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When I arrived in Cebu, one of the first things my sister-in -law told me was that she signed us up for a fun run 5k. Running is fun? I think of running as more of low key torture. My sister-in -law is very fit, so I was immediately worried. Plus, I hadn’t packed running shoes., but instead of begging off, I took myself to the mall.

Malls are still a thing in the Philippines. There are quite a few in Cebu, huge, high tower malls, with all kinds of stores, restaurants, movie theaters, skating rinks, even chapels. Think about the mall in the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High, then supersize it by four or five. The malls are teeming with people too; I have always loved the mall, so it really brought me back to a different era of my life. I bought a pair of running shoes, and figured I was as ready as I could be.

The night before the race, the rain started. I kinda hoped for a typhoon, but then immediately felt bad about that. There is a lot of ramshackle housing built out of scrap iron and wood and plastic sheeting. I am not sure how the housing holds up in a bad storm. I have glimpsed little babies and old, old men and women in those spaces. It really puts a different perspective to hurricanes and typhoons when you clearly see the devastation one could cause. Again I was struck by the stark contrast of wealth and poverty living side by side. On one hand, I am thinking about running a silly race in the rain, and at the same time, there are thousands of people sleeping in the rain.

The race had different lengths, much like in the US with marathons, half-marathons, etc. The big difference is all the races start in the middle of the night. Two o’clock. Four o’clock. And 16,000 people were running. I know there are bigger marathons, but this an island country, the roads are two lanes and there are zero wide open spaces. At night, traffic slows down, and runners can be safer. Even so, the space for runners is narrow and the queue up to the starting gate was a very tight one. Most people were laughing and joking and taking pictures. A band was rocking out and I felt like I was at a party.

When we actually started the race, running more than a jog was hard, because of all the people to weave past. But we ran towards the ocean and in the lifting morning light, the view was stunning. I felt strong and realized I could run the whole race and not die. When I crossed the finish line, I got a medal. It was big and heavy and it made me feel proud. Not so much pride at finishing a race, but pride that I could say yes to a new experience and feel the joy and exhilaration of accomplishment and fellowship. I totally understand fun run now; I can see how it could might even become a thing.

I don’t know what it is about boats, but I love harbors. I love the lines of the boats I like the colors and names and all the varieties ships parked in the slips. Cebu Harbor is 3 miles from the city center which seemed like a doable walk.

Not so much. First off the sidewalks are very skinny in most places, and often trail off into nothingness. The entrance ways to storefronts and houses are right off the sidewalk, so at times it feels like walking through someone’s living space. And there are street dogs taking up residence in any patch of sunshine or shade. The first time I came across the dogs, I didn’ t know if they were alive or dead. When I pass them, I am careful. It doesn’t seem like they are all warm and fuzzy about greeting people. I’ve also seen some cats that were bone thin with the energy of rabid tigers. The roosters on the other hand are huge, majestic and seem well-cared for. Anyway, it’s not a great place for cat and dog lovers. I even looked up how to adopt a street dog and take it back home with me. It can be done. I wonder what my cats would think of a street dog that speaks Tagalog. I wonder how a dog who has adapted to life on the street would adjust to having a collar and a leash life.

Anyway, another dangerous thing about walking is that traffic is like a speedway of people who have learned to drive in a bumper car arena. Motorcycles zoom in and out of cars and cars just go. People walk in the street because the sidewalks are so bad and it is terrifying and dangerous. Being in the car passing pedestrians inches away is equally terrifying. I completely understand why my niece doesn’t have her driver’s license. Although, she could get one, no test is necessarily required.

I was in Chicago a few weeks ago, I learned about a photographer, Vivian Maier, who took photos of thousands of people during the early, mid 20th century in New York and Chicago. Her photos were close range of people she saw on her walks through the cities. I wish I could be that brave because the tenacity and fortitude of these people trying to earn a living under the shadows of big corporate call centers by selling food, and watches, and cell phone covers, is both stark and beautiful. To me taking photos seems disrespectful. Who am I to comment on this way of life? I have never felt more privileged or spoiled.

I didn’t quite make it to the harbor. My brother came and picked me up and told me that I would get to see the boats, I didn’t need to be walking around the city like that. So, I guess I am waiting on my ships for now.

