There Will Be Breakdowns

reconsidering.

2010-11-05T11:48:00.000-07:00

In the springtime, I walk around Portland infected by the same young lust embodied in the blossoming flowers and twitterpated squirrels. Every man and woman are attractive to me and I want to let them know it. It becomes my unofficial profession to perve on these fine humans and all their beauty and ability, their flushed, dewey skin and all that potential. It's a springtime thing, I think you know what I mean.

In the fall, however, my attention turns to vans: camper vans, ten-passenger church vans, RVs disguised as vans, cargo vans, EuroVans, and, in desperate situations, even minivans! As the rain starts falling, taking the leaves with it, my own sensual self yearns for sleep. I begin to covet isolation, to crave solitude, and to consider throwing everything away in exchange for a fresh start somewhere, anywhere, else. Vans symbolize an opportunity for escape; they are adventure, growth, solitude, and fun with the dog all rolled into one big old beast of a freedom machine. And that is a beautiful opportunity, indeed.

Two weeks ago, one of my dearest friends moved to New Hampshire. Don't mistake the gravity of this! Lucie lived ten blocks from me, worked with me for a year, and was a Jazzercise student of mine as well. We saw each other nearly every day. We drank coffee together, worked out together, talked and talked and talked together, made mix tapes for each other, got drunk on bottles of wine together on Monday afternoons, gave each other books, and built a private little culture all our own. Example! We had this thing where we would buy two different sandwiches at lunch and swap halves, thinking that we were not only genius for having come up with the arrangement, but also that we were lucky to have someone else who totally understood the predicament of equally wanting both the tuna sandwich and the caprese. It was like we were lovers.

She moved away from me!

Now, I knew I was going to miss her when she left. I counted on being sad. What I didn't count on was that suddenly my whole life looked barren. My job was suddenly desperately unsatisfying, my single-gal lifestyle was lonely, I missed my brothers and sister, and shouldn't I have achieved more with my life by this age? Shouldn't I be, like owning a home and married and in a fulfilling career by now? Suddenly I felt like I had nothing. It was time to get in The Van again, to escape. There was nothing to lose.

Know what though? Even though escape sounds appealing, there's now a side of me that recognizes and really appreciates the value of sticking it out. Though it would be a fun adventure, running away with Ralgh in a van isn't going to solve anything. Instead, I need to look at exactly where I am and take stock of what I have, which isn't nothing after all. I have tons of pals. I have a cozy apartment. I have community. Two good jobs. I have unending access to some of the best coffee in the world. I have a crazy old dog (13 in November!) who I love to bits. All these things are things I can work with, and I'd have to give most of them up to go on another Vantasy. And then what happens when I come back?

What I've learned is that adventures are great; we need them. I plan to always find them for myself throughout my life. But traveling, constantly moving around, can also be dangerous in that it is a way of retarding the growth of your career, home, and relationship investments. When I get the most desperate to leave everything, I find it's because I want to run away from some problem. I want to avoid dealing with the ways I've mismanaged certain aspects of my life.

So I'm settling in for now, in spite of all those beautiful vans out there, to discover and learn about how to make this every day life into something neat. I'm practicing nurturing the quotidian goals: job, friends, soy cappucinos, exercise, owning a home... and looking forward to a more distant, less tangible payoff. I'm taking a focused, but relaxed look at my life. I'm making thoughtful decisions on what to do next. I'm not freaking out and selling all my stuff in order to move into a junky old van. I'm. Chilling. The. Fuck. Out. For once.

Dang. I think I'm finally growing up.

Project 100

2010-07-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

oh yeah, remember how i did that amazing thing that one time?

2009-04-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

I miss the Vantasy.

I've had enough time to finally miss it. I miss crawling up into my loft with a book and a flashlight, sliding into my sleeping bag while Ralgh circled in place looking for the perfect spot to sleep. I miss waking up when my body was ready and the freedom of ignoring clocks. I miss spending half of my day doing things that made me happy, healthy, and wise. Things like jogging and blogging, sitting and knitting, cooking and looking. What joy to have had time and freedom to choose how to take care of myself!

But there was a time for my Vantasy, and that time has passed. I still enjoy the comforts of being home, lingering in the shower, gently turning the cold almost to the off position and frying my skin for just a few minutes longer. I delight in waking up in the morning with Ralgh's nose inches from my own and gently patting the bed, inviting him to hop up and cuddle. I like walking in my neighborhood and recognizing folks that I know. And I'm planning on going rescue cat shopping in the next few weeks and making my family a little bigger!

But, for the first time since my reentry into my old life, I feel a little bit of loss. I have begun to mourn the Vantasy, and see it for the amazing, once-in-a-lifetime journey that it was. I know I can choose to go on another adventure at any time, but the Vantasy is dead.

I remember sailing through the desert way back in September, singing, nervously eyeing the temperature gauge as the needle rose (who knew that I had to downshift during the long, high desert climbs; isn't that what an automatic transmission is for?). I remember being enticed by signs advertising nature centers, the world's largest fill-in-the-blank, garage sales, or anything else, and making a turn which would lead me through a new and unexpected town, or down a long winding road. Ralgh was always game for these digressions, enthusiastically looking over my shoulder as I drove.

I remember discovery, spending nights in darling little neighborhoods, or at gorgeous state parks, or at the bend of a mosquito-laden river. I remember making single-serving friends, and having fresh appreciation for people and places. There was no such thing as boredom. I remember humbly respecting the weather, humbly respecting the power and weight of my home on wheels, and humbly respecting that I, an adult, still have lots to learn.

The trick, I think, to coming back home, is learning to have that same appreciation, enthusiasm, openness, and humble respect for the the people and places I see everyday. The trick is making time, even now that my life is more restricted and scheduled, to still make myself happy and healthy and wise. Maybe that means setting an alarm clock, and it definitely means retraining myself everyday to view my same-old same-old world with fresh eyes. It takes commitment to joy, especially during the stressful times. It means making choices even when it feels like there are none to be made. It means waking up in the morning and choosing to go to work, and choosing to be delighted and surprised by whatever happens there.

I haven't figured out why taking care of myself feels like an effort since I've returned. It felt so natural while I was traveling. Maybe figuring that out is part of my journey. Maybe my Vantasy isn't over yet. Maybe it never will be.

the end of the beginning

2009-02-13T18:55:00.000-08:00

The Vantasy: When did it begin? As a bright-red-Clairol-box-dyed seventeen year old working as a pool attendant at the local RV resort, my awkward boyfriend brought me McDonald's Chicken McNugget(TM?) meals while I dipped tiny strips of paper into the water to see what color they'd turn and made sure kids didn't drown on my clock. I was a "pool attendant," certified in nothing, pining for the respect given to actual Lifeguards, but knew that I could barely swim and would not have the slightest idea how to give CPR should a situation arise.

Back then I used to pray. I believed in God. I wanted to marry my cat, Hershey. I ate meat. My favorite singer was Alanis Morrisette. I wanted to be famous. I attended a pool for a living, and I thought it was the coolest job ever because I got to talk to boys and get a tan and get paid.

Me with Chicken McNugget Boyfriend before my junior prom

I met a woman there, while working at the pool, who had two matching little girls with white-blonde, waist-length, pin-straight hair. After spending day after day, week after week, marinating in chlorine, their white-blonde hair began to take on a greenish tint. The mom trusted my advice, being the chlorine and hair color expert that I was, and we became friends after I spent an hour's worth of my wages on a bottle of shampoo that I guaranteed would restore the towheads to their natural Swedish-looking state. A gift, from the fake lifeguard to the perfect little flaxen beauties.

Turned out that this family was my first intimate encounter with full-time RVers, and I remember being blown away by the fact that a family could live in an RV resort in Hartland, Michigan for a couple of mosquito-laden summer months, then follow the warm weather south whenever they had the notion. A house on wheels! The ability to see the country on their own time! Until that point, I'd always thought that RVs were for weekend trips. It never occured to me that you could live in one indefinitely.

The Vantasy was born, in a sense, that summer, though it looked very different in my naive imagination. You see, this was back in the mid 1990s, when people could get jobs that paid living wages AND included things like health insurance and retirement funds. In its first incarnations, the Vantasy was to happen in my retirement years, and I would sell my house in order to buy my RV. And then I would visit my grandkids all over the country and stuff.

Ha! I thought I would own a house! And have grandkids! I was so cute back then.

Clairol #459 Medium Auburn Red. Full of promise and hope. Bill Clinton was the President. c. 1995

And it didn't occur to me until twelve years later, when I woke up alone in my bed with bags under my eyes and pillow marks on my face... after months of feeling sorry for myself about the end of my marriage... that this dream didn't have to wait until some ambiguous point in the future. "What are you going to do, Eva?" I asked myself on that day. I shifted my perspective, made a decision, plucked an event out of my future, and demanded that it happen now.

I've since taken a monumental emotional and physical journey. I made a giant circle around the country while living in a van with a dog. People ask me, "Now that the Vantasy is over, will you still write?" And all I can respond is, "Is it over?"

I'm back in Portland, I've returned to work and have showers whenever I want them. I've spent the last month dealing with reverse culture shock and the difficulty of reentry. I don't live in a van anymore, but the Vantasy hasn't really ended. And I don't think it ever will. Leaving Portland last August placed my life on a new path, a path on which I'm still traveling. I grew and changed in my Vanta C cocoon, and this journey of growth will continue into my future indefinitely.

I plan to continue writing, processing, and perhaps publishing small pieces based on my trip, but today I officially retire There Will Be Breakdowns. I will be starting another blog, but it will be written anonymously, probably based on my career in the nightclub industry. Maybe you'll stumble upon me out there in blogland one day and not even know it!

And I'll keep this blog open for a little while for updates.

Speaking of: My head is feeling better after two weeks. I was still slurring and stumbly a couple of days ago, but am feeling almost back to normal, mentally, since yesterday. My memory isn't great yet, and I rely heavily on my iPhone alerts to keep my life in order from day to day. But I notice improvement every day, and think I'm almost out of the woods. I have quite a bit of neck and shoulder pain still, and headaches, but I'm working on those with yoga and massage. My doc told me that I'm not allowed to ride a bike again until she gives the okay, which I expect will happen during my next visit, this Wednesday.

I've also decided that enough is enough with the reentry breakdowns. While I deserved to whine for a little while, I think that allowance has expired and I've adopted a new old policy of "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I'm in pain, have a big ol' medical bill, am in conflict with my former employer, and am stressed about paying rent. But when people ask how I am, no matter how worried or sad I am, I force a smile and say, "I love being back. I have been loving taking a million showers! I stand in there until I'm a prune, then I do it again a few hours later." And then we have a laugh, and my problems all seem to shrink down just a little bit.

Just like waking up last year and plucking my Vantasy out of the future, I choose today to pluck happiness from my future and experience it NOW. I've shifted my perspective, once again, and it's working. We are going to be fine, Ralgh and I. And as long as there's sunshine and grass, family and friends, and 31st birthdays to celebrate (tomorrow!), there's something to be happy about.

Thank you, friends, for joining me on this journey.

With love, sunshine, rainbows, and kittens,
Eva

Emotional Casserollercoaster

2009-02-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

Tater Tot Casserole, Corn Casserole, Chocolate Casserole, Black Bean Enchilada Casserole,
carrots (not a casserole), pan full of ice and PBR

"A casserole, from the French for "saucepan,"is a large, deep pot or dish used both in the oven and as a serving dish. The word casserole is also used for the food cooked and served in such a dish."

-Wikipedia.com

"casserole
1. food cooked and served in a casserole"

-Dictionary.com

My comfort foods are anything baked. Pizza, cookies, cakes, fake chicken patties, tater tots, and casseroles. Given the above definitions of casseroles from respected sources (isn't everything on the internet TRUE?), I would say that this all-encompassing dish was created by Jesus just for me. You don't need to know what you're doing to make a casserole. According to the dictionary.com, all you really need is the right dish, which I have TWO of.

Growing up in the midwest, I ate my fair share of casseroles. Tuna casseroles, hamburger casseroles, green bean casseroles, scalloped potato casseroles... Up until this point I was operating under the false assumption that a casserole MUST contain one of the following ingredients: 1. cream of mushroom soup, 2. copious amounts of eggs, 3. absurd amounts of butter or Crisco, 4. peas, 5. Durkee french fried onions, 6. ungodly amounts of cheese. Turns out none of these things are required! All a woman really needs is the trusty Pyrex dish with lid and an oven.

Which has led me to a new and disturbing level of comfort food consumption. Rachel Ray would turn over in her grave (if she was dead, which many people I know wish was true) if she saw the kind of things I was doing with my Pyrex. I make casserole brownies, casserole lasagna, chocolate casserole, apple crisp casserole, pizza casserole... My head could potentially explode with the sheer infinity of casserole possibilities.

Your choice: Either stick your head in, or a Pyrex

And life has been hard these days. All I want are baked goods. As the pieces of my life fall back into place, or don't, I retreat to my kitchen and bake a casserole. And then I eat it, while watching the last four seasons of LOST in their entirety. A fabulous gal can pack on the pounds this way if she's not careful, so I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and focused on getting out of the house.

So I've been seeing friends, working out, riding my bike, eating salads. It was all coming together.

Until I crashed.

On Thursday, I lost control of my sexy new bike and crashed at an intersection, landing on my head and neck, smashing my helmet and painting the left side of my body in burnt sienna road rash. When I woke up laying in the street, my first thought was, "my neck should not be bent this way." I must have looked really cute when I crashed, though, because suddenly everyone wanted to be my friend. One kind woman asked, "What are you going to do now?" and I said, "Walk home." The only problem was that I didn't know where I lived, where I was, where I had been coming from, and I couldn't read. Then I saw my helmet, all crunched up, and started to cry. I was scared. My brain was hurt. That nice lady drove me right to the emergency room.

Hospital. Forms that I couldn't read. CAT scans. Valium. Vicodin. A weekend erased from my memory.

And then I broke up with my boyfriend. Nope, it didn't work out.

Bags, tears

And now I'm home alone with a head injury, splitting my time evenly between sleeping, crying, and forgetting what I said five minutes ago. I have been independent, traveling the country for months, but this woman needs someone to take care of her now. I need help. Someone to bake me casseroles, walk Ralgh, do my laundry, and just plain old BE HERE while I cry and sleep.

I've said it before (I think, but I'm not sure because I can't remember anything these days), but reentry is the hardest part of my Vantasy. Worth it? I'll let you know after I bake and eat an entire casserole of brownie casserole.

Whine.

kittens, rainbows, sunshine, and bush

2009-01-19T13:13:00.000-08:00

I owe you an apology!

For those of you stopping by yesterday to get the normal dose of sunshine, kittens, and rainbows that you've come to expect from There Will Be Breakdowns, please forgive me. I have a good excuse for yesterday's crank-tastic entry: caffeine.

I finally admitted I was an addict last year, after an attempt to quit drinking coffee left me so snippy with my customers at the Lotus that one drunken fellow threatened to punch me in the face. Me! This incident inspired me to take a good, hard look at myself. I came to the conclusion that caffeine isn't that bad of a drug as far as addictions go, and with the enthusiastic encouragement of my friends, who missed the happier days, I decided to never quit drinking coffee again. From that day forward, I have owned my addiction; I have borne it with the pride of an American!

When I took off on my Vantasy, I left my coffee maker in the care of a friend. Because of this, that, and the other, and the fact that he lives across town, I had not yet the chance to reacquire it, with its sleek, stainless steel carafe, at the time of yesterday's posting. And my dire financial situation has induced a spending freeze, which means no more trips to the neighborhood cafe (editor's note: this also means I had to cancel my inauguration day Brazilian wax appointment, during which I was going to celebrate Bush's last day by making it my bush's last day. Living in Vanta C meant that certain hygienic maintenance routines were ignored, and... well, you get the picture. But this is slightly off the topic of today's blog, and probably wildly inappropriate, so I'll end this digression and get back on track).

So, yesterday, instead of drinking my daily cup o' joe, I drank GREEN TEA. Green tea! By the time I wrote my entry, the withdrawal headache was in full force, I was super cranky, and desperate to give somebody hell. The bartender and the men who have been touring my van seemed like the best candidates, so I let 'er rip.

Y'all are such sweet, suppportive readers, though, and probably didn't deserve all that gloom and doom. So here are some sunshine, kittens, and rainbows for you:

Reasons Why Life is Beautiful and Wonderful Now That I'm Back in Portland

1. I finally got to build my fixed-gear bike, and I rode it yesterday.
2. I get to Jazzercise any time I want, and working out with Trina makes me happy.
3. When I walk Ralgh, I run into people I know.
4. I can bake pans of brownies, filling my apartment with the aroma of chocolate.
5. Most of the people I care about live within a few miles, and I can see them whenever I want.
6. Not having a job means endless potential. The future is wide open!

I'm bringing sexy bike (yeah)

the van sandwich

2009-01-18T15:58:00.000-08:00

Way back in August, on my very first blog post, I wrote:

"Spending my days running around, trying to get my van ready often leaves me in a heap on the floor, trying not to cry, terrified that if I can't even prepare for my trip, I'll never have what it takes to actually go."

Awwwww. I was so cute back then! Little did I know that the Vantasy is like a sandwich that has incredibly tasty barbequed tofu filling with a delicious secret sauce, but it's served between two slices of moldy, stale, rock-hard bread that's been dropped on the floor and has little hairs and fuzzies all over it. And you can't just open the bread up and take out the filling and eat it separately, oh no. You have to eat the whole damn thing, nasty bread and all.

What I'm saying, folks, is that, suprisingly, the before and after of this trip (AKA the 'bread') have been way tougher to swallow than the actual trip (AKA the 'delicious tofu filling'). I'm having the breakdown of my life right now. I have cried every day for the last week; you could set your watch to my daily sobfest. I am one hundred percent sure that Dillon is terrified of me, and invisions a future of hauling garbage bags full of wadded up, soggy tissues to the curb.

