends. The woman in the line next to me was complaining about her heartburn. (She was carrying one of those massive jugs of Cupcake wine.)

“I have a Zantac in my purse. Do you want one?” I asked her.

“Oh my god, yes! Thank you!” she said.

I dug out a Ziploc bag where I keep my acid reflux meds, multizyme supplements and Lactaid tablets, and a prescription for my perpetually inflamed bladder. (I was born with a rudimentary digestive system. It’s a bitch.)

None of the drugs in my possession would get anyone high, but I doubt anyone there had a problem scoring more fun drugs than what I could give them.

As I waited my turn to hover over a hole in the ground, I considered the time I used a portable bathroom at the Inland Invasion concert at what was then called the Blockbuster Pavilion in Devore, CA. My future ex-husband and I braved the john together so one of us wouldn’t have to wait for the next available one. We were inside no longer than thirty seconds, but when he slung the door open while I was still zipping up my jean shorts, about 50 19-year-old boys waiting outside launched their arms in the air and cheered, “YEAH!”

What does one do when a bunch of testosterone-fueled teenagers think you’ve just had sex in a shit box in under a minute? You play along. My future ex ran down the line of our doting fans and high-fived each one of them, while I took a bow and prom-waved. It was my 15 minutes of punk rock fame.

Those days are over. Now I just hand out antacids to airheads who don’t grasp the direct connection between GERD and alcohol.

I passed the stage where Miike Snow was performing to a packed audience. It didn’t appear to be my scene, and also, dude, learn how to spell your own name. I moved on quickly to the main event, the reason I’d ventured to Lollapalooza in the first place. I positioned myself stage left for Radiohead next to two men who were older than me, maybe in their late 40s. Hallelujah!

“It’s nice to find people who weren’t born in the 90s!” I said to them. The three of us became fast friends, and we talked about favorite shows we’d seen in the ancient past. One of them had attended the first Lollapalooza. I’m still kicking myself for not going to that one.

In my four-plus decades, I’ve seen progressively more talented and breathtaking live acts over the years, as the bar continues to elevate. I expected Radiohead to be good. I didn’t expect them to break into to my top five with a sonic boom. As I stood watching the always weird and wonderful Thom Yorke play multiple instruments, his melodious voice filling the night sky with power and delicacy, I thought well, that’s it. Radiohead wins. They played a well-balanced combination of old classics and new favorites; I couldn’t have put together a better set list for them if I tried.

“I will be happy if they play Paranoid Android,” I told my new friends.

As if they’d heard me, Radiohead played my song. When I got home, I made a playlist of the 24-song set list in order. I’ve never done that before.

Prior to this experience, the two bands that stood out as the gold standards for live performances were My Morning Jacket and Arcade Fire. Radiohead made them look cute. That’s saying a lot.

While I could have listened to Radiohead perform all night, my back had other ideas. Standing in one place without the benefit of elbow room for extensive periods of time is no bueno for my current back problem, which began in November last year after rolling on a foam roller at the gym. I’m told it’s a muscular issue. What prompted me to see a doctor was after an hour at a Metric show at the Palladium, it felt like someone stabbed my lower left side with a knife. I spent the remainder of the night leaning against a wall in the back of the room, scared.

The dull ache and periodic twinge I felt standing in Grant Park worried me. I half expected the knee-buckling sharp pain to resume at any moment. I looked behind me in the direction of the exit; all I saw were people and more people, like a Civil War reenactment or a rolling sea of white walkers. I was Jon Snow without backup; there was no way I was getting out of this, even if I tried. I was a little panicky. Fortunately, my middle age back pain didn’t get too unbearable, but even though this was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen, I was relieved when it was over.

“Well, that didn’t suck,” I said, when the lights came up.

“No, that didn’t suck at all,” one of my new friends said.

“That made this trip worthwhile,” I said.

The three of us walked slowly out to the street together behind thousands of happy concertgoers, where my new friends conferred about where they’d eat a late meal.

“What are you going to do now?” they asked.

“I’m going to bed!”

They laughed. Even these aging men couldn’t out-old me. I was exhausted.

I limped back to my hotel, spread a towel out on the floor next to the bed, took off my shoes and jeans, and lay on my back, my knees pulled to my chest. A stretch never felt so satisfying.

The next morning, I woke up feeling two inches shorter, a hundred-pound imaginary anvil resting atop my head, not a hangover, but like gravity had gotten weightier while I slept. All my muscles ached and sunk into the mattress. I was sapped.

My first thought was there is no way I’m going back there today. I thought of the crowds, the standing, the porta-potties, and the noise. I was done.

So, how does a 40-something attend a four-day music festival? She doesn’t. Nor does she care if she misses anything. I was content to see what I saw and skip the rest, and on day four, I was safely back home in my own bed by the time the last band played.

Thanks, Chicago.

Side notes:

A) I never spent one dime inside the gates of Lollapalooza.

