I'm back in Tucson, after my long-anticipated/planned/dreaded month-long road trip. Thirty-four days long to be exact. It would have been thirty-five but I returned a day early when the temperatures in Arizona climbed toward triple digits. I don't need more character building.
Let's be pragmatic. Given the constant drip-drip drain on my bank account, I could classify the adventure as an exercise in learning how to be homeless. I now possess some powerful self-knowledge. As long as I have water, gas, and a little money, I can live in my car on the road. It is an insecure, somewhat dangerous and unhealthy lifestyle, but I could do it for a while if I had to. That is useful knowledge. In other words, my road trip was a form of survival training. I proved to myself I could live off the land in modern America. I wasn't trying to pare the spikes off prickly pears; I was trying to find road food that wouldn't give me diarrhea. It wasn't rattlesnakes I watched for; it was overly zealous security guards and aggressive light-flashing truck drivers.
Don't misunderstand me. As I said, I'm really not into character building. Suffering is stupid. I don't want to live in my car, at least, not on city streets, but it's a relief to know I could for a while if I had to.
Part of the reason for the road trip, if you'll recall, was to find a place where I might feel physically and emotionally more at home. As you know, Tucson has not turned out to be a healthy place for me. In search of a lower-elevation alternative, I explored many cities, towns, and suburbs, large and small, crowded and vacant, coastal to desert and everything in between. I wandered from southern California through northern California, across Oregon, and into Washington, before turning south to return through Nevada and Arizona. I visited charming villages in the low desert. I revisited places along the California coast I knew and loved thirty years ago. I navigated Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Spokane, and fervently hope I never have to drive through any of them again.
In no place was my ear miraculously silent. In no place did my disequilibrium subside. In general, my vertigo worsened at higher elevation, but even at or below sea level, it never went away. However, my malady seems to be related to changes in weather patterns (i.e., changes in barometric pressure), and weather followed me everywhere from the moment I crossed the border into California on my way to San Diego. Apart from a scant handful of blue-sky days, I experienced intermittent rain, wind, clouds, and cold temperatures wherever I went, from San Diego to Spokane, from Santa Monica to Phoenix. It wasn't until the final two days of my trip that the temperatures soared.
Even then, no relief for the dizzy. It's hot here in Tucson, but it seems monsoon might be starting earlier than usual. Yesterday as I drove from Phoenix to Tucson, I couldn't figure out why my head was such an unbalanced mess. I chalked it up to the stress of driving 65 mph in a 75 mph zone. Now I think it's the massive thunderclouds that boiled up and started microbursting. The air is on the move.
Well, I will be on the move soon, too, one way or another. Maybe I won't be moving all that far away. I found out I prefer the cities south of Phoenix. Wide open spaces, big square blocks, and lots of trees. And there are WinCos. Maybe somewhere there will be a senior housing option for me. By the end of July, I hope I'm trucking my miscellaneous detritus to a new home, even if it is just to Phoenix.
If Phoenix doesn't pan out, then I'll get out my road atlas and plot another road trip. One thing I've learned is that this country is big. I've seen a small fraction of what is possible. It stretches the bounds of credulity to imagine there is only one perfect place for me. For instance, I hear North Carolina is affordable and livable. Is that true? How would I know? You can tell a few things about a place from Google Earth, but you can't really know a place until you spend time there.
I recommend wandering the streets, the grocery store parking lots, the strip malls, and the laundromats. Notice the weather, that goes without saying. Bundle up in a sleeping bag if you have to. Pay attention to people, and that means pedestrians, shop clerks, and truck drivers. Sleep in some home improvement store parking lots—that can tell you a lot about the working life of a certain segment of the town population, namely the overnight crew.
When I was constantly on the move, the pace of my life shifted from the illusory goal of "getting work done" toward covering the miles. I had places to be and people to see, so I couldn't lollygag in one place for long. Once I had my final visit to my Spokane friend, I was free to take my time heading south. However, like the uninformed idiot that I am, I chose the so-called scenic route, which took me through some high mountain passes. I consider it a triumph of surrender that my head didn't explode at elevation 8,138 feet. Elevation affects temperature, did you know that? I guess I have to experience physics to believe in it. The rest stop in Burns, Oregon, was miserably cold. Reno, Nevada, was slightly lower and slightly warmer. I had to keep moving downhill to stay warm. The further south I went, the better I felt. By the time I got to Phoenix, I was finally feeling pretty good, until the heat ramped up, and twizzle twazzle twozzle twome.
One more thing I learned. It's useful not to care. After a while, one mile is much the same as the next. The main thing is keeping the car running. If you can maintain the pace, mile after mile, then it doesn't really matter where you started or where you end up. It's all just journey.
