For a long time after my family moved away, I had zero desire to visit my hometown. I felt disconnected from it and like an outsider when I was there. Many of my childhood friends have returned there to raise their families and it has once again become I place I love to go. I stay in town with Andrew and Cat or across the river in Vermont with Adam and Lyn, depending on what's going on and how I'm feeling. This time I stayed for 3 nights, visiting with many friends, swimming in ice cold lakes, wandering out to a stunning view somewhere in Jefferson with the usual suspects, and eating my weight in vegetables. On the way out I drove my usual route past the house in which I grew up, then out Pleasant Valley, a beautiful, quiet space with a dirt road winding between homes, past Mount Cabot, and on into Jefferson and the paved road home.
Fully relaxed, I left for Montpelier and my friend Merin's house, only to realize that in the scramble of texting multiple people to make plans, I'd miscommunicated dates and suddenly needed a place to stay. Rather than turn back to Hanover, I found a campground at Limehurst Lake and settled in for one last night with Yoda.
The pause turned out to be magical, and funny, and exactly what I needed. I was forced to pause, which gave me a chance to consider just how huge this adventure was, and how lucky I felt to have been smart enough to follow my heart.
The next morning I woke to pouring rain, so I responded in the only sane way one can, which meant finding Wayside Restaurant and eating an obscene amount of omelet, bacon, and toast while slowly drying out. I landed in the library for a while and worked for a few hours after perusing the book sale, where I scored a copy of Kate Christensen's Blue Plate Special for $2.
Merin finished up her morning and took me for a walk with her sweet pup in the woods, then we headed home for a simple dinner, a little TV, and an early night. I slept like a rock. After hugs in the morning, I hit the road for my hometown, the last stop on my adventure.
After I left southern Vermont, I headed to the North Conway area to stay with my friend, Ben, for the night. We met old friends of mine for dinner and sat talking under the darkening sky until the mosquitoes drove us out. Ben and I went out to a spot on a road high above his house and let the darkness envelop us as the stars sank down to meet the fireflies in the field below. There's no other place like New Hampshire where the darkness is so velvety and complete, and the stars are so in reach.
The next morning I was up super early, making my way to Hanover to see my family. I traveled back roads the whole way, winding through woods and fields, navigating washouts, and eventually getting pulled over by a patient cop who let me know that the speed limit was not what I thought it was, then sent me on my merry way.
Eventually, I landed at my family's house, grateful for a giant hug from my cousin Nick, a room looking out over the river, and plenty of quiet time to read. My friend Georgia visited for a night, a luxury we don't often get to indulge in since she lives in NYC with her family.
My old high school friend, Kate, came for lunch and brought her kids, so we went off to Queechee Gorge to look over the edge of the bridge and then back to the river to dip our toes in.
There was plenty of time for my favorite beagle, Otis, making a fiddly but delicious cheesecake from my grandmother's recipe, sifting through family photos, checking out student artwork with my cousin Allegra, talking with my cousin Nick in the kitchen as he came and went between his various jobs, and spending time with my aunt and uncle in the woods.
This place and these people are some of my favorite on earth. A balm for my soul, every time.
Vermont, with its soft, rolling mountains, deep blue lakes, and laid-back vibe, is one of my favorite places. I grew up on the Connecticut River, the border between Vermont, and my home state, New Hampshire. I remember being very small and thinking about how you could always tell when you crossed the border. Sure, you cross a river, but the mountains are softer and the people are somehow gentler in a way I can't put my finger on. There are no billboards. Crossing into Vermont from New York was no different. I looked ahead and thought "That looks like Vermont". Sure enough, I crested a hill and watched Vermont unfurl below, the state line passing in a blur as I increased my speed, happy to see those hills again.
I headed for Brattleboro, where I would spend a couple of nights with my college friends, Suzie and Isaac. I mucked around in my car for a little bit, consolidating things and tidying up, then Isaac and I headed off to pick up his son at a local wilderness camp. It was the final day, so the kids made milkweed fritters and cooked fish they'd caught in a nearby stream. After chatting with some parents and listening to all of the kids describe their favorite part of the week-long experience, we made our way home.
