My trip to the Philippines was full of firsts–island hopping, sea kayaking, walks in the rain forest. I saw my niece graduate and display mad skills on the soccer field. I saw brilliant sunrises and new ways of living that I’d never thought of before. And I also had my first experience of paralyzing cataplexy.
Cataplexy is a sudden weakening of the muscles that can be briefly paralyzing. It is a condition of narcolepsy and often accompanies strong emotion like laughter, anger, shock, or fear. My cataplexy is so mild that I went most of my life not really knowing what it was. I thought I was just having occasional muscle tremors when I was laughing. I am positive, that I was the only one able to tell it was happening.
I am blaming the cataplexy episode on the Weng-weng. Weng-weng is a Philippine cocktail known for its potency. My brother ordered two pitchers, after we finished sea kayaking. It was very hot, and the drinks were very cold. I am sure no explanation is necessary to paint the picture of fruity cocktails on the shoreline of a tranquil sea. Old family stories started to unfold and laughter followed taking us to dinner time.
To my credit, I am not much of a drinker, and no one ever told me that people with cataplexy shouldn’t drink. So while laughing, and trying to respond to something my brother said, my muscles in my face fell and my head dropped and I couldn’t move. My family rushed around me thinking that I’d had a stroke or a heart attack. I could hear everything and see everything. Maria wanted to give me CPR and Kevin asked if he should slap me. I wanted to both laugh and tell them that I was fine, but I could do nothing until I came out of it. Even though, it’s never happened to me before, I knew what it was, so I wasn’t scared. Maria called the hotel medical people to check me out. They came with their blood pressure cuff and pulse oxygen reader, and my vitals were great. I felt completely ridiculous; I always knew tequila was bad.
My niece and her friends joined us for dinner and it happened again. My brother really wanted to slap me. He said it would be great for my blog. 🙄 Now my sister-in-law is really scared and concerned for me, but I am fine.
I have been living with this condition for a long time and it’s so mild that I didn’t even really know what it was for years. If alcohol makes the cataplexy more pronounced, then my umbrella drink days are over. But I suspect, that, in addition to the Weng-weng, my emotions were very strong. Everytime I say goodbye to my brother, I pray it’s not the last time. My time with him always feels so short. Being with him both grounds me and gives me wings.
I am saying goodbye to my brother, my sis, my nieces, the South Pacific, the incredible food, and all the people who have made me feel welcome on the islands. The momentary paralysis of the cataplexy was a bit of a wake up call for me. Nothing like really being paralyzed to realize that even if I feel that I am trapped, I am not. There is more of the world to see and that’s my quest.
June 1. The sun rises on my last twenty-four hours in Southeast Asia. I am at Shangri-La, the mythical Eden, and also a luxury hotel on the island of LapuLapu. Luxury hotels are a pretty new experience for me. Usually, I don’t stay in hotels, because I just see them as a place to catch a nap, and hell, I can sleep in my car for free. When I am traveling, I usually vie for an air B and B, because I like to feel like I am at home. But this hotel life is pretty awesome.
When we got here, my brother and I rushed into our swimsuits. It so reminded me of growing up with him. Checking out the pool was our first priority as kids. We skipped the pool and went right for the ocean, because I don’t get to the beach everyday. As always Kevin got right into the water, not hesitating with the sudden chill of the temperature shift, meanwhile, I slowly immersed myself, exclaiming about the cold, and the FISH swimming around me. Finally, I got my head wet and swam out to join my brother. This actually says a lot about our personalities, but I don’t want to overthink that right now.
My brother had found a rock that had something growing on it. We didn’t know what it was, but we thought it might be a sea animal, so we respected its space. Then we swam out to a platform that was set up for diving, or maybe just a destination to swim to in deeper water.
While we were standing on the float, some teenagers asked if they could join us. The girl started chatting us up. She was very friendly and thought Kevin and I were a couple. When we told her we were siblings, she commented on how different we looked, which we didn’t reply to. I am pretty sure that’s a comparison that’s been made our whole lives. Then she started talking about where she lived and how it was boring, especially for “(no offense, I don’t mean to be ageist)” elderly because of all the hiking. Kevin and I were both polite, but we both had the same inward reaction. Elderly? Hiking? We’re from Colorado! Bring on any damn trail, we can do it. We left the float to her and her cousins and we swam back to the shore and then analyzed being called elderly. Just for the record, we are NOT elderly.
