Making a packlist: 12 things for 90 days in 30 countries

Last time I took to the open road, I aimed to pack light—and failed considerably in that pursuit. Sure, I made it by with no more than what could fit in a fifty-liter pack and a very small scooter trunk, but still I felt anchored by my stuff, always dragging it along on my back, always cramming items within Rousseau's under-seat compartment. I brought what I thought were the essentials, but really, I brought far more than that.

A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a story about two adventurous travelers who took to Europe for three weeks with nothing more than the clothes on their backs—and, well, a few miscellaneous accessories:

Passports, credit cards and iPhones made the cut, as did a small notebook, a toothbrush and a clipped map of the Balkans.  Jeff stuffed his core items in his pockets. My dress lacked adequate pocket space, so I substituted with a small shoulder purse that allowed me space for a few additional toiletries, an iPad Mini, and the awkward-looking retainer I’ve been wearing since my braces came off 10 years ago. 

That was it.

Instantly, I was inspired. Three months in thirty countries is certainly longer than three weeks in eight, but still: the thought of simple, (nearly-)weightless, unencumbered travel—ultraminimalism—shook my foundations. And so, I've made my list.

Caveats abound: for one, I'm bringing more than nothing. In addition to the clothes I'll wear when departing DC on the fourth of May (with pockets containing a phone, headphones, wallet, and passport), I'll carry along a small backpack with some non-essential-but-really-really-desired electronics by which to document the journey, and hygiene products to keep me (semi-)fresh. And I'm not opposed to picking up a few more things once I cross the pond: a windbreaker in Oslo if it gets chilly, a pair of sunglasses in Fez if the sun's a touch too blinding. And of course, as May nears, I'm sure I'll make a few tweaks—additions, I fear—to the list below.

But for now, here it is.

1. GoPro camcorder. For documenting sights and sentiments.
2. Roll-up wireless keyboard. For blogging on the go.
3. Kindle. For reading in the most weight-efficient way imaginable.
4. Fork, spoon, and knife. For eating on the go.
5. Sleeping bag. For sleeping on the go.
6. Tent. For sleeping a little more securely. 
7. Toothbrush (and toothpaste). For hygiene.
8. Deodorant. Ibid.
9. Second pair of socks and underwear. Ibid.
10. Hair trimmer. For grooming on the go.
11. Water bottle. For staying hydrated.
12. DSLR. For more serious photographing. Still ambivalent on whether to bring.

With the exception of the tent, all of these items can fit together in my daily messenger bag with room to spare, ensuring my travels east of Edinburgh won't be bogged down by heavy luggage or random junk—and packing won't take longer than a minute.

Am I forgetting something?

To Europe

2013 has been a spectacularly great year for me, and it all began with one firm pledge: to commune with the wide open road, just me and my pack and my scooter, and explore North America, to discover and appreciate its treasures, its sheer awesomeness, its natural beauty. In the words of Thoreau:

I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived ... I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.

In this pursuit, I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. I could never fully explain just how valuable, how vital, how necessary those 15,000 miles of adventure were to me, the life-changing transformations that occurred during my sixty days on the road. Never had I made a wiser use of my time, never had I learned so much in so few days.

Time for round two.

I've never been to Europe. I want to go to Europe. So this summer, I'm going to Europe—to the Old World, to England, to Germany, to France and Spain, from the magnificent Mediterranean to the captivating cathedrals and cobblestone corners and cozy conviviality of Copenhagen.

I'll get started in Morocco—that much I know. And I'll end in either Turkey or Ireland—that much I think I know. The rest is marvelously undetermined to date. Oh, I most certainly have destinations: dozens and dozens, Stockholm and Hamburg and Amsterdam and Munich and Lviv and Budapest, as far west as Lisbon and far west as Istanbul, as far north as Oslo and as far south as Casablanca, and as the months race forward, I'll be once again circling a great winding route 'round a continental map, but for now, 'tis all up in the air.

I'll leave in early May. I don't know how I'll get around. For months, I've flirted with the idea of bringing Rousseau abroad, getting another two continents under her belt, reuniting for yet another epic adventure. But truth be told, as much as I loved the scooter part of the Scooter Diaries, I'm not sure we'd both survive another go with the open road, so this time around, I think I'll be leaving her at home. Instead, I'll be flying into Casablanca with nothing more than my pack, my wallet, and whatever ingenuity I can muster, and I'll find myself alternate transportation northward, to Spain, to Portugal, and beyond.

I'm excited, but I'm also characteristically unprepared, so please: recommendations, advice, cautionary tales—let me hear 'em.

Giving thanks

Growing up, I was perpetually troubled by Thanksgiving—a day in which we celebrate one of the world's most catastrophic genocides, in which we repaint history for our own untainted conscience, in which we demonstrate appreciation and gratitude for what we have by demonstrating that we simply can't have enough, stuffing our faces until the supermarkets are empty and emptying our wallets until our minivans are stuffed, literally trampling others for a fifty-percent-off Blu-Ray player or a buy-one-get-one HDTV. I never cared for the food nor the football, and when it came to flan, I was never a fan. Thanksgiving is a day in which we allow ourselves to feel good about pardoning one turkey though we've killed fifty million more, in which we feel good about breaking bread with a few Native Americans though we've, well, killed fifty million more.

And still, not much has changed—it's still an orgy of food and floats, of traffic and television, of self-interest and self-indulgence, American hubris and American portion control.

But it doesn't have to be this way. Thanksgiving—when stripped of all its cultural baggage—is nothing more than a day to give thanks, to truly appreciate what one does have, a reminder of how fortunate we all are each and every day. So today, obligatory pontification now out of the way, I want to take a moment to say thanks.

I feel so blessed to live the life I do, to have the privilege of yet another year, to have the opportunity to have spent that year so fully and so well. From tremendous progress on my tiny house to an unforgettable and life-changing two months scootering across the continent, from the incredible ability to have my thoughts and passions broadcast locally, nationally, and worldwide to simply relishing time spent with irreplaceable neighbors, friends, and community, I really couldn't ask for anything more.

Thank you to every individual who has lifted a hammer or hammered a nail for the betterment of the Matchbox, to every inquisitive soul who has wandered through Boneyard Studios for an open house, bonfire, concert, or story. Thank you to those who have supported my tiny house adventure from near and afar, to the many who have guided me along with their encouragement, advice, and wisdom.

Thank you to those who spent countless hours with me sharing maps, detours, and cautionary tales before I left for the road last May—I have you to thank for my safety, security, and spectacular sights. And thanks to the immeasurably kind souls who provided lodging and food and warmth and friendship during cold, lonely stretches of safari, to the friends, friends' friends, and absolute strangers who never thought twice about opening their doors to a weary traveler—I have you to thank for my affirmed faith in the awesome generosity of humanity.