We went to dinner at a place overlooking the river, finding a quiet spot upstairs after navigating through a Margaritaville themed party outside. The food was good, and it was easy to pick up where we all left off 20+ years ago.
We went for an early morning walk in Madame Sherri Forest, wandering through the ruins of the old house before heading up an easy trail to a deserted pond where we threw sticks for Goose. Bright orange and yellow mushrooms dotted the dripping woods and the scent of a recent bear was strong.
I wandered into town, poking into shops but feeling too hot and tired to try things on or spend money. I headed back to the house and went out with Isaac to see some of his recent development projects, watching the fields and woods stream by, happy with the luxury of keeping my eyes off the road. We stopped in at a small general store for some carrot cake jam and checked on the progress of a bridge. We made it home in time for dinner, and then some time in front of the fire pit under the setting sun.
On my last day, we headed to a lake that shall not be named, put in the boat, and putted off to find a rocky outcropping on which to spend most of the day. The place was packed, but we managed to find a good spot and spent a few hours lazing around, swimming, and eating lunch. It was time for me to leave too quickly, so my friends brought me back to my car, where we watched a bald eagle feeding her chicks for a bit before I left.
In Albany, I stayed with my friends Skye and Victoria and their kids, snuggling into their daughter Elke's tiny bed at night, watching the light from the streetlights pour across the beautiful apple quilt made by Victoria. We devoured modern art in the days I spent there, visiting Art OMI to see sculptures stashed in woods and fields, and the Egg and the bizarre warren of office space below it, which featured several large pieces by different artists. Elke belted out songs from Frozen in any place there was an echo. Victoria sewed my backpack patches on with her sewing machine, small potatoes next to the precise and stunning artwork that she creates for her online shop, The Binderie. We wandered their neighborhood, had cider donuts and checked on the old apartment in which their son Lyric was born. Someone had been using it as a clubhouse; they stole cabinets and appliances but apparently repaired the clogged roof drain that had caused the roof to cave in a bit. I left with a lighter heart, headed for Vermont, and so close to home.
My week in Rochester was a tough one. Closer to home, and finally beginning to fully understand how very much I did not want this adventure to end, I faltered. It was hot and muggy, and I was staying in a student apartment that lacked any sense of home but had a great goofy Husky named Milo, who distracted me from feeling too morose. I wrote the rest of this post while I was in Rochester, in between wandering through Mount Hope Cemetery, visiting the Parks-Lamberton Conservatory, waiting patiently for Milo to recover from his sudden need for a power nap in the middle of any sidewalk at any time as we made our way through the nearby historic district. I also made time to visit the George Eastman Museum, which was one of the highlights of my stay there.
I'm sitting in a small apartment in Rochester, NY, listening to the rain pour down as I follow, online, my friends in their painful traverse of the final hours of the life of Clancy, their beloved father's dog. The upstairs neighbors are throwing a party, laughing and stomping their feet. I want to yell at them to stop, but instead, I am watching a lady make risotto on TV, still checking my phone every few minutes.
Clancy was a pup when my friends' father passed away, a living legacy for these many years. Clancy is dying now, and they have made the impossibly difficult choice to let him go. This dog is more widely loved than any dog I know, because of the ferocious love of his four human sisters. They have made him the center of their world. Clancy has helped them to heal; now that he is going, it is brutally hard.
In the midst of this, I learn that my dear friend's husband has died after a sudden, unexpected illness. I was lucky to spend time with this gentle, gracious, intelligent, humorous, absolute gentleman early in my trip and I simply cannot fathom the world without him. If you multiply the effect he had on me by thousands of light years, you will still never get close to how important he is to his family.
I am in tears over the loss of two souls who are deeply loved by those I deeply love, and who I had the good fortune to know also. This is the flip side of being connected, that there is always a loss, eventually. I'm grappling with what to say and how to say it. I'm not ready, nor prepared to face any of it, but that's not how any of this works anyway, in my experience.
I keep coming back to my own father's death nearly 30 years ago, remembering some of his writing, which my uncle later had printed and sent on to people he was grateful to as a sort of benediction for many years. They are the same words I read at my high school baccalaureate, and for some strange reason, left safe at home on this adventure; I have always had them with me until now. When I need them more than ever, I am on my own.