Dinner was an Asian buffet that I am going to miss when I get home. I have had sushi or squid everyday since I have been here and it is so fresh and amazing. Last night the squid was grilled and it was fantastic. There was also a show of native dancing and ice cream for dessert. Then we went to an arcade. We played Pac-Man, pool, pinball. My nieces played air hockey together and seemed so happy. We might have been staying at a five star resort, but it was like being with my brother when we were nine and ten and spending the night at a roadside motel, discovering new things and making the most out what was in front of us.
In a way, I think it’s ironic that I am ending my trip at the Shangri-La, mythical Eden. I have been on an inner and outer quest to find more joy in my life and find where I really belong. I realize that it’s not about where I am, or what I am doing, it’s about connecting with what is my heart. And being brave enough to listen to where it is leading me.
Bohol is an island next to Cebu; it’s round, rather than long and skinny. Its natural climate is tropical rainforests, encircled by white, sandy beaches, and the clearest blue water imaginable. I could not wait to start my day of island hopping; however it got off to a rough start.
I made the mistake of checking my email and a message related to my last months in the classroom popped up. So instead of being filled with joy about embarking on an adventure, I was sitting in the hotel lobby with tears running down my face. The concierge noticed and it’s impossible for Filipino people to be unkind, I think. He said, “Ma’am, what can I do?” I did my best to smile at him and put on my shades, even though it was five thirty in the morning and raining a bit. I told him I was fine.
The excitement of the voyage, crept back in as we entered the harbor and I took in the large ferries and other passenger boats. I snapped some pictures and took my window seat on the boat, delighting in the curves of the waves and shades of the water and sky. I was almost fully into the spirit of the adventure when the ferry docked in Bohol and my phone rang. My son’s car was overheating and he was ten miles out of town. It was so like my son, calling me to fix his emergency even though I am half a world away. I tried to get him to think through other solutions. Call Triple A. Call a friend. Meanwhile, I was shuffling my way off the boat, with the harbor noise all around me. He wanted twenty bucks, because his wallet was at home. He thought coolant would solve his problem. Again, I am in ASIA. Yes, I could transfer some money into his account, but I’d both changed my accounts and got a new phone and couldn’t remember my password at the top of my head and locked myself out of account, trying. The time difference made it impossible to call and reset the password, and there was really nothing I could do until the US banks opened in the morning which was my evening. He needed someone else to help him. So, I told him he would have to either call Triple A or one of my friend’s or family to help him. I listed off some options–Pam, Lisa, James. He asked if I would start the text for him. Jesus, Lord, help me not punch my son through the phone. Meanwhile, I am off the ferry somehow, in a car that my sister-in-law has hired for the day, and just waking up to the fact that Bohol is very different than Cebu. The city had disappeared and tropical island vibes were all around me. I set my phone down, fastened my seatbelt, and tried to block out all the voices from home trying to draw me back into their traps.
The first destination was the Chocolate Hills. The Chocolate Hills are a geographical marvel comprising of a thousand or more limestone hills covered in grasses. In the dry months, the grasses turn a brown, creating the illusion of chocolate hills in the jungle. The rainy season is starting, so the hills were more green than brown, but still amazing. They are protected from people, but the thousands of visitors who arrive to witness the marvel of these mounds, may trek up a large, high staircase to the top of one hill. From there, the vista opens up to the hills as far as the horizon. Rice fields lay below and stream rising from hot springs floats in spiraling billows. I have always dreamed of going to the rain forest, and for the first time, I was overlooking a tropical rain forest. It was unforgettable.
Lunch came next. We went to a family owned “natural” (organic) chicken place. Just in case there was any doubt about “natural,” there were “viejos” (old ones) in front of the restaurant with chickens, being readied for something, or maybe someone. Inside there were a variety of protein options besides chicken–beef, shrimp, and anchovies. Once in college, as a bold move, I ordered anchovies on my pizza. I will never forget biting into what tasted like pure salt, and gagging. Why would anyone think that was a good taste? But anchovies in the Phillipines are delicious, lightly fried and crisp and NOT salty. Just don’t look at the skin and maybe eyes? But I just saw chickens alive and well on the porch of the restaurant and then one was on my plate. It’s best not to overthink being a carnivore, especially when it is literarily farm to table. I mean that’s why it’s called “natural chicken!”
