Time out: The search for home hits the pause button

I left Sacramento and drove for hours toward the beach, committed to escaping the heat and smoke of the central valley. I made it to Eureka and found a mall anchored by a Walmart, hoping to park for the night in that traditional haven for weary travelers. No such luck. A polite security guard told me there was no overnight parking. Lucky for me, I had a little daylight left. I packed up, consulted the app that shows possible wild camping locations nearby, and migrated three miles to a nondescript side street that I never would have found on my own. Bless the campers who came before me and took the time to blaze the trail for other nomads. 

 After I left the Eureka side street, I stopped to do a couple video calls in Crescent City, and then crossed the border into Oregon, the state of my birth. In Brookings, I parked at a Fred Meyer, the familiar brand of my childhood. This store was like none I'd ever seen. It was like the Disneyland of grocery stores: two levels, a massive produce section, and a billion shoppers milling around and bashing each others' carts. 

In Brookings, I had my car examined for possible front end problems. I sat in the lobby, choking on the smell of rubber tires, and watched the young dude drive off with my car, trying to be Zen about it, thinking, I really need to be less attached to my stuff. 

"I don't hear anything," he said. I wanted to say, what are you, deaf? But I didn't. He assured me everything was tight, no worries, and I decided to trust him, not being a car mechanic myself (but having good enough hearing to notice unfamiliar front end noises). He didn't say anything about the check engine light, which I took to mean they only do tires, brakes, and front ends. Check engine lights are not their problem. 

I drove on up Hwy 101, through beach town after beach town, getting increasingly tired and wondering if I would ever find a place to park for the night. Finally, after traversing the length of Newport, I found another Fred Meyer. Feeling sick from driving, I entered the big parking lot anbd found it ringed with vans and cars that were obviously there to park for the night. With great relief, I backed into a cozy parking space among my fellow nomads. I nibbled something, cleaned up with baby wipes and alcohol, and went to bed. It rained during the night, soaking the top edges of my window covers, but I didn't care. Clouds! Rain! Cool temperatures!

After stopping to do my laundry in Lincoln City, I consulted my peers on the camping app, which suggested a road along the beach in Manzanita. Based on their recommendations, I parked on the verge with several other cars and sprinter vans and marveled that I had a cell phone signal and a perfect view of the ocean. Nobody bothered me, even though the next day I discovered it might not have been legal to park there after all. This is the dilemma of nomads who seek cooler temps along the coastline. Coastal states are not welcoming to nomads, probably because these states have such a huge population of unhoused. All the rich folks don't want a bunch of decrepit motorhomes and dented SUVs cluttering up their view of the Pacific. Who can blame them? They want what they are paying for. 

I'm blogging at you from my cousin's beach house in Long Beach, WA, on the peninsula, a few blocks from the ocean. The house is old and huge, decorated in vintage furniture, pictures, and knicknacks. She's left instructions for guests: check the toilets to make sure they aren't running, pack out your recycling and compostables, and spray Pine Sol around the garbage can to deter the bears. Last night at 11:30 pm the tsunami siren went off and wailed for a good two minutes. I sat there Googling "earthquake" and "tsunami near me" but found nothing, so I went back to bed. I slept for twelve hours. 

It's barely 3:00 pm, and I'm just now starting to feel myself firming up into a functional human. I didn't realize how tense and taut I was until I had a safe place to perch and rest. Once I felt safe, I turned into a quivery pile of jelly. I am trying to keep my eyes on the goal: to find affordable housing. As soon as it cools off a bit in the Willamette Valley, I'll leave the coast and get back on the road to continue my search for home.

Sprinting out of the desert

On Wednesday, I said goodbye to my Scottsdale friends, the blue pool, the little dog, and the 112°F heat. My plan was to go west, but first I had to pick up packages at my Tucson mailbox, so I trekked two hours down the freeway, took care of my errands, and then hit the road, hoping to avoid the monsoon thunderstorms that were about to boil up over Tucson.  