When I left on this trip, I experienced an excruciating sense of loss over several weeks, not just after I left, but for days and days before. My completely rote, safe life, my small group of treasured friends, my family, my beloved dogs - I was leaving everything behind for some barely articulated need to just get the hell out of where I was. I searched for help all over the internet and tried to express what I was going through, but there is no help for "loss caused by a positive choice."
I have weathered losses quietly over these long months, relying on quiet conversations with close friends, reading and listening to books, spending hours and thousands of miles driving toward the horizon with only my thoughts spinning around. I have made very little art outside of photographs, shared less of what has hurt, and more of what has been the adventure that so many people are longing for. But, and there is always a but, there has been sadness, loss, and now, profound grief.
Some things are coming full circle here. The girls upstairs whoop and stomp on the floor, laughing through a chorus of some pop song. I watch a giant catfish swim across the TV. I think about daybreak and those moments that become defining before-and-after's. I met two beautiful souls, a man and a dog, who changed me for the better. I will honor their memories by always stopping to smell the roses, and by living my life with integrity. It's what they taught me, each in their own way, and I'm deeply grateful for the lessons.
This is my friend Elizabeth. She kidnapped me pretty much as soon as I arrived at her home. I decided that the best course of action was to develop an immediate, advanced case of Stockholm Syndrome and enjoy myself. I'd had a rough few days, so being taken off to a location I couldn't possibly ever find again - the sort of old family summer home that has a massive fireplace, a deep front porch, and a moose on the wall, and smells like old books, where everything is comfortable, fixable, and has a story - to eat sausages and corn on the cob, dig for fossils, drink wine, sleep in a twin bed next to a giant window fan, pick blueberries for a pie, scratch dogs behind their ears, and get to know some new and interesting people was pretty much the bees knees.
I visited Gettysburg when I was finally released back into civilization, wandering among the graves and statues, trying hard to imagine the battles that had taken place on what was now peaceful fields full of chicory. We went to a movie and had dinner at a great place, then took a quick tour of Carlisle, one of the many towns in which Elizabeth grew up. Her dad taught at the US Army War College, so she moved around a lot, and has an interesting perspective on home and place.
Pennsylvania was a relief. I felt light, refreshed, and able to move forward.
I went to pick up my dogs when I'd been home for a week. It had been nearly a year since I dropped them at the kennel where they lived and I was full of anxiety, worried that they wouldn't be as excited to see me as I was to see them. That thought woke me up in the middle of the night and I rolled around for an hour, the what-if's taking a whack at my jellylegs, all sorts of middle-of-the-night angst spilling over.
Intellectually, I knew this was all part of the emotional roller coaster I find myself on these days. My emotions, however, were in overdrive and not interested in reason. I was happy reading a book and then incredibly sad in a room full of people, happy at breakfast or on a deck overlooking a river, and then sad driving down a familiar road alone. It was a strange thing, re-entry. I fought against dropping into old, bad habits and spending time alone, my head under a pillow. I said yes to almost every invitation in an effort to stay connected, to keep my head above water.
Anni and Mischa were so different than I expected, greeting me with a subdued and gentle hello. They were both shaken by the change, alternately excited and fearful. Mischa has developed a barking habit and is significantly whiter around her eyes; Anneke is less likely to bark than before and responds to commands more willingly. They were so, so loved. I cried when I saw them, and the kennel staff cried when we left. There's no way to adequately thank the women who cared for my girls while I was away, but I will find some way to show my deep appreciation.
I didn't want to be here, but I didn't want to be anywhere else, either. I wanted to be on the open road with a vague, far away destination in mind. I wanted to be in motion and I felt stuck. I needed a walk but was unable or unwilling to accomplish that more than twice since returning home. My dogs forced the issue; I was simultaneously grateful and annoyed at the prospect of twice-daily walks again. In the end, the walks have been an anchor that held me steady through a turbulent return. We compromised with a 10-minute jaunt through the lower fields in the early morning and then a long walk through neighborhoods in the evening. I'm grateful for these little old ladies who follow me everywhere and love me without reservation.
