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(JERSEY CITY, N.J.) — Since I left, I have been re-reading John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charlie like a bible. I have been taking in the pages slowly, five or so at a time, while treating them like mini lessons on travel, writing and life. According to him, while you’re on a trip, you don’t really understand a place until you leave it. That’s when the perspective comes. I completely agree. I’m near New York City, surrounded by the intense yet friendly busyness of America’s biggest town, and what do I really think I understand? Not this.
Maybe my time in Pennsylvania.
It was there where I recently turned into a smiling, crying dork, as I watched my friend, Rebecca, get married at an old farm. I loved it. Probably because of the informality and individualist spirit of my family, I have an inherent lack of understanding about big gatherings, especially weddings with their DJs and catered food and billowing event tents. But as I sat in the audience of this union — as Pachelbel’s Canon played and people snapped pictures — I was overjoyed. I was drunk off of everyone else’s elation.
 Happy bride, happy parents. I was also simply amazed to have made it.
The thing about traveling that is both heartening and frustrating as hell is that wherever you go, there you are. All those parts that you don’t like about yourself (along with those you do) come with you everywhere. One thing I hate about me is that I am late a lot. This is not all the time but enough that people take notice. I am the kind of person who will go out my way to attend your play/christening/bat mitzvah/bridal shower. I will make that happen. But I am also the kind of person who might just be late to it. Don’t ask me to explain. I can’t.
I left for this wedding on the day of from Salem, Mass. It was 9 a.m., and the ceremony was at 3 p.m., and I knew the drive was supposed to be about six hours. Even in an unencumbered truck, it would have been a tight fit. With the trailer, it was going to be near impossible. I had woken up late and gotten lost and whatever, and for a few hours I drove and kicked myself at my lack of planning. I started to wallow. It wasn’t until I stopped for gas, a hundred or so miles down the road, that something shifted. A tiny bit of resolve started to grow, and I made a decision. I am going to make it this thing, I told myself. I will. I will. I bought two Red Bulls and a few candy bars at the convenience store, and that was it. I was dedicated.
Legally, I can’t drive more than 55 miles an hour while pulling my trailer. Like most trailer folks I’ve seen, I usually end up doing around 60. But as I made my way south, I caught myself driving 70 at times. New England passed me in a blur. Mostly, what I saw were trees and traffic, but I could sense a shift in the geography happening. It was getting less quaint and more hardscrabble, and I felt less and less surrounded by Sunday drivers. Things seemed to be getting more and more real, and I felt both excited and kind of disenchanted with that. I listened to the radio; I ate my junk food, but never did my attention leave my destination. Rebecca and I haven’t even been in touch all that much since we graduated, but that didn’t matter. She had been a good friend to me freshman year, and though I had never fully understood her, I wanted to. I wanted to be there, show my support. I kept on calling our mutual friend, Erik, and telling him my location. He continually told I was going to miss it. I kept telling spouting out optimism.
When I reached Pennsylvania, I had about 30 miles and 30 minutes to spare. I was actually shocked that things had gone so well. My mantra of “I’m going to make it” kept going through my head. Even the maze of my commercial, suburban surroundings weren’t enough to scare me off my goal. I’m going to make it.
For a short time, I morphed into Steve Carell’s gay uncle character in Little Miss Sunshine (you know, at the end, when he’s running like his life depends on it to reach the pageant? Is that too obscure?). As I neared the driveway for the wedding’s farmhouse locale, I saw a parking lot for some shipping business that I prayed wasn’t open and pulled into it. It was 3:05. I ran into the trailer and striped down, pulling a dress over me and literally running out the door. The breeze was cool, and the sun was nice, and I felt elated, even though I was almost sure I was missing it. At least I had arrived.
Thank God the bride had just arrived as well. By the time I got to the wedding site, an outdoor scene, surrounded by grass, trees and a barn, I actually had a few minutes to spare. Usually, I would feel pretty out of place in a crowd of dressed up people I didn’t know, but I had too much adrenaline for that. I was downright giddy, and when the bridal party started to walk down the aisle, my excitement only increased.