After lunch, we headed into the forest to see the tarsier, or the smallest primate in the world. I mentioned something about snakes that live on the island–cobras, pythons. The driver asked me if I wanted to hold a snake. I shrugged and said, “Sure, but not a cobra. Maybe a python.” Of course he knew of such a place, but the tarsiers came first.
The tarsier is a very small primate, with large eyes, a rat like tail, and venomous saliva. It is highly sensitive and when stressed can bang its head until it dies, therefore captivity is lethal. I immediately related to the sentiment. The part of the forest that the tarsier is found in is among a mahogany forest. Rangers build shady shelters to draw the tarsiers close so tourists can take their camera shots. I took some photos of the tarsier, of course, but also of tree roots, and flowers, and the ways the leaves overlapped, and the dew trapped in the foliage. I couldn’t believe that I was actually walking in a tropical rain forest.
I could have been satisfied with the forest, but we still had the beach on the docket, so we piled back into the car and set off. I didn’t want to doze, but the cadence of a capable driver and winding roads always puts me to sleep, so I was kind of surprised to open my eyes at a roadside zoo, and not the beach. Oh yeah, the snake. Crap.
I am going to use zoo losely. It was unlike any zoo I have ever been to before. First of all, there was a personal tour guide. She took us to see Carlos first. Carlos is a seven year old Bengal Tiger. He seemed a little skinny compared to the tigers I have seen in the States, but maybe this is how tigers really look? He didn’t have a big enclosure and I felt sad for him. Tigers don’t belong in cages. There was another tiger and the girl asked us if we wanted to feed him for two hundred pesos–that’s like three of four dollars. There were live chickens in a nearby pen. We didn’t feed the tiger. Then came the python. The guide took us into the cage with her. Picture it. A young tour guide girl. Three educated women in their fifties and the biggest snake you can imagine in your life. The girl said, “You want to hold her?” Mmmm. Not really. But she went over and picked up the head of the snake. Apparently, it had been fed (chicken) so it wasn’t inclined to move much. I put my hands on it. The skin was kind of slippery, but also sticky and I could feel the muscle and power underneath it, even if it was disinclined to move. I told my sister in law to hurry and take the picture. Then she sat next to the snake and petted it like a dog and I felt like we had entered some weird alternative universe of a tropical petting zoo. I had this image of making a woman version of “The Hangover”, only instead of Las Vegas, the characters are roaming over Southeast Asia petting snakes, and feeding tigers live chickens and putting on lipgloss and taking selfies. At that exact moment I saw a young man in a grass skirt. It was time for a photo op with the “natives” as they danced and breathed fire. You can see by the video clip, how incredibly ludicrous this “zoo” trip was.
We laughed about it all the way to the beach. Finally the ocean. White sand. Clear blue water. Boats drifting along. When I think of paradise this is what I see. About a month after my parents died, they came to me in a dream. They were on a boat, anchored at a white, sandy beach, they welcomed me, but were anxious to set sail. In my dreams, they are always near the ocean. My parents are never far from my mind. Some of my happiest memories are travels with my family, so I guess being with my brother on this trip reminds me of that time when I was young and had all the joy and wonder of discovery in front of me. Being at the beach reminded me that joy and wonder are still possibilities for me, but I have to choose to remember that.
Bohol is like a jewel, magical and beautiful. It needs to be shown off, but protected at the same time. It’s not too hard to see myself there in a modest little house by the sea. Yeah, sure there are typhoons, but I have been living in a storm for a long, long time. I am always trying to be just ahead of the worst of it and I am constantly dragging my loved ones out of harm’s way. Its’s exhausting, and I am feeling like the tarsier with too much sensory input. I have been banging my head on the wall. I have been waiting for someone to stop me and show me the way, but maybe I can really only save myself.
The lights and noise of the city rushed in when the ferry returned from Bohol. I texted my son. He got through his crisis without me. I know he is fragile and doesn’t cope with stress well, but maybe he is stronger than I give him credit for. Maybe he doesn’t need me the way we both think he does. That leaves my job in a big thought bubble over my head. The fact that it can upset me to the point of tears when it’s summer and I am a half a world away is weighing heavily on me. But I have three more days in this beautiful place and I am going to trust that the answers for the path forward are out there.