Lastly, thank you to those who have been there for me during all of life's unplanned adventures, who have kept me company over a bottle of wine, who have taught me new things and made me a better person, who have taken care of me when I needed being-taken-care-of and who trusted me to do the same when it was my time to return the favor. Thanks for making my life all the richer, all  the better, and all the sweeter—thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being part of it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

(Uneventful) autumn update

As I sit on my porch watching the last of nature's crimson leaves fall to the calm, quiet grounds of the Glenwood Cemetery, it occurs to me that it has been a full two months since my last update.

Autumn leaves in Glenwood Cemetery

These past sixty days have been nothing like my long, arduous sixty days on the road, all stuffed and coated with wonder and adventure—no, the peak of autumn has found me moving more slowly, with no prized goal in mind, no pursuit nor powerful passion to race toward. This is a good thing, I think, perhaps just for a short while: not a weary malaise, but simply a relaxed contentment.

And with that contentment has come both a lack of new (big) adventures and a lack of new (big) adventures to report on—in other words, a consequent lack of blog updates. But in the interest of writing something, allow me a brief update on home, travel, and life:

The Matchbox

I've often heard it said that the last ten percent of any homebuilding project takes ninety percent of the time, and this has certainly rung true in my case. The Matchbox has little left to do to be considered complete—a few remaining pieces of furniture, some painting, a few rainwater touch-ups, a bathroom, and a solar array—but progress this autumn has been slow, if only because a spending a day sitting with a good book beside the fire is so much more tempting an option than climbing under the sink and fiddling with filtration.

Boneyard Studios from within Glenwood Cemetery.

That said, I'm setting a new (and, I hope, final) target of January 2014 to, once and for all, wrap up Matchbox construction, so expect a more substantive update soon.

In other tiny house news, the Matchbox and the rest of the Boneyard Studios crew recently got some attention in Dwell and Inhabitat, with a little more press forthcoming. Brian's fully-completed house has been getting a bit of notice from the architectural community, and Lee has been making some great progress finishing siding and insulating her interior. Meanwhile, I've kept myself busy starting a catalog of photographed and identified wildlife lurking about the alley lot.

The Scooter Diaries

Taos, New Mexico.

Sorting through and processing nearly two-thousand photographs from an extended road trip is a mind-numbing experience, so I've taken a rather lengthy break from that task. Having finally whittled the collection down to nearly a hundred, however, I'll aim to share those photos soon.

But as I wrap up the aftermath of one trip, I begin planning for another. I hinted a few months ago at a continuation of my scooter journey across the pond, a summer 2014 trek through North Africa and Europe. I'm still deciding on a few key things—like whether I'll be roughing it aboard Rousseau yet again or perhaps getting about by car this time around—but I'm kicking planning into high gear this winter, so I'll have more on that in the coming months.

Life

As a fed, I enjoyed a serene sixteen days of furlough this October, which afforded me ample time for reading, running, and relaxation. I learned to knit, took up rock climbing, was temporarily infected with a nasty bout of the Netflix, and have generally had no trouble these past few months keeping myself busy with the simpler pleasures of life ...

... to which I now return. :)

Differential grasshopper in Boneyard Studios garden.

America the Beautiful: Scenes from the Scooter Diaries

As I work to sluggishly—ever so sluggishly—bring a close to my cross-continental scooter trip, here are a few more photos from the rolls:

"Purple Mountain Majesties," Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, Colorado.

"Voyeur," Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona.

"House of the Rising Sun," Bodie, California.

"Ribbons," Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, California.

"Descenters," Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona.

"Adobe Abode," Taos, New Mexico.

"Wide Open Spaces," Arches National Park, Utah.

"Yuccamania," Joshua Tree National Park, California.

"Forager," Zion National Park, Utah.

"Progress," Bodie, California.

"Red Rocks," Arches National Park, Utah.

"The Narrows," Zion National Park, Utah.

Summer in the city: Matchbox tiny house build update

I suppose it has been nearly four months since the Matchbox's last build update, so now that I'm back and well-settled in from my recent trip, let's just go ahead and get right into it: what's new (and what's still-to-do) in my effort to build an off-grid tiny house.

The Matchbox's nearly-finished façade, September 2013.

Siding

When I last reported, siding was nearly done. It's now totally done—thanks to some tremendous help from Tony once I left—and after a few months of weathering, the charred shou sugi ban cedar looks terrific.

Rain catchment

A few cedar boards, some EPDM rubber, and twenty feet of double-looped aluminum rings later, the Matchbox is now sporting a fully-functional rain catchment system. Here's how it works:

1. First, it rains. Precipitation hits the roof and gently runs down the house's two-percent grade toward the front of the house.
2. The runoff falls into the gutter, an 8' x 6" x 6" box of red cedar planks with an interior wrapped in EPDM rubber, and drops into one of the three-inch holes drilled into the bottom of either end.
3. The rain then works its way down the rain chains, an old Japanese technique of funneling runoff that is far more minimalist and beautiful—particularly the dynamism of the chains as they catch a little breeze—than traditional gutters.
4. The rain chains drop the water into a pair of planters, where it trickles through a few handfuls of sea glass and a mesh screen before entering the plumbing underneath the house. Immediate overflow is pushed into the other side of each planter, which houses a variety of herbs.
5. Underneath the house, the rain slides back to a pump, which then shoots the flow right up to the conjoined twenty-gallon tanks in the microshed 'round back.
6. Shower water is then run though a small water heater (more on this part once the shower is up and running), and sink water is filtered through a double-cartridge micron filter before emerging from the pedal-operated sink faucet.

Note: There will be a few enhancements made to the rain catchment system, such as a pre-pump holding tank for downpours, so don't consider this a definitive system explanation. More details (including photographs) to come.

Matchbox & friends. Rain chains are on each end of the Matchbox's façade.

Countertops

Natural, bright beech wood butcher block does wonders in brightening up the very neutral-toned space. They're not yet permanently installed (nor oiled), but that's high on the to-do list.

Decor and furnishings

Jar racks installed, photographs hung, and other cosmetic touches on the interior are making the space feel a lot more like home. There's still lots to be done, but it's getting there.

Matchbox interior from front door.

Also: curtains! Designed and sewed by a good friend, the billowy drapes do a great job of keeping out light and providing a little privacy when needed.

Additionally, the loft skylight was letting in a lot of heat this summer, so I went ahead and ordered a solar-powered skylight blind from Velux that opens and closes at the touch of a button. The navy blackout blind does fabulous work of keeping out early morning rays and as much as forty percent of the heat hitting the glass.