B) I never would have paid for a ticket to that show, but I’m stoked I went.

C) What’s with all the Kobe Bryant jerseys in Chicago? I saw at least four of them.

D) I’m resuming my “no more festivals” rule as of now. Oh wait. I have a ticket to the Ohana Festival already. Never mind. Carry on.

E) Prediction about the Ohana Festival: I will say, “I’m too old for this shit” at least once during the day, but then I’ll think it was totally worth it once it’s over.

F) I may stop seeing concerts the day I can no longer walk. Even then, you might have to wheel me in.

G) I bought two albums when I got home. Hint: Lana Del Rey wasn’t one of them.

H) Live music makes me feel alive and always will, even if it’s slowly killing me.

The People You'll Meet in Canada

The Suspicious Border Agent

On June 4th, when I pulled up to the border of British Columbia by myself in my Honda Civic with a California license plate and handed the border agent my US passport, she already looked suspicious. I’m sure it was the normal tight-lipped, tough exterior she projected to everyone, but she made me feel guilty, like I’d done something wrong.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

I contemplated my response:

Well, I’m kind of between residences. I’m currently staying with my uncle in Maple Valley, Washington, but my mail is being forwarded to my parents’ house in San Juan Capistrano, California, but I was in Victoria last week, and I lived in Long Beach a month ago, where all my stuff still is, and in a few weeks I’ll live in Costa Mesa for four months, and then who knows, but right now? This car.

“Los Angeles,” I said. “I’ve been staying with my uncle near Seattle.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Vancouver until Wednesday the 8th,” I said. “For vacation.”

I was proud of myself for answering questions she hadn’t asked yet. I figured we were almost done here.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Sandman Suites on Davie.”

I praised myself for remembering the name of my hotel under pressure—and what street it’s on. I usually blank when I’m put on the spot. Then I come off as an airhead, when what I really am is anxious.

“Is this your car?”

“Yes.”

No, I stole it. Of course it’s my car.

“Do you have a gun?”

I laughed through my answer. “No.”

“Do you have any cash?”

“In Canadian dollars, I have about 60.”

It’s leftover from last weekend, when I got off a ferry in the same country I want to enter now, and no one asked me all these questions.

“Any US dollars?”

“No.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an editor and a writer.”

“And you’re on holiday?”

“This week I am. I’ve been working from my uncle’s house.”

“Do you have any friends here?”

“Nope.”

Don’t worry. I don’t intend to stay in Canada indefinitely if that’s what you’re thinking. At least not yet. Trump hasn’t been elected, and hopefully it won’t come to that. Don’t get your panties in a wad.

“When did you leave Los Angeles?”

“May 2nd.”

“When did you get to Washington?”

“May 8th.”

You realize a line of cars is behind me, right? Why is all this important?

“Why did it take you so long?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, continuing to stare at my passport.

“To get to Washington?” I asked, perplexed.

“Yes.”

“Because I went to Napa, Ashland, and Portland.”

“Okay,” she said, handing my passport back, looking dejected that she hadn’t caught me in a lie or doing something illegal. I think she even sighed. I’m not sure what she expected to figure out by grilling me, but I felt sheepish as I was reluctantly allowed to proceed into Canada.

On my way back to the states, I readied for more interrogation, but I thought the agent will look at my passport and see it’s my birthday. I’m golden. Nearing the front of the line, red-light-type cameras pointed at me and my car, and a computerized sign next to my window requested passersby hold up their IDs like this.

Who? What kind of IDs? Help!

I determined it couldn’t possibly be a passport scanner and wrote it off as a border patrol internal ID scanner for employees, but I couldn’t be sure. I was already afraid I was doing it wrong—whatever it was—because I always think I’m doing everything wrong. And I hadn’t even reached the window yet.

As I wondered whether or not to risk looking like an idiot if I held up my passport for one of the cameras or a scanner, in case I might get reprimanded for crossing the border incorrectly, an agent with a drug sniffing dog circled the cars around me, all with BC plates. He cruised with purpose as the dog stuck its head in every crevice, wheel well, and trunk crack. The man’s face did not change expression; it was the same stoic look I saw on the woman who had allowed me into Canada in the first place.

I don’t have drugs in my car! Yay! I thought. Also, why would people bring drugs into Washington, where Marijuana is legal now? I thought the heroin problem was in Mexico, not Canada.

The naïve and illogical internal dialogue scrolled through my brain as the man with the busy dog passed my open window. I smiled at him. I considered saying, “Hello, fellow innocent American!” but didn’t.

He didn’t smile back, nor make eye contact. I was still a potential suspect.

I pulled forward, observing the signs above and to the sides of my car.

“Have your identification ready. Be ready to tell the agent what you purchased while outside of the United States,” signs read.