It was in traffic in Chicago that my happy forward trajectory started to falter. The weather turned sour as I sat in the midst of a sea of cars, and I drove through torrential downpours for hours, hydroplaning my way across Indiana and much of Ohio before landing at Findley State Park for two nights, very much worse for the wear after a near collision with a big truck, and dreading setting my tent up in the rain. I sat in the car for 45 minutes, trying to decide whether or not it was even worth it, hungry, frustrated, and done with every little part of the journey. Eventually, I dragged myself out of the car and hopped around, muttering curses as I struggled to set up the tent just as the skies opened up again. There was a puddle in the tent when I was done and I was angry enough to wrestle a bear.
The next morning I ventured into town, walking around Oberlin in the rain, trying to jumpstart the warm fuzzy feeling that had so abruptly left me as I headed away from Milwaukee. I rallied a little bit, and the sun helped by coming out, but by mid-afternoon, I'd smashed my Kindle's screen enough to make it unusable, and my phone started acting funny. I went for a walk in the woods, which helped a little bit. As I moved through the trees, I tried to put my finger on what was bothering me so much. I was starting a long, slow slide into a depression. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to stay in this floating sort of incognito, pushing onto a new place. I wasn't sure I would fit at home. I couldn't tell how much I had changed, but I knew I didn't feel like the same person. I was afraid to look at my new self against the backdrop of my old self, and to then have to sit with all of it. Most of all, I didn't want to lose all I had gained: this new lightness, a readier smile, the drive to connect.
I left for Pennsylvania's Ohiopyle State Park in the morning, resolved to make the best of the next few days. I visited Cucumber Falls, and Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater and Kentuck Knob. I squeezed into an Andy Goldsworthy installation at Kentuck Knob, gazing up at the trees that grew out of its center, puzzling over how I would ever remain the new me when I returned home. I watched clouds scudding across the sky above bright green hills outside the house and found a little bit of grace inside myself.
I woke the next morning with renewed hope, basking in the sun and looking forward to seeing my friend Elizabeth and her family. Along the way, I stopped at the Flight 93 National Memorial, which caused a gut punch of complicated, agonizing emotion. I'm not sure why I thought I could make a quick stop at such a powerful, somber memorial. The building sits in stark contrast to the meadows in which it is placed. The tall walls feel like a downed plane. The glass wall at the end of a long walkway allows the viewer to see the crash site and the long memorial wall in the lower field. Everyone spoke in a low voice, visibly moved by the immense tragedy that took place here. I went inside and quickly moved through the exhibit, overwhelmed by the sounds of the final calls made to loved ones, footage of the two towers, and the sight of so many people with tears in their eyes. I walked the lower memorial wall, running my hands along the stone, thinking about the people who died in that amazingly beautiful spot. After, I sat in my car and cried.
After gathering myself together, I moved on toward Elizabeth's house, unsettled, upset, and very much looking forward to something lighter for a couple of days.
The Milwaukee Domes are totally rad. We went on an overcast, rain off-and-on sort of day. Christa and I were trying to get through my list of things to see and do, so we crisscrossed town, popping into one place after another. We took a breather at the Domes (the formal name is Mitchell Park Conservatory) and got a personal tour from our friend, Paula. She loves the Domes, the plants, and the birds that live there (they all have names, which I've unfortunately forgotten by now). It was a pleasure to spend an afternoon with a person who is excited about teaching you what they know. Plus, I'm a sucker for a good cactus garden any day of the week.
Is there anything more sinister looking than the tail of a bunch of bananas? I first noticed one at the Atlanta Botanical Garden and it freaked me out. There was one at the Domes too, but this time I was brave enough to take a photo of it. Sssssnakey. By this point in the trip, my camera was about as filthy as it's possibly for one to get without dropping it straight into a puddle, so the focus is oddly dappled. The whole enterprise felt more like using a film camera; I could see the shot when I took it, but no detail until I had a bigger screen. Sometimes the effect was good, sometimes not, but I decided to just go with it and hope for the best.