Air conditioning

To make it a little easier to power the Matchbox on nothing more than rainbows and sunshine (precipitation and solar energy, that is), I was hoping to get away with a simple fan for all my cooling needs. Alas, I returned to DC after my two-month sabbatical in the dead of a heat wave, and a ninety-degree breeze did little to keep me feeling refreshed. So I broke down and purchased an adorably small window unit, tucked neatly away on the floor at the back of the house, which performs admirably—in partnership with the curtains, blackout blind, and skylight vent—in cooling down the small space.

Refrigerator

I had also aimed to get by without a refrigerator, but after growing spoiled by a mini-fridge on loan from Lee, I decided a tiny cooling chest couldn't hurt. The fridge I ended up with is small—at 1.7 cubic feet, really small—but for the rare items my vegan diet requires it for, it should provide more than enough room.

Matchbox interior from underneath loft.

Elsewhere on the Boneyard, Brian recently wrapped up construction on his gorgeous Minim house, Lee has been putting our communal green space (and the Matchbox porch) to good use with her summer concert series, we've gotten a little more local love from the media (and more forthcoming), and our monthly open houses are still going strong.

Still to come: A bathroom, installed countertops, rain catchment updates, a couch, a bench, a few more miscellaneous furnishings, lots of seating, and a solar array. Expect more soon!

To be continued ...

May 4, 2014—a work in progress. :)

Carbon offsetting & musically mapping the journey

"Highway Child," Big Bend National Park, Texas.

Road-tripping about North America in search of the continent's most beautiful and pristine locales is a bittersweet venture, for while such a journey is so personally fulfilling, it's nothing but bad news for those unlucky destinations. Even the most careful traveler cannot possibly see, enjoy, and depart a national park or untamed stretch of wilderness without leaving some form of pollution in her wake—not just the usual suspects of smoggy exhaust and forgotten bottles, but noise pollution and light pollution and the touch of a heavy foot against fragile ground.

"If A Tree Falls," Arches National Park, Utah.

During my trek, I did my best to be a well-intentioned traveler, packing out what I packed in and leaving no trace and, well, taking a vehicle with four times the fuel economy of an average car as my companion and chauffeur. Yet despite my best intentions and the relatively clean four-stroke engine of Rousseau, our 15,000 miles rounding the continent did real damage to it: poisoning its forests, its deserts, and its skies with greenhouse gases and several tons of CO2.

For that, I'm sorry. I'd like to make excuses for it, justifications for why it was okay, to offer an explanation that my passion for the environment—and protecting it from harm—was strengthened immeasurably by my two-month sabbatical within it, and thus those 15,000 miles of smoking tailpipe were a small price to pay for a lifelong ally. Or that the average American driver spits nearly three times as much CO2 into the atmosphere every year. And though all that may be true, it's not my decision to make—it's our planet, collectively owned and cared for by each and every one of us, and no individual has the right to selfishly pollute it without giving something back.

Fortunately, there is a way to make things—if not right—at least a little better. Carbon offsetting is the act of reducing one's net carbon footprint by making up for the pollution one produces while driving, flying, or simply living a modern lifestyle by sponsoring projects that further renewable energy, reforestation, energy efficiency, and the like.

Consider offsetting your own adventures—the routine and the
not-so-much—with nothing ore than a few minutes and a few dollars.

I spent a little time researching carbon offset providers—it's an exploding (largely for-profit) industry and there are a lot of shady operations out there—and eventually settled on CarbonFund, a local non-profit with a great track record of successful third-party-verified projects. After calculating my carbon footprint with a very conservative fuel economy of 60 miles per gallon, I computed my overall impact to be 4,855 pounds of carbon dioxide, and found myself both surprised and sickened that during my time on the road, I had been producing my own weight in CO2 every other day.

Between crushing guilt and the sheer economics of offset credits—they're cheap (perhaps too cheap to really change pollution behaviors)—I ended up offsetting the 15,000 miles of the trip, the additional 5,000 miles I'd racked up on the scooter since 2009, and then some, for a total offset of five tons of CO2 in the form of renewable energy projects.

Meanwhile, in the hopes of making it just a touch easier to relive the thrill of my time on the road, I put together a sloppy playlist to musically map my journey. It's a rough mix of 240+ songs describing places (for example, Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited"), pieces alluding to incidents or events (say, "One Day When the Weather is Warm" by Joe Henry), and some instrumentals and tangential tracks setting overall mood ("America the Beautiful," for instance). It still needs some work, sacrifices quality for relevance every now and again, and probably won't make much sense to even the most dedicated of readers, but while it's primarily for my own memory and enjoyment, I figured—like everything else on this blog—I'd make it available in case you want it (and, I suppose, have Spotify). Enjoy.

Still to come: Favorite places, upcoming adventures, and photographs. Lots and lots of photographs. In the meantime, here are a few:

"Descent," Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona.

"Yosemite Reverie," Yosemite National Park, California.

"Expired Tags," Bodie, California.

"Red Carpet," Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona.

"Grand Prismatic Spring," Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming.

"Sandbox," Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado.

"Weary Traveler," South Dakota.

To DC and beyond (Days 59, 60; Epilogue)

A pleasant night in Pittsburgh and a beautiful ride along West Virginia country roads. A magnificent evening with Tony and Abby in Shepherdstown. And then 72 miles to Washington, DC. 54. 28. 13. 1. 0. Home.

I cannot fully describe the feelings that sprang to life upon my return: triumph and relief and joy all tangling about each other in an emotional cacophony, the sights and sounds and smells so familiar and yet oddly distant, scenes from another time, another life.

"Thunder Road," Big Bend National Park, Texas.

All said and done, I was on the road for just 60 days. In that time, I'd traveled 15,167 miles, to 28 states and 3 provinces and 3 countries, to 29 national parks, to dozens of cities and scores of towns and hundreds of communities, simple unassuming seams along the great American quilt.

I saw things. I saw superlatives of every variety: tallest tree and oldest organism and starriest sky, grandest geyser and largest lake and mightiest mountain. I saw canyons and ranges and oceans and rivers and deserts and badlands and everything in between, sights and roads and trails so breathtakingly beautiful that I literally lost my breath, so truly awesome that I was literally awed.

"Jacob's Ladder," Taos, New Mexico.

I felt things. I felt freedom I could never hope to describe, limitless liberation that awakened the adventurer, the child, the vagabond within me. I lost myself to the spirit of the traveler; I felt my very being subsumed my something greater. I was born anew and born better, a new self within me conceived in the bayou and birthed in the canyons and baptized in the great Pacific, reared and raised by the rivers and roads of the West, nurtured and nourished by the never-ending nature of our neighbor to the north.

I did things. I walked and I hiked, I climbed and I fell, I got lost and I got found. I slept in tents and I slept in hotels, in motels and hostels and public parks and parking garages and college faculty rooms, on couches of friends and on couches of perfect strangers. I met people. I met so many people, people who gave me faith in our collective future, people who gave me faith that what I was doing was about more than just me, people whom I wish I'd gotten to know better, if only we had more time.