A six pack of microbrews and a book, I thought. Oh, and that half-empty bottle of wine I drank by myself in my hotel room in celebration of my birthday last night that’s in the trunk. Okay, so it’s a little more than half empty. What do you want from me? It was my birthday, and no one was there to help me drink it or take my clothes off to distract me from drinking it myself.

I watched the green light above the border agent’s booth as I crept forward. It never turned red. I stayed far back anyway because there was a minivan-load of Canadians in front of me being questioned.

I got this.

When it was my turn, I drove to the window at eight kilometers per hour and handed over my passport. I smiled at the agent who would let me back into my country of origin. This round of questioning couldn’t possibly be that bad. We were both Americans after all. He was probably tired of questioning outsiders, right?

“Why didn’t you stop at the stop sign?” he asked.

“What stop sign?” I looked behind me but could no longer read the plethora of signs in my rearview.

“You drove past the stop sign, and I thought, ‘No! What is she doing?’”

He said the sign was in a certain spot for a reason, maybe so they could read my license plate on a camera? I felt like a dingbat who couldn’t drive or get through a border checkpoint properly. I had seen no such stop sign.

“I’m sorry. I totally didn’t see it. There was so much stuff around,” I said, waving my hands around.

Like, oh my god. This is soooo confusing.

He shook his head.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Vancouver. I’ve been there since Saturday.”

“Where are you headed?”

“To my uncle’s house in Maple Valley, Washington, but soon I’ll be driving back to California.”

I’d done this before; I knew the drill.

Once he determined I’d driven from South Orange County to Canada all by myself, he said, “You’re brave!”

“That’s what everyone says,” I said, incredulous. I still don’t get the word “brave” when it’s thrown in my direction; I’ve always felt the opposite of courageous. I merely push through my constant fear of everything.

He nodded. I felt better. He was warming up to me. He peered into the backseat of my car. It was empty. Everything was in the trunk, and I had apparently passed the drug sniffing dog test.

“Did you buy anything while you were here?”

“A six pack of beer and a book,” I said. I skipped mentioning the open wine bottle.

After a couple more questions, he asked, “Any alcohol?”

“Just the beer,” I said.

Who’s the idiot now? Ha!

“Oh, right.”

Then he let me go. As I pulled away, I said again, “Sorry about the stop sign!”

“It’s okay,” he waved.

He didn’t wish me happy birthday.

Welcome to America.

The Americans from House Stark

I drove 1,200 miles to Maple Valley, Washington, to stay at my uncle’s house so I could drive another 130 miles to Port Angeles to hop a 90-minute ferry ride to set foot into Canada for the first time. I checked into Chateau Victoria and walked another 650 meters to Little Jumbo, a cocktail bar with good reviews on Yelp. It was 4:50 PM, and the restaurant didn’t open until 5:00. I sat in the hallway in front of the door and waited with a few other parties of eager foodies. I was excited to meet Canadians and spend my first emerald green plastic Canadian money on fresh Canadian squid and Cynar.

I’m in Canada! I thought, as they opened the door to my first Canadian dining experience. I ordered fresh bread and whipped butter and a cocktail. It was heavenly.

A nice-looking older couple sat next to me at the bar. After they ordered their drinks, I asked them what they were drinking. Then I asked, “Where are you from?”

“Huntington Beach,” the woman said. “Well, we live in Sunset Beach.”

“No way,” I said. “My last apartment was in Long Beach.”

“Really?!” they replied.

I trekked almost 1,400 miles to Canada, and the first people I met lived nine miles from my last residence. I could have saved a lot of money in gas to meet them.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

We determined all three of us appreciated a fine cocktail and a good meal, so we shared Orange County restaurant suggestions.

“Have you been to Vaca yet?” I asked. “It’s across the street from South Coast Plaza.”

“Not yet,” the wife said.

“You should!”

I told them about The OC Mix, specifically The Mixing Glass.

“My sister works there. They have a cocktail class the third Thursday of every month. You should come. I’ll serve you drinks!”

The wife took notes; they were very interested in cocktail class.

This was not the first conversation I expected to have in Canada. It was weird. It was like I never left home.

But they were friendly and had been to Victoria 20 years prior, so they had suggestions for me too.

“I know it’s cheesy,” the woman said, “but you should go to The Butchart Gardens.”

“I totally want to go there,” I said. “And that butterfly place?”

“Skip the butterflies,” they said.

Good to know.

They also told me I had to go to Il Terrazzo up the street and eat mussels. I went there for dinner the next night and had a delectable seafood pasta dish after my day trip to the gardens. I mentally thanked my new Southern California friends.

Before we parted, I asked their names. Their last name was Stark.

“Like Game of Thrones!” I said. “I won’t forget that.”

“Oh yeah!” the lady said, as if she hadn’t thought of it before.

I look forward to seeing the Starks at the next cocktail class, nowhere near Canada.

The Man My Sister Should Marry

As I left Little Jumbo, the weather in Victoria was temperate. The harbor was glimmering, and everyone walking the street was eating ice cream. It was magical.