While I was staying in Madison, I took a day to visit Baraboo, a small town within an hour's drive. I took back roads as usual, soaking in the rolling green fields, passing tiny farms nestled against tall trees. The sun was bright and hot, and the sky was very blue. I drove up an actual hill, which is a significant enough event in that part of the world that I proudly reported it to Christa a couple of days later. It was, in short, a perfect day for a visit to Circus World.
After my health insurance freakout, money was feeling a little dear, so I balked internally at the ticket price, but handed over my $19.95 with a smile. Tickets are less expensive in the Spring and Fall, so I'd recommend those times if you're thinking of visiting.
Circus World is a museum built in the former summer home of Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. The first room is full of beautifully done exhibits that detail the lives of each of the Ringling brothers and their contribution to the circus they ran for many, many years. My favorite part was the poster exhibit, which showcased some of the beautiful, clever, and over-the-top illustrations in the museum's collection.
I wandered through several old barns, peering into circus wagons, marveling at a purple-carpeted clown car (smaller than a VW bug and they got 20+ clowns in it if I recall correctly), laughing at myself in a funhouse mirror, and checking out the big top, where there are daily shows.
A wide gravel trail pushes into the woods, slowly becoming narrower as tree roots and rocks become more prevalent. The trail makes no apology for going right through the middle of a rocky creek for about 25 feet, but the scramble is well worth the effort. Huge walls of black rock and soft, pebble-filled sediment tower above, seemingly held in place by moss and gnarled tree roots alone. Ferns are jammed into every conceivable nook and cranny, waving gently in the humid, cool air. There's a small waterfall at the end and there were several loud, shouty types, so I took a few photos and turned around after a short while.
It was a day with the best of both worlds: the dusty, colorful, endless optimism of the circus, and the cool, green, mossy quiet of the woods. I was lucky to visit.
Being home is harder than I thought, faster than I imagined. The rush of hugs and hilarity, and seeing many of my closest friends for the first time in nearly a year was so heartwarming. Waking up in my own bed was wonderful, but I also woke to the realization that I will be here indefinitely, which caused a ball of sadness to take up residence in the center of my belly. I am conflicted. This being home thing truly is bittersweet.
I changed my address, did a forensic - and terrifying - review of my finances. Every single one of my bills is due in the next 2 weeks and I am running low. My car needs to be registered and inspected. I pick up my dogs on Sunday.
I'm trying to remain calm, to just walk through this and let the feelings roll over and through me so that they'll leave more quickly and I'll stabilize faster. I've been trying to wrap my arms around the concept of grief since I left. It's impossible to find any writing about grief that's caused by a positive change (for me, leaving on my adventure), but I have a ton of resources for this more understandable end of things - the homecoming, the end of something wonderful.
Still, there's plenty of wonderful here and I plan to find it, to create it if necessary. I have a huge support network, which has vastly expanded because of my travels. Mourning in motion helps me. It's a thing I learned about myself while traveling. Go into the woods, move through it, literally. I'm finding the old paths again, and learning new ones, both in the woods and in my heart and mind. I'm spending a lot of energy reconciling the new, old me and my familiar, but changed circumstances in places I used to know intimately.
There have been changes for my people too. Sadness and struggle that wasn't shared, an enormous gift so that I could keep my head in the road, focused on myself. Now that is part of being here, change everywhere, a vertigo of the heart, swamped by happy and sad news all at once.
I'll be back to writing about my trip this week, finishing out the Midwest and Northeast, but I plan to intersperse it with writing on this transition back to a more stationary life. This is my new adventure.
I went to Madison to house sit for a very cool woman who is a scientist, and an artist, and a food blogger. Check out her miotic cell division cake, you won't be sorry. We spent a few hours talking about everything under the sun and connecting really easily, so I was sad that she was leaving, but happy to spend a few days with her sweet cats, Bonzai and Charlie.
On the first day I sat in a complete stupor, recovering from our whirlwind trip to the Apostle Islands. I headed up to Baraboo and went for a long walk in the woods (more on that later), spent a day working on this space, and then discovered that my health insurance premiums hadn't been paid for months.