I retraced my route west on I-10, back toward Phoenix and connected to I-8, aiming for San Diego. At Gila Bend, I stopped for gas, got turned around, and ended up going north on 87, which hooks up with I-10 west of Phoenix. It's the truck bypass route. I hadn't planned on going that way, but the window of opportunity to hit the back button on my error closed within a few seconds as the highway turned to freeway with no offramps, and so north I went, thinking, okay, this is what happens to me, all part of the road trip adventure. 

As I ploughed through the desert heat, I watched the thermometer in my car giving me a readout of the outside temperature:  109°F, 110°F, 111°F . . . I stopped at a rest area to text my friends and stepped out of my car into a furnace. The hot wind would have stripped the flesh from my bones if I had dawdled on my way to and from the restroom. 

With the AC blasting, I looked at the map and contemplated my odds of survival. If my car went belly up in the desert, nothing would be left of me but a desiccated husk. My eyes would crack and crumble first. My skin would peel back like parchment paper, leaving only brittle bones and some teeth, four crowns, and a bridge. All the butane canisters under the bed would combust. The conflagration would no doubt be visible for miles, but by the time highway patrol arrived, there would be nothing left but a greasy smoking pile of ash, a few teeth, and the soggy blueberries in my Alpicool fridge (currently working intermittently, depending on the availability of power). 

To the south, Tucson was being hit by little tornadoes and flash floods. To the north of me, Flagstaff was being hammered by gruesome thunderstorms and flash floods. East was not an option, ugh. The only path to cooler air was a hotfooted sprint through the desert. 

If you've ever run a marathon, you know that it takes a while. It's hard to sprint an entire marathon. I knew I was in for it. I knew I might not survive. A blown tire would be all it would take. No way could I change a tire, even on a cool day. Those tires are heavy. No, it was either keep going or bust. I vowed to keep going until the fahrenheit reading on my odometer window dropped below 100°F. Or until the haboobs stripped the skin off my bones. 

I did my best.

Somewhere along my sprintlike marathon, I realized my head had stopped spinning. My ear had stopped crackling. I cranked up country music radio (which is all I can get in the desert) and did some head bopping. No vertigo. I tried singing, loudly, and then more loudly, out of tune. Still felt fine, and when I say "fine," I mean as close to normal as I've felt in about five years. I started laughing then, because then I knew that most likely the med the neurologist had reluctantly prescribed for me had started to kick in. 

I was so happy, I barely noticed as the temperature reading climbed to 115°F, then to 117°F, 119°F, finally topping out at 120°F in Desert Center and again in the Coachella Valley. (Wow, I am so glad I didn't decide to move to Indio or Desert Hot Springs.)

I kept going. My euphoria gradually evaporated. By the time the temperature dropped below 100°F, it was almost 6:00 pm Pacific time. I'd been driving almost nonstop for ten hours, eating mostly crackers.  Driving into the setting sun was starting to get annoying. The moment I realized I wasn't going to make it all the way to Santa Monica, I found myself in an exit-only lane. I thought okay, the Universe says you are staying the night in Claremont. When the Universe slaps me around, I listen. I exited, searched, and found a cheap motel close enough to the freeway so I could find my way back by zeroing in on the roar of semitrucks and motorhomes barrelling over the ruts and cracks in the ancient concrete pavement.

The next day I took the 210 west toward the ocean and spent a cool but restless night at Home Depot in Oxnard. For the first time in months, I was actually cold. What a revelation, to feel 57°F air on my skin. To sleep with a blanket. To start my drive the next morning with the heater on in my car! 

The next day I leapfrogged SUVs and motorhomes on my way north on 101 to the 46 east, then onto the 41 north, and finally to I-5 north. At the beginning of the trek I noticed piles of tomatoes along the roadside. Oh, a tomato truck disaster, I thought. As I went along, I came upon truck after truck pulling enormous cartons filled with thousands and thousands of tomatoes. Dozens of trucks filled with billions of tomatoes, hitting bumps in the road and jettisoning a few random tomatoes into the air. I didn't see any actual tomato truck wrecks. That would have been a marvel. 

I spent a another cool but restless night at another Home Depot, this time in Stockton, within fifty yards of the freeway and a small tent encampment. 