I have been looking for a job for three weeks with nary a bite. And I have been really pounding the pavement. No one is hiring. No one. There are about two or three help-wanted ads per day for bartenders on Craigslist, which I dutifully apply for, even if they suck. And I have exhausted my contacts. Between calling old friends to see if they know anyone who needs anyone, I walk from door to door handing out resumes and fake-smiling at all the assholes out there who have jobs and also have the gall to do them poorly.

I'm talking about you, bartender at an unnamed location. I tried three times to engage you in conversation, and you, every time, gave me one-word responses. I know it's not because you're busy; I'm the only one sitting at your bar. I think it's because you are one of the millions of people who hate working food service, but are flooding into my industry because your own industry is failing and you see it as a way to make ends meet. Well, I actually LOVE bartending, and I would work circles around you if only someone would give me a damn chance. Please?

Meanwhile, I've been trying to sell my van with the hopes that I'll be able to pay my rent until a job comes through. I had the ad up for a week and got between twenty and thirty calls, but only three people came to look at it. Mostly, people just wanted to ask me questions about my trip, flirt with me, or were interested in the van but not in any serious way. I even had one prank caller offer me $1000 and some goats as a trade. Come on, people! I can't pay my rent with goats!

All three of the people who have come to look at Vanta C have been men, and they have all man-handled her. Vanta C is delicate elderly flower, she needs to be van-handled! These men arrive at Vanta C all puffy-chested, trying to prove how much they know about cars, and they forget that this is still my baby. Hey guys, I still own Vanta C! Would you walk into someone else's house and start jerking things around like you're trying to start an offboard motor? Then why is it okay for you to do that in my van? The last guy that looked at her actually broke the loft bed, because he didn't feel like he had to listen to me when I told him not to slide it out any further. Then, instead of leaving it alone, like I told him to, he insisted on trying to 'fix' it by forcing it to slide back into place. I could see the whole time what was going wrong, and I know how to repair the thing, but he just wouldn't listen to me, the van's OWNER.

I'm trying to keep my chin up, and trying to have a sense of humor about all this, but I think I might be losing it. I have enough money left to pay my February rent and still have twenty five dollars left over. I think I can make it a couple more weeks on what I have, but I desperately need something to fall into place here, and soon.

I'm not sure I can swallow this bread without choking.

Home, for real

2009-01-11T15:40:00.000-08:00

This is my time, this is my tear.
I can see clearly now that this is not a place
For playing solitaire.
Tell me where you want me.
This is my time, this is my tear.

Coming on strong, Baudelaire.
Seems to me like all the world gets high
When you take a dare.
Let it rise before you.
This is my crime!

Tear, Red Hot Chili Peppers

Yesterday I moved in to my apartment. There are boxes everywhere, piles of things here and there, and I don't have a couch...

But I can poop in my toilet, whenever I want. I can turn up the heat. I can walk more than three steps in any direction I want to. I slept in my own bed and took a shower in my own shower. Ralgh enthusiastically peed his way around our own neighborhood, and I said, over and over to Dillon, "I'm home. I can't believe I'm home." I never want to leave.

People can live with much less than they think. It was never really a huge deal for me to give things up here and there. Sometimes I had to wear an extra sweater, or find a late night emergency bathroom. Sometimes I ran out of propane and couldn't cook for a day. Sometimes I couldn't find safe parking spots so I had to drive further than I wanted to. Always I had dirty hair. All these things were minor inconveniences, but they had a way of adding up. I didn't climb Mount Everest, or go to Siberia, but I do think I roughed it a bit. Now that I'm home, it feels so good that I can hardly understand why I left.

Of course, I know why I left. I needed to rough it for a few months. I needed to sort my shit out. I wanted to see the country in an offbeat way. I wanted to push myself. I wanted discomfort. I wanted to prove that I could. I wanted to show Ralgh a good time. I wanted change (Barack Obama?).

As my friend from Madison, Brian, says, life is all about moderation. It's about doing something wild, then taking a break and doing something comfortable. Swinging back and forth like that keeps us in good shape, I think, and allows us to admit that we're complex beings and like a lot of different things. Now is a time of comfort and peace for me, while Brian is looking to trade in his comfort as he gears up (see what I did there, Brian?) to build a heavy-duty fixed-gear bike and ride from Madison to Key West next summer.

And the republican real estate agent from Southern Georgia I befriended, George, traded in the keys to the rental property for the keys to an SUV and took off on his own adventure to Tahoe and beyond. He'd been talking about it for awhile and I think meeting me was the nudge he needed to make it happen for himself. I saw myself in him when he confided at our meeting, "I'm meant to do something big, something profound."

Now I'm free to sit back and enjoy watching my new friends go on their own journeys, which will be nothing like mine and everything like mine. And I'll find work and start saving my money again, and give my brain a little rest before it starts cooking up plans for the next adventure. But first, I'm going to unpack all my cute clothes and earrings! And I'm going to wear them around and be really clean and primped for awhile!

And, of course, I'm selling Vanta C.

whatever the weather

2009-01-07T12:01:00.001-08:00

Ralgh and I have taken refuge in the warm house of a friend, and for the first time in months, we have the luxury of not noticing the weather. Today, as almost every day since I've been back in Portland, it's raining. I only know this because I had to walk outside this morning to collect my dirty clothes for free laundry-doing. It was a total of four minutes in my cold, damp Vanta C, then I returned to the kitchen, where a steaming cup of coffee awaited me.

I've always tried to avoid being one of those people who talks about the weather. It's boring. Unless I become a Meteorologist, or some serious global warming shit hits the fan, I'll always feel like talking about the weather is sort of like stating the obvious. Sometimes I find it hilarious, though, to really enthusiastically sigh weather reports to people who hear them all the time, like bank tellers and baristas, people who make a living making small talk. "Oh, JEEZ! You're lucky you're working in the air conditioning; it's a scorcher out there!" I'll say, animatedly wiping my brow, and the customer service representative will agree, because it's her job and she has nothing else to say to me. She won't get the joke, though, and I'll walk out the door laughing at how good I am at impersonating a real customer.

But living in a van changed all that. I was at the mercy of Mother (effing) Nature, and she reminded me every day. At Burning Man, the Vanta C became a greenhouse, a place to avoid at all costs. In the Midwest, Ralgh and I shook with the knowledge that we were about to be electrocuted, crouching wide-eyed in fear as late night thunderstorms pounded the roof and quaked the van. In the northeast, our feet and noses went numb and we could feel wind seeping through the cracks in the windows, everything inescapably frigid. In Portland, the rain never stopped falling, our skin swelled with dampness, windows and blankets grew moist with condensation.

Oh my god... I have become one of those people who talk about the weather... All the time!

Being able to ignore the weather is a luxury provided by shelter and warm clothing. If you have shelter and warm clothing, and you still find yourself talking about the weather on a regular basis, then you should maybe consider taking on additional hobbies or joining a reading group to boost your conversational skills. Another option might be reading or listening to the news every morning, and that comes with the added bonus of knowing what is happening in the world, which could come in handy the next time you have to vote or impress a girl or something. You people with your warm clothes and cozy homes have reduced the weather to small talk, when it is really so much more! People are dying out there, for the love of god! Really fabulous, albiet mildly malodorous, women and their dogs are slowly losing their minds and could go completely 'round the bend any time now! And you reduce it to an uncomfortable, half-hearted side conversation while you wait for your latte (at least tip your barista for putting up with you; throw a dollar in that jar!).

Speaking of amazing tips, a lucky barista in NE Portland clocked out of her shift last week and rode her fixed gear bike home while wearing my wedding ring, which I uncerimoniously and anonymously removed from my right hand and tossed in the tip jar. And I didn't even force her to listen to me talking about the damn rain.

iPhone Scribble

2009-01-07T11:41:00.000-08:00

Just a little expressive art project. I feel better now.

tramps, vans, and resumes

2009-01-05T09:52:00.000-08:00

Yesterday and today were new lows on my Vantasy. I'm a little bit depressed, I must admit.

The initial thrill of being back home has been replaced by the creeping despair of being homeless. Today I think about the book Nickled and Dimed, by Barbara Ehrenreich, in which she temporarily gives up her upper middle class, educated life to become working class for a few months, and then writes a book about her struggles. I've always had a problem with the one insurmountable shortfall of that book: that you can never truly be working class if you were raised middle class. Sure, she can bury her checkbook in her underwear drawer and promise herself not to touch it for a few months, but she can't take away her education, her sense of security, fallback plans, stable family support system, ingrained sense of entitlement, command of proper English, orthodontically improved teeth, etcetera, etcetera. All I'm saying is that while I appreciate her trying to draw attention to the plight of working class people, it feels a little paternalistic for her to write the book for them, and I'm not certain that it's possible for her to really pull off writing about the experiences of the working poor when she will never be a member of that group.

That said, I think that today I developed a teeny, tiny awareness of the hopelessness of finding a job as a homeless person. I don't live on the streets. I have friends who let me take showers when I need them. I am educated. I don't have any addictions. I have connections and a pretty stellar resume. I voluntarily chose my mini-homelessness. But I feel grubby. I don't have any nice clothes. I put my expired make-up on in the dark and hope it looks okay. But no matter how I try to pull it together, I don't feel clean. I feel like a van tramp.

I don't think my situation has anything in common with that of your average homeless person. I just know that my situation has me suddenly depressed and feeling ugly and unkempt. I feel like I can't bear to walk around peddling resumes and fake smiling. "I'm Eva VanTramp Darling! I look and feel like I live in a box! Hire me!" And if I feel this miserable and hopeless, then I sort of understand why real homeless people just give up.

How I feel I look: cracked out*

*this picture was taken after getting drunk, carefully applying lots of dark, heroine-chic eye make-up, sleeping on it, and then putting lipstick all over my hungover face and driving in the morning to Walmart for a joke family photo with my friend Amanda, who used a similar make-up application and drinking technique. We're still waiting for the photos, but I guarantee you'll be seeing them posted on my blog.

Living out of my van, amazingly, lost all its tolerability the moment I rolled into Portland. I want my life back. It's cold and rainy. I'm trying to be patient, but this is starting to feel like an unbearable limbo. I am ready for heat and showers, and room for yoga, and naked time reading books on my couch, and drinkng beer while assembling a casserole. And the relative security that comes with being a member of the working poor.

I forgot to knock on wood!

2009-01-04T09:56:00.000-08:00

Friday, immediately after publishing my victory post in which I boasted, "I never, ever, even once needed to use my AAA membership," I closed up my laptop, walked to my van, and drove to meet my friend Rachel downtown at the Lotus. And my tire blew out.

After over four months and 10,000 miles around the country without a problem, after four ten hour days of driving a little faster than I should have from Texas, through New Mexico, through a blizzard in Arizona, through the infinite-laned freeways of LA, through the snowy mountain passes of northern California, through sleet in southern Oregon... I arrive home and have a blowout while driving fifteen miles per hour, IN FRONT OF THE LOTUS.

The tire exploded, I screamed, and Ralgh almost rocketed through the windshield out of sheer terror. Shaking like a leaf, I fumbled for the emergency flasher switch. It took me a solid thirty seconds to turn the blinkers on, which, in emergency time is equal to a week. Nothing labled "emergency" should be this god damn difficult to figure out. Anyway, blinkers finally on and Ralgh calmed, I called AAA, dumping out my entire purse in the process of looking for my unused card. When the operator answered, I knew that I was saved, and that's when I burst into tears.

This experience taught me four things:

1. That the $60 I spent on my AAA membership was the best $60 I ever spent. I've had AAA for three years now, and every year I get my money's worth. I've been towed twice, locked out at least four times, ran out of gas once, and, now, had a blowout. And when the AAA guy finally showed up to change my tire, I saw that I had been sent the hottest AAA driver in the entire world. It was worth the sixty bucks just to watch him use the jackstand (why didn't I get pictures?!)!

2. That if I'm going to have a traumatic automotive experience, then it's best to do it in front of a bar.

3. That I am amazingly lucky. What if that had happened four days ago while I was cruising up I-5 at 65MPH?

4. That I am awesome in emergent situations. A blowout was my biggest mechanical fear throughout my Vantasy. I actually spent time preparing for it to happen. I made a mental list and practiced it in other times when Vanta C lost control, like when a particularly strong gust of wind tossed us around on the freeway: lift your foot off the gas, but don't hit the brake. Firmly grip the steering wheel, and guide the van off the road, but do not hit the brake! I'm happy to say that on Friday, after I heard the explosion, my mind immediately screamed, "lift your foot off the gas! Don't hit the brake!" I was a rockstar. I belong in exit row seats on planes, folks. I know how to get shit done in a crisis!

Now, if I only knew some cute crafty thing I could make out of a destroyed tire...

crossing bridges

2009-01-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

It's a new year, and a new chapter for Ralgh and I. We are back in Bridgetown, which is, as expected and hoped, still here. We are home, and homeless, and I'm struck by the fluidity of my sense of place. Portland hasn't changed, but we have. We're looking at the city through a different lens these days, and it feels like suddenly all doors are open.

Pulling my new back window from a van in the junkyard

As I crossed the I-5 overpass to the east side for the first time in months, I realized that not only was I literally crossing a bridge, but also figuratively. I've basically spent the last four months alone, meditating. I sunk down deep into a cold lake of despair without a life preserver, on purpose. I refused to allow my normal coping and avoidance mechanisms save me: drinking, hanging out with friends non-stop, working, going out for coffee, men. I didn't abandon these things completely, but I forced myself to recognize that I was using them to avoid being alone and being mindful of painful things which I needed to think about in order to grow.

Posing on a community bike at Burning Man

After experiencing how difficult it was to force myself to feel pain, ask questions, and then allow myself to recover on my own time, I'm not surprised that most people never do it. It's much easier to simply continue to stomp on the same ground over and over, and maybe there's a certain peace in knowing that you never really have to make any tough decisions or realizations. But the payoffs of facing the fact that no one's going to "steer this van" but me, are priceless. Before I left on this trip, I didn't really like myself very much. I knew I was a likable person, I knew I was a good person, but I kept finding myself doing things I didn't like. I lacked direction. I had a dwindling relationship with my family. I was indecisive in my relationships with men. And I hated spending time alone because solitude left a space for thoughts about all these things to creep into my mind.

Rattlesnakes in New Mexico

I was lucky enough to learn a long time ago that for me, the key to success in life is to treat anything that scares me as an opportunity. The instant I notice that I'm afraid of something, I sigh and shake my head, because that emotion is a tip-off that I'm not living as powerfully as I should be. I have a personal rule that once I notice my fear, I have to do whatever it was that scared me. It has been pretty annoying to notice this connection, because it has been shooting holes in all my excuses and highlighting the real issue: fear. Obviously, that's a good thing. I wouldn't have taken this trip if I didn't live by this philosophy. But it also means that my life is on course to be one terrifying or uncomfortable experience after another.

Ralgh, Eva, and Vanta C chillin' in New York

Last year at this time, being alone scared me. Once I noticed that, I knew I had to find a way to take being alone to a ridiculous level until I wasn't afraid of it anymore. Three days ago, when I drove across that bridge into my home neighborhood, I knew I had changed. I took on this unbelievable task. I saved ten thousand dollars. I bought my first car. I took an auto maintenance class and overcame the fear of poking around under the hood. I set my plan, this plan which at one time seemed impossible, into action. I spent nights in unknown neighborhoods trembling with fear when I heard a mysterious noise. I got lost. I made new friends. I never, ever, even once needed to use my AAA membership. I planted seeds for new, loving relationships with my brothers and sister and parents. I froze in the northeast, sweated in Kansas, and sobbed just about everywhere. I bravely faced the misfortune of the end of my marriage. I learned that I am an extraordinary rock star of a woman. I fell in love.

Bonding with beautiful sister Beth in Ann Arbor, Michigan

And now I'm standing on new ground, having crossed that big scary bridge all by myself. The soil is fertile, ready for whatever I choose to plant here. This is a good place to be.

of the gut and the heart

2008-12-30T13:06:00.000-08:00

As I approach the California/Arizona border, a collective of saguaro cacti flags me from the mountainside near the freeway, turning their hands up at Vanta C as if trying to stop me. "Wait! You can't leave us; you've only just arrived!" they implore. As I continue to drive westward, they grow taller and more resigned to their despair, helplessly tossing up their arms as if to say, "Well, you seem to have made up your mind; nothing I can do to stop you. Fine, then. Go."

And all I can do is smile and wink and tell Ralgh to join me as I wave goodbye.

It happened in Austin. Like the past few months of my Vantasy, I listened to my gut, allowing it to tell me when it was time to leave a town and move on. Only this time, it said, "go home, Eva. It's time." And it was time. I had $1800 left, which would be even less after paying for gas from Texas to Portland. I didn't want to return and have to acquire credit card debt. I was ready to get back to work. I missed the structure of having a job, and the discipline involved in doing good work.

And I desperately missed my dear friend, Trina. I missed our Jazzercise, coffee, and quiche habit, but mostly I missed our time of talking for hours and hours. We have the ability to talk forever; we are thoroughly engaged in each others lives, but also gab about women's issues and existential philosophies.

And I have fallen in love. I was joined in spirit on my trip by an old flame. Dillon called me every day, faithfully read my blog, sent texts, and won me over. He promised me my favorite pizza and a bottle of wine upon my return, and I was ready to kiss him. It was all unexpected, but if there's one thing that this journey has taught me, it's that I'm not in control, and things rarely work out how I expect them. Yes, it was unexpected, but not surprising. The Vantasy has been about love from the beginning; it makes so much sense that it should also end with love.