I had a tantrum, but then Christa came to stay for a night, and we did all of the things in Madtown in 24 hours: hoofed it to the top of the capitol building to see the view and then took the fossil tour inside (there were later comments by locals on Facebook regarding the human fossils and invertebrates that currently inhabit the building, but that's another story), antiques shopping, the weird and wonderful Ella's Deli, the massive farmer's market, the Wisconsin Union for waterfront music on the terrace and a picnic dinner, the free and amazing Chazen Museum, and Colectivo Coffee (pretty much every time we walked by).
I spent one more day on my own and then joined Christa and Ted back in Milwaukee for a few days, soaking up all Milwaukee had to offer.
The Apostle Islands National Lakeshore was by far one of my favorite places on this trip. Top 3, for sure. I'd go back in a heartbeat, and I would even live there, despite knowing that the winters are at least as tough as home. Maybe it's because it was so much like Maine with its ferries, big water, small cottages, lupines, and quiet, small towns, but I just fell right over in a faceplant of complete love, pretty much immediately. Add to that the apparent hall pass I got for dairy while in Wisconsin (I have celiac and, related, I'm not supposed to have dairy either, blah, blah, blah, boring, boring, boring, because it makes me feel terrible) and you have a cheese-fog-filled dream of a great trip to northern Wisconsin.
Christa came back from a long, hot trip to Washington, D.C. with her students early in the morning. The plan was to get some sleep, but instead we ended up grocery shopping, going to Chill on the Hill, and then getting up early the next morning and starting in on the long drive to Bayfield. Thankfully, there are cheese stores all along the way, so we had plentiful, fresh cheese curds available at all times, because we have our priorities in order.
It's possible to camp in many places in the islands; some sites are accessible by car ferry, while others are primitive and involve paddling a boat. We opted for Little Sand Bay campground on the mainland, where we set up for 2 nights on a large lawn overlooking the water and right in the perfect spot for sunset views.
Outside of that one time in Texas, I haven't bothered to build campfires during this trip, partly because I am too lazy, and partly because it seems like so much for just one person, never mind the price gouging for firewood bundles in most places. Traveling with Christa made the effort worth it, so we built a fire, got it roaring, let it go out, got it going again, and then Christa made dinner: 2 coal-roasted potatoes and a can of coal-roasted vegetarian chili, with slow melted s'mores for dessert. It was pretty spectacular. Also, my campfire skills have really taken a beating with lack of use. Time to get back to it!
The next morning we discovered Big Water Coffee Roasters in Bayfield and took advantage their electrical sockets while mowing through gluten free pumpkin chocolate chip muffins and coffee. We basked in the sun for a bit, then took a leisurely stroll around town, poking into a bookshop and some galleries before eventually heading over to Trek & Trail to get fitted for wetsuits.
After the fitting we made our way to Meyers Beach, ate some lunch, and met our group for a 3-hour sea kayak tour of the cliffs and sandstone caves along Lake Superior. We had a tandem kayak, so Christa steered while I took a photos. Our guides were really well-informed about the area, very enthusiastic about kayaking, and provided us with a quick geology lesson as we bobbed around in the lake. We got to go into several caves, one of which was more like a canyon; it got so skinny at the end that we were pushing forward with our hands on the cold walls. The range of color was staggering - some of the cliffs looked like rainbows, set in stark contrast to the aqua blue and bright green of the lake. We popped through several tiny tunnels by bending over the deck of the kayak and pushing through. The beauty of this place cannot be understated.
The next day we took the ferry out to Madeline Island, arriving late enough that a startlingly large inline skate marathon was just finishing up. We walked down a long road before cutting into the woods, and snaked our way back to town on a winding, wooded trail. We stopped for a cool drink at Farmhouse, a lovely little house that serves things like foraged mushroom grilled cheese. I had kombucha with Tulsi (Holy Basil) in it, which I was fully prepared to dislike, but ended up loving, especially because it was unexpectedly sweet. We visited several shops in town, waited out a crazy rainstorm, and searched for agate in the freezing cold lake before catching the ferry back.
We left early the next morning, just barely ahead of a huge rainstorm, and headed for Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest for one last night of camping. The women in the spot across from us were headed to a hotel after dire warnings from the camp host, but we opted to brave the weather, which turned out to be pretty tame. The next morning we hit Angie's for breakfast on the way to Green Bay, where I had my first ever photo in front of a stadium (sportsing not being my thing).