I continued my search to meet some real Canadians. I wouldn’t be disappointed.

I bellied up to the bar at The Churchill, where I ordered a craft beer on tap. They were playing my music: Modest Mouse, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and The Kills. They even played Minor Threat. The cute female bartender pulled off long black hair and tattoos and wore jeans and a cutoff shirt that showed off her slim belly. Her bartending counterpart was a scruffy hipster dude sporting an ugly green trucker hat. He looked like everyone at a My Morning Jacket concert at Red Rocks. They were ridiculously friendly and accommodating. I would come to learn all servers in Canada are just as considerate.

The patrons were dressed casually and chatting with friends. No pretention. No obsession with appearances. No pickup artists. People weren’t scoping the room to see if there were better, more well connected, more attractive people they should be talking to. It was comfortable and natural. It wasn’t Los Angeles.

I fucking love Canada, I thought, as I sipped my beer and smiled at everyone around me.

Then a beautiful blond woman in her early 30s sat down next to me with her boyfriend and another female friend. I introduced myself to Amy, and Amy introduced me to Kyle and their other friend Amy.

“My best friend’s name is Amy,” I said. “I love Amys!”

But it wasn’t the Amys who struck me; it was Kyle. He was what would result if Ryan Reynolds and Jake Gyllenhaal had a baby. I told them my vagabond story of adventure and temporary homelessness. Kyle was impressed. The “I don’t have kids or a husband and I’m on the road with no house” thing seems to appeal more to men than women. The valet at the San Francisco hotel I stayed in on my way home called it “tight.”

Kyle’s girlfriend offered to switch seats with him so he could talk to me.

Did I mention I love Canada?

Kyle and I went on to have a lengthy, poignant conversation. He and Amy had been together for 15 years, since they were 19. They were at that sweet spot age when youth collides with maturity. I told him my parents had been together since they were 19 too. We talked about the longevity of Kyle’s relationship and why they “just work.” He said after so many years, everyone was hounding them to get married, but he said neither of them cared.

“You don’t need to get married,” I said. “If it works, why change it?”

He agreed.

“It hasn’t been easy,” he said.

“Nothing ever is,” I said.

But he knew they were in it; they were a team. Clearly she wasn’t worried about their bond, letting him talk to me all night without a hint of jealousy. The Amys disappeared into their own conversation, while Kyle stared at my beer.

“I miss beer,” he said longingly.

He didn’t look like a beer drinker; he was lean and toned and sipping his one cocktail for the evening: something clear with a lime it.

“Amy and I are gluten-free,” he said. “We’re those people.”

I know the kind. I’ve read the articles. Those people are the grains, nuts, and raw veggies types; they consume all manner of Christmas tree garland, like Gwyneth, Giselle, and Tom Brady. No carb. No fat. No fun.

But damn, they look good.

In the meantime, I ordered my second dinner of the evening: a giant cheese and meat board with a loaf of bread on the side. The “healthy” portion of my extra meal included a garnish of baby pickles and a mason jar of gourmet olives.

“It’s amazing how much better you feel once you start eating healthier,” he said, as I scarfed down salami and brie.

“I bet,” I said with my mouth full. “I have no willpower.”

And no sex life. At least I have food.

As we talked, I thought about how I wanted to take him home to my sister Tessa. He was the perfect age for her, and he was witty and kind. I thought of ways to ask him for a photo without seeming like a total creeper. I also texted Tessa that I’d met her husband. She laughed.

When the beer hit my bladder, I looked around at the purchase I’d made at the local bookstore, my purse stuffed to the brim with my wallet, camera, and passport, and my jacket that hung on the chair. One problem with traveling alone: You have to take everything with you to the bathroom every time. I also worry about leaving a half-empty drink on the counter and disappearing. I don’t want someone to drop a date rape drug in it while I’m peeing.

But then I remembered I was in Canada.

“Would you mind watching my stuff while I go to the bathroom?” I asked him.

He cocked his head to the side and gave me a look.

“Of course! Please. We’re Canadians.”

Then he joked he would steal my stuff while I was gone.

“Welcome to Canada, bitch!”

Before it was time for Kyle and the Amys to depart, and after he and I had shared our life stories and become what felt like real friends, I remarked offhand that it was almost my 43rd birthday.

He was shocked. I’m always shocked when people are shocked by my age. I feel my age and know I look much older than I did at 34, but for some reason, people who don’t know me think I’m younger than I am.

“Wow. Keep doing whatever you’re doing,” he said.

Gorging on beer and cheese plates? Okay!

But I couldn’t finish the cheese board by myself, so I turned to the man on the other side of me. I hadn’t talked to him at all, but I offered him my leftover bread, olives, and slices of prosciutto.

“We were totally eyeing that. It looks so good. Thank you!”