Time. Time stretched, time distorted, time warped and waxed and waned and wandered. Days felt like weeks and weeks felt like months and months felt like seconds, and by the end of it all, the fabric of time was so wrinkled and creased and folded over upon itself that I could not begin to separate out the various stops and starts and sights and scenes of my safari with any temporal logic; they are all simply the trip.

"Park Avenue," Arches National Park, Utah.

I was on The Trip for 60 days, I've said, but my experience tells me otherwise; my mind hurls obscenities and denials toward my senses at this claim, for every fiber of my being would swear differently: The Trip was at least a year, maybe more, maybe my whole life. When I was in it, when I was living and eating and sleeping it, I had known nothing else. Sedentary living was foreign, something others did but that I had never; The Trip—I had told myself—it was all I'd ever done, and all I ever would do.

My memory of it, a short time later, is a mosaic of small images, each a grainy rendering of my beleaguered body aboard my idling bike, always stopped at a petrol pump, apple or salty snack in hand, staring off into the distance in sustained disbelief, my inner compass spinning wildly to grab hold of my bearings before I vaulted off again. The Mississippi, the Gulf, the Rockies, the Canyon, the Pacific ... each legendary landmark pulled me further from everything I knew, and I thrived in it, thrived in the exhilaration and excitement of the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unexplored.

"Sittin' Sideways," Bodie, California.

I learned things. I learned that the continent is big, massive, mind-blowingly mighty. I learned that there's a lot of space out there, and a whole lot of untouched beauty. I learned that I'm not alone—that there are others who share my sentiments and beliefs from sea to shining sea. But I also learned that there are great forces persecuting our kind, entire economies and paradigms and crushing constructs seeking to annihilate the free spirit. And I learned that if I am to fight in this war, I must trudge to the trenches, for the only way to deal with an unfree world, as Camus once wrote, "is to become so absolutely free that one's very existence is an act of rebellion."

"This I believe," says Steinbeck: "that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that it one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost."

"Eye in the Sky," Arches National Park, Utah.

This experience has taught me much, yet this blazing truth both permeates and outshines it all. We all get but one life to live, one blank canvas on which to paint our masterpiece. Perhaps some can live with subtle texture, a simple pattern, the routine and repeated shapes of a routine and repeated life, and if that wallpaper may satisfy its creator, let it be so without the slightest hint of judgment or scorn from myself or any other. But for me, nothing but the brightest canvas will do, a screaming mess of passion and paint splatter, vivacious variety, every last inch of my narrow dimensions covered with the dirt and grime and blood and tears of well-worn life. And if, after it all, my piece comes to nothing more than a sopping, dripping, sorry excuse for a coherent, proper, ordered existence, so be it—for at least I picked up the brush and tried my hand at it at all.

It's good to be back.
It's good to be home.
It's good to be alive.

"Little Bighorn," Zion National Park, Utah.

Home.

Sixty days and nights
And fifteen thousand miles.
Alive and well. Home.



More soon.

---

"And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that it one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost." — John Steinbeck, East of Eden

To Niagara Falls (Days 58, 59)

I slept my first night in Toronto in a ten-bed dorm with eight fellow travelers and a ninth. The first eight travelers were delightful: young, multicultural, friendly. The ninth was quite the opposite, grunting his way through the room, avoiding eye contact at all costs, then plopping his withered body on the bunk right next to mine.

Guest 9 suffered from sleep apnea. I have sympathy for his struggles. However, at 2AM that night, I had little sympathy for his choice to bunk himself with nine others, instead of in a private room, for his snoring and smacking and slurping kept us all up nearly the whole night, collective sighs filling the room each and every time his momentary silence was interrupted by yet another movement in his slumbering symphony.

The next morning, Guest 9 spent two hours, 6AM to 8AM, packing and unpacking his luggage, zipping and unzipping his noisy suitcase to the chagrin of us civilized sleepers. I rolled over and shoved my head inside a pillow case and groaned.

Finally, at nine, I woke myself, excited for a full day of discovering Toronto, especially after nothing but 1,000 miles of driving those past two days. I dressed, checked out, and scooted across town to my second hostel of the city, this one a uniquely posh establishment with shiny new computers and stainless steel appliances and the overall atmosphere of a Swedish spa. Mint green and chrome and slate and pewter palleted the space, common areas and dorm rooms alike stunning in their cleanliness and design.

After dropping my bag and renting a bicycle, I took off exploring. Back home, a friend who had spent some years in Toronto had sent me a wonderful list of things to do, and though it would have taken seven days, sixteen stomachs, and a taste for coffee to accomplish all Katherine had suggested, I aimed to squeeze in as much as I could during my short time in the city.

First on that list was a ride through the University of Toronto, just a few blocks from my lodging. Stepping into the cool Canadian air and onto the pedals of my rickety rental bike, it felt great to be cycling again, perhaps not as smooth as my Cannondale back in DC, but great nonetheless, free and light and quiet, no roaring engine between my legs, just the steady click-click-click of rusty chains and shifting gears.

My already elated mood ballooned when I entered the UT grounds. I'd seen a fair number of campi in my university days, including the privilege to study amongst Georgetown's immaculate lawns and eighteenth-century edifices, but the University of Toronto is quite possibly the loveliest I've come across, from its moss-strewn, vine-wrapped weathered-brick buildings to its magnificent arches, from its marvelous clock tower to its pleasant shady concourses. That campus made me want to go back to school, to read literature under its knotted trees and to laugh with friends on its sprawling grasses, to hole up in its well-worn dormitories and to run through its lesser-known backways at the break of dawn. Alas, I could do none of that, so instead I contented myself with a directionless pedal throughout it, criss-crossing and looping and zagging about aimlessly until my stomach growled and my lips begged for refreshment.

Katherine had given me no shortage of places to find quality food and drink, and somewhere between my vegan sweet potato muffin in Kensington Market and my vegan coconut smoothie near Chinatown, I understood why her list was heavier in things to consume than things to do: Toronto has excellent eats.

After stopping in Kensington Market for sustenance and a terrific opportunity to drink in another few chapters of Steinbeck's East of Eden, a tome I had been lugging around since Montana, I walked about the hip neighborhood, all graffiti-adorned alleyways and mismatched shops and the very smell and feel of organic culture, a perfect mixture of Brooklyn and Beijing, a delightful little place to spend a few hours, if not a whole decade.

When those few hours had elapsed, I hopped back on my bicycle and toured the greater area, Kensington to Chinatown to Queen West, then over to Trinity Bellwoods Park and back again, wandering southward toward the waterfront. On the way, I had been instructed to stop at a chocolatier for a special treat, so I sidled up alongside a street sign when I reached my pit stop, hopping off to lock my rental to the sign's post before heading in.