More coffee was procured, and then we headed for Cedar Creek to taste moonshine before heading back to Milwaukee and a very long nap before heading out to see Wilco that night.
Wisconsin was home for something like 3 weeks. I stayed with my friends Christa and Ted (you may remember Christa from my Atlanta adventures last Fall) off and on as I completed a house sit in Madison, explored the Apostle Islands with Christa, and did a lot of sleeping.
Christa is the sort of person who is never fazed by even the most ambitious list of things to see and do. She has the most insane schedule, but seems to have time for it all. She's really good at saying yes and knowing that she actually has bandwidth, not just saying yes to be nice and then regretting it. She's always up for trying something new and asks a ton of questions because she's insatiably curious and completely unafraid to ask for directions or clarification. She says hello to almost everyone she passes on the street, no matter what. She is always trying to make a connection with another person, however brief. She's a great role model for me in all of those respects, and it makes her a very good travel partner.
Here's a partial list of the fun stuff we did in Milwaukee:
- Checked out the Night Market , where I was lucky enough to discover Chillwaukee Pops
- Did some citizen sciencing, collecting water samples at 2 local parks for water quality testing
- Went to Chill on the Hill twice (where the #travelingunicornhat made a very public appearance)
- Did a tour at Lakefront Brewery, the place that makes one of my favorite gluten free beers, New Grist
- Saw Wonder Woman in an atmospheric theater, which is an experience not to be missed if you ever have a chance
- Saw Wilco at Riverside Theater, which was loud and crazy and oh, so good
- Walked over 8 bridges on the Seven Bridges Trail in Grant Park on Lake Michigan
- Cleared 4 schools of old science curriculum and scored a giant collection of chemistry glassware. Christa's a science teacher and picked up some extra work this summer, which turned out to be a little bit of a bear, so I helped
- Visited Foundation Tiki Bar for some excellent fruity drinks
- Listened to a new friend, Caitlin Scarano, recite her excellent poetry and won a chapbook of hers because I was the only person in the room willing to yell to get it for free; the polite Midwesterners all shuffled their feet and looked at the floor
- Finished the whole shebang off with an Old Fashioned at Boone & Crockett because we never made it to a supper club, which is now on my list for a future trip.
I freaking love Milwaukee. I'm sure that Christa and Ted's enthusiasm for the place, the people, and the nightlife there had a lot to do with it, but I also liked the Bay View neighborhood vibe, the huge number of parks, how very nice everyone was, and the close proximity to the lake and the city. I'll be back here for sure.
It's been awhile since I cried my way onto the highway, but I did after a very long hug goodbye. Thank goodness I suffered through that first year of college in the wrong place; I couldn't imagine my life without the friends I made there.
I never expected to camp in Chicago, but I'm so glad I had the chance. I met my friend Jess at Alt Summit in January, and gratefully accepted an invitation to stay when other plans in the area fell through. The only catch? Camping in the park. The parks system offers a couple of camp outs for families during the year, hosted by the local nature center. Families show up with a tent and help with food prep. There was fishing, a movie, cooking over a fire, and games. It was so fun and such a good way to get to know a new place in a completely different way. Definitely not something I would have managed on my own.
The next morning we hung around for a touch-the-big-trucks event for kids that was set up right down the street, then headed home for a bit before going downtown to an annual art festival and drinks on a friend's porch.
All in all, it was a whirlwind visit and a whole lot of fun.
I went to Kansas City to meet this beautiful woman, Jess. We've been friends online for a few years, after being matched up as gratitude buddies by a photographer from whom I'd taken an online class; Jess just happened to stumble on her blog post about the project. We traded daily emails containing 3 things for which we were grateful for a little over a year. Our practice eventually fell by the wayside, but it supported both of us during some dark personal times. Sometimes Jess's email was the lightest part of my day, a thing to be grateful for all by itself. We've remained connected since, and she was on my early list of must-sees for this adventure.
I'm grateful for:
- Jess and Stuart, two kind, intelligent, thoughtful, funny people who welcomed me into their home and spent a long day introducing me to their city, their life, and their family.
