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(AUSTIN, Texas) — I am looking at my last post and smiling at how quickly things change. It’s amazing how, when you’re full, you can’t imagine hunger, and when you’re hungry, you can’t imagine satisfaction. Right now, I know what side I’m on.
I won’t get into it much, except to say that my financial situation has become very tense, very fast. Suddenly, I have two months of living to my name — and that’s it. The trip isn’t over, but it’s about to change drastically. I have to settle down in Austin for a time and make some money before I move on. Maybe it will be a month; maybe it will be three. I feel out of my skin, out of my element. For so long, I have made most of my money as a writer and photographer. The idea of doing anything else scares me. The idea of holding out and waiting for a job that allows me to do just that sounds impractical. Suddenly, my needs are so basic. I just need to support myself. Forget the worries about my self-esteem and my figure and all those people I need to write back. I simply need to make a living. I had calculated that it wouldn’t be like this. I had calculated that I had at least a month or so before I really had to worry about this stuff. I had a dream that I would land a gig with the US Census and that my lack of funds would segue sweetly into a new source of income. Please excuse my youthful folly.
So many thoughts are going through my head right now, and most of them aren’t clear. I know I have to protect myself and guide myself gently into this new phase while hitting the ground running. Must find RV park. Must find job. Must continue to write. In the midst of all my swirling crazies, those are the only steps that matter. I have already called some of my closest friends and divulged my fears to them. Enough of that. Months ago, I wrote that I would keep doing this trip, whatever it takes. Now, it’s time to step up to the plate and do it. Cowboy up, as they say.
Damn, I almost want to apologize for the drastic, dark tone of this piece. Things aren’t terrible, just exceedingly real. Part of me wants to go to movie and forget all of this. Part of me wants to get up at 6 a.m. tomorrow and try to solve my life. I’m guessing what I should and will do is somewhere in the middle.
(NEW ORLEANS, La.) I’m lightly sick right now, and the barista at this mind-bendingly cool coffee shop is kind of rude. But I don’t care. I have had a great night.
A few hours ago, I went on-air at Loyola University’s Crescent City Radio with a triad of freshman and sophomore boys, and we talked about everything from the Saints’ victory (I mean, of course) to strange, depressing news items from South America. James, the host of the Lambert Nation proved to be a nice guy and ended up inviting me on his show with only a few hours notice. After the show, he bought me dinner at the campus’ opulent cafeteria, and that move warmed my heart. How classy. Thanks, James, for the conversation and the food — and the late confirmation that my own college cafeteria grub actually was pretty mediocre.
On the drive back to the trailer, I got lost and found my way here, to Z’otz, an offbeat coffeehouse that looks kind of like a cave decorated by hipster artists. How can I explain this? It has multiple, interlocking rooms that are misshapen and filled with young people on their laptops. The room I’m in, which faces the street, is covered in plaster painted to resemble stone, and there are huge photos of Barbies in compromising positions on the wall. What’s really strange is that I was here yesterday and wanted to return but couldn’t remember the name of it or the street it was on. Yet, while driving around completely lost, I found it by accident. I love it when magic works like that.
Well, I was thinking that I would write a long, involved post tonight about those three weeks I recently spent in Savannah, but I won’t. Not just yet. My sore throat and foggy head are enticing me to find my way back home, watch an episode of 30 Rock and go to bed. And besides, maybe I’m still not ready for the responsibility of writing about Savannah. In no small way, that city felt like home, and I have always found it hard to write about the places I call home. My words always seem to pale in comparison to the complexity of the towns I love. Sure, I have written tons about Silver City and Moab and Arcata, but I always feel that they deserve more.
Anyway, thank you for reading. Nothing earth-shattering happened tonight, but I have this light, optimistic sense of elation in me and wanted to share it. When I feel in my skin, it’s always a surprising gift. These last few days, New Orleans has given that to me, and I’m in awe.
(NEW ORLEANS, La.) — Two days ago, outside a Krystal burger joint at 1:30 a.m., I had an epiphany. I was enjoying the best part of my early morning so far — a chocolate milkshake with whipped topping the consistency of shaving cream — when I was struck with something that at first made me grimace and then, much later, made me smile.
I am afraid of writing.
