On the Road
The last day in our house finally came, so we prepared to head to another we had rented temporarily in Cambria, my former hometown. It would give us a place to wrap up final details, sort out the belongings we hadn’t sold or given away, and prepare to be on the road for five months, first driving to Mexico and then flying to Argentina.
But we were so weary, we barely said good-bye, see ya later to our home of several years. Tim headed off once more to see his buddies at AmVet, the charity truck that had received many of our household belongings in the past six weeks, and I made the final walk-through and left for the rental house.
I must tell you that a woman knows moving preparations have reached the bitter end when her large purse weighs upwards of twenty pounds. The final sweep through an empty house always yields surprises, and usually the only receptacle left is the purse. Today was no different. Besides my regular load of essentials, my purse now held a pair of shoe liners, a rogue letter opener, a lone pearl earring, a book of 37-cent stamps, a plastic wine stopper, a church key, two blank CDs, a small photo album of grandchildren, and an antique bronze bookend that had been serving as a doorstop. I lugged it to my car, took one last look at the vibrant rosebush display that would greet the new owners, and drove away.
That evening Tim and I reconvened at the three-bedroom vacation rental on the beach. Our cars burst with I don’t-know-what-the-hell-to-do-with-this-but-I’m-not-ready-to-part-with-it-yet items. The rental was much too big for us, but we needed space to stage our last standoff with our possessions in preparation for our final departure. Every item needed to be taken to storage, given away, or carried with us.
One day, Tim walked into the kitchen as I contemplated the fate of six little yellow plastic corn-on-the-cob holders. He waved a lone patent leather tuxedo shoe. “Honey,” he frowned, “I know for sure that I’ve seen the other one, but I can’t find it.”
“It’s in that horror of a room,” I replied without looking up.
Soon enough, that became the guest room’s new name. Sprawled across The Horror Room were cowboy boots, coats, cameras, CDs and DVDs, decks of cards, wine openers, maps, electronic gear, plastic containers full of random small things, paperwork, and shoes with uncertain futures. Every now and then, Tim or I would wander in and attempt to create order, only to leave a few minutes later, cursing under our breath, soundly defeated by the enormity of the task.
The day we cleared that room and closed the door was a milestone in our relationship.
We still faced two looming decisions: the clothes and travel equipment we would lug with us on our home-free trip.
After much debate, we determined we could manage with two large rolling duffel bags and two carry-ons. We held private fashion shows for each other as we tried to narrow down the clothes and gear. It was tedious, but our excitement about our impending adventure practically sparked off our bodies and made it fun. As the weeks before our departure ticked down to days, we barely slept. 4:00 a.m. became the new 7:00 a.m. Lists of chores swirled in our heads, complicated by a serious case of ambivalence about the joy our plan brought us and the pain we had at leaving our family.
Which presented our next huge challenge: How would we stay in touch with friends and family and make travel arrangements and write the blog I was thinking of starting while we were on the road? We spent an inordinate amount of time at the Apple store, talking with smart salesmen who looked like children to us, and we came away with laptops, iPhones, mini-speakers, adapters, and a bag full of accessories. Enough equipment to provide us with communication and entertainment in every country we wanted to see in the next few years. The equipment was so technically advanced that we signed up for Apple classes to learn how to use our new gizmos. I noticed that most of the other students were gray-haired people, too, looking dazed and confused as they poked and bleeped their way through their electronic learning curves. We came away educated, synced, apped, and secure in the knowledge that we were indeed citizens of the twenty-first century!
***
Even as we wrestled with wardrobe and electronic issues, Tim immersed himself for hours every day to put together eighteen months of travel plans.
One afternoon, I walked into the dining room, which Tim had commandeered as travel headquarters. The Pacific Ocean sparkled outside and a dramatic sunset was brewing, but Tim’s focus was so intent and absolute that he could have been sitting in a cave for all he knew.
Suddenly, he banged his palms on the table and beamed at me with his dazzling smile. He leapt out of his chair and gave me a big smooch and a bear hug. “Wow, thank you! What’s that for?” I asked.
“It’s DONE!” he shouted. “I’ve just firmed up the reservation for the car to pick us up in Buenos Aires! It’s all wrapped up. We’re set for the next six months.”
We crammed final belongings into the groaning storage space. We wrapped up last-minute chores and returned house keys. Our friends and family treated us to lunches, dinners, cocktails, phone calls, emails, gifts, cards, and good wishes.
Finally, Departure Day arrived.
And suddenly, we were in our car. Just the two of us. (Time to get used to that!) Silence descended as we followed Highway 101 toward Los Angeles, two hundred fifty miles to the south. We retreated into our own heads, each considering the enormity of the step we had taken. We had finally made our plan a reality, which left us exhilarated. And terrified.
To break the tension, Tim turned on the iPod and hit “shuffle.” Folk-country singer Guy Clark’s “L.A. Freeway” filled the car and sent us into fits of laughter. We high-fived each other, shared a quick kiss, and at that moment, we knew we would be more than okay. Our ambivalence fled, replaced by the certainty that we’d made the right move and we were ready for whatever happened next.