Time makes no sense after traveling half way around the world. Time zones. International date line. On the plane, I thought it was daytime, but the lights in the plane went out and we were told to have a good rest. I wasn’t sure if that was a kindergarten teacher move and the flight staff was pretending it was night to get 1000 people to sleep and quit asking for water and pillows. I tried to do airplane math and figure out how many people could fit on a massive air carrier, but I gave up. I did remember a TV show about someone who had gutted an airplane and made it into a house. I wonder how windows would work? I wonder if the exit doors could be modified into great big glass vistas? I had a lot of time to imagine things like that, because 12 hours on a plane is FOREVER. I watched Grease, A League of Their Own, and the girl next to me watched Wild Robot and Dirty Dancing. I tried to knit, but the yarn ball fell off my lap and rolled away and I had to reel it back in. I didn’t want to be THAT traveler, so I just tried to be zen with being wide awake in a cramped space for a very long time.

I had a four hour layover in Korea. It was kind of nice to be able to stretch and walk around before getting on another flight to the Philippines. I do have to shout out to Korean Airlines. There was actual food on the plane. It came with real silverware. And a small carton of the most delicious strawberry ice cream of my life. Also the seats were bigger and I didn’t feel like I was becoming one with a stranger. The lady next to me was a teacher in the Philippines and she also teaches reading. We had a good talk. She said that a lot of teachers leave the Philippines to teach in America, because it pays better. Hmmm.

I left on Tuesday and I arrived on Thursday. It was night. I like arriving places at night. I think the energy of the place comes out best in the dark. In Detroit, night felt alive, in a flashy, dangerous way. In New York, night was glittery and loud. Here, night feels busy. People out and about. Lights on, stores open. My brother instructed me to sleep, but there is too much to see and do. I just want to take it all in…I can’t wait to see what the daylight brings!

One of my earliest memories is dragging a chair over to a dresser to see what was on top. I remember finding a yellow crayon and coloring a picture. I showed it to my dad and he asked me why I had only used yellow. I told him that I only had one crayon. A few hours later I had a big box of 64 with a sharpener in the back. I remember opening the box and getting that first whiff of crayon wax and seeing the colors arranged by hue. To this day opening a new box of crayons ranks pretty high on my joy scale.

In the fifty odd years that have passed since that memory, I have dabbled in most of the arts. When I taught art, I had to be better than a fifth grader at most things, so I challenged myself to throw on a wheel and learn to weave and knit, and I learned about glass and sculpture. I have always admired mosiacs and have seen some beautiful tile work in my travels, but I have never tried it, so when I saw an offering for a one day work shop, I decided that I would treat myself to a mosaic class.

I couldn’t believe that I had never done mosaic. It’s the perfect blend of all the things I love in art. It has glass and ceramics and gathering the colors is like painting and putting the picture together is like doing a puzzle. I fell totally in love. The instructor mentioned the Chicago School of Mosaic. I googled it when I got home. Landscape mosaics. architectural mosaics. 3-dimensional mosaics. Weekend intensive classes. My mind was blown.

After two months of waiting, a car ride, a plane ride, and two train rides, I am in Chicago, getting ready for my class. I feel like I am about to open a new box of crayons with a million different choices.

I remember exactly the moment I fell in love with the Eagles.  I was sixteen years old and  sitting on the top of a giant ladder painting my boyfriend’s name on the set of the school play.  The set was a cityscape, and my art teacher told me I could label one of the buildings, Matt’s Garage.  I was putting in the apostrophe when she popped in a new cassette in the boom box and out poured Hotel California.  We grinned at each other and both sang every word.  It doesn’t matter where I am or what I am doing, anytime I hear the Eagles, I am instantly on top of the ladder with my brush dipped in orange paint, carefully making art on a 20 foot tall canvas, completely at peace.  That was a defining moment in my life.  I knew exactly who I was and who I wanted to be.  

Flash forward forty years later.  The joy of that long ago girl is buried deep inside my soul crushed under the weight of loss, fear, sadness and fatigue.  Many times in my writing I have shared my angst and grief, but the last months have been so incredibly painful,that I have been afraid if I put a single word on paper that all the darkness will come spewing forward.  There have been no words, just tears.  It takes all my energy to make myself get up and fake my way through the day.  

Some people seek solace in Jesus, or nature, or the bottle.  For me, it’s always been the road.  Especially the highways of my childhood. I remember the roadside motels and the mom and pop diners and the games my brother and I invented to pass the time.  It helps center my thoughts and turn off all the other noise.  It brings me back to my dreams. 