- Joe's Kansas City - the best barbecue I've ever had in my life
- This photo, taken super early in the morning, in between hugs as I was leaving. Jess was still asleep when I left, but came running across her front lawn as I was pulling into the street. I'm so glad I got to say goodbye.
By the way, if you're in Kansas City and are searching for a doula, consider using Jess's growing labor of love, Black Rabbit Doula.
I fell in love with Iowa, which I never expected. It wasn't that new-romance-can't-sleep-sick-to-your-stomach-roller-coaster love, more like I met a new friend with whom I instantly clicked and couldn't wait to see again. The landscape is rolling hills with trees and creeks, and yes, plenty of corn, cows, and hay bales. The sky is enormous, laced with delicate clouds that did nothing to insulate me from the sun. Wildflowers spilled from every culvert, while grain silos perched on the edge of vast fields, dwarfing the homes nearby. I stayed with my friends Tina and Jeff, had dinner with my friend Chad (all former colleagues from my previous job, and one of the great takeaways from that time in my life), drank a fig-infused cocktail that actually came with a slice of maple bacon happily bathing in it, got two tours of Des Moines, and explored the Bridges of Madison County on the way south the next day. My time in Iowa was a sweet pause in the midst of my crazy, looping traverse of the prairie; I'll be back sometime to apply proper time and attention to that place.
Well, the thing I feared the most finally happened: I owe a big chunk of money to someone all of a sudden. On Wednesday, I bought a ticket to Altitude Summit for next February, dipping into savings, knowing it was an important thing for me to do again and that I could work hard at home to replenish my savings account. On Thursday, I learned that my health insurance premiums have not been paid since February, despite receipts from Anthem letting me know that payment was received. I owe the insurance company nearly exactly what I spent on the Alt ticket.
I had a credit card number stolen early on in this trip and replaced it, but didn't realize that this payment was attached to that card. Never mind that I can't use the HMO I'm part of outside of Maine, I have been doing my deed as a good citizen and making sure I'm covered. Sort of. Actually, not really at all.
It turns out that the intersection between Anthem's "I'm sorry, but it's required to be a paper notice, ma'am" antiquated communication systems related to payment issues and my travel are just deeply, irreconcilably incompatible. The people I spoke with kindly suggested that I update my address, but that would not help since I am not there.
A good friend has made sure I received mail periodically for the last 10 months, but the notices Anthem sends are as illuminating as their entirely confusing member website, which is to say, they are as clear as mud. I don't doubt that I received them, but how did I, a person who always, always, always reviews and pays bills on time, miss this?
I have other automatic payments scheduled every month. Amazon won't send dog food if there's even a question about my credit card. Anthem sends me a "thanks for your payment" email even when I haven't actually paid in 5 months. Lesson learned: insurance companies really are completely inflexible and I am not their priority.
I had a good, long cry after getting off the phone with the company this morning. I'm furious with Anthem and their giant shoulder shrug/deep sigh response. I'm annoyed with my bank for not having a notification system that some company keeps pinging an old, stolen card. Mostly though, I'm intensely frustrated with myself for not catching this error, for not making sure that payments were going through, and for relying on a giant company to make sure things were running smoothly.
It's almost a relief to have this fear realized. I'll move through this, shake it off, and figure out what to do next. By the time you read this I'll have 4 weeks to go on this adventure. I'll be back on the East Coast, and headed for home. Over time this will become one of the parts of the trip that I can laugh about, the Great Insurance Screw-up of 2017.
C'est la vie!
Update: I wrote this a week ago, just after it happened, and decided to let it marinate for a few days. I rarely have a chance to do that, so this post reflects an in-the-momentness that I am rarely able to achieve. Writing it helped me jettison just about all of my frustration, and howling to my friend Christa, who patiently heard me out on our way to Madison later that morning, got rid of the rest. It's nowhere near the end of the world and is entirely fixable. This was the worst thing that's happened to me on this adventure, so in the end, the real lesson is to keep moving forward - an appropriate thing to be reminded of in Wisconsin in particular, where "Forward" is the state motto.