Magellan came to the Philippine Islands twice. The first time he brought a statue of the baby Jesus as a gift. The Feast of Santa Nino is still celebrated.
The second time Magellan arrived on the coast, the natives got suspicious and killed him in the harbor. I feel like this is a political lesson that is important to heed.
The islands are full of unique flora and fauna.
Animal dwarfism is common on islands due to limited resources. Smaller bodies have better adaptability to compete for survival.
However, the whale shark, the biggest fish in the world dwells in the island waters. I am going to swim with one this weekend.
Many shipwrecks have occurred near the Philippian Islands. I don’t think it is because of whale sharks though, probably storms.
The wrecks have left pottery from many centuries and many lands. It was intricate and fascinating for me to see the glazes and forms. I had so many questions. I don’t really know when the pottery wheel came into being. How do I not know that?
There was also pottery fragments from burial grounds. Some of it was a shade of yellow like a butternut squash. I would love to get my hands on some of it.
After the museum, I went to a nail salon where my brother is well known. I showed the girls a baby picture of him with cake all over his face. Once a big sister, always a big sister.
Today I am taking a boat to see the smallest monkey in the world.
My sister-in-law took me to her farm in San Fernando, a province in Cebu. For hours, I have been trying to put words on the page to describe the experience. Imagine riding shotgun, and feeling kind of drowsy, to the point where you might actually be slipping into a dream, then all of a sudden, a pointed roof like maybe a Swiss Chalet, or a Disney castle has dropped right in front of you, and magic gates are swinging open welcoming you, but then shutting behind you, because the secret of this absolute paradise is so special that it’s not for everyone. I found myself rubbing my eyes, and wondering, “Is this for real?”
My sister-in-law said she had a farm, but my idea of farming is very American, so I didn’t quite imagine what farming on an island would look like. I also knew she was building an A-frame cottage, but my only reference for A-frame buildings is an ancient A-frame in front of the grocery store that opened as a restaurant when I was a child and is now a smoke shop, I think. I was in it once when I was very small. My memory was looking up at the roof that angled into darkness. My imagination put vampire bats up there. I remember wrapping my arms around my dad’s legs. I never set foot in it again. I never really understood how a triangle could be an efficient accommodation. All my assumptions were blown away.
First off, here is an incomplete list of things that can be grown on a farm in the Philippines–bananas, limes, avocados, papaya, eggplant, lemons, dragon fruit, jack fruit, and tangerines. Second of all, a triangle house is strong. It will more than likely survive a typhoon. The structure is devised into three floors, each with an eye for comfort, esthetics, and function. Each level has its own balcony to take in the sea, the distant islands and the overreaching Pacific Ocean. Imagine a vista of all the shades of blue. I stood on the balcony and watched the sky change from periwinkle, to pink, to velvet black. I could stand there forever and be endlessly at peace with the view.
My sister-in-law asked me to help her put together a collage of photos of our Taylor family. I sifted through a small box of snapshots. I know most people use cameras more than ever, but handling photos printed on paper has a kind of magic digital photography can never capture. I picked up an old Polariod of my brother and myself. It was Christmas 1972. I was three and Kevin was two. I instantly remembered that moment. It was nighttime and we were sitting on the dining room table; my Mom’s Christmas plastic table cloth with poinsettias had a big wrinkle in it and a glass of water had spilled, running along the channels of the wrinkle. My brother was crying because he was tired and he didn’t want me touching his Playskool garage. I was reaching for the little man with the red plastic ball cap hat anyway, because it was fun to tease my brother. My mom took the photo to catalogue what a brat I was. I remembered all that in an instant.
I always think looking at old pictures will make me sad, but it never does. Putting the collage together was extra special because it highlighted how our family has grown and changed over the years. The delight of my parents’ joy in holding their grandchildren is forever captured in single shots. It’s a reminder of how much love I have been blessed with in my life.
My sister-in-law built the space with her own ingenuity and creativity. It is beautiful, expansive, impressive. and inspiring. Just like she is. It is one of the few places in my life that I have felt my soul breathe. I felt my power there: anything was possible; my words could leap from the page; color could flow from my brush; and the images in my head could be transposed to reels amplified by the silver screen. This oasis by the sea has a magic that sparked my life. I will never forget my day at the A-frame farm. I will be forever grateful for this gift.
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.
Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About 