I was dressed and ready to go before the sky was fully light. I got gas. Then the question: Which way? I checked the temperature forecasts, the fire maps, and the routes that would let me avoid San Francisco. Now I'm in Sacramento, sitting in a mall parking lot. The sky here is hazy with smoke from the Park Fire, burning northeast of Chico. Shoppers come and go on all sides of my car. Occasionally they bump it and set it rocking. My head rocks along with it. Unfortunately, the medication apparently takes six to eight hours to kick in and the reprieve only lasts a few hours. My head was spinning hard this morning, worse than ever. I'm trying to stay calm. 

I don't feel like lollygagging here in this city. Helicopters circle overhead. Irritated drivers honk at each other as they compete for scarce parking spaces. Curious people walk past my open door and peer inside. I need to figure out where I'm going to park tonight. Not here. Not safe. 

My route north out of the city takes me through more smoke. I'd rather be out on the road dodging tomato trucks than sitting in a mall parking lot hoping I have enough power to do my next zoom meeting. But such is the life of a nomad. I'm not complaining. I have internet. What's more, the temperature is less than 90°F, with no thunderstorms in sight. I'll take it all and be grateful.

The Chronic Malcontent wobbles into nomad life

My younger brother used to be able to shoot down house flies with rubber bands. That takes some real skill. I don't have that skill. I resort to a spray bottle of alcohol. That used to work well on the house flies in Portland, even the great big ones. 

Here in the Southern Arizona desert, flies are hardy, tough little addicts. Alcohol just excites them. At least that is the way it looks to me. It's possible they are being replaced at the rate I shoot them down, like mercernary infantry who don't care if they live or die. It's possible the carpet is littered with carcasses, and I'll find them at some date long into the future when I do a deep clean on this little caravan. I hung a sheer curtain over the open doorway. It's folded over at the top, and multiple species of flies have congregated at the top of the fold. How they got in there I have no idea. What they are doing there is less of a mystery. I assume they skitter back and forth at the top of the fold because they are seeking the exit. Aren't we all.

Speaking of exit-seeking, I had my first appointment with the physical therapy suggested by the neurologist. We got off to a rocky start—I had failed to notice that one of the three pages I was supposed to fill out had more information on the back (in my defense, the other two pages were blank on the back, and I hadn't eaten anything since evening the day before, fearing she might be putting me through some shenanigans that would motivate me to barf.) Anyway, I think my OCD desire to finish filling out the form mollified her somewhat. She could tell I was a good student.

I was with her for almost two hours. I answered her questions as best I could. She did tests on my vestibular system (obviously not trusting the neurologist's diagnosis), and I'm glad she did her own tests, because as it turned out, she reached a different conclusion. Or rather, she reached no conclusion.

Finally we sat down in opposite chairs. She tapped my knee. "You don't have BPPV," she said. "Your eyes are steady. No nystagmus."

"Okay," I said.

"And I don't think you have vestibular migraines, either," she continued. "Vestibular migraines come like an attack, triggered by something, like food or bright lights. You don't have attacks."

"No, mine is more like waves," I agreed. "Every minute or so, with the ear crackling. Like a downed powerline in my head."

"In my eighteen years of therapy practice, I've never seen anyone like you."

"Oh," I said, feeling both special and bereft. 

"I can't treat you for BPPV," she said. "However, I have one more test I'd like to do, if you will come back one or two more times."

I nodded, picturing my calendar, which had two PT appointments per week for the next month. 

When I mentioned the schedule, she sighed. "The scheduler that day was new. Somewhat overzealous." Then she tapped my knee again. "I don't think you are crazy." 

"Uh . . . "

"You aren't making this up. This is a real thing."

"It is to me."

"Besides the vestibular paroxysmia, there's one other possibility. You might have Triple PD." 

Having read all the literature, real and fake, I knew that PPPD is a catch-all diagnosis that practitioners use when a patient has had a vestibular trauma and can't seem to shake it off. Over time, the patient develops anxiety, fearing the onset of the next attack, and the anxiety seems to keep the vestibular system constantly on edge, leading to chronic imbalance. 

"That is treated with antidepressants," I said. I was thinking to myself, I don't have anxiety, but some of the medications the neurologist mentioned were both antidepressants and epilepsy treatments. Maybe something could be negotiated.

