Departure day, 6:00 a.m. punto (on the dot.) It’s dark out. I, and mis cuatro compadres, pile onto the bus for our final ride—the airport. I nestled into the very front seat behind Harlem, our driver for the past nine days; the doors close, wheels now set in motion—it is done. The interior lights are off, it is very quiet, no one is talking. A lump forms in my throat, and I can feel the water start to rise over my wider than normal eyes, not wanting to blink the dam open.
Water spills over my lid’s edges, warm salty streams trickling their way toward my chin. Swipe, sniff, swipe, sniff. “Wow, what is happening right now?” Inquiring from within.
I bought a new car on Monday. An unplanned wild hair purchase. My other car, a trusted companion of eight years, nothing wrong really—hence the two-words wild hair. At the same time I had been reading recent news about the “super bloom” happening in Death Valley National Park and projections were that it wouldn’t last long. Thoughts began swirling around inside my wanderlust brain about a quick visit to document it, but then there were those other work commitments.
On Tuesday I viewed an early look at the iMax film “National Parks Adventure” narrated by Robert Redford. Walked away from that film with a much deeper appreciation around the existence of our U.S. National Parks, and that new found sentiment saddled right next to the swirling images in my mind’s eye of yellow blooms on the Death Valley floor.
I returned home from the film which turned into an immediate swooping up of my belongings, including the flirty skirt, bedding and a few food items in preparation for an pre-dawn departure in my new car on Wednesday.
Road trip! [Best two words]
It really can be that easy.
I arrived in Death Valley somewhere around 10 a.m. and made a right turn toward the area named Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America, with an elevation of 282 feet below sea level, and reportedly where the largest concentration of the blooms were to be found. I spent most of my first day in and around this area, weaving through the s-curves delivering a new presentation at every turn of gold desert flower blooms rising up against dramatic landscapes that only Death Valley can offer.
I spent three more days there exploring only some of what this U.S. treasure has to offer—those musings for another day. For now, please enjoy my take-away from my time mingling with the gold, purple and white darlings painting the desert floor. It’s been ten years since the last mega bloom and who knows when it will happen again. So grateful I took the time out of my regularly scheduled life to experience this in person.
I went for the blooms and stayed for the bliss. Sounds like a working title for my next musing…
The tourmaline waters and white sandy beaches of New Providence Island, Bahamas—that’s where I was last week having a day by and on the beach. Much of the trip was a bust. Between the unusually cold weather, the (not my style) all-inclusive 70s resort and a Montezuma-esque Revenge bout with something not-good-in-paradise, brought me home early to the opposite phenomena of 90 degree weather happening in San Diego!
BUT, and I use that here to negate the above because there are always brilliant jewels to any journey, if that is the way you choose to view life—right? Right.
I found a sunny spot for the lounge chair which happened to be right next to one of the palapas you reserve for extra money. It was not hard to notice the two resort employees who were beach raking their way from the front of the palapa, dragging the sand up and over a berm, fizzling out near the shoreline. I couldn’t help opening up a conversation with the two of them, about what the heck was going on—it just didn’t make any sense.
The night before our long road trek to Trinidad, I succumbed to some “bad ice” in a local all-inclusive resort’s mojito. I made it through dinner but left the table with a good ole fashioned Irish goodbye. I won’t go into details for the rest of the evening…but I will tell you that I have not-so-fondly come to call the 24 hours that ensued—Fidel’s Revenge (inspired by Mexico’s Montezuma.)
Determined not to have this bout turn into trip-interruptus, I willed my way onto the bus at 6:30 a.m. and decided I would lay low in the back for the next 3 hours or so. A planned quick stop in Cienfuegos was on the itinerary, and when the bus came to a stop I lifted my head followed by the rest of me and quickly realized I was going to toss some cookies! I felt my eyes get really big in a panicked thought of “Oh this is going to happen, right now, right here, on the bus!” Thank God a bag was handy and mis compadres,Steve and Hazel, were at the ready holding the bag and my hair…end of that story.
THIS, ladies, is my brilliant (if I do say so myself) discovery of how to navigate a road trip, specifically when nature calls and you find yourself—drivin’ down Highway 41, with no rest stop in sight. None. Anywhere. Damn it!
Flirty skirts (Go commando—sans underwear; essential; can’t stress this enough.)
Flip-flops (There’s a good reason for this, it’s optional, but a really good reason!)
For over ten years I dreamed, rather fantasized, of taking a road trip. You know, the kind where you throw some things in the truck, van or whatever, gas up and hit the highway. Maybe a loose idea of where you are headed, but open to making a right or left turn at the crossroad. At the “Y” choosing this way or that way—and none of that mattering, because the only purpose is to be going somewhere. “Anywhere will get you there,” and in this case, that adage works.
In 2004 I bought a sport utility vehicle. The first thing on the must-have-on-board list, behind the heated seats, was the ability for me to crawl in the back, and make a bed. Just thinking about the road trip fostered the most incredible feelings of freedom. The fantasy of being a gypsy rebel hippie-type felt so right. All of that, saddled with the responsible, level-headed, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking—societally crafted woman. But know this, it might take this Renaissance woman some time to make something happen, but when she does—watch out!
If you ask me about my trip to Cuba, you will most likely be met with a longer than usual pause. It is a multifaceted conversation that is not about the white sands of the playa, or even the dreamed-of-seeing vintage American cars—it is above all about the people. The gracious captive people of Cuba. I came away and back to America with a larger and heavier heart.
Meet Ana. At a stop along the way to Viñales, the mountainous green acres of tobacco plantations, I made my way over to the ever-coveted baño. I say that because if you have travelled almost anywhere but in America, there isn’t a Starbucks, Burger King or MacDonald’s on every corner [thank God] and at the same time I can appreciate that piece about those places.
Ana was the tender of los baños. A shitty job. And yet—this little lady was a beacon of light, her smile wide and wonderful. Her pride showed as she took the 25 centavos for three squares of single ply toilet paper [smallest rolls on the planet] and gestured with a welcome arm into her baño.