So after a soul crushing week at home and at work that left me feeling as broken as I have felt, I hit the road.  Destination: To stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, and take it easy. 

My trip got off to a scary start.  I had an appointment on Tallahassee Rd. If people don’t think Canon City is the mountains, go to Tallahassee Rd.  It’s definitely wilderness right around the corner.  

The snow came so fast.  First it was nothing, then everything was white and the car wasn’t moving forward.  I didn’t know if I should back up, or turn around, or try to grind my way forward.  I had no cell reception and there were no tracks on the road.  

I turned off the engine  and  realized I was one of those travelers you hear about with a few meager snacks and a wimpy plastic water bottle, mostly empty.  I had a coat and a hat, but no blanket or gloves.  In my defense, Tallahassee Rd is only about ten or fifteen miles off the highway, and I didn’t think I was going to get stuck in a blizzard on a backroad less than thirty miles from home.  

I got out of the car and took a look at the situation.  I was on a grade, on a very narrow cut.  I didn’t think going forward would be possible unless I dug out the snow and made some traction with dirt or my car mats.  I could go backwards, but that seemed terrifying.  Turning around seemed like my best option, even if the road was a drop off on one side.  I looked down off the road, and actually pictured what that would be like to have a car buried in snow off a cliff no one was looking over.  Imagination is so over-rated.  

Only someone really stupid or really brave would have turned a car around on that stretch of the road.  Because I was stuck, I had to scrape the snow back to expose the dirt, and then inch forward and backward and sideways in a slow 180, until I was ready to follow my tracks back to the highway, except I knew I had another problem.  I had already come down a major grade and I’d have to go back up it to get to the highway.  I didn’t think I would be able to do that, and  there was another option.  There was a cut-off county road to Cotopaxi.  Cotopaxi is on the river, so I figured that the road had to be mostly downhill, but I had never been on that road, and I was scared.  However, the county road was a good call; I drove out of the blizzard into just a wet, rain snow, and stopped worrying about dying  in the middle of nowhere.  

The blizzard set me back two hours, so I stopped off with a girlfriend in Monte Vista.  My friend has a beautiful house.  She has carefully put it together with an eye for vintage things and a plethora of books and plants and art.  It’s the kind of house that anyone would want to live in.  It’s the kind of house I always thought I would want to live in, but it made me realize that my own house with the books and art and carefully polished wood is adding to my oppression.  

The furnace went out in February, so I had to buy a brand new one and I bit the bullet and got central air and added a new payment to my life.  The fence fell down, so I also have a stack of lumber, ready to assemble.  And I haven’t  finished the window install that I started.   The  sprinkler system has another freaking leak and I spend anxious moments wondering how I am going to manage all the house projects when I am eighty.  Maybe the house needs to go.  

When I woke up Saturday morning, there was a lot of snow, but I figured the worst was behind me and I was hell bent on my corner in Winslow.  The six hour drive was more like an eight hour drive because of all the snow on Wolf Creek Pass, but it wasn’t like Tallahassee Rd.  There were snow plows and pavement and cell reception and I had snacks and water.  

Even though it was a Saturday, most people paid attention to the winter storm advisory and there wasn’t much traffic   When I drove  out of the storm into New Mexico, I felt very alone on the highway.  Solitude is a good word for traveling in the Southwest.  Miles and miles of sky and land and nothing.  I always get a sense of sadness that this landscape is where Native  Americans got pushed.  It’s a forgotten, desolate wasteland.  But at the same time, it’s breathtakingly beautiful in its vastness.  I drove on, concentrating on the road and the music on the radio.  

I got to Winslow with daylight to spare.  I know that when I was a kid Winslow was a stopping point at least once on a trip to Las Vegas.  My brother and I always were invested in the motel, hoping for a swimming pool.  The motels are still there, sad apartment buildings now, some still trying to stay alive with cutesy little signs like –sleep on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.  I wasn’t looking for a place to stay though; I headed right for the famous corner.  I took pictures, bought a t-shirt and ate some fry bread.  I chit-chatted with the waitress.  She asked me if I was alone and then gave me some tips on good air b and b’s.  The thought  of making an eight hour drive the next day, seemed a bit daunting, I wasn’t that tired, so I thought I’d start back and find a place to stay somewhere on the road to home.  Except, backtracking on the inter-state seemed boring, so I decided to go see the Grand Canyon.  

