Take it on the Road, Baby

Let’s talk about commuting. Being on the road isn’t so bad.  In fact, I really love it, which probably surprises the pants off my parents, as I was the kid in the back seat who constantly asked, “how much further? Are we there yet?”  Truth is, I love to drive on the highway.   Ride? not so much.

It was 249 miles from salon to Orlando apartment parking space, and I could bust it out in 3 hours and 15 minutes, including a drive-thru coffee pick up. Don’t judge me; not one time did I get stopped or in a wreck. Minded my own business, never the pace car, never the caboose, just riding the road with the flow of folks.

249 miles soon became the same as driving across town to get home from work.  Three hours and fifteen minutes seemed to fly by.  Roughly a hundred miles on I-10, a hundred miles on I-75, and 50 miles on the Florida Turnpike – that’s how it was broken up.  I had my safe places to stop if needed, but most days I didn’t. The Busy Bee, Gainesville Starbucks, the Cafe Risque.  Ok, so I’m just kidding about that one.

I had aspirations of making great use of my time while literally on the road.  Learn Spanish, call all my friends and catch up, books on CD.  But what I quickly realized was that I needed the down-time.  I was cramming so much into my time in Tallahassee, and Orlando wasn’t much slower, that the time in the car alone was time to calm my mind, slow down my brain, gather myself to change gears.  Now, there were plenty of times where I did call folks and chat — Mama, Mother-In-Law, Sister — but not many more than that.  A few times I did listened to books on CD, but quickly realized that the calm voice coming at me through the speaker was actually lulling me towards sleep. So it became all about the music.  Friends burned me CDs of their favorite artists, I found radio stations between here and there, and wore out my playlist.  As the seasons changed so did my music choices and window positions.  Many a ride was windows down, sunroof open, music blaring.  This is Florida, where the weather is amazing for most of the year.

There were the rides in the rain, the wind, the dark.  Rides facing the east or west, when the sun rising or setting was brutal to drive toward. A few times when the traffic came to a complete halt, and other times when the entire pack was following a State Trooper – driving a full 90 miles per hour. He obviously was ready to get home. (we all slowed down after he took his exit.)  My car was an Acura TL – comfortable, well appointed, good gas mileage.  It fit me perfectly and I did my best to take good care of it.  I had the oil changed and the tires rotated on schedule.  Which meant I felt like I had a part-time job at the tire store.  The guys there were really good to me, knowing why I was there so often, and helped me maintain what needed to be maintained. Folks are really nice, in general, if you are appreciative and give them a chance to be nice to you.  These guys were a prime example.  During the time I was driving, the car rolled over 100,000 miles.  I’ve never had a car that long, so it seemed like quite the accomplishment.  I felt like I could keep that car forever.  It was paid for, (I used my portion of the insurance payout from “the wreck”) and even though the outside was showing some wear, the inside was hardly worn; we were going to be together for the long haul.

The driving was the easy part of the commuting – finding a place to stay was a different story. I ended up with a rotation of about 6 places that I consistently stayed, and a few places where, occasionally, I could leave my things for a few weeks while my host traveled; mom and dad’s, Teresa’s, Rodney and Cheri’s, Brother-in-law’s, Mother-in-law’s, Sandra and Harvey’s, Dan and Diane’s, Julia’s, friend’s who’d be out of town for the week and left me a key, friend’s who’d be out of town for the summer and let me move in. Anybody who didn’t have a cat was fair game on my list. I tried not to wear out my welcome by staying any one place too often or too soon, and always tried to make it look like I had never been there, cleaning my way out the door.  My hosts gave me keys to their house, cooked me food, sent me to work with leftovers, invited me to sit down to dinner with them, allowed me my space when needed, let me come and go at crazy hours, fresh linens (though most of the time I took my own), and anything else I could possibly need, like their washer and dryer so I could take care of my salon responsibilities.   These people showed me love in abundance, and I don’t know that I could ever repay their kindness and generosity. They went over and above to help me.

I attempted to travel light, but I’m basically the president of Overpackers Anonymous. I quickly learned that it would be easier if I duplicated everything I possibly could – toiletries, blow dryer, meds, etc., – so that the only things I had to pack/un-pack/re-pack were clothes and shoes. Everything else was always packed and ready to go. Every couple of months I’d dump the always-packed suitcase and reorganize, but basically just worried about clothes. I also took my own bed linens. My shoulders require a super soft mattress, so I had a twin sized egg crate foam I rolled up and toted with me, along with sheets, pillow, and a blanket. I slept on my stuff, rolled out on top of my host’s bed, so as not to disturb their clean linens and create more work for them when I left. I rolled it all up, loaded my car, and they had no extra work. I also took my own bath towels. I wasn’t about to create more work for folks. It was tiring, but necessary. Needless to say, when I got home, I had plenty of laundry to do.

I ate a lot of Chick-Fil-A salad, Publix sushi-to-go (I know. Don’t say it.), and always had a box full of protein bars with me. Often, my last client of the day, usually around 8pm, would bring me dinner. That was always lovely. Coffee and a bar out the door every morning, and I was at work, some days before daylight. I worked until well after dark, and often would just sit in the salon in the quiet after my last client, and wish I just had a bed there. Would’ve been perfect.

After a while of finding a new place to stay each week, I came upon a life-long friend who moves to the mountains for summer and agreed to let me house-sit for her. It truly was perfect. I could leave all of my things at her house, come and go each week, only have to worry about packing that week’s clothes, and keep a watch on her house for her. It was great for both of us. Also gave my other hosts a nice break from me. I checked her mail, hurricane-proofed the house a couple of times, made it look lived in, had a safe place to stay, run each morning, and have real food. It was a life saver.

During the non-summer months I rotated through my list again, and was heart-happy to spend time with people I love; it helped with the mounting stress. The last spring that I commuted, I stayed with a couple who has spent their entire marriage having random people live with them. I truly was honored to be one of those people, and grateful that when they went away for a month, they still let me stay in their home. It was an amazing location, with a perfect screened porch, where I spent many a night asleep on the chaise lounge. It was healing. Listening to the crickets and frogs all night, hearing the highway traffic in the distance ( a favorite sound of mine) and waking to the singing birds, “the sleeping porch,” as I called it, became my favorite part of the house.

For all of the stress my life heaped, the people who added me to their families, even if temporary, shoveled that stress off of me as best they could. I’m forever grateful to them. I really did love being on the highway, and loved the people who loved on me. Twenty-eight months is a long time to be a vagabond gypsy girl, but I didn’t hate it. There were parts of it that built me. Parts of it that sustained me. Parts of it that bolstered me. I miss being on the road. I miss building those relationships. I miss it all. And miss none of it.