So I began the drive home. Straight across New Mexico and Arizona, waving at cacti, turning right at LA and flying up I-5 toward Portland.

Christmas in the City of Rocks

2008-12-26T16:27:00.000-08:00

Vanta C sits atop a hill, surrounded by boulders up to twenty feet tall, overlooking miles and miles of New Mexican desert. It's so quiet that when you actually stop to listen your ears hurt so badly that you worry for a moment that they might burst. Low clouds roll over the dark mountains in the distance as the sun falls toward the horizon. The sky goes from deep bright blue to lavender, then flashes orange and red as it sinks below the earth. Hundreds of more articulate folks than me have attempted and failed to describe the sunset over the desert. This phenomenon, like love, resists encapsulation by our limited words. It is indescribable. Even a photograph, taken by the most expensive camera fails to do it justice. I'll stop when I'm ahead, then. All I will say it that it was the kind of sunset which forces you to realize that love is all around you, even when you're alone. It forces you to know in the deepest depths of your being that no matter how bad things get in your life, there is always, always something to be profoundly happy about.

The plan this morning was to drive the four hours from Las Cruces, New Mexico to Tucson, Arizona, arriving in time to eat some Chinese food and watch The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at the cineplex. It's what the Jews do on Christmas, and if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. As I drove westward across the desert, Vanta C rocked and swayed on the interstate, struggling to accelerate, only to max out at a nervewracking fifty miles per hour. I drove this way for about an hour or so, and finally stopped in Deming, New Mexico.

While driving down the main street in Deming, I noticed the Grand Motor Inn Restaurant and Lounge. The parking lot was full, the neon flashed 'OPEN', and a cowboy walked out the front door as I slowed. "A cowboy!" I turned and exclaimed to Ralgh, who feigned interest. The decision had been made. Christmas dinner was a tuna sandwich, fries and a salad (eerily similar to the truck stop salad of the previous night, in which the tomatoes, onions, lettuce, and dressing somehow all managed to be the same color) eaten at the counter of the run down diner filled with elderly folks and cowboys, while trying not to notice the waitresses standing with their backs turned toward me only a few feet away, complaining bitterly about the couple at the middle booth, who may or may not, but probably didn't, have a conversation about how the short-haired girl at the bar can blog a ridiculously long sentence which is full of commas but somehow manages, in spite of the author's mild intoxication at the present moment, to make sense.

The wind was still bad after lunch, so I checked the free campgrounds website to see if there was anything nearby. That's how I ended up at City of Rocks State Park, watching the sunset and marveling at how much I love my dog and how this could have been the most perfect Christmas of my life.

Season's Greetings!

another day on the road

2008-12-25T08:19:00.000-08:00

Last night, after nine hours of driving, I ate dinner at a Flying J truck stop in El Paso, Texas. If you're an RVer like me, the Flying J truck stops are your best friend. They pump propane, which is amazingly tricky to find when you don't use the exchangeable bottles. They have RV sewer dump stations and fresh water for filling your tank. They allow overnight RV parking, have clean showers, and stock a wide variety of Pringles and personalized flashing mini liscense plate keychains.

So, after driving across the massive state of Texas, with it's barren shrubby expanses, I reach the El Paso Flying J, nearly out of propane, nearly out of clean water, and with a holding tank that's making my home smell like a Greyhound bus. I spent an hour taking care of that business, and decided to give my eyes a rest and eat at my first Flying J truck stop restaurant. I ordered a cup of coffee and the only vegetarian item on the menu: the salad bar, from which I uncerimoniously consumed two plates, almost without tasting it. Not because I was in a rush, but because it didn't have any particular flavors to speak of.

I finished off my meal with a helping of chocolate pudding, on a fresh, clean plate. As I sipped my black coffee, I looked around at the others in the restaurant. All truckers, taking advantage of the free turkey dinner in exchange for showing a CDL. A black man crumbled a piece of cornbread with his fork. A hispanic gentleman hovered over the buffet. A weathered woman with a leathery face smoked her cigarrette, eyes on the tv hanging in the corner. We were all together in our solitude, if that's possible, sort of how I imagine evenings in the common rooms of a mental institution might be. We avoided eye-contact, using the edges of our forks to cut our bland food, bucking the lessons of our parents use your knife, Eva! Poor manners, the lot of us, but who's to notice? Even if someone did, reputations only last overnight here, because when the sun rises over the periwinkle mountains in the morning, we will all climb behind the wheels of our rigs, maneuvering humming engines away in all directions, an asterisk of trails from the Flying J nucleus.

But not me. I did not sleep in the Flying J parking lot. I elected to travel another 45 miles or so to Las Cruces, New Mexico, where I spent an evening drinking an eight dollar bottle of Pinot Noir out of a plastic tumbler while checking Facebook and stroking Ralgh.

Oh, did I mention that it was Christmas Eve?

While families around the world settled in around fires or dinner tables or in pews at midnight mass, I cozied up to Ralgh in a Walmart parking lot and thought about the people I love and how much joy I experience. I thought about how this scruffy mutt is my immediate family, my companion, and how happy he makes me on a daily basis. Ralgh and I have each other, we have full bellies, and we have the best Christmas gift of all: the amazing freedom and adventure of the greatest road trip we've ever seen!

Life is good.

Merry Christmas!

single-serving friends

2008-12-19T13:51:00.001-08:00

Georgia

The last couple of states I have been cradled in friendship, surrounded by temporary, new, and even some old friends. These impromptu alliances are one of the things that make the Vantasy special. While I've temporarily lost communication with some of my best friends in Portland, it's been neat to see the space they've left filled by unexpected folks. Most of these are people who I spend maybe one special day with and will probably never see again. I keep feeling like I should be getting tired of having single-serving friends like this, but there's a open-minded freedom and intimacy to these relationships that long-term friendships don't always have. We don't expect much from each other, we don't get worked up over missed phone calls, we don't really care if we have a lot in common. Our job is just simply to enjoy time together and learn about each other. We try each other's lives on for a short time and see what happens.

Gainesville

There was Brian in Madison, who invited me into his home to hang out with his roommates, watch tv, drink beer, and cuddle his dog. We bonded over our love of Vonnegut and I painted a large "asshole" for the wall in his room (read Breakfast of Champions!). In Lawrence Kansas, there was Nate, who looked like he should be a TV star and quickly introduced me to his giant group of friends. Suddenly I recognized people all over town; it was like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood all over the place. In Corning, I spent the day with Amber, who walked around the glass museum with me and made me one of the best lunches I've ever had. In Brunswick, Georgia, I met George, a civic-minded business leader who introduced himself over a beer at the bar just before he had to leave for his Republican party meeting.

Amber

It's never clear when these connections will be made, and you can't force them. They just happen naturally or they don't happen at all. They are the spice of the Vantasy.

Couchsurfers enjoying the dinner I cooked

On my last day in St. Augustine, I had $8 in my pocket, which I hoped would last me for another week. I'd spent the day knitting, reading, and writing in my van, and had taken two EXTREME walks with Ralgh around the old part of town. After a few hours hanging out in Vanta C, I started doing that thinking thing that I always seem to do. I hadn't showered in a few days, my hair was looking greasy and BAD. I started feeling ugly and boring, so I put earrings, a hat, and a dress on and decided that today I should spend a few bucks on a glass of beer and see if I could find someone to talk to before I went crazy. I tried to go to this little cafe I'd heard about, but when I got there it was empty. I didn't want to waste my money in an empty bar; it was the company I wanted, not the beer. So I went next door to a little thrift shop and tried some clothes on. After deliberating for way too long, I settled on buying a cute pair of pants for $1.99 and when I paid, the cashier said, "you are really gorgeous." I nearly wept all over myself right there, and told her how I hadn't talked to anyone all day and how I was getting depressed and somehow that was exactly what I needed to hear and thank you thank you thank you... I'm not sure why thinking that I look pretty to other people is enough to radically change my mood like that; it seems stupid and superficial, but I guess I'm not perfect.

Anyway, she told me that that evening was the town art walk, so I ended up looking through all the galleries and getting drunk on free wine. I strolled into a tattoo parlor that was filled with cool-looking people who were my own age and they threw a Natti Ice in my hand and the rest of the night was history. I'd found my crowd of single-serving friends. Total cost of the night: $1.99 for the new pants.

St. Augustine crew

For Dan

2008-12-13T08:47:00.000-08:00

I got married on June 28th, 2003 in a backyard overflowing with blooming flowers in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was 24 years old and my husband was the greatest man alive. A genius, when we met Dan had just returned from an academic trip to China and Europe, where he studied circus arts. He'd been awarded a prestigious Watson Fellowship, and used the money following all sorts of off-beat circuses around; he even started his own in Sweden. I had just returned from my study abroad trip to Sydney, still dizzy from flying halfway around the world, when we met on my first day of work at a coffee shop in Ann Arbor and talked about our love of travel in the dim pre-dawn light over the smell of fresh brewed coffee.

Dan and I had our first date on his last day working at the cafe. He taught me to juggle. From then on we spent every day together. We were in love. I remember about three weeks after we started dating we had a conversation about how neither of us believed in marriage, and that was the exact moment that I knew I was going to be his wife. A year later, we were married.

Marrying Dan was an easy decision because he was a good man. He was a domestic terrorist, doing dishes, laundry, and cooking for me. The man lived to make me happy, and I'd never known that was possible in a relationship until I met him. He taught me about generosity, how to take care of your mate. Our relationship was essentially a competition over who could be nicer, and we'd do sneaky things to win. Our friends told us that we were an example of how great a marriage could be, and we knew it was true.

I can't say enough nice things about Dan and my marriage to him, which is why our divorce after five years was so baffling. For a long time, I couldn't even give a reason for our separation. It took a lot of soul-searching to figure out what went wrong, and I think I might finally be getting to the point where I know.

Although terribly sad, our divorce was easy as divorces go; we didn't fight at all. We parted with love. Dan lives in Albuquerque now, where he studies in the graduate program in creative writing at UNM. He has sent me some of his work and I've sent him my blog postings. We were talking about once a week and I had plans to visit him in New Mexico on my way through.

Since our separation, our friendship has been delicate. There's so much pain there, and neither of us has healed completely, but it seemed like it was going to work out. Our recent conversations were full of smiles and laughter, and we both looked forward to my visit, until the last time we talked. Something happened; the conversation went south and ended in tears.

Two days ago Dan sent me an email saying he no longer wants any contact with me. He called off my visit and asked me not to call or write. Being in touch with me is too painful, he wrote, and he needs to move on with his life and find happiness.

I know that I can't force him to be my friend, and because I love him I have to respect his wishes. I just hope there comes a day when he decides that having me in his life is worth the accompanying pain. As for me, I'm desperate. I'm broken. I feel like I should fight for him, but at the same time I know that if I do things will just get worse. I suppose it's really selfish for me to think I can divorce him and then expect him to keep being my friend. I've hurt him; he's probably right to cut me off. But I'm devastated. I just love him so much and I can't believe it's come to this. He was my family.

A special moment

Dan, I respect your choice. You have to make yourself happy. I think it is brave of you to do what you need to do; it can't be easy. But, if there comes a point down the road, in one year, ten years, or twenty years, that you feel complete and healed and think, "I wonder how Eva's doing," then please know that I will be waiting for your return into my life. I'll always be in awe of you and I'll always think you are wonderful. No matter how many years pass, there will be a hole in my soul where you belong. The good thing about love, though, is that I can always love you, no matter where you are, and no matter how long it's been since we've talked. I'm honored to at least be able to do that, and you need to know that I will.

the neverending career crisis

2008-12-05T09:38:00.001-08:00

"I'm just an honest man, provide for me and mine
I give a check to tax-deductable charity organizations.
Two weeks paid vacation won't heal the damage done;
I need another one.
Still, things could be much worse:
natural disasters on the evening news.
Yep, things could be much worse;
We've still got our health, my paycheck in the mail.
I promised to my wife and children I'd never touch another drink as long as I live.
But in the end it sounds so soothing to mix a gin and sink into oblivion.
This will all blow over in time."

-Cold War Kids, We Used to Vacation

I tortured myself during my twenties, constantly looking for that golden purpose in my life. I remember thinking, "I know I'm meant to do something extraordinary, and I'm not doing it." But, agonize as I did at the time, making lists, talking to friends and Dan, reading books, I couldn't figure out what that extraordinary thing was. Up until I was in my early twenties, I had been a dancer, with the extraordinary goal of dancing on the world tours of pop stars, but after studying in Sydney, I realized that I loved dancing, but a professional life wasn't for me. I was tired of doing plies, I was tired of staring at my body in the mirror and always finding something wrong with it, I was tired of competing, competing, competing always to be the best. And I just wanted to go to happy hour instead of always being in class.

pow!

bang!

bam!

But taking myself away from my career as a dancer left a big void. It had been my identity, it had been the answer to all of my career questions for almost my whole life. I no longer had to chose between LA and New York City, and I suddenly faced a world of possibilities. I totally freaked out after a couple of years had gone by and I was working a job that I hated, making barely enough money to survive. This was not the life I was destined for. I was destined for spotlights and sequins, music and make-up. What I had were papercuts and photocopies, file folders and staff meetings in which I could barely keep my eyes open. I started dancing again, but quickly realized it wasn't the answer.

Now that I'm older, I cut myself a little more slack. I did learn that the 9 to 5 office nightmare wasn't for me, so I quit. I started waiting tables and bartending, which made me really happy, even though it still didn't get me any closer to solving my career dilemma (did it?). What it did for sure was ease my suffering and pay my bills for long enough that I was free to relax into my questions and let the answers come to me on their own time. One answer did come, clear and without debate: it was time to travel. On that day I had borne this little bouncing bundle of joy, measuring 19 and half feet long, and weighing, well, weighing a lot. I named her Vantasy.

The Vantasy hasn't solved my career crisis either. Actually, it has done sort of the opposite. When I get back to Portland I'm going to be broke, and the pressure will be on to find a job. And then I'll have to ask myself, "settle on something quick so you can pay your bills, or hold out for the dream job?" Problem is, I'm not sure what the dream job is.

I do have a clear idea of what I do want, though. I want health insurance. I want an irregular schedule, not 9-5 everyday. I prefer working less than 40 hours a week, but I'll do it for a while if I have to. I want a boss who respects me. I want to be able to see the outside, and not be locked in a concrete building all day. I want to be around people. And I want to be able to afford to live off my wages and have enough extra to save for my next adventure or for a house. I almost had all of that at the Lotus; it wasn't that bad of a gig, actually. I think I can do better, though.

Though my career questions have still not been answered, I've come to the point in my life where I've realized that it isn't what I do for a job that matters. My identity isn't based on my doing something extraordinary, it's based on who I am. Being extraordinary doesn't mean I have to be famous or rich, or in a career I've always dreamed of. I know now that it means living a life of integrity. It means living honestly, treating people well, and taking care of those around me. It means never letting fears keep me from doing something I want to do. It means challenging myself and never getting bored, but also taking joy in the routine aspects of my day. It means loving, and letting go of grudges. It means taking big courageous leaps and laughing when I fall.

I know I'm living an extraordinary life, even though I still have questions... Hmmm, maybe having questions is actually a sign of an extraordinary life.

Anyone for a drink?

Vanta C rolls on...

2008-12-04T12:16:00.000-08:00

It's tank top weather here in St. Augustine, Florida, but I was wearing a really ugly sweater and a mismatching hat at 9:00 this morning when I rolled out of bed and drove to Winn Dixie. I needed groceries, but I had a more urgent and pressing need. The same need which often lands me in grocery stores in the early morning. Let's just say that today groceries were my number two priority.

Being a regular (ha!) morning shopper these days, I've noticed something and I'd like to pass a warning on to the ladies out there in blogtown: Apparently, the morning isn't just the time for stocking at grocery stores, it's also the time for stalking. On three recent occasions, including today, I've caught men staring at me. You know the stare I'm talking about: the baby, I want you to notice me noticing you stare. It's always carried on for too long, and is usually followed by some feeble attempt at conversation like, "did you make your outfit?" or, "Do you have a business card?" This happens to me almost always in the morning, and almost always when I haven't yet brushed my teeth and my hair is sticking straight up on only one side and there are crusties in the corners of my eyes. Someone tell me, why do I always get hit on when I look like the corpse of Susan Powter? Is there something about pillow wrinkle marks on a woman's face that is irresistible to men?

These early morning grocery store pick-up attempts always result in having the opposite affect than intended. Instead of wooing me, your stares freak me out a little. Now not only do I have to poop, but I also have to watch my ass. Today I was actually followed around the store!

Gentlemen readers, if you do this in an effort to pick up women, PLEASE STOP. It's CREEPY.

Stop the insanity!

Anyway, back to the Vantasy. In the past week, things have really gotten rolling. Ralgh and I have got our adventurous spirit back and we're really enjoying our alone time. We spent a quiet Thanksgiving in Georgetown, South Carolina. I drank a glass of wine while I made lentils and wild rice with cherries, sundried tomatoes, and southern kale thrown in, with a side of kim chee on crackers. And I shared with Ralgh. We took some long walks, but it was a really quiet day since no one was downtown and my phone was turned off. On Black Friday I headed down the coast to Charleston, and then continued to Savannah, and then Brunswick Georgia and Jekyll Island. Ralgh and I have spent heaps of time on ocean beaches, walking and picking up seashells. Ralgh absolutely loves the beach, because there are a lot of really disgusting things to smell, roll in, or crunch on, and I like the salty air and rhythmic waves. I sure am going to miss the ocean on my way back across the US.