Maybe this is shocking or maybe it’s obvious to you. I’m not sure which it is for me, but I know I had never put my feelings about writing into such succinct terms before that moment. Now, as I actually put this down into writing, I realize how true it is. Do you ever wonder why I only do about one blog post a week? Or why it takes me so damn long to write you back when you write me a letter or e-mail? (Sorry to Grandma Vi and others who have written me recently, by the way). It’s because I take writing so seriously that it scares me silly. It’s not just that I revere the craft but it’s also my best way of expressing myself. I feel that whatever I write is who I am, and so I’m often afraid to make any move for fear of sounding like an idiot. I weigh myself down with responsibility, and it’s my own fault. I want perfection, and the knowledge that I can’t ever have it paralyzes me. I put writing off so much that many times only the fear of total self loathing makes me get my words down on a page or screen (or napkin or bar coaster or whatever is closest).
But it does always come out, somewhere, somehow, sometime. No matter what, I can’t and won’t give up writing. It’s not just fear of it that keeps me going — it’s love. It was that little, secondary realization that made me smile Friday night as I walked past the throngs of young, drunk white kids and girlie bars on Bourbon Street. I blissfully sipped my milkshake and thought about writing my next post and tried to forgive myself for not being as prolific as so many of my fellow writers and travelers in the blogging world. Somewhere along Canal Street, a bit out of all the tipsy hoopla, I made a promise to me. Or perhaps it was just a reminder of who I am.
“I give myself permission to write,” I told myself silently, echoing something I had scrawled on a cheap map of New Orleans earlier that night when I had gotten the writing itch.
I guess that’s where I leave this post. I give myself permission to write. I promise to write more posts, to keep writing about this trip as long as I can keep it going. Writing, I know, is a big reason why I’m out here in the first place. And I want to thank each person who reads. It means the world to me.
And yes, Grandma and everyone else who has written me recently, I promise to write you back, too, even though, strangely enough, doing so always scares me half to death. Yet I love your mail. Whatever. That’s just my crazy deal. Onward to the next post.
(APALACHICOLA, Fla.) — I’m sitting on a large porch, near a wide street, in a small, rainy Florida town. I am leaving today, but I seriously considered moving here. When I arrived a few days ago, it felt like the town opened up its arms to me, and almost immediately I met tons of cool small-town people. I could get a job here, I thought, I could make this work for a while. But I can’t. Maybe I’m not ready to really settle down quite yet or maybe the idea of not working for a newspaper again is just too sad.
Or perhaps my old homes of Silver City, N.M. and Moab, Utah still have their hooks in me so deep that moving briefly to any other tiny town would feel like cheating.
Anyway, as I get ready to depart, to drive off to Panama City, I leave you with some images from my last Florida stop, St. Augustine. This city, the oldest continuously inhabited in America, wasn’t what I had expected. It was far funkier, more down-to-earth and weirder than I had imagined. Before I arrived, I was worried that I would feel swallowed up by a corporate beach community mentality, but instead I felt comfortable there. This was thanks to my couch surfing hosts, April and Conrad, but also to a delicate friendliness in the air. I can’t exactly explain it, but perhaps I can illustrate. One afternoon while running downtown, I realized I was seriously dehydrated. Nothing felt right in my body, so I quit my run and immediately felt like a slacker. My guilt led me to knock on the door of some elaborately decorated mansion, one that now serves as a $10/a pop tourist attraction. I asked the older, well-put-together woman selling tickets if she knew of any nearby drinking fountains. She said no — and handed me a bottle of cold water. Then I finished the remaining 25 minutes of my run.
I think there must be a law written in stone somewhere that you will always have a soft spot in your heart for towns where you have those kind of moments.
 St. Augustine to me: the fort , a palm tree, the highway. Castilo de San Marcos is very old, I mean 17th century old. 
 A hard day's work at the fort. Outside Castilo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Fla.  Happy Festivus. Outside Potter's Wax Museum in St. Augustine, Fla.  Outside the Pirate Haus Inn, which my gracious hosts own.  And inside the Pirate Haus Inn.  Old town St. Augustine, Fla. 
 This old lady was spunky and British, and she was delighting the young military guy who stood guard outside his base. Coast guard? Marines? I have no idea what service he was in. I only know he enjoyed laughing with her.  In case you were wondering — yes, it still is really cold in the South. Old town St. Augustine.  Smoking section. Old town St. Augustine.
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