I dug in my bag for my U-lock, a thick steel horseshoe that latched into an even thicker bar, an instrument I occasionally used to cage up one of Rousseau's wheels if I feared a theft or a tow. I found the U-lock without too much trouble, pulled it from my bag, and then reached into my pocket for my keys.

Not in the left pocket: odd, I thought. I checked the right. Nothing. A tiny panic stabbed at my heart. Not to worry. I patted my back pockets, then those of my sweatshirt, and still nothing, but surely those keys must be somewhere. I dumped the contents of my bag onto the sidewalk and sorted through them, movements growing more frantic by the second. Passport, camera, sandals, book, all good ... but where the hell are my keys?

Just then, a flashback screamed into my mind's eye, a vision of me stopping at my scooter before heading out on the bicycle, keys into the ignition to pop the storage compartment  and U-lock right into my bag, but then those keys went back in my pocket, I was sure of it, but wait ... a cold dread came over me ... I had then turned around, went back to the scooter, keys back in the ignition to withdraw my sandals ...

In an instant, I'd scraped everything I owned off the ground and tossed it all into my bag with a hurried thump and ripped my bike away from the signpost and threw myself atop it and then I raced, cutting madly through unfamiliar streets, dread choking my lungs and closing in around me. I was normally a trustful person, preferring the potential for poached property over a paradigm of perpetual paranoia, but with Rousseau things were different, for she had already been stolen once before, and nearly stolen yet another time, and though I'd hate to lose her on any day, doing so a thousand miles from home would be simply the worst.

So I rode, sweaty and panting, crossing Spadina in a flurry and bounding down College Avenue, past my hostel and to the corner where I had parked her, scanning for her black chassis and bug-beaten windshield, and ...

There she was. Undisturbed, wedged between a telephone booth and a mailbox, she sat stoically, keys dangling from the ignition. Safe.

I breathed a sigh of relief, a whole lungful of it, and patter her seat lovingly. "Sorry about that, friend," I said as I tenderly withdrew the keys and dropped them into my pocket. "See you later."

I worked my way back down Spadina, more slowly this time, returning to the chocolatier in proper form, and slipping into their cool shady quarters for one shot of straight chocolate. I'm not much of a chocolate person, and the elimination of milk from my diet doesn't help that, but I must say that those 45mL of dark chocolate, downed in one hearty gulp, were some of the best I'd ever had. And then, after washing it all away with a cold glass of water, I got back on the road, winding to the waterfront.

When I'd arrived in Toronto the day before, I was disappointed to learn that it was the last day of Pride Week, a ten-day-long celebration of openness and acceptance and diversity observed annually around the world, but perhaps nowhere else on the scale of Toronto, birthplace of it all. After missing Jazzfest by a week in New Orleans, the Naked Bike Ride by a day in Portland, and Pride Week by mere hours in Ontario, I couldn't help but feel like I had embarked on my trip just a few days late, chasing festival season about the country but never really catching up to it.

But my dismay at this unfortunate timing was somewhat quelled by my abrupt realization and recall that it was Canada Day, a celebration of Canada's unification some 150 years ago, and that nearly all Canadians were on holiday that sunny Monday. I had noticed an unusual amount of bustling about earlier that morning, but I'd lost track of the days of the week months earlier and just took all the commotion for a Saturday, but nearing the waterfront around noon, no mistake could be made, what with the tiny red-and-white flags waving wildly and the parades a-marching and the Canadians in the tens of thousands flocking about. The rainbow capes from a day earlier had been swapped for maple ones, billowing flags breezing along bare backs, and everywhere, skin cloaked in Canadian clothing and temporary tattoos and celebratory accessories of every variety.

Canada Day, of course, meant unexpected traffic, and so I found myself trapped in a serpentine line about the shore's wharf, countless families and couples and groups of teens all seeking passage to the Toronto Islands just offshore. Those islands were my destination as well, and so I joined the throng in cramming onto an open ferry, bicycle to my side, and making for the west end of the tiny sandbar archipelago.

Arriving there just a few minutes later, I unboarded the ferry and boarded my bike, wheeling alongside many others down the islands' main road, closed to all vehicles spare a few service cars and shuttles that act as the only automotives on the whole set of islands. The traffic thinned as we made our way east, and a few kilometers into the ride, I veered right to meet the beach, a simple stretch of sand for some sitting in the sun, not so secluded on that busy day but perfectly pleasant nonetheless. I spent some more time reading, calmed by the gentle waves and the laughter of children in all directions, and then when I could feel my cheeks actively reddening, I got back on my bike and took it further east to Ward's Island.

Though most of the Toronto Islands serve merely as recreation areas for day-tripping Canadians, and some very touristy at that, amusement parks and all, Ward's Island is what remains of a once-thriving community along those sandbars, settled by Europeans in 1830 and still, in fact, inhabited to this day, a small village of some three hundred adorable homes, the largest car-free community in North America, a delightul hidden gem of narrow pedestrian streets and character-filled cottages, all with their own names, and spectacular views of the Toronto skyline to the north. Voyeuristically riding about the humble alleys and marveling at the sheer warmth of it all, I was pleasantly surprised to find the island's inhabitants so friendly, peering up from their gardening chores for a welcoming wave or hearty hello, superbly kind people all around.

Yes, I imagine if I ever run away in a fit of escapism, you'll know where to find me.

I saw a ferry near the island's east end some time later, so I put myself on it and took it back to the mainland, biking my way back to my hostel around five. Sandy from the seashore, I showered, then biked west to work up a fresh sweat at a nearby yoga studio that Katherine had recommended so highly.

After my hot yoga experience with Barb and Ray in Vancouver, regular old yoga felt a touch simpler than I'd remembered, but was still a great way to spend an hour, a much-need practice after weeks and months without it, and I left feeling relaxed and limber and, above all else, hungry, very hungry.

Katherine's very last plug was for an Ethiopian restaurant, which she described as, well, "the best Ethiopian food ever." Having once rounded up a bunch of college friends down in Delaware and driven them up to Boston on a whim one Friday evening for an Ethiopian dinner, I was something of an adventurist when it came to Ethiopian cuisine, with a high bar to boot, and thus, I was readily up for a try of Canada's finest.

So I entered Nazareth, just a short ride from the yoga studio, and squeezed myself in at the bar for a lager and a vegetarian combination plate. To my left was a quiet man nursing a dark beer, and to my right, two men in ranchero hats and a mess of empty glasses in front of them. One of them turned to me and said something, but between the thick Mexican accent and the slurred speech and the instant stench of alcohol overwhelming my senses, I couldn't make out a word he said. I asked him to repeat himself, and he did, down to the very syllable, just as unintelligible as the first time around.

