I hate goodbyes.

Last October, after four months and 9000 miles of American travel, I landed in Los Angeles, where I soon took up residency with my son and his wife, got a California driver's license, registered to vote, enrolled in "Covered California" healthcare, became a leasing agent for a real estate management company, and learned the ins and outs of driving in LA.

I am a Californian.  And I love it.

But my two older sons have taken up residency in the same metro area on the other side of the country for a brief time, and I feel a sense of urgency to get back behind the wheel of my prius to head east so that I can take advantage of this opportunity of access.

I quit my job.  I bought new tires.  I packed up my things (they are sitting in the middle of the living room floor). I am sipping my coffee and will soon load the car. Tonight's hotel is booked and paid for.  I am set to trip again and I am excited about making memories with my grandchildren for the next few months. 

I will be answering to a different name for awhile:  Ma'amaw. This makes me smile.

But I still have tears in my eyes this morning; I have to say goodbye.

Yes, it is a temporary departure. And my family here in California can probably use a little break from me; I mean, jeez, having your mother/mother-in-law live with you for such an extended stay should qualify you for humanitarian of the year. These two lovely people deserve some private time; how they must miss walking naked through the house and having sex in the living room.

They are up now. He is watering the garden; she is getting ready for a photo shoot.

And I have tears in my eyes and my throat burns and I am clenching my jaw shut to prevent sobs from bursting out.

We will go out to breakfast and then he and I will load my car and then we will look at each other and hug and I won't be able to talk because if I open my mouth I will sob and then I will get in the car and drive away and wonder if I am doing the right thing and for many, many miles, I will cry.

I hate goodbyes.





 

Road Tripping into Foreign Territory

Hello!  How are my favorite readers out there in internet land?  I know I left you hanging and that you have been unable to eat or sleep while  waiting patiently for news from me....  No?  You didn't even know I hadn't written?!   Excellent!  Knowing that you are busy living, rather than looking for my posts, warms my heart.

So...where have I been?

After Maine, I headed through New York into Toronto, Canada, where I had my first border experience. Having researched border crossings the evening before, I knew I should be truthful (not a problem for me) and refrain from any humor-intentioned comments (apparently, border agents have no sense of humor).

After an hour's wait, I pulled up to the agent, rolled down my windows, and removed my sunglasses and hat.  He felt no need to reciprocate, big black sunglasses shielding me from his humanity, ignoring my cheery "hello," taking my passport, beginning the interrogation.

     "Where do you live?"

     Hmmm.  Tough one.  I stammered as I responded, "Florida.....I guess."  Man, that was a difficult question.  I wonder if he noticed my nervousness. 

     "What do you do?"

     "Teacher," I automatically replied.  "But I quit," I quickly added.  Okay, Julie, you are not passing this test.  Do better.  Telling the truth is tricky sometimes. 

     "Why are you coming to Canada?"

     "To see friends."  Easy one.

     "How long will you be here?"

     "A week?  Two?  I don't know for sure."  Does it matter?  Do I need to have better plans?  Is he going to give me a time limit?

     "Are you traveling with anything other than clothes and personal items?  Any food, produce, alcohol, tobacco?"

     "Uhhh...yeah.  I have everything that I didn't give away when I left Florida.  I'm on a road trip.  I have camping gear..."

     "So what is your final destination?" he interrupted.

     "California."

     "Do you have a place to live when you arrive in California?"   Well, it is so nice to see that he is interested in my welfare.

     "I'll be staying with my son and his wife for awhile."

     "Do you have a job lined up?"  Wow!  I mean, I just want to go visit my friends in Canada! I really don't get why this is important, but I know not to make border agents mad:  I didn't want to be selected for inspection, not because I have anything to hide, but because of the hassle--my car was totally packed.

     "I'll get one when the time comes," I said confidently.

     "Go on," he said sternly while handing me my passport. 

     "Thank you!" I happily responded.  And I was free once again. 