He slid my food over to his friend, and then a pair of total strangers gladly ate my half-eaten second dinner. I was surprised. Usually people turn that shit down.

I still hadn’t asked Kyle for a photo I could text to Tessa, but I decided when they got up to leave that I couldn’t. It was too weird. What would his girlfriend say? But I was sad I had no way to keep in contact with him. Maybe he and Amy wouldn’t work out after all, and he could be my brother-in-law someday. It was a pleasant fantasy anyway.

Instead, I shook his hand and said, “Good luck to you.”

He told me to enjoy my trip, and when Amy and Amy walked toward the door, he grabbed his girlfriend’s arm and said, “Say goodbye to Chelsey!”

Then they were gone. I guess Tessa has to find a future mate on her own. I tried.

The Writer from Botswana

I was exhausted after a long day of navigating the local buses and walking around The Butchart Gardens with a hoard of slow-moving tourists and their giant selfie sticks. I wanted one glass of red wine, a couple photos of the gorgeous view, and chocolate cheesecake. I wasn’t up for making any more new one-night-only bar friends. It had been a long weekend, and I was looking forward to crashing early.

I shared a few cursory words with the young bartender from Wales about traveling, but the skinny man on the other side of the bar was running on adrenaline during his first night in Canada after a grueling plane flight by himself and was ready to mingle. We were the only two guests there.

Monty and I introduced ourselves and talked about where we were from and what we were doing there.

“Good morning,” he joked, looking at his watch, which he hadn’t changed from Botswanan time.

“Good evening,” I said. “What time is it in Botswana?”

It was 5:00 AM on Sunday morning. This guy was a trooper.

“You’re supposed to change your clock and pretend it’s the right time,” I suggested.

He shook his head and smiled. He asked me what I do. When I said, “I’m a writer,” his eyes lit up.

“Do you have a card? I want someone to write my biography!”

Holy crap. That’s a job for Dave Eggers. Not me! I thought, feeling instantly inadequate.

For all he knew, I write commercials. This guy was trusting! I didn’t tell him I write nonfiction and have a manuscript. I didn’t want to encourage him any more than he already was.

“I’ve only met one writer. He was Indian,” he said.

I guess the Indian writer didn’t pan out.

“I’ve had a crazy life,” he added, shaking his head.

He looked away and presumably pondered his outrageous life. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, but I was curious, despite my fatigue.

“What’s the story you want someone to tell for you?” I asked, thinking about my limited knowledge of men his age who grew up anywhere in Africa. I know nothing about Botswana, but I’m smart enough to realize it’s ultra-naïve to in any way equate his life with the lost boys of Sudan, but that was my only myopic sheltered Orange County girl frame of reference.

Monty was probably in his early 30s, but there was an innocence about him, despite his “crazy life.”

He shook his head again and smiled.

“No…” he trailed off.

Got it. Your life isn’t good bar talk.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” I said. “Have you been writing your story down?”

“Yes!” he said, “and recording everything by voice as well!”

Monty doesn’t need a ghostwriter; Monty is a writer. He’s just too shy to admit it, like I used to be. He needed someone to tell him what he didn’t believe about himself. He’s like me in at least one way: He has the pressing urge to record his life and make meaning of it.

“It sounds to me like you’re a writer,” I pointed at him and smiled.

He smiled back and nodded, hanging his head. He asked for my card again.

“Do you have a card?” I asked, instead of pulling mine out. The truth is I didn’t want to give him my card. I wasn’t up for the lofty challenge of writing this sweet man’s book for him. I can barely write my own stories.

“They’re in my room,” he said.

I got up to leave, sticking to my one glass of wine before bed. But I grabbed his hand before I split.

“One day I will read your story,” I told him, looking into his eyes. “You are going to tell your story.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. He really seemed to mean it.

And I really hope he does. Until then, I will wonder.

The Friendliest Bartenders

In Vancouver, I aimed to find a popular restaurant in Gastown, a section of the city I’d read about before leaving California. It was a “rough neighborhood” on the upswing with a burgeoning restaurant scene. From my hotel, it was a 2.3 kilometer walk. I debated taking a cab because I wasn’t sure just how “rough” the neighborhood was, but I really wanted to walk, like I’d done the whole trip, so I did.

Vancouver’s idea of a sketchy neighborhood is laughable, or at least that’s what I initially gathered. Near the restaurant I saw two soap-deficient 20-somethings hunched against a wall on the sidewalk when I turned the corner near my destination. But that’s about it. They looked like the hippie kids in the park in Ashland, only they were missing juggling pins and a slackline.

I reached Pourhouse Restaurant at 4:57, and they opened at 5:00. I’m a happy hour girl in a late-night world. I was the first person there. I had the whole bar to myself, and the tall, dark, handsome bartender in black pants, a black vest, and a tight white t-shirt was at my beck and call.