I nodded a little, head cocked to the side, and he continued, and my comprehension didn't improve one bit. He paused and shrugged and said "Righha?" to which I nodded again and uttered "right, right."

He smiled at my agreement and went on talking, and I captured about one word per every hundred, which, as the minutes ticked by, allowed me to piece together an overall arc to his story, something generally misogynistic and very unkind to our fellow sex, something I certainly didn't agree with but didn't understand enough of what this man was staying to know precisely what to disagree with, and so I just kept on nodding, "mhmm"s and "sure"s peppering the monologue at requisite pauses, and all the while turning slowly and subtly in my chair until I had damn near by back to him, but the speech just kept on coming.

I felt rude retreating to that angle, staring ahead at the television and so clearly not welcoming conversation, especially while alone at a bar with no excuse for my sudden hermitude. But the man was making no sense, and the matronly bartenders were all out ignoring him, and so somewhere between him mumbling about it being acceptable to hit a woman if she hits you first and his assertion that it's best to juggle three or four so as to keep options open, all deciphered over painful quarter-hours, I shot a glance at the hostess with pleading eyes and she understood immediately, clearing a four-person table in the main eating area and ushering me there in haste, where she thought I'd "be more comfortable."

I certainly was, very pleased to have some peace and quiet and even more pleased to receive my delayed platter some minutes later. Greedily clawing up a hefty swab of injera and scooping a handful of fresh tomatoes with the spongy bread, I delighted at the familiar flavors meeting my taste buds, tart and crisp and spicy all in one bite. The food was, indeed, delicious, and though maybe not the very best Ethiopian I'd tasted, though maybe not worth a sixteen-hour road trip for one generous platter, it was undoubtedly right up there in the running.

Saving the ample leftovers for later, I departed, returning to the hostel and joining other guests on the roof to watch rogue Canada Day fireworkers set off colorful blasts in their backyards below, Toronto's CN Tower glowing in the distance, all of the city lit up before me. I slept, and the next morning I awoke so sad to be leaving that magnificent city. Perhaps my assessment of Toronto is colored by sentimentalism: the last full-day stop on my trip, my last Canadian city, my last hostel, my last of a great many things. Perhaps cycling around, like I did back home, made me feel like more of a local, more habituated. Or perhaps the truth is that Toronto is just wholly spectacular, which I think to be the case, a lovely place in which I could really see myself living someday.

After grabbing another muffin and some blueberries in Kensington Market, I left Toronto, driving just eighty miles south in as many minutes and arriving on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls late that morning. I found Niagara Falls to be a fitting last spectacle for my grand scoot-tour, something about its size and scale and scope so symbolically appropriate.

I felt the Falls before I saw them, a persistent drizzle raining down on the streets nearby, little droplets cascading down Niagara's cliffs with such force that they rocket into the sky some several hundred feet overhead and then sprinkle back down onto parking spectators in one wide wet radius. And then I actually saw them, just a quick turn to my left, and found myself surprisingly impressed, all cynicism stripped away by the sheer grandness of it all. I parked quickly and made for the railings, peering down to the rapids below, New York just over the chasm and the Horseshoe Falls, Niagara's iconic U-shaped cascade dumping over 700,000 gallons of water per second, to my right. It was, quite simply, absolutely breathtaking.

Beauty aside, Niagara Falls is likely one of the most commercialized landmarks on earth, tiny and weak-armed state and provincial parks doing little to stem the tide of gimmicks and gift shops that have flooded in over the decades. Niagara Falls is more amusement park than national park, more prized paycheck than prized possession, and this might turn some off, it may have soured the experience of a younger me, but there, at the final precipice of my journey, I judged not, and with a when-in-Rome spirit, I queued up for a spot on the next Maid of the Mist departure my very self.

Cramming onto the old steamboat with a bright blue plastic poncho in my hand, I joined my fellow North Americans in one of our continent's most treasured traditions: chugging into the heart of Horseshoe Falls for an up-close introduction to the most forceful cascades in the world. Riding out into those choppy waters, my heart pulled in a million directions, my mind overcome by the collective feelings of two months' worth of wonder and amazement and adventure and gratitude. We neared the Horseshoe, and tears and Niagara waters streamed down my face, Niagara waters flowing from the Great Lakes I had driven by days earlier, lakes filled from the aggregate runoff of mountains I had climbed weeks ago, runoff precipitating from clouds and sky that had followed me all around the continent, all fifteen thousand miles of my journey, for two endless, irreplaceable months, all and everything converging at that singular moment, the power of those falls calling out to the power of my spirit, worn and weary but never, ever happier.

And then I went home.

Reflections from the road: On traveling by scooter

During my first month on the road, I've experienced and learned a lot. And while I've been doing my best to document everything I've seen, thought, and felt, my attention to the what, where, and when has often overshadowed the how, which is just as important. So this week (or, as it turns out, month), I'm aiming to publish seven reflections, each on a different aspect of travel, free from time and space. Here's the sixth.

Nothing has characterized my road trip more than my mode of transportation: a scooter. Many have trekked across the country in cars, motorcycles, even bicycles and foot, but to my knowledge, no one was ever crazy enough to make a go of it by scooter, or at least not a full 15,000 miles, or at least not to live and care to tell the tale.

Traveling by scooter, then, had some anticipated (and unanticipated) drawbacks. For one, I was always fully exposed: exposed to the elements, exposed to the road before me, exposed to the vehicles around me. The simplest rain or wind could easily turn a magnificent drive to a life-threatening one, the most mundane pothole or trench could start my scooter wobbling toward collapse, and the most harmless person, distracted behind the wheel of a car, could throw me to the ground in an instant. Yes, while a three-hundred-mile drive in a car might be a solid day's work, a pleasant ambling through the countryside, aboard a scooter is was an achievement, and I always felt grateful to have survived another day.

Rousseau, of course, was a spectacular companion as far as scooters go, no puny Vespa or diminutive crotchrocket, but a fully grown 250cc powerhouse, capable of speeds up to 90MPH, capable of easily cruising at eighty, and, steep inclines aside, never giving me any trouble with a fast acceleration to get out of harm's way.

Beyond a flat tire, a few moody starts, and a mild but manageable calamity during the last week on the road, along with a few aesthetic plates and pieces that fell off in transit, Rousseau never gave me a problem along those many miles. She did make it clear, however, that she was no pack mule: upon first embarking, I had loaded her rack with items that wouldn't fit in my pack or her under-seat trunk, a helmet and a coat, and then a small tank of gas, and then a few guidebooks, and thrice she bucked that extra cargo from her back when I wasn't looking, not to discover the incident until a hundred miles later, despite my increasingly intense efforts to lock that cargo down with redundant sets of bungee cords, until I finally gave in, sent some items home, and made do with the small space provided underneath the seat.