      Free in Canada for sixteen days (yeah, I stayed longer than two weeks) where I had to undergo the trials of learning to live in a foreign country.  Adapting is not always easy.  For months I had driven through neighborhoods where the American flag is displayed by proud citizens, but now!  Now I was to endure Canadian pride, spying red, white, and maple leaf waving at me, taunting me!

     But beyond the flags, I first had to master driving.  The speed limit had changed to 100.  For the rest of my life, I will never forget the five seconds of uncertainty as I sought, located, and pressed the button that changed my speed from 65 to 105.  Driving in a foreign land...what a harrowing experience, but not nearly as difficult to conquer as the ultimate test of survival--

     Crossing the language barrier.

     As a speaker of English--American English with a bent towards Southern--I struggled to understand the natives of Canada, even as they so willingly made sacrifice by reaching out to me as a foreigner, welcoming me to their country by speaking to me in my own language.  Canadians are truly a kind and hospitable people, and if I ever get kicked out of the US, I know where I will be headed.

Border Flags 

International Border Plaque

Waiting to get in...

Made it!

Images from Mississauga:

Marilyn Monroe

I live right over there...

Port Credit

Dinner at my favorite Serbian restaurant with my Canadian family

After much Serbian music, he sang a Beatles tune for me…in English!

Serenade by the water...

"Earning" my keep

Parry Sound:

Island Queen Cruises

9/10 - 9/26

    

Warning: Pizza Hazard Ahead

After the thrill of skydiving, I headed back to Portland to spend the weekend with my new friends and to embrace this fabulous state for just a while longer before heading to Canada.

On the first night my hosts decided to take me out to a favorite--Otto, a popular pizza establishment--where they were certain I would be delighted with what they called, "the best pizza in Portland…" if not everywhere. Now, to be honest with you, my dear reader, I am not much on pizza. I mean, I like it okay, and I am always willing to partake…but I generally only eat one slice, two if I am starving to death. But I'm all about the local food, so I was excited and appreciative that my hosts were willing to share this meal with me. 

Check the menu.  Can you pick out the one we ordered for me?

Yes, we ate mashed potato pizza only because I wanted to try it. They were not thrilled about the idea, but their kindness and generosity overwhelmed their better judgement…and so they indulged me (Thanks, guys!  You are filled with goodness and love.) I think they knew I couldn't help myself.  

As a Southern girl with Irish roots, I view mashed potatoes as a staple of living. Never was there a trip to the grocery store that we didn't automatically throw in a 10 lb. bag of potatoes. There is a special place in society for mashed potatoes--alongside meat loaf, fried chicken, country fried steak, fried pork chops--oh hell, next to any meat that goes on the plate.  

Or maybe just have a plate of potatoes for lunch.

On a pizza? To my chagrin, not so much. Mashed potatoes need to be served drenched in butter or gravy (preferably butter), and they need to be eaten one mouthful at the time, with nothing else to detract from the satisfying warmth of a home-cooked meal, overflowing with the fats and salt that require a two-hour nap on the couch afterwards. Accompanied by bacon and scallion, this was more like having a baked potato (another favorite) drizzled on top of a pizza. Despite my disappointment, it is a popular pizza, recommended by many, but I have another recommendation.

The margherita pizza. I could not get enough. No, really, I couldn't because I had insisted on ordering the mashed potato, thereby reducing the number of delectable slices on the table.

The pizza at Otto is thin but layered with flaky crispness. The toppings are light and flavorful. Every bite was a delight to my senses--the taste, the smell, the texture. Never in the history of this old woman have I desired another slice so passionately, so voraciously. I took a menu, I noted the word, "Otto," in my phone, and I swore that I would never, ever forget this place that surprised my taste buds and gave me a newfound reverence for pizza.

Or maybe it was the fabulous people with whom I had shared this experience.