Speaking of: St. Augustine is a special place, because it is the last stop for me before I turn and start heading in the direction of home! The Vantasy is half way over. Can you believe it? At this point, I can say that I'm in a really happy place. I've sorted through quite a bit of baggage and kicked the garbage to the curb, which feels great. I've spent so much time trying to navigate emotional breakdowns in the last month, that I almost forgot that I was doing something amazing. Now that a lot of the work is done, I can just enjoy my travels, my good old dog, and my freedom. Life is beautiful. The Vantasy was my dream for a long time and I made it come true. In an apathetic world where people spend a lot of time making excuses for not being able to do what they want, this accomplishment is profound.

"It seems to me like this. It's not a terrible thing - I mean it may be terrible, but it's not damaging, it's not poisoning to do without something one really wants... What's terrible is to pretend that the second-rate is first-rate. To pretend that you don't need love when you do; or you like your work when you know quite well you're capable of better."

-Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook

the blue and the gray matter

2008-11-29T12:35:00.000-08:00

"If you gave me several million years, there would be nothing that did not grow in beauty if it were surrounded by water."

Jan Erik Vold, 1970

Air plants drip from the giant oak trees that spread out above the Savanah streets. They hang in tendrils, soaking up moisture from the air. Their abundance suggests that they are doing a good job, but my sticky skin and the formation of gills on my neckline suggest that they have a way to go before Georgia runs out of moisture. It's not hot, but my skin is vinyl on bare legs in the summer, sticking to everything, fooling me into believing that I'm sweating. Downtown Savannah is an underwater burg, where pedestrians swim instead of walking, and greet each other with drowned silences, only an Oh of bubbles escaping their parted lips as they pass each other in front of centuries old buildings.

And it's maybe just as well; there's so much to be quiet about. Plantations stand, and white tourists snapsnapflashflash photos of the darling architecture, pretending they lived in the times of southern belles and gentlemen. Beneath their feet are buried the bones of slaves, unnoticed or ignored, like the real history behind this place. I visited one such plantation, a stately old mansion built in 1740, where tours were given on the hour by a white guide. There was only one mention of slavery. No discussion, no questions, and I listened closely. I'm sure that when the tour guide stopped to take a breath, I heard a shovel slicing into the dirt, digging and burying, digging and burying.

But these are perhaps the misinterpreted observations of a mute woman. A woman who has barely spoken in four days. I'm living in my own silent world, created by me. Maybe the shovel I heard was in my own head, as I quieted the dissonance of thoughts swirling about in there, burying that urge to talk talk talk. Less talk, more action, Ms. Darling. Free yourself from the shackles of habitual thinking. Send your brain for a ride on the underground railroad. Freedom is the ultimate reward for your silence.

Last night I had nightmares about my phone. I woke, drenched, as though just pulled back into consciousness after nearly drowning, yearning to turn my phone on, just for one teensy call. I wanted to press the cold glass to my ear, feel the color return to my face as I listen to a familiar voice. I leaned over the edge of my bunk, swung my feet over, and fell off the wagon.

Damn. This is harder than I thought.

"To trace the history of a river or a raindrop…is also to trace the history of the soul, the history of the mind descending and arising in the body. In both, we constantly seek and stumble upon divinity, which like feeding the lake, and the spring becoming a waterfall, feeds, spills, falls, and feeds itself all over again."
Gretel Ehrlich (From Islands, The Universe, Home, 1991)

Rear differential

2008-11-26T16:04:00.000-08:00

call me crazy, or don't call me at all.

2008-11-26T13:51:00.000-08:00

Warning to family members: if you don't want to see a drawing of me naked, then don't look at the photo at the end of this post. On the other hand, it is just a drawing, so it might not be creepy at all. It's not like it's really me or anything!

I spent a full week of November sleeping on the floor at Cecilia's house in Corning, New York, until a blizzard came and forced me to head south. Cecilia is a perfect friend for me, because she is one of the few people who is as unique in her outlook on life as I am. We both do things that make others think we're crazy. Indeed, we both wonder if we're crazy sometimes, and at other times we just wonder if we are on the verge of it.

I met Cecilia during the brief moment that she worked at the Lotus last year. I latched on to her youthful energy and fierce bravery that bordered on stupidity (and I mean that in a good way). She was one of the friends who sprouted out of the fertile soil after I planted new seeds of friendship to help occupy the space left by my husband. Cecilia inspired me to begin knitting and commuting by bike, and gave me a bunch of new fashion ideas to exploit. I think what really connected us, though, was our thirst for adventure and constant questioning of life. We are both terrified of being boring, and we are both usually on a hill or valley of some kind of wild emotional journey.

This woman is so rad, readers, let me tell ya. Upset with the high cost of natural gas, she objected by flat out refusing to buy it for her apartment. That means she spent the entire summer without a stove and hot water. By choice. To keep from getting nasty, she improvised baths, used cold water, or even hiked it down to the city fountain. And noticing how little she kept in her fridge, she decided that it was too loud and a waste of energy, unplugged it, and turned it into a table.

If anyone else did this, I'd hazard a guess that they were out of their mind, but if you knew Cecilia, you would realize that for her, this makes perfect sense. When asked about it, she offers a completely rational response, "People don't even question why they need things. They never even consider if they can live without them. Everyone wants to be rich, but nobody asks themselves why." For a single person to burn all that energy keeping condiments and beer cold didn't make sense to her, and I can't really argue with that.

In addition to having a thoughtful brain in her skull, the woman has the Midas touch when it comes to art. She can mold any medium she chooses into something beautiful. Her knitting ability is only outdone by her ability on the potter's wheel, which is only outdone by her fabulous talent on the sewing machine, which is outdone by her jewelry-making skills, which is outdone by her drawing skills. I don't think I've ever met a more talented individual. Move your caboose, Da Vinci!

self taught

We spent the week doing yoga, chatting chatting chatting, making kim chee, visiting the glass museum, knitting, and creating fabulous little meals to share. I even got to model for her art homework! Check it out. Oh, and by the way, this is her very first drawing class!

Captured the caboose!

Quick nude study

I'd been tossing around the idea of having an iPhone fast for a few weeks, and it was Cecilia (not surprising) who finally convinced me to take the plunge. "Mail it to Dan in Albuquerque," she said. "And pick it up when you visit him, that way you won't be tempted to cheat." When I anticipated being without Google Maps, GPS, the weather, the internet, email, and texting at my fingertips, she said, "People did survive before iPhones." And with that I turned it off. But I didn't mail it to Dan. Instead I stuffed it in a drawer where I can find it if there's an emergency.

I've been phone free for two days, with a couple of surprising results. First, I don't have a clock now. Last night I found myself wondering if it was time for bed, and then the thought clocked me in the head: go to bed when you're tired! When I woke up today, my first impulse was to check the time, then I thought: get out of bed when you're not tired. It's so simple that the idea has never occured to me. I went through the whole day today not knowing what time it was. I ate when I was hungry and slept when I was tired. I have felt a little withdrawal from not having GPS, but I suppose I can't really get lost when I don't have a destination. Losing iPhone has given me my groove back.

Why did I need to turn it off? Because I was addicted. I was sleeping with the thing, waiting for it to ring. I'd wake up and check my text messages in the middle of the night. I used it as a crutch when I got bored, randomly surfing the internet. I checked the weather compulsively, and let it dictate where I was going next and when (now, when I get the urge to know the weather, I just take Ralgh outside and I suddenly know the weather!). The iPhone was my connection with Portland, and constantly having it by my side meant I was never really alone. And that's what I need right now. Time to be alone and think.

I do wish I could call Cecilia, though, and tell her how great it is to not have a phone. But that doesn't make sense, does it?

looking forward, but thinking about my rear

2008-11-25T14:53:00.000-08:00

When I bought Vanta C, I promptly enrolled in a DIY auto maintenance and repair class at the local community college. It was the perfect class for someone like me, who was afraid to reach her hands down the throat of her growling van to check the transmission fluid. The class started with the basics, how a car works, identifying major components of the internal combustion engine, and performing oil and filter changes. The class didn't result in my becoming a do-it-yourself auto mechanic, but I did learn basic vocabulary and anatomy, and I graduated with less intimidation and fear. Now I throw around words like "gravy", "aftermarket", and "drivetrain" while getting my oil changed, and I get dirty at gas stations checking fluid levels like a pro.

Today I crawled under my van to have a look at the rear axle. It's been leaking fluid for some time now, and I know I should be checking the level regularly, but it requires crawling under the van and removing a plug, so it has slipped by the wayside of my regular fluid checks. Today I woke up inspired to figure it out, and began by Googling "check rear differential fluid". Between the step by step instructions on the web and the ones in the Chilton book I have, I figured I could TOTALLY do this myself. So I got my gloves on, grabbed a shop rag, and scooted my darling little ass under the beast Vanta C. I found the plug, stopped in my tracks, and my brain took over. What if I unscrew this plug and the fluid gushes out all over the place? What if this is actually the drain plug? But no, it couldn't be, because it's on the side, not the bottom, but what if it is? Then I'll have a big mess on my hands.

So I stared at the plug. This must be the right plug, but I now feel like a chickenshit. So I decided to ignore the differential fluid and focus on breakfast (fried egg sandwich and tea).

Being on the Vantasy means uncertainty, and I am drowning in a broth of it. It's a nonstop barrage of choices, from the teeny-tiny to the mega. I'm standing in a malfunctioning batting cage, swinging as fast as I can, and the decisions keep flying at my head faster and faster. Think about how many choices you make in a day, whether or not to hit snooze, what to wear, coffee or tea, brush your teeth first or put deodorant on first, the red scarf, yes, the red scarf... The average person makes hundreds of choices before noon. But imagine how many more choices are involved when your house moves each day, when there is no forgone conclusion that work starts at 9:00am. Each day, I ask myself when I should leave, where I should go. At first it was fun, but now that the novelty has worn off, I'm suddenly unable to decide what's next. Don't get me wrong, I love being in control of my life, but it's almost like there are too many possibilities. I have more freedom than I know what to do with. Sometimes a little restriction can be helpful, acting as a guide, like the barrel of a gun guiding a bullet toward a target. Without the barrel, the bullet would just fly off in any old direction and we could have another Cheney hunting mishap on our hands.

I've been really stupid about making decisions the last few weeks. I wake up and decide to stay, then a few hours later think that maybe I need to go. I decide to head south to Baltimore, but then on the way to Baltimore end up stopping in Harrisburg and deciding to spend the night there, and then while I'm there I decide not to go to Baltimore at all but instead to visit my cousin in Philly, second guessing my choice all the while. So, I've come to this point wherein I agonize over these decisions because none appear better than any other, and before I know it I'm a big ol' stresscase and things are much more complicated than they needed to be.

Yesterday I was tumbling into a downward spiral of crazy head over my choices, so I called Cecilia. There's so much to say about her that she's going to get her own post, so for now I'll just mention that her advice weighs heavily in my thoughts and decisions. Anyway, we came to the conclusion that certainty is an illusion. Just before I left for my Vantasy, someone told me, "You picked the wrong time for a road trip; gas is going to kill you." Meaning that I could have maybe made a better choice about when to leave. Turns out this was the perfect time to take this trip, as now I'm paying $1.78 a gallon. What I mean is: I can make a decision to drive south, and then a bridge could be out, forcing me to head east. I can make a decision to pull the plug and check my differential fluid, but I have no say in whether the fluid will shoot out all over my face. I can decide to start a relationship, or end a relationship, but I have little control over who I love or who loves me.

We're raised to be aware of the consequences of our actions, which I think is good. But letting go of the constant need to be in control of outcomes is even better. Choices don't need to weigh as much as I allow them to. I've been feeding all my choices Big Macs, Cokes, and cans of Crisco with all this agonizing I've been doing. I need to let them starve, survival of the fittest, I say. I need to sit back and ride the coattails of this journey and give up trying to control it. And I'm going to start by throwing caution to the wind and checking that rear differential fluid!

Dear John

2008-11-21T08:19:00.000-08:00

Family time is usually challenging for me. I grew up in the cornfields in a big, evolving family of siblings, half-siblings, step-siblings, temporarily adopted siblings, parents, and step-parents. Sometimes I think I grew up in a family of black sheep, and if that's true than I'm not black at all, but sparkly rainbow-colored. When I graduated college, I saw no place for me here in Michigan, and even though I love my family, I had to leave. I'm not sure if it happened in high school, college, or after I left, but we drifted apart. Physically and emotionally.

I can blame politics for at least some of the distance. Politically, I'm so far to the left that it takes binoculars to even see my right-leaning family. To the horror of my mom, I became a vegetarian at age 17, then I voted for Clinton, then I studied feminism, then I started traveling and there was really no turning back. I had become a damned liberal. And I had the distinct impression that my family was personally insulted by my political views. We tried just not talking about politics when we were together, but it's become more and more difficult. The personal is political, and politics have a way of creeping into even the most innocuous conversations. We could be talking about salad, then about produce prices, then suddenly about immigration and NAFTA, and our safe little salad discussion has gone the way of last week's lettuce: bitter.

So, what do I do? I visit two weeks before a major election. Way to go, Eva. Never can do things the easy way. I knew it would be hard, but I thought we should just let shit hit the fan and then get the hell over it already.

But I have to take at least a little responsibility here. I moved away, and haven't done a stellar job of keeping in contact. As a result, I think maybe I've let my family cease to know the real me. Instead, they know me mostly by various aspects of my identity: as a liberal, as a traveler, as someone who's eccentric. I've let them forget that I'm just a boring old midwestern gal who likes casseroles with mysterious ingredients, watching home decorating shows on HGTV, and hates shopping for jeans. It's my job to keep in constant contact, to call or write them each week and talk about whatever is going on in our lives. Maybe if I did that, they wouldn't see me first as a straight-ticket socialist liberal. Maybe they'd just see Eva, the girl who dances to Tori Amos in her underwear and socks in her living room in the evenings, and who likes to make poop and fart jokes.

When I'm alienated from my family, there's a deficiency in my emotional self. I'd go as far as saying that even a dysfunctional relationship with a family member is better than the absence of one. Family ties are something I can't do without. They are the B vitamins of my life. If I don't have them, I might still survive, but living just won't have that healthy glow that it could have. My siblings and my parents are my history, and I want them to also be my present and my future. Relationships don't grow themselves, so I gotta get my ass out into that garden and start weeding and hoeing. I start today by writing a letter to my brother, John.

John is sixteen months older than me and probably about sixteen times more of a believer in justice and fairness. Hardly seems possible, I know. He is sensitive and thoughtful, endlessly honest, and funny without even trying. When he smiles, his grin conquers his face, an army of teeth lined up, doing battle against foul moods everywhere. When the four of us kids were little, John provided nonstop entertainment. Once, he took a trip to the bathroom in a restaurant and didn't come back. We found him sharing a table with an old man he'd befriended on his way back from the bathroom, eating ice cream. John could talk to anyone.

Now, my big brother is married and has a three year old daughter. He is currently in Iraq, on his second tour there with the US Army. I don't like him being there. I have disagreed with this war for a long time, but for the past three years it's been personal as well as political. I want John home safe. Not only physically safe, but emotionally safe. I want his brain to be okay after seeing what he's seen. We don't talk much, and I think a lot of it has to do with our political differences. I find it most difficult to talk to him, though, because I'm terrified. When we don't talk, it's easier for me to pretend that he's just in Texas with his family, and I don't have to face the fact that he's in danger. I can't come to terms with the risk he's taking, can't even begin to accept the reality of it, because I'm in such strong disagreement, but also because it's just too scary to imagine something terrible happening to him.

Breaks my heart

On the flip side, I do respect his decisions. He's the only one who knows how to make himself happy, and I applaud that he has the courage to do that. I would never suggest that he's made the wrong choices in his life, even though they're so different than the choices I'd make for myself. It's a tough job to transcend our differences, but I think we have enough love there to do it. I realize now that this starts with me.

Ode to the Furnace

2008-11-15T10:27:00.000-08:00

Though it's decidedly time to head south, following the birds to warmer lands, I have one more friend to visit, who lives in Corning, New York. I wave goodbye to Michigan and hello to the Buckeye State, planning to make my way through Amish country and Pennsylvania forests to New York, stopping to visit my Aunt and Uncle at their home near Cleveland.

Fam Damily

After a night with my family, I roll eastward toward Corning, NY, the cold settles in. I drive through rural Pennsylvania, edging along the Allegheny National Forest, winding along through the trees until I come to Oil City, where I decide to park for the night. Oil City is a cute, but depressed-looking little place. It's a picture perfect northeastern industry town, but unsure of what it will become now that industry is heading south.

I find a darling street and park in front of an apartment building, but it's cold. And since I have nowhere to plug in my van, I have no electricity, which means no heat. I bundle up in my hat, scarf, and mittens. I make pot after pot of hot tea, but no matter what I do, my fingers and toes remain numb. The blanket of night envelopes the town, but instead of insulating us, the dark brings a chill. I check the thermometer: 29 degrees.

At 8:30 I can take it no more. Even though it's dark, and even though it's late, I lock down Vanta C, look at my map, and decide to drive further. It's the only way to get warm. I determine that this is insane, and I need to find a campground so I can plug in. I drive and drive, turning down deserted roads to follow signs promising RV parks, but they are all either non-existent or closed for the season. After a few hours, I get to Warren, where I fill up a hot water bottle for my sleeping bag and bury myself inside, still wearing my hat and scarf, and then I go to sleep.

The next day, a snowstorm hits, and I decide to make it to Corning, where electricity awaits, as fast as I can. Still, numb in the fingers and toes, I maneuver Vanta C through the snow, into New York. I haven't brushed my teeth in two days, because I can't bear to touch the freezing cold water which pours from the faucet of Vanta C, and I certainly haven't changed my clothes. After two days with no heat in weather that's below freezing, I make it to Corning. I'm a day early, and my friend is nowhere to be found. I try to boil more water, but my stove suddenly doesn't work. Shit. I'm out of propane. It's a Sunday night, nowhere to get any until tomorrow, and I think I'm starting to lose my mind from this cold. It's inescapable. I can't take it anymore. I'm hungry, but I can't cook anything. I can't drive anymore. Even if I find electricty, I can't run my furnace because it also needs propane. I really think I'm losing my mind from two days of being inescapably frozen.