He apologized for not being able to make the exact drink I ordered because they were out of an ingredient that was “hard to find.” Instead he made me something similar called an Avenue in Davenport, a drink one of the other mixologists there had created. It wasn’t on the menu. It was perfect.

I gave him the short version of my life on the road. He said he likes traveling alone to cities he doesn’t know.

“Yeah, but it gets a little lonely,” I said. I’m always on these would-be romantic solo dates with an invisible person sitting across the table from me.

“But then it’s like you’re dating the whole city!” he said.

Or no one at all! Ever!

He mentioned Amsterdam. I said I lost a boyfriend to Amsterdam once. He smirked.

I ordered fresh sourdough bread and house cultured butter. It was better than sex, from what I remember.

“I could make an entire meal out of just this,” I said.

“Yeah, butter tastes like magic,” he said.

Then I ordered a rigatoni dish with braised beef cheeks and asked if it was any good.

“I think about the rigatoni when I’m not here,” he said.

My own personal bartender and his adorable minions of barbacks were attentive and amusing, much like many bars in many cities, but there was something a tad more genuine about them than I’d experienced in California. They weren’t on stage wearing theatrical masks. They were themselves.

Which is why, when a brown-haired woman in her 20s sauntered into the bar in her bathing suit and a loose-fitting sundress and flip flops straight from the beach, the bartender zipped over to greet her and bailed on me faster than you can say Carpano Antica. He didn’t try to hide his affinity for her with a cool exterior. That much was obvious.

I was not upset. I didn’t care. One of the best aspects of being in my 40s is it’s freeing to be invisible.

Turns out he already knew the girl. She’d come to visit him. She leaned in against the bar as he brought out a wet stone to sharpen a dull knife.

“Entertain me,” he said to her.

Then I watched their romantic dance, content to be an outsider who doesn’t care to deal with that nonsense anymore.

Seven years ago, I probably would have tried to sleep with that guy, I thought, and I may have succeeded, but that shit is not important to me anymore.

Instead, I took notes.

He said things like, “…going up and down Main for some brunch action,” and “Sunday brunch is going to be so sick.”

She used the word “like” a lot and twirled her hair. Her eyeliner went past her eyes in a wisp. She held one foot in the air with her knee bent as she pressed against the bar.

He told her last night after work he’d watched Kung Fu Panda in French. He bragged about a 4:00 AM party.

Maybe Vancouver was like Los Angeles after all.

Ah, the life of a 30-year-old bartender.

The “Stupid Girl” song played in my head.

He continued to methodically swipe the knife back and forth on the wet block, as he laid the witty banter on thick.

“Gimlets, baby,” I heard him say.

I burped up Fernet and looked out the front window as a guy with a man bun walked by. I hate man buns.

I ordered another drink, and when the bartender set it down, he said, “Here ya go, m’ love.”

Yeah, yeah.

He immediately returned to sharpening his knife and wooing the girl.

Then, as if in a cloud of smoke, she bolted. I didn’t even hear her say goodbye. When she was a few feet too far away to hear him speak, he said in a soft voice, “Bye. I love you.”

That was a smooth move, girlfriend. Make him miss you!

Soon after, I went in search of a wine bar I’d also found online. I ended up in a seedy alley looking for a hidden entrance. This had happened before when I searched for Bathtub Gin in Seattle. I was always ending up in dirty alleys walking on broken glass to get somewhere cool.

Only this time on the opposite side of the alley from where I suspected the wine bar was located, a gray two-story shoddy apartment building towered over me. It looked like a pay-by-the-hour motel. Prostitutes and drug addicts hung over iron railings and slunk on the asphalt. It was sad.

Ohhhh, this is what they were talking about when they said the neighborhood was “rough,” I thought.

I picked up the pace, suddenly feeling out of place, but I had to walk down that same alley twice to find the wine bar entrance. It was tiny and no one was inside. I was starting to think maybe I should go out later at night if I intended to meet people, but then I’d be scared to walk around by myself.

Two friendly young ladies stood behind the bar. Over the course of one glass of wine, we became fast friends. They were so stinkin’ nice.

What’s with this country?

We discussed celebrity sightings in Los Angeles, where I’ve witnessed a Ben Affleck meltdown and seen Ryan Gosling being interviewed by the LA Times over breakfast firsthand.

They had an even better story. Once, Owen Wilson stumbled over the threshold of their minuscule establishment on Heroin Walkway in his shorts and sandals and asked, “Are you guys still open for some snacks or something?”

“I can totally picture that!” I laughed.

They were jealous I’d seen Arcade Fire at the Hollywood Palladium, The Joint, and The Forum.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Arcade Fire is from Canada too!

By the time I left the wine bar and got out of the alley, I ran into yet more people lapping up ice cream cones.

Canada is one large enchanted ice cream parlor!

I wanted to rush back to the hotel and sign into ancestry.com to find out if I had any Canadian origins; I wanted to move there, just as the border agent feared.