More so than the danger of demise, lack of storage was my key grievance with my mode of transport, not because I wished to carry more, but because I simply wished for a place to leave my pack while running into a shop or embarking on a short hike, and with no safe place in which to store it, I was forced to always move with my Kelty 50L Redwing affixed to my spine, weighing down on my core, a good workout indeed but not always a desired one.

Though exposure to the elements was indeed a drawback, it was also a benefit, for it brought with it not just gratitude for life, but a sense of having deserved the destination. I'm sure setting eyes on the Pacific Ocean after a long drive westward would be soothing for any cross-country traveler, but to have done it aboard a little scooter, the smallest thing on the highway, against all odds, it felt wonderful. I felt proud of myself; I felt like I had earned it, each and every sight of the trip.

The most blatant advantage to scooter travel, however, was the novelty with which it touched others. A vagabond in a car may indeed pique interest by some, but my DC plates were all I never needed to announce myself as a person worth talking to, and I found myself, each and every day, chatting with complete strangers in the dozens, all wanting to know where I'd been and how I'd made it and what it all was like. And though I grew tired over the same questions day in and day out, I appreciated the interest and the interaction, and positively glowed when someone said they were "inspired" by what I was doing.

Economically, the scooter was also a good choice, with mileage per gallon ranging from sixty to a hundred, on a few occasions even more than that. The economic advantages were not absolute, though; while I saved in gas, I often paid dearly in lodging, for while I may have been fine getting a late-night slumber in the back of a car, or driving through a nasty patch of rain, cold nights and rainy days occasionally nixed my camping plans and left me running for the nearest motel or hotel.

Most important, however, and the reason I'd do things exactly the same if I were to do them again, is that traveling aboard a scooter allowed me to experience the world around me in the most visceral, direct way: no blind spots, no closed windows or windshields or obstructive car roofs, just 360 degrees of earth, vibrant and near in every direction, so close I could literally smell and sometimes taste it, and always feel it, the winds and the temperatures and the energies of each and every location, just me and the road. And my scooter.

To Nebraska (Days 51, 52, 53)

I dragged myself to the Badlands, cursing my journey the whole way, and made it to the national park entrance around 6PM. Almost as soon as I entered the park, the winds that had hounded me through western South Dakota upped their efforts to an all-out attack, swatting me into the oncoming lane of traffic in one powerful gust and leaving me clutching a now-stopped Rousseau with all my might, it being all I could do to keep her from falling over. Thankfully no oncoming cars whipped around the bend during that minute, for that was how long it took to pull the bike back into its rightful lane, and recognizing that it would be suicidal act to drive the precipitous Badlands canyons in that weather, I turned around and scurried a few hundred feet to an overlook's small restroom, whose wall I used to protect Rousseau from the bullying winds.

I ducked for cover myself along that wall, passing the time by staring at a map and determining just how I could make it back all that way in my present demoralized state. I thought about cutting out my scenic return to Canada, about foregoing Michigan's Upper Peninsula and Toronto and instead simply skirting along the Midwest through Chicago and Cleveland. I thought about a lot of things, most of them negative, the violent winds doing little to brighten my mood. Those winds, unbelievably, had picked up even more, forcing me to pitch my tent, itself an impossible task, on the concrete behind the restroom and diving in it before it could blow away, unstaked and held down by nothing more than my body weight.

Several hours later, the winds calmed if only by a bit, and I hastily crammed my tent back into my pack, hopped aboard Rousseau, and made for the campground twenty-four miles in the distance, too conscious of the possibility of flash flooding to chance a more primitive camping adventure. That ride through the Badlands at dusk, quite possibly, may have saved the remainder of my trip, for driving through those decaying canyons, those sandy gorges and alien sandcastles, I felt my spirit returning, the fond memories of canyon country creeping back into my consciousness. Deadened after a dull day, I felt a breath of life work its way back into my inner vagabond.

I completed that eerie ride in the dark, enchanted by the mysterious landscape. Of those very Badlads Steinbeck once wrote, "They deserve this name. They are like the work of an evil child; such a place the Fallen Angels might have built as a spite to Heaven, dry and sharp, desolate and dangerous, and for me filled with foreboding. A sense comes from it that it does not like or welcome humans."

Welcome or not, I needed rest, and shelter, and I pulled into the campground around ten, pitched camp, and slept, my first night of the entire trip in which I did not feel cold, that arid South Dakota summer keeping me warm throughout the dark starry night.

I woke early the next morning in better spirits than the last, and a new approach to boot. I needn't concern myself with making it to eastern Nebraska that day, I told myself: just the Route 83 junction, some sixty miles ahead. And when I got there, I thought "well that wasn't so bad," and so I shot for Valentine, just another eighty miles south, nothing more than a short drive away! Arriving in Valentine, I set my sights on the Sandhills Journey Junction, a nice little trek, and from there to Mullen, and Thedford, and so forth, until I found myself, late that afternoon, pulling through Grand Island and sprinting the remaining twenty miles to Central City, at my destination but for the grace of incremental mental trickery.

And, I found, I didn't mind the trick. For one, I had enjoyed the drive, and had given little thought to my spatial hopelessness, and besides, I had now earned a day of rest, and one with great friends at that.

I had traveled to Central City, a hefty detour but a worthy one, to visit Steph and Chase, friends from my Georgetown days who had moved back home, where they met as childhood sweethearts, to have a daughter and be by family. I hadn't seen either of them in nearly two years, and so there was no greater reward for days of thankless driving and cold weather and overall defeat than to see Steph's beaming smile on the porch of their lovely house, green and homely and full of warmth. We greeted each other with a long embrace, and then headed inside to see Lily, their precious two-year-old daughter, who sat innocently in her high-chair finishing a snack.

Lily largely ignored me, which she continued to do for most of the trip, but that was quite alright, for it allowed me to witness her interactions with her mother, and later Chase, in such a natural state. Instantly, it amazed me how much Steph had grown into her new role, such a loving, adoring, caring matriarch who understood each and every of Lily's garbled words and knew just how to best assuage her cries and demands.

While Steph cared for Lily, we caught up on our respective lives. I recounted my travels and my past few years in DC, and she told me of her move and new work and time with family in Nebraska, and we whittled the hours away until Chase, Steph's husband, came home from work. Seeing Chase was just as lovely, and as we chatted, Steph began to prepare dinner, a thoughtful vegan alternative for me, and we passed the night sitting about the kitchen table and simply talking like old friends.

The next morning, with Chase at work, Steph aimed to show me as much of her hometown as we could squeeze in, so we got Lily into the car and drove around town, stopping here and there along the way, and later arriving at Steph's old school and present employer, a terrifically pleasant little institution with a great little compact building, a nineteenth-century castle of sorts, serving as its flagship edifice.