Pretty, but effing cold.

I call mom and burst into tears as soon as she answers the phone. She, who, unlike me, has heat and therefore still has her wits about her, comes to the obvious conclusion that tonight will be a hotel night for me and Ralgh. Mercifully, she stayed on the phone with me through my breakdown, directing me through Corning to a cheap-ish motel. In an hour or so, I'm soaking in a hot bath, puffy-eyed and weary, but cheering up.

No news here: people need shelter from extreme temperatures. What I find poignant, though, is how little time it took for an already emotionally worn down Eva to completely lose her shit. I knew it would be uncomfortable to be cold for a couple of days, but I didn't think it had the power to turn me into a useless, quivering mess with furry teeth and dirty underwear so fast. I guess I'm not quite as hardcore as I thought. I want to go home.

But, dammit, I'm not going to.

Pussy Present

2008-11-10T17:29:00.000-08:00

I sit at the kitchen table of the house in which I grew up, now owned by my brother and his wife. Their daughter, Lauren now sleeps in my old bedroom. There have been a lot of changes around here since I lived here last, in the summer of 1998, but the place still feels the same. Bucolic, safe, quiet. Horses live across the street, deer graze the yard in the morning, stars shine in milky formations and in astonishing numbers on clear nights. The house sits on a small hill on a private drive at the dead end of a long dirt road, seven miles outside of town.

Home

Between paragraphs typed here at the kitchen table, I steal glances of the family cat, called Mama Kitty, who is killing a bird in the front yard. A Tufted Titmouse? No, it's not that big. Must be a finch of some sort. I used to be able to name nearly all the species of bird which live nearby, due to a short infatuation with the feeder birds that frequented our back deck. I'd sit in front of the big glass door with a glossy, photo-filled bird identification book and my cat, Hershey, in my lap. We'd gaze out the window, mentally cataloguing the Goldfinches, Red-headed Woodpeckers, Sparrows, Mourning Doves, Purple Finches, Robins, Blue Jays, Black-capped Chickadees, the occasional red Cardinal: state bird of Ohio.

Mama Kitty disables the creature, places it on the ground, and watches it intently, her neck flexed, swanlike, paw lifted, ready to strike a final blow. "Put the poor bird of its misery, kitty." I plead in my mind, empathetic, but secretly proud of the cat. She's a stellar example of existential purity, fully owning her cat-ness: cuddly and purring one minute, instinctual National Geographic huntress the next. She never second-guesses her purpose in life. She is here simply to exist. She's present to each moment, a stranger to generalized anxiety, phobias, depression, quarterlife crises, midlife crises, latelife crises, career crises, marraige meltdown crises, economic crises. No one ever told her that fortyisthenewtwenty, or pressured her into learning the six new abdominal exercises that will have her looking good in a bikini by summer, and she wouldn't care if someone did. She feels no guilt, not even for a second, as the finch's heart beats its last beats tha-thump, tha-thump, fight, flight, fight, flight, tha-thump, thump... thump. Euthanasia is a foreign concept, absurd. The cat grows bored and pads away from the bird, leaving it to die in the yard.

I suddenly realize the absurdity of asking myself overandoverandover Who Am I? Who Am I? Who Am I? Tha-thump, tha-thump, fight flight, fight flight. When I take away the things I rely on for an identity, things like clothes, lovers, my hair, my job, my friends, my music... what's left? I'm not my past, not my future, not my partner, not my job, not my body. I'm not the things I do, I'm not the people I know, I'm not my Vantasy, I'm not Mama Kitty, I'm not the dying bird. Strip away all the distractions and there's just me, naked, invisible, dancing, loving, sobbing, terrified, intoxicated with life. And when my heart tha-thumps its last thump, this is all that I will be.

This realization has left me feeling very, very alone. I've spent the last four days sobbing in Vanta C, reflecting on the life I left in Portland, amazed at how easily we move on. So quickly we adjust to vacancies in our lives! It's humbling to know that life goes on at home without me, and unnerving that I've found it so easy to leave that life behind. I suppose the ease with which we move on is further proof that we are not our distractions, our jobs, or our loved ones. We are inherently alone, no matter what we do to keep ourselves occupied. I've spent a lot of time in the last two years keeping myself occupied. Now that I've taken away the distractions, the silence and solitude intimidate me. I'm terrified to be present to myself and my emotions, but refuse to let fear keep me from going there.

So, I take a deep breath, close my laptop, and go outside, where I find Mama Kitty curled up, sleeping. "It's really not so bad, is it?" I ask her, and she arches up, purring as I scratch behind her ears.

Something to keep you happy

2008-11-07T19:00:00.000-08:00

I'd originally had the feeling that my time in Michigan would be a hiatus from my "real" Vantasy. I felt that it wouldn't really count, because it would be easy. I'd get showers, I'd have electricity, I'd have ample time to work on Vanta C's imperfections, I'd eat baked dinners. I figured I wouldn't blog much, because I just wouldn't have much to say.

And I haven't done much writing, but not because I've had nothing to say. It's... It's that I've had too much to say. Too many idea cattle have been stampeding my brain and I can't seem to catch even one in my verbal lasso, let alone name it, let alone tame it.

So, while I work on my next entry, which will be an inside look at last week's emotional breakdown, you fine folks can check out my progress!

I haven't added all of the pictures yet, but it's a good start.

Tonight I sleep in Ann Arbor, and leave Michigan and my family tomorrow to continue my great journey.

Onward and forward,
Eva

Memory Ln

2008-10-21T12:37:00.000-07:00

One of the benefits of having a van as a home is that I get to live in all the neighborhoods I'd otherwise never dream of living in. My backyards are glistening lakes, my front yards are national forests. I owned a cozy home in downtown Chicago, I lived walking distance to Chatauqua Park in Boulder, on "The Hill" overlooking the University. I park in all the best neighborhoods, on all the best streets.

The view out my front door of my "van down by the river"

View from my bedroom off "Willy St" in Madison

My backyard in Lake Lahontan, Nevada

This week I parked on Memory Lane. I spent a week in my college town, Ann Arbor, walking the tree-lined streets and breathing the autumn air. I haunted my old life, jogging past my old houses, my old dorm, my old job. All inhabited by new souls, unfeeling, unaware of the history they were burying. My history.

"I used to run this store," I mentioned to the barista working behind the counter of the coffee shop I managed back in 2003. The monster of a cafe that ate up all my time that year, that clawed its way into my dreams for months after I quit, that I kept me up into the wee hours on a twelve foot ladder, painting the walls, the monster that shook me awake at 5:30am, tearing me out of my warm bed to go mop up two inches of water that covered half of the floor. This was the place where I met my husband, where we flirted for the first time over giant pots of brewed Tanzanian Peaberry, the place where I was forced to fire my friends, the snarling beast of a coffee shop where I fixed espresso machines, cleaned refrigerators, plunged toilets, repaired tables and chairs, balanced budgets, cried, fought, and laughed.

Nearly every day, I walked in the early morning darkness, arriving before dawn to try to tame this behemoth, the largest store in the corporation. After a year, I hung my head in defeat, dropped my sword and walked away, avoiding the bridges I had burned along the way.

And now? I'm completely disregarded by this punkass barista who doesn't know that he's walking on the floor I mopped, MY floor! He fails to realize that his job is built upon the legacy I left. I could work circles around him on that espresso machine, and do it with style. He didn't care. The bastard charged me full price. Of course he did. And he didn't even bow to me or anything. Kids these days. No respect, I tell you.

So I paid for my latte (mediocre), and walked past the studying college students. I was a college student once too, I wanted to tell them. I went to Michigan too, and studied at these tables while you were still in elementary school. You didn't write the book, you know. What about my history? I'm back here in this place, invisible, and nothing is the same. My friends are gone. I've moved on. Now you kids are taking over with your own stories, and they're probably better than mine. But what about MY past?

Maybe I am a ghost, doomed to haunt my own yesteryear forever. Maybe I died in a van accident on the way to Ann Arbor and haven't realized it yet. Maybe I'm not really even here. Maybe this is one of those dreams, the kind you vainly try to recreate for a friend, who struggles to keep her eyes from glazing over as you speak. "I was in my old dance studio, only it wasn't really my dance studio, it was different, and everybody was older and fatter, and no one could hear me when I spoke, and I tried to do a leap but my body was a marionette and responded with an awkward delay, and my dance teacher cried, and then I looked down and realized I was naked."

Navigating my past as an adult has helped me wrap my mind around reconciling the child I was with the woman I've become. When I set out on this trip, I did so with the intention of figuring out Who I Am. I think part of that is revisiting my past, owning that it's a piece of the puzzle that is Eva Darling, and then letting it Rest In Peace. I'm a sentimental gal, and recognizing that the golden years are dead and gone allows me to let go of them, honor them, and promptly get to work creating new golden years. Seeing who I was and where I've been fills in part of the story, but releasing the ghost of my past from purgatory leaves me with a blank page on which to start a new chapter. Where will this woman go next, and what will her values be? Who will she love? Which talents will she discover in herself? What will her weaknesses be? But the most terrifying question, the one I'm not quite ready to answer, is, who am I at this very minute?

"The past is a ghost, the future is a dream, and all we ever have is now."

-Bill Cosby

If you could read my mind love, what a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie, 'bout a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong, with chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me.
And I will never be set free as long as I'm a ghost that you can't see.
-Gordon Lightfoot

A special diversion

2008-10-14T16:23:00.001-07:00

Shittiest neighborhood I've seen so far. Vanta C and I were scared, but it was worth the effort. Can you guess where it is?

Ghetto!

Triple check that the doors are locked!

Boarded up windows! Vampires must live here.

Give up? The house you're looking at is the childhood home of Michael Jackson. 2300 Jackson St., Gary, Indiana.

Chi-town

2008-10-11T15:17:00.001-07:00

Many times over I've seen Chicago referred to as Chi-town, but only in print, which leaves me to wonder how, exactly, one would pronounce the cool moniker. Am I supposed to say it like Chee-town, as in the place where Cheetos are made and consumed, and everyone has orange fingers? Or is it Shi-town, like dirty, cow-smelling funky shit-town? Is it Chai-town, the town full of spicy sweet indian tea, or Shy-town, a blushing child of a city hiding behind New York's pantleg?

Not knowing how to pronounce the cool nickname of the greatest mid-western city leaves me to my imagination. As an ex-enthusiast of the discipline of Feng Shui, I think first about the energy, or chi, of the city. I remember reading books about the ideal movement of chi throughout a home, achieved by placing plants in corners, draping cloths over edges of hard furniture, and combining soft curves with severe angles in decorating. The idea is to bring opposing forces of energy, the yin and the yang, into balance so Joe Homeowner can lead a happy and productive life. Here in the windy city, overwhelmed by hard, sooty buildings, pewter sidewalks, metal grates in the ground, and severe grey clouds, an anxious energy dominates. Trains rumble overhead, asphalt cracks underneath, drivers honk horns and gnash teeth, cyclists ignore red lights, and joggers pound the cement while their faces drop, frowning. And the wind, always the wind. Inescapable, it blows the chi around corners, shaking dry leaves from trees and sending a chatter through the bones of the good people of this town.

Countering the hard, anxious chi of the city are the feminine curves of Lake Michigan, to the east. The great lake thrusts her smooth hip into city center, forcing people to turn their steering wheels and soften their gazes. Folks living near the water gently exhale ohhhhhhmm as they stroll the lakefront trail; their hair curls at the ends, and ivy grows up the sides of buildings, cushioning the hard corners. Also, there are the women, my best girls from this life, Sarah and Dannielle. Two installations, artists creating masterpieces out of themselves. Women made of clay, molding their lives according to their own desires. Capable fingers eschewing expectations, creating warm homes and meaningful lives in spite of the hard push of the city. We drink wine together, smile, laugh, swirl our glasses, love each other. These two women balance the chi in Chi-town. They are idealistic, they are beautiful, they are apples in cheeks, they are cinnamon buns fresh from the oven. They are woolen sweaters: practical, comfortable, cozy. They are silk gowns: beautiful and elegant.

Dannielle is Atlas. Strong beyond belief, an articulate genius of a woman holding her world on her shoulders. Her words hit me like a right hook, knocking my jaw open almost every time we talk. Dannielle was the first person I met when I went to college. I saw her in the dorm bathroom, invited her over for Cocoa Puffs. She counseled me through my first real breakup, when I couldn't eat for weeks. Junior year we stole all the dry-erase markers off the doors in our old residence hall, laughing heartily, stoned off each other's company. We spent weeks on end together through senior year, until spring when I moved to Sydney and she took off to Morocco for the Peace Corps. When I describe Dannielle to my friends, I say that she's the only woman who ever broke my heart. I am in love with this woman, and it kills me that we can't be together like we used to be.

I've known Sarah since we were ten years old. It's been my honor to watch her transform herself into a woman. She knows herself better than anyone I know, but she hasn't always. I've seen her sway under pressure from her parents, then calmly consider the facts, anchoring herself against all currents. Sarah is a decisive, classy armadillo in cashmere. She grew up privileged, but never wears it on her sleeve. She's solid, reliable, independent, thoughtful, and always unabashedly Sarah. And she always looks like a million bucks with her timeless fashion sense, perfect hair, and porcelain skin. It's a pleasure to know her as a woman, but also to remember her as a girl. She taught me to drink coffee (Sarah, I owe this addiction to you!), and we giggled the nights away playing chess and dreaming of marrying MTV veejay Steve Isaacs. We were together when we found out that Kurt Cobain died, and we are together now, helping each other be great women. She has been the most constant friend in my life, threading her color through my existence.

Sarah, Me, Dannielle

Chicago is a fine city, but unremarkable. To me, a depressed, segregated, tree-less, midwestern shit-town were it not for my two best girls. But because they are here, I'll always long for Chicago. In my mind's eye, Chi-town will always be a warm place. A place where my love swirls like steam escaping a hot Chai. A bustling, glorious, fabulous She-town.

a day in the life of

2008-10-11T15:15:00.000-07:00

When I set off on my Vantasy, about eight million people suggested that I read two books: Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck, and On the Road by Jack Kerouak. I've been supplied with these books and have read them both. Good reading. I agree that they should be required reading for someone like me taking a trip like the Vantasy. But I didn't find exactly what I was looking for between the covers. What I was looking for in these books was insider secrets. I wanted Steinbeck to tell me what to expect when traveling with a big old dog. I wanted secrets on where to park and how to find free stuff. I wanted to know how they ate, where they shat, and how they dealt with leaving behind loved ones.

Of course, these practical aspects of traveling make for dry writing, and probably the average person doesn't care about such details. But maybe you do, dear readers, so I'm going to dedicate this entry to the overlooked, everyday details of survival in a van.

Overnight Parking: I learned early on this trip that if I even have any tiny doubt in my mind as to the safety of a parking spot, I have to move because I will never be able to sleep there. I've learned to find free campgrounds, park in residential neighborhoods (but in front of churches or buildings, not directly in front of someone's house), camp in the occasional Wal-mart parking lot, sometimes use truck stops, and very, very rarely pay for a kampsite with water and electricity. I sleep in the small loft above the driver's seat, and Ralgh sleeps on the bench below me. I keep my keys handy in the night in case I have to move quickly, but I doubt that will ever happen.

Domestic Life: Vanta C has a twenty gallon water tank, which supplies my sink, toilet, and shower. If I fill it up I can get about two showers, plus two to three days of flushing toilets and washing dishes. When I decide I want a shower, I light my water heater, wait an hour, get nekkid and sit in the tiny tub near the back of Vanta C. Then I quickly get wet, turn the water off while I soap up, then quickly rinse. It's not a relaxing or warm experience, but my pink bits and head get clean! Between the shower days, I use wet wipes. It's all very glam. So far I've managed to find places to fill my water tank for free and dump my gray (shower and sink) and black (toilet) water for free, but if I'm ever in a pinch I can pay a campground to let me do these things.

I have a broken refrigerator, which I use as an icebox. It works pretty well, but I have to buy bagged ice about every two to three days, which is kinda a pain. I also have a two-burner propane stove, so I cook simple meals which are usually rice or noodle-based. In the mornings I almost always drink instant coffee and eat instant oatmeal. And I try to buy and eat at least one fresh vegetable or fruit every day. My favorite van foods so far are sardines, avocadoes, dried nori seaweed rolled up and eaten plain, fried egg sandwiches, pop tarts (really!), beans and rice, and pre-made boil-in-bag Indian food meals. Van-tasty!

Exercise: Ralgh and I go on runs together almost every morning. We were both new to running when the Vantasy began, so we started slow, running for one minute, then walking for thirty seconds. Now we are up to running in ten minute blocks, but I'm usually dragging him along by the end. He needs to work on his pace; he always starts out too enthusiastically, then he's pooped by the end! After the run I try to do some yoga, but this really depends on where I've parked. And I also ride my bike almost every day.

Budget: Having not saved as much as I initially wanted for my Vantasy, I live by a really tight budget. I paid all of my bills before I left for the trip, health insurance, car insurance, iPhone, and student loans, which left me a laughingly small sum for the rest of my trip. With that money, I set aside $3000 for gas, and the rest for everything else, including the costs of resettling when this is all done. So the budget I created leaves $500 per month for gas and $300 per month for everything else. I came pretty close in September, but didn't quite make it. It's hard to live on $10 a day and still have amazing fun with people and feed yourself. I'm going to try and find a little paid work in my homeland, Michigan, this month. Still trying to decide if I should just get a normal job and quit in an abnormally short amount of time, or be honest with folks upfront at the risk of not being hired for anything. Meanwhile, I'm all over Craigslist looking for general labor stuff like raking leaves for old people.