Here’s the fact about last minute opting for the Grand Canyon from Winslow.  The road there is absolutely lonely and barren and you better have a full tank of gas and a car that isn’t gonna break down.  The sunset on the desert is spectacular though.  When I got to the signs for the  Grand Canyon, it was dark and late and there was nowhere to stay, so I just kept going.  

I felt an urgency to get home.  Not to be in my house, per se, but an urgency to get back for obligations.  I promised to help with the mural at school and I  have been helping a kid with his capstone project.  So even though, I did sleep a bit, I drove most of the night.  I was tired as hell, but a few hours after I pulled into town  I went to work on the mural that will be reinstalled on the outside of the school building in a couple of weeks.  And  then I helped a former student work on a slide show for his senior project.  The trip felt like a dream, like maybe it didn’t really happen.  

It’s been a week, and I am still thinking, did I really drive to Winslow, Arizona in a day?  I haven’t recovered from the fatigue.  My eyes are blood shot and I’ve been lying awake sorting out the lessons.  The road usually brings me answers, but this time it has highlighted all my questions.  I am on this great crossroad that feels pretty alone.  The freedom to travel the unknown is pulling at me, but the anchors of the familiar are holding me back.  I think about the snowstorm, but foraging ahead anyway.  In a way that is what I always do.  I keep working my way through the storms.  But I am tired and wondering if the storms will ever be over.  

Why did I even want to go to Winslow in the first place?  And I know it’s connected to that  long ago girl on the top of the twenty foot ladder, crazy brave, painting and singing away.  I realize she is not who I still want to be, she is who I have always been.  I didn’t need to find her; I just needed to bring her home.  

I swam in the ocean for the first time when I was eight years old. It was in Mexico on the Pacific side. During that trip, my family went to a charted island with a cove and swim up bar. I remember standing waist deep in the waves as the tide came crashing in, and a perfect shell came into my hands. Since that day, I have been on a quest to have another moment of finding the perfect shell. I have combed beaches in Hawaii, California, Florida, even Alaska on my quest. I never would have imagined the perfect shell to show up in Alabama, but this trip has been full of surprises.

The first surprise was Dauphn Island. On the map, Dauphn Island is a thin strip of land in the Gulf of Mexio. I thought we might have to take a ferry, but there is long bridge out to the island. The island is home to a bird sanctuary and a lot of boats, a few restaurants, and souvenir shops.. I guess the whole west end of the island was destroyed during Katrina, but new houses have been built, away from the water, high in the sky on stilts. Some of the houses are like boxes, but some are gorgeous with terraces and decks. Just for fun I looked up the rental rate on VRBO and found whole houses for rent for under a hundred dollars a night. Shayne and spent hours walking along the sand. The tide was coming in and bringing in perfect little seashells. As the first piece of land after a long flight across the gulf, many birds land on the island for a rest. I saw a pelican and all kinds of interesting birds that I have no names for. It was during this walk, that my perfect shell washed up on the shore at my feet. I was as excited as I was when I was a little kid.

I entertained renting a beach house for the night. I thought about what it would be like to wake up Christmas morning with the surf right outside my window. I wondered if it would feel amazing to have a bucket list morning in a bougie beach house, or if it would feel lonely, waking up on Christmas in a sad attempt to ignore the holiday.

In the end, it was hunger that took us off the island. There was nothing open off season. We ended up at a shack under a bridge. I am totally calling into question the sobriety of our servers, but the food was good for a rickety building under a bridge somewhere in Alabama. I kept thinking about the long drive home and decided that maybe we should head west, instead of further and further east. Montgomery seemed like a good choice, then Birmingham, then Tupelo, Mississippi. Then neither one of us was tired, so we just kept driving. We are just pulling into Amarillo. The radio is off, because I can’t handle one more version of Jingle Bell Rock. The sky is all gray and foggy, but so far no moisture. Shayne said that we might be able to get to Pueblo West by a family member’s usual dinner time. And there is a football game. Surprise, surprise. I guess that even though my son is willing to drive all across the country with me, he still wants family and turkey on Christmas. So barring no tragedies, it looks like I might be home for Christmas after all.

It occurred to me that while many people take selfies next to landmarks, I take pictures of trees wherever I go. I love how the branches twist and reach for the sky. We visited a swamp in the Mississippi delta today. I was fascinated with the way the roots hugged the banks of the waterways and the reflection of the limbs in the water. The air boat went so fast, I just aimed my phone and hoped for the best.