"I agree with you, it makes sense to try the antiseizure drugs to see if they work on the paroxysmia. It's too bad this neurologist is new," she added (news to me). "It's so hard to get other doctors to read reports sometimes."

I'm guessing my future self is going to have to do battle with the neurologist, or maybe try to find a second neurologist who might be open to prescribing antiseizure meds. However, it helps to think the PT might be in my corner. We can hope.

Meanwhile, I'm out on BLM land in a place called Red Rock. The saguaros are incredible. The flies I've already described. The wind knocked over my solar panel, my little outdoor table, and a half-gallon of water, and now it's trying to pry off the blue tarp I bungeed to my car to block the blazing sun. From the inside, it looks like I'm inside an aquarium, except for the incessant flapping noise. I was hoping the wind would die down so I could leave the tarp up all night, but I don't think I can sleep with that going on, so wish me luck, I'm going out to battle the flies, the wind, and the tarp. 

See you next week.

Still searching for home

Most days, I can't tell if I'm in my right mind or not. Some days I think, I can do this, I can camp in my car, be a nomad, go on adventures, be a digital worker, drive around and see things, and somehow magically maintain a healthy life despite not having a home base. Then I read about the challenges of getting car insurance without a fixed parking spot, and I think, I'm out of my mind. This is insane. This is disaster. I should do everything I can to avoid homelessness. There will be no coming back if I drive off this cliff.

Then I think, well, wait, other people do it. These nomad vanlifers live in their cars, or at least, they say they do. If they are telling the truth, then clearly, it can be done. So I dig around in the great brain in the sky and find out, wait a minute, some of my confident nomadic heroes might not be completely legal. In fact, their suggestions are liable to inspire my insurance company to cancel me, should I ever get in a wreck. This would not be ideal. Then I remember, my vanlife heroes make their money from naive idiots like me watching their videos. Oh, the horror. 

Last week, I was sure I could go live in the forest—you know, park my car under a pine tree, set up my internet gizmo, and write my next novel. Eat nuts and twigs, commune with the coyotes . . . hey, city girls can learn new skills. I called it a retreat.

This week, my brain retreated from that idea. I know I can live in my car, but I'm not so sure I'm up for communing with wildlife. Coyotes, bears, packrats, no-seeums, no thanks. The idea of being homeless scares the spit out of me. Homelessness is not a viable option for a person my age. Once I cross that line, I don't know if I can come back to the adult world. You might as well send me to the psych ward.

I'm planning a second road trip later this month to eyeball some small towns in Arizona. I don't think the vertigo problem is going to be solved any time soon, no matter where I am on the planet, so I'm opting to scope out possible housing options at higher elevations. Small towns, slightly cooler temps, maybe that will work. Maybe there will be a place for me there.

It's unsettling to not be able to call a place home. 

I searched on my epic road trip, I really did. I put 5,000 miles on my car in search of home. I burned hundreds of dollars worth of gasoline. I slept in parking lots. I pooped in a bucket. I really tried to find a home. Even so, it wasn't enough. Maybe I drove past the one place I could have called home, fooled by the red-tile-roofed mansions on the hills above the freeway, assuming I could never afford such a place. Maybe it was Ashland, or Indio, maybe it was Medford, or Spokane, or Bishop, or Wickiup. Jeez, it could have been Wickiup, and all I did was buy gas there for the umpteenth time and get back on the road.

I probably drove past a hundred places that I could have called home, but I was so busy dodging trucks and looking at my gas gauge, I missed them all. 

How do other people find home? Some people are lucky enough to be born in a place they consider home, but what about all those folks born into the wrong climate? Hm, what about them? The ones born in Portland who hate rain. The ones born in Tucson who hate being dessicated and wish they had been born in Portland? How do you figure out where you belong? 

I guess that is what Google Street View is for. But it's not a substitute for seeing a place with your own eyes, feeling the air on your skin, observing the clouds over the skyline, noticing the pace of cars cruising main street, noting the nods of strangers as they take you in and process your strangeness. Don't you have to see it for yourself?