We walked the campus grounds, from administrative offices to dormitories to gymnasium to chemistry lab to art room, and it was simply wonderful to experience Steph and Chase's childhood in this way, to see their yellowed class portraits on the wall and to gain such greater visual and sensory detail about the places they held most dear. Wrapping up at the school, we drove a short distance to Steph's old home, where I met her sister, and that magical feeling persisted, persisted all day really, following me all around Central City, Nebraska.

Steph, Lily, and I stopped at the library after that to return some of Lily's well-read borrows and replace them with some fresh reads, and for a moment, Steph left me with Lily, who still refused to acknowledge my presence, to go check for a book in the catalog. I sat by Lily while she rifled through a small toy bin, and used to working with and talking to kids of a slightly older age group, I struggled to make conversation, opting to simply teach Lily the words of what she was drawing from the chest, for she ignored my inquiries as to what they were. "Mickey Mouse," I would say as she pulled a domino with Mickey Mouse stickers stamped to it. "Minnie Mouse." And then, her grabbing onto a fluffy plush kangaroo, I said "kangaroo."

She continued to play in solitude, but once Steph returned, she ambled clumsily over to her mother with kangaroo in hand and shouted "kang-a-roo!"

Steph beamed. "Yes, Lily: kangaroo! I didn't know you knew that word."

So Lily was listening, I learned, and to her credit, warmed to me just a pinch as time wore on, sneaking a wave every now and then, and smiling when I handed her a book. Later, she learned the phrase "bring Jay" from Steph, and would ask it as we would move from one place to the next, appearing to have some interest in whether I'd be coming along.

And move we did, from the library to the popcorn factory, where Steph's mother worked. It was a pleasure meeting her, and doubly a pleasure to be invited to tour the popcorn plant, where millions of pounds of popcorn each year were cleaned, filtered, sorted, and packaged. Leaving Lily with her grandmother, Steph and I followed the plant's quality assurance manager to a room where we dressed into gowns and hairnets, and then into the plant we went, listening to our guide's excellent explanations of what we were seeing over the roar of menacing machinery and growling gears.

After getting our fill of robots and conveyer belts and, of course, fresh popcorn, we thanked our guide and Steph's mother for their kindness and returned to our vehicles, Steph to her minivan and me to my scooter, where we drove to Grand Island as a caravan of two.

I had mentioned to Steph and Chase the previous night that my scooter was having fuel trouble, and it just so happened that Chase's brother owned a shop that serviced scooters, so hoping he could give Rousseau a little love and care, we dropped her at his shop and then rode together back to Central City, after a quick stop at the grocery store, to wait for Chase to get home from work.

When he did, the four of us loaded back up into the van and drove just a few miles down the road to a lake, where the two had access to a friend's cabin. And so, relaxing by a lake with the barbecue smoking, Steph and Chase and Lily and I had a dinner of watermelon and asparagus and cauliflower and hot dogs, tofu kielbasa for me, and then waded through the lake's warm waters to a neighbor's rope swing.

This rope swing was no simple string on a tree; it was a towering structure of lumber and irrigation pipe and cable that offered the daring jumper two options: sit on a thin wooden board and swing a few feet into the waiting lake, or climb a rickety ladder and swing from up top, ten or fifteen feet above the sand, arcing down and then back up in a high-velocity parabola and then flying off the seat of their pants, up and out and then down in a climactic, plummeting splash.

We adults started small, on the short ledge, but thirsty for more thrills, we quickly graduated to the upper swing, where we each catapulted ourselves off, time and time again, drinking in the momentary weightlessness of the fall before dropping into the inviting waters and spluttering back to the dock, where Lily sat watching, one of us with her, of course, and apparently not enjoying seeing her loving parents rocket into the air and then disappear into the lake's depths.

After subjecting Lily to enough fright for one night, we secured the swing and walked back through the lake to the cabin, where we cleaned up and closed up and then headed back to their home, putting Lily to bed and ending a marvelous day with hot tea and more jovial conversation.

Lying in bed that night, I thought about what a special place Nebraska was. It was my first venture into the heartland, indeed, and I loved it, everything about it: the wide open spaces and the golden fields and the sun that seemed to shine more warmly than anywhere else I'd ever been. I loved the tractors and the pivots and the host of small towns scattered across that gorgeous state, small towns where everyone knows each others' names and people know how to take care of themselves and their neighbors, where doors can be left unlocked and keys can be left in cars, where your business is everyone's business, where everyone is okay with that.

I thought about Steph and Chase and how much they belonged here, how much they thrived in their tiny hometown of 2,500. I thought about how clearly they were loved, two exceptional people the entire community seemed to adore, genuine smiles and warm welcomes everywhere they went, everyone, indeed, knowing their name. And for the first time, I really got it, the whole ethos behind America's conservative thought.

Steph and Chase are, they would not and should not be afraid to say, confident conservatives, whereas I, I suppose, am something of a left-leaning libertarian, so left-leaning I may have toppled over at some point, hit my head, and become a libertarian. Politically, we do not share much in common, and if our current political war is any indication, we probably shoudn't be friends, but bitter rivals staffing the lines of a growing culture war.

And yet, talking politics with Steph that Wednesday afternoon, there was no animosity, no tension, no outward need to convert the other to a particular viewpoint. No, we were happy just chatting, sharing opinions, content trying to learn not how to change the other's beliefs, but why they believed what they did, curiosity over conversion, and away from the political frenzy and ideological puppets of DC, I was so thankful to share such honest, thoughtful conversation, to learn about conservatism not through the mouthpiece of a slanderous Democrat, but through the kind words of a true, sane conservative in the heartland of true conservatism.

I guess where I'm going with this is that, lying in bed that night, I got it, I felt conservative thought. Having spent just one day in Nebraska, it made perfect sense, what with a self-sufficient community that takes care of itself and its own, why the government wouldn't be welcome in those parts, why the way America's cities were headed would terrify those kind souls. It made sense just how someone born and raised in Nebraska would nearly have to be of that mindset. Were I to settle there, I'd probably be too.

I can't say I agree with conservatism, and I do not have to, for that is the true beauty of our political system, but there in Central City, I felt closer than I ever had to the essence of it, and I welcomed the reminder that people we don't agree with are still people, some of the best people in fact, something we often forget while tucked away in our respective fortresses in Washington.

Leaving the following morning with a renewed respect for the political differences that make America great, and though that may be a cliche, it was something of a revelation to my cynical soul, I bid Steph and Chase and Lily a sad goodbye, and grabbing a ride with Chase back to Grand Island, I boarded Rousseau, fresh sparkplug and oil, and took off into the cornfields of Iowa feeling better than ever about the future of my trip.