In Canada, you can wear sunglasses until after 8:00 PM; cute little red maple leafs appear everywhere; everyone has a credit card with a chip in it; hot guys in shorts and tank tops carry sunflowers down the street for no apparent reason; cop cars look like Uber vehicles; even buses apologize: “Not in service. Sorry.”

I was ready to marry the oyster bar guy in Yaletown when I knew nothing about him other than he was wearing a t-shirt that read, “Try me naked.” His sweet, wholesome coworkers’ shirts said, “Suck me off” and “Eat me raw.” They were glib references to oysters, but for some reason, it worked. There’s no way a restaurant in LA could pull that off without dripping with douchebaggery. But these guys were anything but sleazy. They were boys next door, protective big brothers, men you trust.

I saw a kid in a “believe” t-shirt on the sidewalk.

I believe! I believe! Hooray for Canada!

Plus, Canadians use umbrellas.

Take that, Seattle.

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!

8 Types of Hikers

The people you’ll meet on any given trail.

On the return leg of a hike through Eagle Creek Trail on my first ever trip to Portland last week, I realized the same hikers in the Mt. Hood National Forest were also headed for the peak of Royal Arch in Boulder last summer. I thought of categories of hikers to amuse myself as I stumbled across wet rocks, including one for me. I enjoy hiking, but I’m no aficionado. I didn’t appreciate climbing mountains when I was younger, especially as a 16-year-old with devastating menstrual cramps whose parents dragged her to Utah on a bad week. I wore jeans to hike, and I complained on a loop. It’s a wonder my parents didn’t leave me on the trail. (I need a Bryce Canyon/Zion National Park do-over.) As a 40-something, I revel in nature more than I did as a miserable kid, but like teenage me, I’m not a camper. I’m a day hiker who looks forward to showering and hitting the pillow afterward.

From my observations, here are other traits of hikers you’ll find on any trail, starting with people like me:

The over-planner (me): When the over-planner prepares for a hike, she looks at ratings and descriptions on AllTrails. She searches for a trail with a moderate difficulty rating that’s a reasonable distance. She desires considerable exercise, but she doesn’t want to kill herself to burn calories. Fewer crowds and better scenery are bonuses. After selecting a trail, she packs a regular school-size backpack with extra bottles of water, a lightweight jacket, her purse so it doesn’t get stolen out of the car, and enough snacks to get her through the next ice storm, including, but not limited to, protein bars, fruit, a sandwich from Whole Foods, a bag of Dove dark chocolate, roasted pistachios from Trader Joe’s, and any other tasty morsels a squirrel might stuff in its cheeks. In other words, she over-packs, just like she does to head to the airport. She won’t eat all those snacks; instead, she’ll reward her hard work by inhaling a cheeseburger and a beer after the hike at a nearby microbrewery.

The over-planner reaches the trail early in the morning, parks too far away, and is finished by the time the masses fill the parking lot. The over-planner hikes in yoga pants but doesn’t do yoga. She wears a t-shirt and the same running shoes she also wears to ride the cross-trainer at the gym. She hasn’t set foot in an REI since the ‘90s. She’s puzzled by anyone using a walking stick. She has tons of energy at the beginning and none by the end, but she’ll happily put one foot in front of the other until her legs are Jell-o, reaching six to eight miles without complaining, unless the altitude is above 5,000 feet, in which case, forget it; she’s allowed to bitch. She’ll cry, “I’m a sea-level girl!” and after a mile-and-a-half, she’ll be hunched over sucking oxygen at 6,915 feet and will have the urge to punch the next person who bounds down the trail and says, “It’s not too much farther!”

Screw you and all your vigor, she’ll think.

Note: The over-planner will twist her ankle in the last few minutes of the hike while on solid ground.

The sprinter (the pro): Speaking of vigor, the sprinter—or pro—is a freak of nature. The sprinter a) does not wear an overloaded backpack that leaves creases in her shoulders; b) does not carry a bottle of water because she’s a super-human who doesn’t require hydration to thrive; c) does not admire the scenery (she’s seen it all before); d) passes other hikers with an agility so nimble one can’t even be jealous of her, and e) doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her bones. The sprinter has stamina one can only dream of, and it really doesn’t matter what she’s wearing; she’s a minimalist. Anything extra weighs her down. When she grand jetés her way around the over-planner and disappears around the bend, the over-planner will never see her again. What takes the over-planner two hours takes the sprinter 30 minutes. By the time the over-planner spills the contents of her huge backpack into the backseat of the car, the sprinter will have already made it home, showered, and eaten a Cliff bar as a main course.