Love: The Vantasy is a celibate trip. I don't want to hump my way across the US, and honestly this trip was about being alone with Eva. I've learned since my divorce that I've been really bad at being single. I want a mate so badly, but I need to be okay with flying solo. I need to love being alone. When this trip is over, I will be able to enter into a relationship confidently, and not because I need the company. My head will be clear, and hopefully clutter-free. Until then, I get all my cuddles from Ralgh, and I kiss him all over his face every day. Lucky dog!

Journey: I wake up every day and decide where to go, or if I want to stay. I have difficulty sticking to any plans beyond today. I listen to my gut. If it says "time to go," I lock down Vanta C, pick a place on the map, and drive there. I take side roads and avoid interstates if I can. Usually I don't drive for more than three hours in any given day. I meander across the country freely. It's an amazing thing to be able to this in my own time. Lucky me!

Secrets and lies

2008-10-07T12:10:00.000-07:00

I hate secrets. Even cute ones. To see two lovers or friends whisper in each other's ear irks me. What's the big mystery? Why can't you tell me? I empathize with the fifth grade teacher, "Would you two like to share that with the rest of the class?" I guess that probably stems from my very human need to belong. But there's more than that. I think secrets bother me because they are one step away from lies. Withholding information, making shit up, and embellishing stories are all on the continuum of lying, and I've always had a problem with lying. The values of honesty, justice, righteousness and integrity are so instilled in me that I've just always been incapable of it.

On some level, I think that everything that I do, even the things which could be considered "bad" are just human, natural, and excusable, so there's really no need to lie. I generally believe we people are a bit too secretive. We are a guilty, guilty culture, living hedonistically then punishing ourselves for it. We extol personal freedom while judging others for exercising it. Then we keep secrets in order to avoid being judged for something we did, didn't do, said, or didn't say, laid or didn't lay. Even the "bad" things we do have their place among an imperfect people. Problem is, we think we're perfect, that our friends and family need us to be perfect (maybe they do), so we lie about who we really are and what we are doing.

I've been toiling with this dilemma all week. After rolling half-way across the country, I've managed to hand out a big stack of business cards directing people to read my travel blog. Friends, family, acquaintances, lovers, ex-lovers, bosses, ex-bosses, future bosses, strangers, and probably Michael Jackson are reading the accounts of my travels. How, as a writer, do I frame my experiences in a way that can be digested by such a broad audience? Furthermore, how can I relay the bizarre and beautiful events of my trip without betraying the trust of someone along the way? I'm an idealistic gal, and I believe in honesty. I believe in owning my experiences, including my mistakes. I believe in loving those "whoopsies" as a part of being an idiot human being. It's funny after all, the crazy things we imperfect people do.

What's not funny, though, is hurting people. Or airing someone else's secrets inadvertently by airing my own. And therein lay the issue, my friends. This past week was a doozie. One that would make for good writing in an anonymous world. What's worse, given my lack of shame I think I could write it well. Even worse than that is that I have a burning need to get this week and the accompanying thoughts all over paper like meat juice at a butcher shop. I'm not a good secret-keeper because I'm not a good lier. But I have no choice. I have to be like Oprah and go with my gut. I have to be like the LA police and protect the innocent. I have to be like Bill Clinton and say "I did not have sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky."

The only thing that brings me peace in this is the knowledge that the future is coming, and with it will be the ubiquitous hindsight that makes everyone see things so much more rationally. This will all one day, folks, be in the past. The past is fair game, and when my trip is finished I'm going to write the shit out of this week with a cool detachment. And y'all will eat it up, I swear. And everyone will smile, saying, "Eva, you are out of your mind and that's why we love you!" And then we'll toast our wine glasses high and sip gratuitously, laughing at our good fortunes. And our hearts will meet, and we won't need secrets because we'll all be free and in love.

Madison, WI

2008-10-05T17:43:00.000-07:00

Today I'm sad

2008-09-30T18:10:00.000-07:00

Today I'm sad. Having my first real bout of homesickness.

I'm spending all of my money. I'm isolating myself from people I love. I want to go to brunch at the Screen Door; have a frittata and a Spanish coffee. I wish I had a job. I miss knowing my way around town and smiling at familiar faces. I miss sweating at Julie's Jazzercise class with Trina. Yes, I said Jazzercise!

I miss having a drink with Kyle at Veritable Quandary after work. I miss riding my bike all around town and building my fixed-gear.

I miss the people I love. I miss my mates. I miss having a working refrigerator and a shower I can stand up in. I miss pizza any night of the week. I miss watching videos on my couch. I miss the brunches. God, I miss the long, luxurious brunches followed by long, luxurious naps.

I miss the coffee breaks with my friends, and karaoke with my workmates. I miss Heidi at Ralgh's store MEAT across the street from my house. I even miss the cranky Portland hip kids.

And I want a kitten. And I can't get a kitten until I have a home and a job.

I miss my bed. And I miss having a man in my bed.

Today's a day for missing things. Don't worry about me, though. I'll be better tomorrow.

Fingertips

2008-09-27T09:34:00.000-07:00

Left Pinkie:

Saw a cyclist three times over three days on my drive through Kansas. Thought about offering him a ride, but then changed my mind because I figured he was probably cycling across Kansas because he wanted to.

Ex-wedding band finger:

Ralgh and I stopped to watch two squirrels chase each other. You know how they jump from tree to tree and you're always amazed that they don't fall? Well, today I saw one fall... like fifteen feet. Thud! Then it got up and scurried away. I hope it's okay. Dillon and I talked about squirrels. We realized that no one has ever seen one poop. I think it's because people are always looking at their nuts.

Pooping?

Finger I sprained during the 2006 Portland Trailblazer Jam Squad audition:

Woke up this morning with a few slices of cinnamon raisin bread, wrapped in cellophane, left on my windshield by the woman who lives in the house in front of which I parked (is that a real sentence?). What a delight!

Surprise bread!

Left finger that should never be aimed by a polite person at another person:

Saw the above cyclist a third time in Beloit, Kansas while riding my bike. I excitedly forced him to talk to me and we spent the evening rolling around Beloit on our bikes and then eating dinner at the only restaurant we found. Kurt was battling the Kansas wind, cycling from Boulder, CO to Salina, KS for a sustainable agriculture conference. Thanks for the evening and dinner, Kurt!

Right index:

A bee crash-landed on my chest and fell down my cleavage (I know! I have cleavage! I was a surprised as you are). In a panic, not wanting to be stung, I yanked my shirt down and brushed the bee away, flashing the entire downtown of Beloit in a girls gone wild moment. Burning Man is over, Eva Darling; keep your clothes on please!

The bird:

I discoverd a litter of kittens in an abandoned building on the river in Beloit. Came really close to adopting the curious one, then considered the potential of keeping a litter box in Vanta C. Regrettably decided against adopting the kitten.

Useless right hand finger:

Watched the debate at an Obama party in Lawrence, Kansas. There were two hundred supporters there and we had a raucous time. I thought McCain did an good job, but did he have to be so cranky and condescending? And the jokes... was that a bestiality joke? I am in love with Obama. have been since 2004. Have never been attracted to a president before. I want to cuddle with him and then watch him make universal health care a reality. *sigh*

Lawrence!

Tea-drinking pinkie:

My favorite graffiti so far. Clever. It's Kansas. Get it? Wizard of Oz?

Awesome Kansas Wizard of Oz Graffiti

no words necessary

2008-09-26T17:23:00.000-07:00

No words necessary for this momentous moment!

Balls!

Terror... or SURPRISE?

2008-09-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

There are two games which I credit to my friend Ainsley and play repeatedly on my Vantasy. The first one is putting the word "anal" before the names of cars (Mom, you drive an Anal Charger! See, it's funny!). Since I'm rolling with lots of RVers, I also play this game with RV names (Anal Bounder, Anal Legacy, Anal Raptor). Endless fun. Another game Ainsley and I played for a bit was a word substitution game in which we traded the word "surprise" for the word "terror" in sentences. Instead of having a surprise party, you have a terror party. Instead of living in terror, you live in surprise! While this game doesn't have the instant appeal that the anal game has (!), I play it all the time while driving Vanta C.

For instance, I was going to start my blog by saying that the thing I like about traveling is that each day is a surprise. And I thought for a minute about how fitting the word terror would be in this sentence. I guess I know I'm really living when each day has an element of both. Traveling is great that way. The uncertainty I wake up with each day can be terrifying, the connections I make surprising, and vice versa. Occasionally I still get terrified in the night after hearing an unidentified noise which usually turns out to be Ralgh, and we are still surprised by the serendipitous way our days unfold.

On Monday night, Ralgh woke me up every hour and a half to go outside with diarrhea. At 3:30am he threw up. I hear him whine and know that the situation is emergent; I have little time. Like a fireman (or firebitch!), I jump off my loft, get dressed, and take him out, watching him hunch uncomfortably. I know he's not feeling good, but it's nearly four in the morning and I'm on Highway 36 in Kansas. The nearest town with a vet is over an hour away. So I called the emergency hospital in Portland, the ones who took care of Ralgh when that mean dog bit his ear last year. They told me to stay with him, give him water, and take him to the vet in the morning.

That's how I ended up spending the day in St. Frances, Kansas. As we waited for Ralgh's guts to chillax, I knitted, read, and window-shopped main street. I wanted to check out the thrift store, which was run by the old ladies of the town Methodist church. It was closed! Dammit! But all the lights were on so I pressed my face to the window to see what kind of place it was. Then I saw Sherry, who waved me in. She said that the store was closed, but since she was there working it would be fine for me to look around and buy stuff. Folks, this was the greatest thrift store I've seen in years. This is a thrift store where you can walk out with a bag full of things for five dollars, in a town where drivers wave at you when your cars pass each other. It just had really unique stuff, it wasn't picked over by the hip city kids, and I had the whole place to myself. I found vintage aprons for fifty cents, thermoses, craft supplies and fabric, jewelry, and it was all special. I spent three dollars, then I asked if I could help. The next thing I knew I was vacuuming the floor.

Protein!

Here's where it gets awesome: the other job they needed help with was taking their overstock (fourteen garbage bags full of summer clothes) across the state to be donated to Goodwill. They said they would have to rent a truck, so I offered to drop them off myself, since I was going that way. So, here was the surprise of yesterday afternoon! Between Ralgh's frequent walks, I rummaged through bags of clothing, trying stuff on, saving what I liked, and laughing at what I didn't. I brought the thrift store to my van!

Bags Bags Bags

Ralgh seems to be doing a little better. The vet has him on a diet of cottage cheese mixed with cooked rice, which he loves. This morning I joined him and we both had the "white surprise" for breakfast. Last night he only woke me up twice, and I think we're going to get on the road again today. After all, I have to drop those terrifying clothes off at the Goodwill!

Out of the blue

2008-09-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

"Where did you come from? It's like you just came out of nowhere and started doing work." My new friend Standish thought aloud. An old friend from my Sydney Australia days, RachAel, insisted that I introduce myself to the mature gentleman, founder and owner of the Denver Darkroom photography school. I arrived on a Sunday, when there were no classes, not really sure what I was doing there. I'd called a day prior asking if he needed any help, thinking that it would be pretty cool to volunteer at a darkroom. Plus I wanted to meet this old friend of Rach's; she couldn't stop saying wonderful things about him.

So I rolled up, and Standish let me through the side gate. The first thing I noticed was the yard, bulldozed and adorned with various thrift store finds, including an old stoplight and two non-functioning hot tubs that he bought for $1.50 each. Standish had received a surprise check for thirty thousand dollars from none other than Yoko Ono (seriously, just opened up the mail one day and there was the check, no letter of explanation), which he earmarked for the renovation of the backyard. After offering me a Zima (!), he explained his big plans to host, officiate, and photograph weddings there. I'm hoping that I'm painting a portrait, here. Standish is a unique snowflake, to put it delicately. It looked like he hadn't thrown anything away since 1967, and he has a homeless man living in a cupboard above the stairs in his house who does odd jobs around the studio.

My first task was to use a glue gun to make minor repairs to a thrift store chair. The glue gun had seen better days; hot glue came out from various places on the gun, everywhere except the tip. So, I burned my hands 37 times, but the chair looked good when I was finished with it. Then came the closet. My instructions were to take everything out, vacuum the shelves and then put everything back. Easy. "What else have I got for you?" Standish contemplated. "Well, I have one more closet, just across from the other one, at the top of the stairs." I smiled, went around the corner, opened the closet door and brought my right hand to my mouth to cover a gasp rivaling a post-CPR drowning rescue. This closet was actually a room, and it was lined with cluttered shelves. The floor was hip high in pregnant cardboard boxes, spewing out their contents. It looked like king kong had picked the room up, shaken it like a crack baby, and replaced it in the studio. I couldn't take even one step beyone the doors. And there were mouse turds. I wish I had accepted one of those Zimas!

What was I doing here? I looked at the room, not knowing where to begin, and thought, "one thing at a time, Eva. Just take it all out, and put it all back. You are a master of spatial awareness. You can do this!" Two hours later, the boxes were organized, the shelves were cleaned, and the floor had nothing on it but a garbage can. Standish took a break and repeated his offer of a Zima, which I accepted. This was when I traded in my karma. We took a seat in the backyard, Stan in the chair I had fixed extending a pipe full of medical marijuana to me, me kicked back enjoying my Zima. We talked about RachAel, photography, our siblings, our lovers, our dogs, his life as a filmmaker and college professor. He offered to feed me, and we drove a few blocks and crammed our bellies with sushi.

Looking back on my day, I realized that even spending hours cleaning up mouse poop and burning my hands was more enjoyable than if I had spent the day alone in Vanta C knitting. Standish and I bonded over our work, and I left feeling genuine affection for him. I learned a bit about photography and saw my first darkroom. I took a candid look into his world and liked what I saw. It was unspeakably rewarding and entertaining.

Hates digital!

Though I was invited back for another day of work, I was due to leave Denver on Monday, so I drove Vanta C eastward on Highway 36 until Idalia, Colorado, 16 miles from the Kansas border. Here I hit the jackpot! I went to the bar for a Bud Light (when in Rome), which was purchased for me by the manager of the only gas station in town. Without prompting, he offered me the volunteer opportunity of a lifetime changing tires on road-maintenance vehicles the next day. I was TICKLED to get dirty fixin' cars and couldn't wait to meet him the next day. Evening was approaching, though, and I had to find a place to sleep.

When I entered the parking lot, I spotted one of my own: a forty-something man eating NutriGrain bars, his packed bike leaning against the bench. As I sat down, a woman in a golf cart came out of nowhere and offered the cyclist, Steven, and I her yard to set up camp for the night. Steven, it turns out, has been cycling since the first of September, on a great journey from Florida! I met him after two thousand miles, and with only two hundred to go until he reached Denver, his final destination. He was so cool! We set up camp. I made us pasta and broccoli, and we talked into the wee hours about life off the grid.

I looked forward to a day of changing tires, but Ralgh got sick. He woke me up every hour to go outside, where he threw up and had diarrea. I was so worried that I called the emergency vet in Portland, who told me to wait through the night. Ralgh's feeling a little better now, and loving his special vet-recommended meals of cottage cheese and rice, but I had to forego being a mechanic so I could drive to the nearest town with an animal hospital, just in case. Damn. So, here I am, in St. Francis, Kansas, waiting out the day.

Until next time,

Eva

Better to give than to receive

2008-09-22T19:53:00.000-07:00

A lot of people don't know that my family was on Welfare as a kid. I remember a portion of my life during which oatmeal was an ingredient in most of our meals, if not the central ingredient. Living in poverty didn't traumatize me, though there were times when I knew I was different from (read: not as good as) the other kids I knew. As an adult, like almost any difficulty people have to overcome as kids, I appreciate having had that cross to bear at a young age. Instead of getting a new pair of shoes when mine weren't cool anymore, I decorated my old pair with sequins. Instead of throwing away my "holy" jeans, I bleached or dyed them and turned them into totally cool shorts. I'm good at living simply, and getting by on very little money. It's a part of who I am. Even after I hit it big as a travel writer and make millions, I'll still be working class. I'll always be working class.

I'll never get tired of telling people about how my mom pulled me and my three siblings out of poverty by working full-time during the day and attending the local community college full-time at night. After a couple of years, she had her Associates degree, and with honors. Though she couldn't be around as much as she wanted to, we always knew we were number one. Instead of feeling rejected or abandoned, I felt only pride. This was my example, my training at a young age, that I can and should accomplish anything I want. I take pride in doing things myself, like fixing my van, or paying for college. The unfortunate side affect of this is that I have a really hard time accepting help. Somewhere in my brain, needing help becomes translated into weakness. Needing help is a sign that I am failing at doing it myself.

Hence one of the biggest challenges of my Vantasy. Owning a twenty year-old vehicle which is also a house means there's always a repair to be made. For example, I've been driving around the country with a leaky sewer valve. It's a slow but constant drip. drip. drip. of pee*. I've essentially peed a trail from Portland to Denver that has even Ralgh the dog impressed. I'm sure if he could invent such a contraption for himself, he'd do it.

*A side note on bodily waste: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON"T WANT TO READ ABOUT MY POOP! I never do number two in Vanta C's toilet. I've found that there's plenty of opportunity for poo during the day, and having weighed the pros and cons of doin' the two in Vanta C, I made the decision to put only liquid waste in my toilet. I have a back-up emergency plan in case I wake up in the middle of the night with the runs, and it's hilarious. I'm too classy to tell you about that just yet. Anyway, the leak in Vanta C's sewer didn't bug me much, because I'm not dripping dookie everywhere and polluting [Barack Obama's] America the Beautiful. So, that's the 411 on my scat, my doodie, my crap, my dung, my solid waste, my turds... Have I missed any g-rated poo slang?