Or maybe I was just tripping…

julie

Back to the sign for which I was(n't) looking…

After two peaceful nights of quiet meditation near Mt. Katahdin in Maine, I packed up camp and headed back to Portland.  But only a few miles down the road I saw a sign…the one meant for me.  I did not hesitate; I turned my sweet car to the right and arrived at the place I was intended.

I met some lovely people:

An airplane pilot...

A "catcher"

A couple of Australian dudes and another customer

My attachment

Check them out at Jump and Raft.  

You know what happens next…

Upon landing, I was so excited that I quickly recorded a video. 

The first 35 seconds after leaving the plane--falling through the air, laughing and grinning, joy in my heart--it was the best thing ever! I hated it when he pulled the cord; why couldn't he hold out until we were closer to the ground?!

If you are ever driving down a highway and see a sign that says, "Skydiving," you really should accept that it is intended for you.  

I love signs.

j

The Sign for Which I Was(n't) Looking

Author's note:  For best results when playing videos, please use headphones…and turn it up…and for the sake of humanity, watch on the largest screen possible. Thank you.  

"I'm waiting for a sign."

Do you see it in the clouds?  Right over there…it's obvious.

Many people make major decisions only when they perceive a sign from a god or perhaps, the universe.   I have found, however, like John Lubbock:

"What we see depends mainly on what we look for."

Yes, we generally see that for which we are looking. 

I wonder why we need a sign?  Is it because we are afraid of taking responsibility for our decisions, or is it that maybe, somehow, we don't trust ourselves?   Hmmm... 

Me?  I love signs.  Not the mystical kind…I'm pretty sure the universe does not concern itself with my life…I mean…have you seen the size of this world?  

  

Pretty powerful video, yeah?  You didn't watch it?  Go back and watch it; I'll wait.  It puts all of our major life dilemmas  in perspective, and I seriously doubt whether or not the universe is trying to guide me using signs that are not of my own making.

But I digress.

When I heard this song (below) on the radio back in 1990, I was ecstatic, and I said to my friends, "Oh, man!  This was one of my favourites back in middle school!"

I was immediately shut down.  "No, this song was just released by Tesla; there is no way you know it from middle school."

Check it:

I am pretty sure that today is the first time I have seen 90's Tesla, and to me, they look like a 70's band...but I digress...again...

Hmmm…I insisted that I sang along to it in my early years, but no one would listen.  They laughed at me.   They made fun of me. They suggested that I was high (I was not).   And because in 1990 none of us were carrying around oracles, I humbly bowed out of the argument, doubted my own memories, and suffered embarrassment for being such a foolish young woman.

Now, writing a blog about a sign, recalling that horrible day of disgrace, I realize I must rectify this almost forgotten, misery-laden episode of my past. 

So…thanks to Al Gore and the invention of the internet, I bring you:  

 "Signs" (1970), written by Les Emmerson, lead singer of the Five Man Electrical Band. 

So there!  I don't remember who you are, but you were wrong. "Signs" was around when I was in middle school!  (And did you notice the shoutout to my blog on that headband?) 

But I digress once more.  As I was saying, I like signs--especially now that I am traveling into the uncharted…oh, sorry…very much mapped out, photographed, googled, and reviewed roads, towns, parks, landmarks, etc. of America.

So from Florida to Maine--despite the vast number of signs that I saw, studied, used, and/or ignored--I still had not found the one for which I was looking.  (Full disclosure, I wasn't actually looking for it, but when I saw it, I knew I had found it.  I guess it was a sign.) 

If you recall from my last blog (I know it was a long time ago; you don't have to tell me that), I had fallen in love with Maine and was working to get over it.  (Oh, you didn't know the object of my affection?)

But I have taken much too long to get to the point (especially if you watched the videos, and I prefer that you did!) so I will tell you about "the sign I was(n't) looking for" next time when I'm not tripping...

julie

It really was an awesome sign--I'm sure it was put there just for me. I can hardly wait to tell you about it. In the meantime, learn some signs from one of my favorite songs…and don't forget the headphones!

"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen, performed in sign language by Stephen Torrence