You can just pick up and move, sight unseen. I did that twice. I could do it again. But this time, I want to see it for myself first, before I make the leap.

Don't get up in my undercarriage

 

I have an ongoing quest to lighten my load. To that end, I have offloaded more kitchen stuff to my housemate. This trailer easily absorbed a microwave, a rice cooker, and a toaster oven. I brought the microwave from Portland. It was Mom's microwave, the one she had at the Cottage. It's got two dials and it dings. The rice cooker and the toaster oven I bought when I moved into the Bat Cave. I don't know why I thought I would suddenly start eating rice and toast. Probably for the same reason I thought I'd buy orange slacks and flowered shirts, now that I'm in the desert. As if moving would make me a different person. Nope. I still eat nuts and twigs. I still wear grungy pajamas. I've regressed to my personal mean. There's no budging me now.

I have a short stack of cardboard boxes ready to offload to the thrift store next week. I can't believe I'm still downsizing. On this round, I'm jettisoning some coffee cups. I only need one. I'm letting go of a clear glass dish good for baking banana bread, or meatloaf, if you are so inclined. I think it might have been Mom's. My old beat-up $20 blender is going. My little waffle iron, so long. The coffee grinder. I'm not buying beans anymore. I'm now mixing Sprouts French roast with Yuban. It's just a matter of time before I'm stirring instant coffee with a plastic spoon. 

I doubt I will miss any of it. If I haven't used the stuff in a year, it's unlikely I ever will. Besides the kitchen gear, I boxed up a couple desk lamps I bought when I moved here, when all my stuff was still in storage and I needed to have light in the Trailer. I'm letting go of my light therapy box. Brain fog is the least of my worries given my affliction with vertigo or whatever it is. The ENT doesn't think it is vertigo. It might have been at one time, but untreated, now it's disequilibrium stemming from vestibular migraines. She made up the diagnosis based on what is popular in the medical literature, I'm pretty sure. Vestibular migraines is all the range right now. Who cares? If it can't be measured, it's not really happening. Just stick a fork in it and call it done. 

I'm in a downsizing contest with myself, it seems. How little do I need to live? I remember reading about that guy who has all his possessions in a backpack, something like forty items. He showed a photo of them all spread out on a small picnic blanket. What he didn't talk much about is how he relied on the generosity of others in order to live. He could afford to mosey around without the basic accoutrements of American life because he was borrowing the accoutrements of others. 

What are the basic accoutrements? A bed, I suppose, or something to sleep on. I didn't see a bedroll or sleeping bag, so he must have been sleeping on other people's beds. Did he have a way to store and cook food? He had a dish and a spoon. That seemed overly optimistic. I didn't see a method to keep clean, a mechanism to handle waste. He had his feet for moving from here to there, but I seem to recall people gave him rides. You can get rides when you are a social media celebrity. And beds. And cooked food. I want to be a minimalist, not a moocher.

Did that guy feel as if he had a place to be? Was that one of his basic accoutrements? 

I guess that is the part I still find confounding, that place-to-be thing. Where does a person go when they have no place to go? My worst fear used to be that I would end up living in my parent's basement. Oh, how naïve. At that time, they had a very nice basement. I've lived in basements, they aren't so bad. I'd live in a basement now, here in Tucson, if anyone had such a thing, which they don't, because the entire city rests on top of caliche, which is cement, in case you didn't know (I didn't). Not many basements here. Or lawns, either. This is such a weird place. The sunsets are amazing, though.

With climate change shaking up the globe, it might make sense to be a nomad, if I can still buy food, water, and gasoline. No guarantees on any of that, but what is my alternative? I can't afford to buy a home, I can't afford to rent an apartment. When the next viral pandemic arrives and turns us all into mindless zombies, I guess I'll just go with the crowd. Why fight it? I might be able to outrun the plague if I'm mobile, assuming my car still runs and there's still electricity for pumping gas. Well, if it isn't the virus that takes me down, it will be a fire or a flood. Or maybe an old-fashioned boring car crash. They have a lot of those here in Tucson. 

I don't have a lot of years left in me, so I don't expect my suffering to last long. Besides, suffering is optional. So they say.