After a month on the road, I'm still struggling with asking for help or even just accepting unsolicited offers from people. I'm an adult, dammit, I can take care of myself. Sometimes, though, I get overwhelmed and just have no idea how to fix something, or I get tired of eating out of cans. So a meal is offered and I awkwardly accept, wondering how I can contribute even though I know I have little to offer outside of saying thanks. I mean, I can't just show up to dinner with a can of sardines as a contribution, and anything worth bringing costs more than what it would cost me to just eat a Cantasy in my Vantasy. My budget is so tight that I'm forced to accept gifts without doing much in return. I just say thanks, feel like a burden, and try to find ways to avoid getting any more help from the donor.

These past couple of days I spent in Cherry Creek State Park in Denver with eight other campers I'd never met who are all full-time RVers. They're young and resourceful, make their money while traveling, and have made an art of living simply. They took care of me, fed me, gave me lists of websites, advice, ideas, examples, dog food, and one of them fixed my sewer valve and another leak in my grey water tank. For free.

Kevin gets dirty with the sewer valve

It got to the point at which I felt like their child. I was needy, had nothing to offer in return. I felt like a burden. But I accepted their help as gracefully as possible and tried to avoid my tendency to want to feel humiliated. After all, when I help someone, it's never because I feel pity for them or think they need it; it's just because I like helping people. I'm generous with my time and money. It's a gift when someone allows me to help them because it grows our friendship. I have to trust that when people want to help me it comes from the same place. That I am giving them a gift by just accepting their help and allowing them to feel good about giving. It takes practice, though, and humility.

Check out my new friends and what they're doing!

Kevin changes the way we RV.

Rene and Jim hit the road full-time with a three-legged dog.

Me, with Bella, daughter of Sara and Matt with the veggie oil RV.

It's not just for old people anymore

2008-09-17T10:17:00.001-07:00

A lot of people talk about how sweet it will be when they finally have enough money to retire. They toil away, hating (or just tolerating) their jobs, putting money into that 401K (or not), and dreaming of all that knitting their going to do someday. My philosophy on retirement is a bit different; instead of waiting your whole life for the ultimate summer vacation, why not take little retirements all along the way? After all, who knows if we'll even make it to 65.5 years old, and by that time the retirement age will likely be 115.

So, in my life, I've worked hard for a period of time, saved money, and found ways to retire periodically while I'm still young. It comes at a cost, of course, like maybe my resume is a little more scattered-looking than most. But I'm not trying to live my life so it looks good on paper. Nope, I'd rather love as many moments as possible. The last time I retired, I traveled Australia. This time, America.

As an experienced retiree, I can tell you that not working isn't all it's cracked up to be. Having a job gives a woman some purpose, a reason to get out of bed. It's also a social outlet, a chance to meet new people. Working gives your brain a challenge it probably wouldn't have otherwise, making you a more intelligent person. It also lets you meet really hot guys to make out with. Being fully retired robs you of these chances for growth and making out, so I'm a firm believer in volunteer work.

During my current retirement, I've found that one of the things I've spent the most money on is coffee. It's ridiculous for me to go out and buy $5 cups of coffee, since I have a pound of fair trade going stale in my van. I've realized, though, that it's not the coffee I want when I go out, it's the chance to get out of the van for awhile, meet people, and introduce myself to my new digs. In thinking about how to eliminate this expense, I've been brainstorming. How can I do these things without spending money on something I don't need? And then the idea smacked me like the do-gooder palm of Mother Teresa's hand: volunteer!

I've had two super-rad volunteer experiences so far on my trip. First, I worked three shifts as a barista at Burning Man's center camp cafe. Then, in Salt Lake City I snapped green beans for One World. I'm already signed up to answer phones for Michigan Public Radio's annual fall membership drive, and have been asked to volunteer at a school in Denver. I had a lead on a homeless shelter here in Boulder, but that fell through.

So, as of now, the Vantasy takes on a new look. I'm going to be the Princess Di of America (only without the car crash, hopefully), doing good and getting in with the people. I'm going to volunteer my way across the United States!

I think this will dramatically change how the Vantasy looks for me. If I volunteer each time I roll into a new town, I have a feeling that Purpose might kick Desperation out of the passenger seat, for one. I'll get to grow my brain, learn about towns from the inside, and feel like I'm producing instead of just consuming all the time. And you never know, maybe one day I'll volunteer at a homeless shelter and be able to snag a free shower!

If anyone out there has tips on unique volunteer opportunities anywhere in the US, please pass them on. I'll do anything.

Thanks for reading! And a million thanks to those who have donated.

Revisiting

2008-09-15T09:30:00.000-07:00

This trip is kinda like being in college again. I'm broke, spending a lot of time hanging out in coffee shops on my laptop, showering in dorms (shhh!), and hanging out on campuses. While it might seem kinda creepy that this unemployed adult woman slinks around cafes and dorms trying to look like she belongs there, I know my intentions are pure. Besides, it's not like I'm going to sink so low as to show up at a frat party or something. Actually, I'm lying. I totally would go to a frat party if someone invited me... or if I thought I could sneak a hot shower while I was there. But that's a non-issue. Bald girls don't get invited to frat parties.

I don't think it's such a bad thing that I'm living like I'm in college again. I mean, college was one of the best times in my life. I was learning nonstop, making new friends everywhere I went, and felt like I was at the steering wheel of my life. There was so much promise back then. I remember naively thinking that in just a few years I would get a real job and make, like, fifty thousand dollars a year. I still think that, but this time I'm right. Right?

In the last week, I've spent all of my time in college towns, where I've been spoiled by bikelanes and free wireless internet almost everywhere I go. My favorite so far has been Fort Collins, Colorado. The crowning glory of this town is it's cutting edge commitment to all things sustainable. Lots of towns talk the talk when it comes to being green, but Fort Collins goes leaps and bounds beyond, making sustainability the first priortity.

If sustainability is the crown of Fort Collins, the New Belgium Brewery is the diamond in that crown. There are too many creative footprint-reducing devices to mention, but these folks are reusing and rechanneling energy every step of the brewing process. They also sustained my happiness by getting me buzz-drunk two days in a row. For free. And gave me a sticker. And a tube of chapstick. You know that 50K job I'm gonna get in a few years? Well, I hope it's here.

Free beer, new friends

Yesterday I rolled in to Boulder, which is Ralgh's favorite stop so far on our tour, since we've gone on two long mountain hikes in the last twelve hours and there's an alarming abundance of squirrels living in our neighborhood. I'm out and about today, exploring this new city, waiting to see what delights and friends I'll encounter. And I won't encounter much sitting here staring at my laptop, so:

Over and Out!

the problem that has no name

2008-09-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

In the 1960s, Betty Friedan wrote about a "problem that has no name," referring to a quiet desperation among housewives in that time. With an increasing number of modern advancements, such as electric washing machines, automobiles, televisions, Hitachi Magic Wands*, etc., at her disposal, the woman of the sixties should have little to complain about. But, Friedan argues, while the evening's stew bubbled in her shiny new crock pot, her thoughts marinated in a salty broth of dissatisfaction... of the knowledge that there must be something more to this life.

*I'm not sure that Hitachi Magic Wands existed in Friedan's time, but would that they were!

Ever since my Junior year of college, when I took my first trip outside of the US (Cuernavaca, Mexico, for a Spanish language intensive program at Cetlalic - go there!), I've felt a tugging need to see the world. Mexico opened this midwestern gal's eyes and I knew from that moment that I had to see it all. So, I've done my best to make traveling a priority in my life, hence the Vantasy.

But I've noticed that each time I manage to break away from my "normal" life to travel, I get an unwanted visit from Desperation. Most of the time, it waits in the corners of my mind, allowing me to go about my adventurous days in a mostly happy state. I might even experience elation while traveling, but the despair is always there, nudging at me, asking, "Is this it? Is this what you wanted?" And if I turn my head away from it, agreeing that, yes, this is what I want, Desperation plays it's trump card: "You're all alone. Tell me again why you're doing this."

And I have no really good answer. At least, not an answer which is good enough to make Desperation go away. Sure, I'd like to be sleeping in my bed. I'd like the luxury of a shower anytime I want one. I miss my friends. I miss having a paycheck. But these are all things of comfort, and as I've said in earlier blogs, it takes discomfort to grow. It's uncomfortable to roll into a new town and wonder where I should park. It's uncomfortable to be alone most of the day. It's uncomfortable to have diarrhea and have to RUN to the nearest bar at 10:00pm, which is a pool hall/cardroom full of staring men, just so I can sit, doubled over in pain on their questionably clean toilet and emerge from the bathroom fifteen minutes later to more stares. It's uncomfortable to look Desperation in face, and agree to take it on a road trip just so I can do a bit of growing.

Come to think of it, I think that is the answer. I'm addicted to discomfort. It makes me feel alive, challenged. A trip like this would just be a vacation if I didn't bring my friend, my "problem that has no name", along with me. I know there's something more to life, and I'm going to find it out here. Ralgh gets the backseat, Desperation gets shotgun, and I'll drive us all around, through rainstorms, over rocky roads, and into sunsets until we find what we are looking for.

freedom ain't free, but a lot of good stuff is.

2008-09-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

As I headed out of town on my last day in Salt Lake City, I decided to make one final stop at a coffee shop I'd heard about called Nobrow. When I walked in I thought I'd been transported to Portland; several fixed-gear bikes lined the front of the shop, and the inside was full of skinny boys in tight pants sporting emo haircuts, not a smile in sight. Let's just put it this way: if the place was a coffee cup, it would be overflowing with hot stuff, no room for cream, and the coffee extra bitter.

After a few minutes, I looked up from my laptop (THANKS KELLY!) and saw a blond, slight young man entering. You know how your brain can sometimes remember a face, but not the circumstances surrounding how and where you first encountered that face? Instead you only get a vague feeling like, "I've seen you before," or "I don't remember why, but I didn't like you," or "I remember havinig a conversation with you, but I can't remember what it was about." Well, I got a distinct feeling of having spoken with this gentleman before, so I stopped him and asked if he was from Portland. With jaws dropped, we realized that we both worked at PSU together! What are the chances?

My old Portland buddy, Mike, sent me to lunch at a little cafe called One World Everybody Eats, which is a for-profit restaurant following a very unusual business model. All ingredients are organic, most are local, and the mission is to reduce waste as much as possible and to feed everyone healthy organic food, regardless of their income. The restaurant cooks a small number of seasonal recipes each day and serves them up cafeteria-style. You tell the server how much you want (you're expected to clean your plate, and you can always come back for more), and after you eat you pay whatever price you feel the meal was worth. If you can afford more, you should pay more. Every day, the cafe features at least one meal which is absolutely free, in line with their mission of ending hunger.

The coolest thing about this place is that you can volunteer your time in exchange for a meal, which is how I ended up spending the afternoon there, cleaning green beans. It turns out, I needed the work as much as I needed the food. Snapping the stems of the beans gave my hands something to do, made my head stop thinking about the lousy night before, and gave me time to really get hungry. In my hour of work I made new friends and came to feel that I was an important part of something cool. And then I stuffed myself full of good hot food, cold food, coffee, dessert, and fresh veggies. Unlike most of my meals these past couple of weeks, none of it came out of a can! And it was all free. Actually, it was the opposite of free. I was compensated for eating this meal. I was paid in joy.

Hippies!

Tina, eat the food!

Now, if I could only find a free shower. Both of my hotel pool shower-poaching attempts have born no fruit. But I guess that's another blog...

I'm right.

2008-09-09T09:03:00.000-07:00

Last night, after a couple of drinks with one of my Salt Lake City "friends", I went back to my van in an intense emotional state. And cried.

Because the man I was hanging out with told me that I was "annoying" and that he wouldn't want to hang out with me anymore if I didn't stop "giving him shit." When this topic first arose, I tried listening, clarifying, thinking... Surely this was a misunderstanding! Growing up with a bazillion siblings, I know that my humor often leans toward the "giving people shit" end of the spectrum, but I also know that this sort of humor can only be used on a certain type of victim: someone who can dish it out.

I'm proud of myself, because I stood my ground. I took my own side first instead of blindly believing what he said. But it's not often that people deal out feedback like his, so after I got to my van I had to contemplate it. Was I annoying? Did I say something that I shouldn't have? Do more people think this about me but never say anything?

In the end I still take my own side. The information he gave me was useful, but I'm going to stand by my behaviors because I know I'm a good person. If I made a mistake, it was in misreading his personality. While I'll consider what he said, I'm going to stay allied with myself, because I'm all I've got out here. If I don't support and stand by myself, who will? I can't let someone else's opinion of me determine how I feel about the sexy, fabulous, adventurous and brave Eva Darling.

My three biggest fans:

Myself

Aggggggh. I notice that, on the road, I experience every emotion to the extreme. When I'm happy, I'm WOOOOOOOO HOOOOOO happy. When I'm sad, I'm in the pits of desperation. I could start my own X-games competition for X-treme emotional outpouring. I'd hold my own against menopausal women and schizophrenics. I could set records for manic moods...

Three Discoveries

2008-09-07T15:31:00.000-07:00

1. RVers are not like me, even though I am one.

I've come to see my Vantasy as something which is not quite like a trip in an RV, but somewhere in the grey area between that and a truck driver's pounded out route across the US. Vanta C, which is secretly an RV disguised as a van, has more amenities than a big rig, and more sex-appeal than the giant, shiny and new RVs that the old folks drive. Fitting into one of these two communities would be helpful to Vanta C, as she would benefit from the insider secrets shared within them. Unfortunately, neither community is a good fit and she is out there on her own, learning as she goes, making up her own rules.

I've found as I've begun to cross the big ol' west that I have very little in common with those other recreation-seeking folks in luxury RVs. Usually older, the RV driver demands amenities like working plumbing, a working refrigerator, and full hook-up sites at kampgrounds. They expect their rig to FUNCTION, and when it doesn't, they take it to Camping World and have someone fix it. They are free, essentially, to enjoy their homes on wheels and the beautiful desert scenery in air conditioned comfort.

The trucker, on the other hand is a mechanic. He monitors the fluids of his rig daily, isn't afraid to get his fingers dirty, and uses engine grease to slick back his rarely-washed hair. He parks on the side of the road and sleeps for free, spending his per diem on McDonald's breakfasts and showers at the nearest truck stop. It's all about speed with the truckers. They need to be where they need to be; no time for pictures.

When I can't figure out how to fill Vanta C's water tank, the RVers can't help me. They haven't seen a vehicle so old since they took Judy to the school social and drove her up to lookout point to get fresh. They have no information on finding free, quiet parking spaces to camp for the night or places to find a shower. The truckers are a better source of info like that, but to be perfectly honest, I'm scared of them. All I can imagine are dirty old men who haven't had sex in weeks, staring at my tits and calling out over CB channel 19 for their trucker buddies to watch for me. Plus, when it comes to parking Vanta C, I want to get off the beaten path a bit and no trucker can help me there.

2. People will surprise me

My dear readers, one thing you should know is that your country, the U-S-of-mutha-effin'-A, is full of amazingly generous and thoughtful citizens. It's easy to get divided, to vilify one group or another because they vote differently, or pray differently, or screw differently, but we Americans are pretty cool for the most part. I get lonely on the road sometimes. I eat meals out of cans and poop in a different toilet every day. I spend hours with no one to talk to except Ralgh, and he found my earplugs so he doesn't even listen to me anymore.

Which is why I cherish my interactions with actual people so much. In Salt Lake, I was introduced to a couple who opened up their home, gave me a shower and a comfortable bed to sleep in, and a delightful meal. These people didn't know me from Shinola, but trusted me enough to let me and Ralgh into their home for two nights. On Sunday, I sat in a coffee shop next to a chatty young man with a colorful vocabulary, and later found myself on his porch eating a veggie-packed meal which he had cooked for me.

The food, the showers, and the bed were palpable delights, but the real gifts of these encounters were the moments spent learning about each other and the knowledge for me that people kick ass.

3. I will almost never be right in my expectations of a place.

When I rolled into Salt Lake yesterday, I expected to find women. Long-haired women wearing long skirts and being followed by seven children. This is supposed to be Mormon-land. Isn't this the place where people are all gettin' polyggy wit' it? I know I shouldn't believe everything that I hear, but I really expected this place to be a conservative freakshow. And it's not. I actually like Salt Lake.

And who would have thought that in Ely, Nevada I would find a raucous bunch of locals to sing karaoke with. They were quick to offer their driveways for the night, and they gave my Portland karaoke crew a run for its money.

Ely karakoers in rock solid form

Little dots on a road map betray nothing about a place or its people. I have a lot to learn about my expectations.

Thank You, Thank You, I'll Be Here All Week!

2008-09-04T15:32:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Portland, fresh off the boat from Sydney and just over a year out of college, I found a job at the Wild Oats natural foods store in Hillsdale as a cashier. It took a month and three interviews to finally land the job, and though it wasn't my dream career, I was happy to have an income. I was paid $7.50 an hour to learn produce codes, play "Bagger Tetris" with people's groceries (fitting as much as possible in a paper bag while leaving no holes, and, of course, speed counts), and chat with the shoppers as they came through my line. It wasn't bad work, and I made a bunch of cool friends there.

After 60 days as a cashier, it was time for my performance evaluation. While I agree with the concept of these evaluations, and I take pride even in the shittiest of jobs, I take employer feedback with a grain of salt if I'm not earning a living wage. Want me to smile more? Then pay me enough to send in my rent check. Anyway, my evaluation came back with an almost perfect score, the only criticism being that I "make jokes that the customers don't understand."