Your mom (the able elderly): Unlike the sprinter, your mom stops frequently to admire the waterfalls, the sheer drop-offs, the sky-high trees, and the caterpillars. She travels in a pack of other able retirees who are in good shape for their ages and keep REI in business. Your mom sports a lightweight rain jacket when it’s not raining; a moisture-wicking top; convertible pants with cargo pockets; wool socks, and top-of-the-line hiking boots—all in muted colors. She wears what she thinks the pros wear, but her outfit is entirely unnecessary for the bird-watching expedition she’s on. Your mom carries a walking stick—two if she’s feeling feisty—an accessory only mandatory for downhill skiing.

The over-planner considers these walking sticks a hazard.

You’ll poke your eye out if you slip, she’ll think.

Your mom and her hoard of cheerful, unemployed friends mosey and won’t make it to the summit, but they don’t care; they never have to work again.

The tourist (the aimless foreigner): The tourist won’t even make it as far up the mountain as your mom. The tourist wears whatever clothes she put on to go to breakfast that morning, including a cumbersome sunshade-turned-hat. A camera hangs from her neck, but she doesn’t use it. The tourist travels in flocks, and these aimless foreigners look confused by their surroundings. The over-planner will see them on her return leg and knows the tourist will never make it up those steep rocks just around the corner. In fact, the tourist seems to be meandering in circles, not making much progress at all, like she’s inside a pinball machine. It’s as if the tourist happened upon this hike by accident with no plans to attempt it. The tourist will not have water, but unlike the sprinter, she needs it. The over-planner will worry about the ill-prepared tourist, who doesn’t speak English and can’t ask for directions if she wanders haplessly off the trail.

The blasé teen (the other ill-prepared): The other ill-prepared hiker is the blasé teen. She and her one friend neither have backpacks with supplies, nor any water between them. They either wear shorts or jeans, Vans, Keds, or other shoes with worn soles not meant for hiking. The teen and her friend have matching snarls on their faces, like someone forced them out of bed to use their feet to propel them forward through this harrowing life. The blasé teen will ask the over-planner for directions, when there’s only one direction to travel, as if she’s annoyed by this prospect.

“Do you know how to get to the Punchbowl?” she’ll ask.

She just passed the Punchbowl.

“No, I mean, do you know how to get down there?”

The teen will point to the bottom of the cliff at least 100 feet below at the raging river in the canyon.

“I don’t think you can get down there,” the over-planner will say.

You can jump, but good luck with that. Why are you even here? Clearly you’d rather be home draped over the couch like a throw pillow.

Like the tourist, the teen will not get much farther than a mile because, like, a mile is a long way, you guys.

The blasé teen will someday graduate to become the over-planner (me).

The 30-year-old hipster couple (your sister and her boyfriend) (dog optional): The 30-year-old hipster couple does this hike, or one similar, every weekend after scavenging the farmers market. They are dressed appropriately for hiking, except if the male with the gnarly beard is wearing open-toed sandals. They bring one small backpack between them that looks empty, and they both have one water bottle each. (The female carries the seemingly useless backpack.) The young couple is in shape and will hike the complete trail but will move more slowly than the sprinter. The two lag after drinking too much Mezcal last night. They may or may not have a dog of the hunting variety with them, and the dog is happier to be there than they are. The couple will celebrate the day’s jaunt later while sharing small plates of quinoa, duck fat fries, and bone marrow at The Blind Insert-Animal-Name-Here.

The photographer (the non-hiker): There’s always one photographer on the trail who isn’t there to hike. He is stationary, with his back turned to the astounding forest and epic waterfalls because he’s mesmerized by one green leaf. He is bent over, squinting through a long-range zoom lens that’s two millimeters from said leaf, as his girlfriend/assistant holds the tripod he may or may not use later. (See 30-year-old hipster couple.)

The badass (the unexpected expert): The badass hikes with one or two other cool friends. At the start of the trail, the badass’ physique will strike the over-planner as belonging to someone who gets winded easily and may not have seen exercise in the last decade. She’ll wonder if the dude with the pudgy gut can make it, but the over-planner will struggle to keep up with him. The badass is an unexpected expert who’s wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and old running shoes. His backpack is lighter than the over-planner’s, and he’ll only stop once to take a few bites of a protein bar. He has water, but the over-planner will never see him drink it. He chats with his friends as if he’s not exerting any energy at all, and halfway up the trail, his friends will point out the badass is two years into treatment for stage 4 melanoma and had treatment just yesterday. The over-planner will suddenly feel like a wuss and will think note to self: Do not complain during this hike.

After four-and-a-half miles, when the over-planner turns around because she has to pee and is doing the math on how much time it will take to get back to the parking lot, the badass will continue on to complete the six-mile one-way trip (a total of 12 miles, for you mathletes out there). The badass doesn’t keep up with the sprinter, but doesn’t care to, and the badass will win the prize for best hiker on the mountain, fighting cancer while acting as if he’s not sick, joking with his friends and finding more joy in everyday life than the over-planner ever will. The over-planner will learn a lesson from the badass and his friends, when they didn’t even intend to teach her one.

Enjoy the trail, fellow hikers!

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!