I had ideas about swamps from books; my actual foray into a swamp surpassed my expectations. First of all, the water was super still. It was very shallow, but so dark that it looked deep as night. There were ripples from fish and turtles, and alligator bumps like rocks just above the surface. Cypress trees and saw grass made inlets and channels. Birds were everywhere–thin, white egrets, cranes, hawks, swallows. Our guide pointed out an old alligator nest and water lines from Katrina. After the hurricane, alligators were sunning themselves on metal rooftops twenty feet above the ground. Katrina may have been twenty years ago, but her mark is still fresh.

My son’s fascination with alligators started when he was a toddler and we’d go to the alligator farm near Alamosa., Colorado. He has held them, and read about them, and done projects on them, but this was the first time he has seen them in their natural habitat. He was so happy, but for me, a whole new world opened up. I want to know more about the deltas. More about the wildlife and vegetation. I am the one with the obsession now.

The boat we went on was a airboat–it was powered by a fan and skimmed the surface of the water, allowing travel on inches of water. It goes only forward, so only someone really skilled could move it through narrow channels. It took a balance of speed and absolute finesse to navigate. I want back on that boat. It was a rush like I never had before.

I have read about people who live back in the deltas. I get it to an extent. It really would be living off the grid . Surviving in a place with alligators and mud and trees that could grab your foot and not let go would definitely take a lot of grit. I have never seen so much wildlife in such a small space. Everything about it was breathtakingly beautiful. I never thought I’d say that about a swamp.

Today’s Christmas Eve. I have a bit of an urge to get a stocking at Walmart and capture a bit of magic and tradition out on the road, but there is also an ocean with a beach and a sunset. I guess I don’t need to create surprises and moments of wonder; they are already all around me. 

In my monumental effort to skip the holidays, I decided a road trip was in order. I tried to plan it out. I looked at apps that map routes and highlight attractions along the way. I browsed air b and b listings and read dozens of hotel ads. I overthought destinations. In the end, I just threw some clothes in a bag, and told Shayne we were headed out. He asked if Carl’s Jr in Walsenburg was a possibility, so we headed south.

I know every inch of the highway between Pueblo and Walsenburg. I can still see the ghosts of the billboards from my childhood, the site of the gas station in Apache where we often stopped to adjust the styrofoam cooler from squeaking. I automatically look for the metal roof of the barn Shayne and I rented for a few months outside Colorado City. I keep my eyes peeled for the white tail of antelope and the subtle movements of coyote. And I feel my dad next to me when I am on that stretch of the highway.

Shayne asked me if we were going to Albuquerque. I guess that made sense in a way. My daughter can’t come home for Christmas, so we go to her, but I had something different in mind, because I took the cut-off towards Amarillo. I have only been on that part of the highway twice, both times with my father. That’s when I knew that my dad was coming along on this trip with us. I always feel my mom around me, but my dad only comes when I really need him. I told Shayne that we were just going to let the road show us the way. He just put his seat back, and settled in for a nap. I turned up the radio.

We spent the night just outside Dallas. I told Shayne that we used to go on roadtrips when I was a kid and back in the day, there was no on line booking for hotels. You watched out the window and looked for the vacancy signs. I told him how we used to pull up at a motel and watch my dad enter the the lobby, hanging all over the front seats wondering if the pool was heated, if there was a diving board, if there was a TV in the room, because in the 70’s that wasn’t a guarantee. We’d try to read our dad’s expression when he came out. Sometimes he grinned and put his thumb up, sometimes he’d shake his head. Sometimes he’d shake his head, but then hold up the key after we sank back into the seats, groaning over another search. Shayne laughed when I told him that story. I think that’s my favorite part of traveling with Shayne. The voices seem to take a backseat and set him free.

When we turned toward Shreveport instead of Austin, “Shayne said, “Louisiana?” I said, “I think.” He said, “I call alligators, then.” I asked him if he wanted to stay in a hotel or an air b and b. He said, “I picked alligators. That was my decision.” At that moment, we passed a restaurant called Felix’s and I saw a billboard for The Golden Nugget in Biloxi. I remembered my dad so excited to show us the Golden Nugget our first trip to Vegas. So here we are–a bougie room at The Golden Nugget in Biloxi, Mississippi. Getting ready for a swamp tour to see alligators. How is that for skipping Christmas?