For example:

It's ten o'clock at night, just before closing, and a customer comes through my line with a half gallon of milk, a box of cereal, and a container of orange juice.

Me: (grinning) So, picking up a little bit of dinner?
Customer: No. (looks confused) It's breakfast.
Me: (rolling my eyes, sighing loudly, smacking my hand to my forehead in exasperation) Oh! God! I'll never get it right!
Customer: (still looks confused)
Me: Ohh-kay. Well, have a good breakfast.

I appreciate a good sense of humor, which is why I'm having a hard time here in Ely, Nevada. The people don't smile here, and I think my attempt at humor today in the grocery store actually pissed off my cashier. He didn't take out his anger on me, though, but on Mother Nature. Showing his distaste for my humor, he bagged my five items in not one, but THREE plastic bags. Screw you, bald girl. And screw you, whales and dolphins!

So, I've been forced to make jokes to the most captive audience in Ely: myself. Behold, my daily to-do list:

Yes, Ely, Nevada is so removed that there is nary a recycling bin, no organic produce, and nothing much to smile about, apparently. But I'm going to stick it out for another day, try to make a friend or two, and laugh at my own jokes. Because somebody's got to do it!

Here are some pictures.

Pyramid Lake, Nevada. The prettiest thing I've seen so far (the scenery, not the woman in the picture. I'd say she's the second prettiest).

The shoe-covered tree on "The Lonliest Road". With nothing around for miles, smack in the middle of the desert, was this stunning art installation. Thousands of shoes hanging from this lone tree, and even more covering the ravine from which it grew. This was my best surprise yet. It's hard to tell in the picture, but there are shoes all over the thing, all the branches, even at the top. Jaw-droppingly beautiful!

Touch My Button

2008-09-03T20:11:00.000-07:00

Yes.

Due to popular demand, I've put an option to donate on my blog. I know I'm not saving the world or anything, so if you'd like to save the world with your money, I'd suggest you spend it here.

But if you have even more money and would like me to put it in my gas tank, click the button below.

If you'd like me to pass the money on to Ralgh, so he can spend it on "bitches," please include a note to that effect with your donation. I'll make sure it gets into the right paws.

My discomfort in accepting donations in evidenced in my inability to form paragraphs. Not sure how I feel about this, but it's been requested. I'm not usually a person who accepts help like this from others, but I get that when people donate, they feel that they own a little piece of this adventure.

So, own some of my adventure. But your money may be more well-spent by preventing a South Dakota teen from becoming a mother.

KKKOA kampground!

2008-09-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

Today I hit a high point on my journey. Well, a high point unless you have good taste in music, that is. Cruising through the high desert of central Nevada, I felt I could control the world with each turn of my steering wheel. Ralgh slept in the back seat, mountains loomed in the distance, iPod played a continuous shuffle of great music, and miles sped underfoot. The sun shone brightly as I drove "The Lonliest Road" through Nevada, and I sang at the top of my lungs.

You know how in the movies, there'll be that roadtrip scene in which two pals, overwhelmed by the feeling of utter happiness, blast the radio and sing along joyously? Well, you know how it's usually some triumphant song about highways or freedom or being a badass? Yeah, I had that moment today, only I'm a little embarrassed to admit my song. But I'm going to anyway, because it's funny. Download it now, folks: The One That You Love by Air Supply. Mom would be proud, just like that time that I admitted I liked Barbra Streisand.

*Side note to mom, who I think likes me enough to read these things: I was just kidding when I said I liked Barbra Streisand; I'm sure it was one of those prepubescent hormonal things. And I wasn't really singing along to Air Supply today. That was Ralgh, not me.

Then I arrived in Ely, Nevada (god, when will I be out of Nevada?!) and got suckered into paying $30 to stay at a KOA "Kampground" one hundred and ninety-nine miles from the nearest Wal-Mart. I would have "kamped" on the side of the road for free, like other nights, but I needed a buzz kut, and my modern clippers need electricity to work sothereyouhaveit. Plus, this KOA komes with Wi-Fi, which has been scarce these days.

*I think that substituting a KOA-style 'k' for any hard 'c' in your writing makes you look like a fun person, so I'm gonna do it. Either that or it makes you look like a member of the KKK, which a fresh buzz kut also does, so I'd better be kareful.

Speaking of the buzz kut, while I stood in line to buy ice, and elderly gentleman called me sir, and then quickly corrected himself when I turned around. He was clearly disappointed with my choice of hairstyle. Looks like we're not in Cansas anymore, Toto. I thought about making a comment about how well the chemotherapy worked, just to set him straight, but instead smiled, wiggled my Frazee behind, paid for my ice, and left.

And finally, three miles down the road in the center of Ely sits a crusty bar with a sign on the outside which reads, "karaoke every ight." Assuming the missing letter is an 'N' and not an 'F', I think I should ride my bike the six miles round trip (not nearly as bad as going to Wal-Mart!) and show them how it's done. Anyone kare to join?

2008-09-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

Can you hear that?

Neither can I, and it's totally freaking me out.

Thanks for the sassy swimsuit, Andrew Ox!

After spending a blistering week at the Burning Man festival, trying to sleep through the nonstop thump-thump-thumping of house music, I thought I'd relish a little peace and quiet. Instead, I found myself wide awake as only one of two campers at Lake Lahontan, Nevada. Coyotes and owls exchanged calls outside and, wait... Was that footsteps? After convincing myself that Ralgh would alert me to any interlopers, I was able to fall asleep, but I kept one eye open and my good ear tuned.

Lake Lahontan

At three in the morning. I woke to movement. Someone was trying to open my door! I grabbed my flashlight, shined it out the window and called firmly, in my most deep and intimidating voice, "What are you doing!?" As I emerged, heart pounding, from my sleep, it became clear that the noise of someone breaking in was not actually an intruder, but came from inside my van. Ralgh! I redirected my light toward the floor and found him perched on top of the toilet, back arched like a black Halloween cat, shaking like a belly dancer in Antarctica. No one had tried to break in, but Ralgh must have heard or seen something. I crawled down from my bunk, coaxed Ralgh off the toilet, and we prayed for morning until we fell asleep huddled together on the seat.

Tonight we're sleeping in Austin, Nevada in the Toiyabe National forest campground, which is occupied by two other RVs. It's getting dark. I'm trying to keep my cool, but with the fading of the light comes the fading of my fearlessness. Why does it have to be so damn quiet!? I imagine if I actually was attacked, the perpetrator would say something like, "scream all you want; no one can hear you now! Mwah ha ha!"

I think after a few nights of this, we'll get used to sleeping out here. Until then, we'll welcome the mornings.

On another note, Internet is scarce in these parts, and while I can post using iPhone, it sucks to type a whole blog on that little touch keyboard. So, I'll try to keep it regular, but my entries will probable be short and/or sporadic. Don't worry, though. I'm still out here.

travels with

2008-08-16T18:25:00.000-07:00

I met my dog when he wiggled up to me in a strip mall parking lot in 1998. He was a sweet, blond puppy with a black beard and an unmistakable look of mischief in his eyes. His oily, wired hair stunk and could never be considered soft, but his face was so far to the left on the continuum of ugly that he actually qualified as the cutest thing on earth. The dog had come out of nowhere on this sticky summer day, wasn't wearing a collar, and I saw no sign of an owner. It broke my heart to walk away from him as he stared, wagging and wiggling at me from the asphalt carpark, but I managed to turn away, and entered the store.

An hour later, on my way back to the car, the scraggly puppy recognized me and clumsily ran my way. I didn't know what to do; he was clearly a stray and I couldn't just leave him there. Even though I could tell by the look in his eye that he would be a difficult dog, I'm a sucker for a sickly animal, so I ushered him into my car and took him home. Five minutes into the trip, he christened himself "Ralgh" after the action of losing ones gastric juices all over the back of a car seat and onto the leg of the really awful and evil prepubescent girl I was babysitting that day. By "ralphing" on the leg of this annoying little girl, he had beelined his way into my heart, and the rest, as Michael Jackson might say, is History.*

*Michael might also take this opportunity to say "He-e heeee! Ow!" but I'm not going to go putting words into the great man's mouth. What right have I to do that?!

I still love him

Ralgh the dog has seen me through college and marriage, divorce and desolation. A year and a half ago, just weeks after the dissolution of my marriage, I was steeped in desperation and sadness. I opened my eyes one morning and spontaneously asked myself, "What will you do now, Eva?" and the answer came without thought and widened my eyes with realization: "I will travel." And that is the day that my journey began, first as concept, then as action, and next, as realization.

From the moment I made that decision, I knew that Ralgh had to remain a part of my life. I wasn't sure how I was going to do it, but I made a commitment to him that day in the parking lot, and I intend to see it through until the sad day of his death. He's not the type to travel as cargo in airplanes, so that left one option: ROAD TRIP!

Though anxious to an extent which I have never seen in a dog, Ralgh is really quite adaptable. He loves the car, maybe because he came from the streets, and he's not unique among dogs in his love of sniffing new places. I think Ralgh's going to love the Vantasy, and this trip has become as much for him as it is for me. If only I could teach him how to help me pack up boxes and fix RV refrigerators (He-e heee! Ow!).

Ralgh's nearing the old age of 11 years, now, and I've noticed him slowing down. He spends most of his time sleeping, and sometimes there's no trace of that mischeivous energy in his eyes. It's been replaced with... complacency. I might go as far as saying... peace? He still has his crazy moments, but he's slowing, and it's sad and scary for me to see. I let him off his leash last weekend at the coast and he ranandranandran, and afterwords he squinted, stumbled, and looked like he was having some sort of cardiac episode. I was sure he was going to die. I pleaded with him to walk a little bit, he complied, and after about five minutes or so he seemed fatigued, but better. I'm still not sure what happened.

The episode threw me into an unexpected depression. I want to be self-sufficient on the road, but I cannot, CAN NOT handle the death of my dog all by myself out there with no support. And I want him to live the Vantasy with me; this is his trip too. And what about protecting myself in the middle of nowhere? That's Ralgh's job, which he accepts enthusiastically. I can't lose him. He's all I have. I'm terrified.

But we can only press on. We'll prepare. We'll go to the vet this week. We'll start jogging together in the mornings, slowly, a block at a time. We'll take our evenings easy, and enjoy whatever time we have left together. And I'll let go of control, learn that the fates are out of my hands, and that whatever happens will be right.

"A journey has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness... All plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us... In this a journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it."

- John Steinbeck, from Travels with Charley, an account of his journey across America with his French poodle.

Pane Fetish

2008-08-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

To be absolutely fair to myself, the Vanta C was the first car I've ever purchased. Growing up a stone's throw from the Motor City, and with two older car-crazy brothers meant that there was always a hand-me-down car coming my way. My last car was a 1995 Ford Escort, which made its way to me via my mom, who got it from my oldest brother after he'd grown tired of it, and who then passed it on to my other brother until he joined the Army and left home. As if on cue, I returned from overseas, car-less, and the rest was history. The Escort needed me, I needed it, and I became the fourth person in my family to call it her own.

RIP Escort 1995- 2008

Before the Escort was the Skylark, handed down. Before that was the Taurus, handed down. You get the picture; I've coasted through life, never scouring the classifieds for a set of wheels, never setting foot on a used car lot, never negotiating bank loans, never dealing with Car Salesmen, and never being treated like a woman who was trying to buy a car. So, for the sake of fairness to myself, I can blame my complete inability to make an informed auto-buying decision on my cushy life of tossed-off rides. To be even MORE fair, my van is not only an automobile, but also an RV, complete with appliances and plumbing. So, essentially, this purchase also makes me a first-time homeowner.

So, I can cut myself a little slack on the moment of stupidity which occurred the first time I met my Vanta C. Blinded by her towering stature, loft bed, and kitchen, I couldn't think rationally. I WANTED HER! And I wanted to ignore the millions of red flags trying to warn me that she was going to be a load of trouble. I made the classic inexperienced car-buyer's mistake: I believed what the sellers told me.

For example, a light blue piece of metal covered one of the windows on the back cargo door. It had been bolted to the van, right over the window. When I asked why it was there, Dishonestladyseller told me that she liked her privacy when using the toilet, so she convinced her husband, Dishonestmanseller, to cover the window. Inside, the window was covered in curtains, and plastic tinting gels... I didn't get a good look (YES! One of my stupider moments!) until two months later when I decided to wash all the curtains, and... wait a damned minute! There's no window at all! Just a gasket clinging to the last few remaining class shards and a piece of cellophane duct taped to it.

And so it was...

To Do:
Replace glass in back door.

Translation:
1. Complain about it for a week.
2. Talk to friends, who advise me to go to a junkyard for the glass.
3. Go to "U-pull-it" junkyard, pretend I'm a junkyard princess and I have millions of glistening cars.
4. Find a window that fits!
5. Stare at window for a long time trying to figure out how to remove it from the van it's currently in.
6. Walk down the different rows of cars, say hi to my subjects (I am their princess, after all.).
7. Return to the window, glare at it. It doesn't care.
8. Call my amazing car-loving brother (who's also a damned fine mechanic), who tells me to just take it to a glass shop and have them do it right.
9. Go to glass shop. Action Auto Glass! Glass guys tell me my window isn't made anymore so I need to go find one at... wait for it... A JUNKYARD!
10. Make some calls, find a junkyard who will pull it for me. Buy the window over the phone, agree to pick it up Monday. Action Auto Glass says they'll install it for free!
11. Junkyard calls on Saturday, says they broke my window, but have a different (BETTER) one that they'll give me for the same price.
12. Tuesday I pick up my bubblewrapped old junkyard window and take it to Action Auto Glass!
13. Action Auto Glass breaks my window! For free! They tell me it was the wrong window and I need to go back to the junkyard and order the right one.
14. Junkyard doesn't have any more.
15. Cry, and have big breakdown right before work because I'm back to square one after spending three days and $50.
16. Try not to throw iPhone at the wall because it says "NO SERVICE" even though I'm in the middle of a city, and I need to call more junkyards.
17. Cry. Need a nap but can't take one because I have to work. Be thankful for waterproof mascara.
18. Buy a Frappucino cause I'm sad and I want to eat chocolate.
19. Complain for two more days.
20. Return to "U-Pull-It" with my boyfriend's mom and dad in tow for support and guidance. Wave to my subjects again.
21. Glare once again at the window, wield an exacto knife, and go to town on the rubber gasket holding it in the van. Take turns cutting and ripping, pulling and pushing.
22. Ten minutes later, pay $27 for a dirty old window which isn't broken, triumphantly leave "U-Pull-It" while celebrating this small victory.

As I type, my victory glass rests safely against the couch in my living room. But if there's one thing I've learned during these testing preparations, it's not to count my chickens before they've hatched. I still can't tick this item off my To-Do list, and I still have a chunk of metal covering the hole in the back door, but I got my glass! And I've realized that even though I haven't hit the road just yet, my journey has begun. This is what I wanted: the chance to be radically self-reliant. To push myself, to learn about cars, to know that the problems I encounter along the way can be overcome, and I'll be a better person because of them. I want to experience pain (pane?), because I know deep down inside myself that the moments when I'm experiencing the most discomfort are the moments of the most growth.

Onward!

this post is like an onion.

2008-08-08T16:57:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been repeatedly hearing everything being compared to an onion. Love is like an onion, because it has many layers and it can make you cry. And it can stink. Truth is like an onion. The presidential election? Onion. Big Macs? Onion. Difficult choice? Onion. Since hearing this, I can't help but walk through my days, comparing various aspects of my life to the gas-inducing staple of American cooking.

Comparing my life to an onion simplifies things a bit. Take preparation for my Vantasy, which is slated to begin on August 24th. There have been lists, erased lists, relisted lists, unlisted lists, and things that defy listing. Then there are errands combined with ever-changing lists of how to run 'em. Nothing can be accomplished in one step, and entire days are spent running around, getting nothing done. For example,

To Do:
Get bike rack

Translation:
1. Call guy from craigslist about $25 hitch-mounted bike rack.
2. Wait for guy to call back and tell you it has already been sold.
3. Look again on craigslist, find another bike rack that is cheaper than new, but not cheap enough to merit dealing with a potentially creepy craigslist user.
4. Decide that going to "Rack Attack" to buy a new bike rack is a better, though more expensive, option.
5. Go to Rack Attack, and think about how the name reminds me of those girls with the lethal boobs in Austin Powers.
6. Discover that spare tire is in the way, and hitch-mounted bike rack won't fit.
7. Leave Rack Attack without bike rack.
8. Consider ladder-mounted bike rack, do internet research and discover that they are pieces of shit.
9. Drive around in confusion for two days and decide to strap spare tire to the roof, so hitch-mounted bike rack will fit.
9. Buy straps and a cover for the spare tire.
10. Return to "Rack Attack" for hitch-mounted bike rack and pinlock.
11. Decide that it totally would have been worth it to just get that one that I saw on craigslist a week ago, but at least it's done now.
12. Install tire on roof, and rack on van. Cry because it's hard. Hope that neither fall off.

Spending my days running around, trying to get my van ready often leaves me in a heap on the floor, trying not to cry, terrified that if I can't even prepare for my trip, I'll never have what it takes to actually go. I stare at my take-out burrito from the place across the street that I only go to in the case of total meltdown food emergency, and my stomach turns with that special brand of anxiety reserved for the totally overwhelmed. I have a shattered window, a gas tank malfunction, a broken refrigerator, a leaking valve near the water heater which sprays water all over the van floor, an apartment to move out of, a couch to get rid of, friends to say bye to, things to take to Goodwill, and I'm still not sure if the roof leak is fixed.

And just when I'm about to cry, I think of the onion. Comparing the bazillion things I have to do to the layers of an onion somehow makes them more benign. It's okay if it makes me cry; I'll just start peeling one layer at a time.

And if that doesn't work, I'll make a damn stir fry.