My incites about those moments are pretty basic. I just took in the scene. Rebecca, in her flowing, white gown looked happy and Erik, her best man and one of my best friends, looked handsome. Michael, the groom, looked proud. They were all beaming. The audience was beaming. I was beaming. Being there wasn’t an obligation; it was a gift. Toward the end of it, as the couple read their vows, I tried not to tear up.
When Michael said something to the effect of “Finally, this lonely Homer has found his Marge,” I was a happy, crying fool.
After the ceremony, and after I had congratulated the bride and groom and started to sip a glass of wine to take the edge off my high, I realized this was the first time I had ever seen a friend get married. So, I guess it made sense that I didn’t know what to do with myself throughout the night. I don’t know the wedding drill. I ate, danced a little bit, chatted up some of Rebecca’s older friends and family. But never did I get drunk or make-out with anyone (though that spiky-haired, short groomsman did waft through my mind more than once). I never let myself become happily lost in the effervescence of the after party. For me, the real beauty of the whole event was the wedding itself. To watch two people make a decision about which they both looked so sure was invigorating. It gave me gallons of hope.
 I wanted to be swept away in the reception, too, but never quite got there. Reading this, you might think that I want my own nuptials to be right around the corner. But that’s not the case. As I saw Rebecca’s life change before me, I did think about my future guy, whoever he might be, and wondered how we might meet each other. I thought about what kind of casual wedding we might have, held on someone’s lawn, with a potluck instead of catering. And I thought about the type of place we might live, hopefully in the Southwest, somewhere with space, chickens and few neighbors. I want that, so badly. The idea of me going without that sounds like no fun.
I don’t want it now, though. That’s a big part of what I was thinking as the wedding party swirled around me. I want this, I could almost hear myself saying, I want this. But not yet.
Someday.
 The best man, Erik, sharing a dance with the bride.
(Somewhere in Pennsylvania, headed to New York City) — Of all the surprises I have come across on the East Coast, this one might be the most shocking. My $18, two hour bus ride comes with an internet connection. What? I’m happily shocked, caught between wanting to update my blog and staring out the window at the static scene of grass and changing leaves. I have so much to say since I last wrote. I have so many stories. I have been to a wedding, seen Martha’s Vineyard, met a very sweet vegan guy who had a knack for parking trailers, and on and on and on. I promise, soon, I’ll fill you in on this. But for now, as the view out the window demands my attention (and I become lightly nauseous), let met just write this quick observation, something that’s been marinating for a while in me. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I like to believe it’s true.
Since I left, I have met up with many people I knew in my previous homes. I’ve shared meals with former New Mexicans, Californians and Coloradans. I’ve seen a college friend get married. I’ve even caught up with a cousin, now in her 20s, who I hadn’t seen since she was a pre-teen. While, just a few years ago, I knew no one on the East Coast, now it’s bursting at the seams with old friends. What I’d like to believe is that as I visit them in their new habitats, I’m seeing them more clearly than I ever did. Without the distraction of our shared environment, I have this new perspective of my friends, and I’ve been thanking my lucky stars because of it. If it weren’t for this trip, there is so much I wouldn’t know about these people. What a gift.
To Tory, Barbara, Mark, Rebecca, Jerrie, Erik, Eric, Lynn, Erin, Cindy and Cassie — thank you. The East Coast has intimidated me for years, but you guys have made it warm and homey. I might be fiercely of the West, but, slowly, I’m starting to understand this world out here. And I feel I definitely understand all of you so much better.
OK, onto New York City. I’m both nervous and excited which, I’m guessing, is exactly as it should be.
(Providence, R.I.) — Please forget everything I wrote about finding the beauty in being sick. I take it back with all the strength I have (which is about as much as might belong to a shy kitten). I’m sitting in a Tim Horton’s in Providence, Rhode Island, and there is so much going on around me. I can feel it — all the art students, the hipsters, the businessmen coming together to make a vital culture full of movies and plays and art exhibits. It’s just outside where I’m sitting. And yet, all I really want right now is to crawl into a fetal position and watch “Mad Men.” Providence, I apologize. It’s not you; it’s me. I promise. I’ll try to do better tomorrow.
Until I can make another semi-coherent blog post, here’s audio from my last radio spot, which I did with a friendly, young Brown co-ed named Jordan. It’s about an hour long and includes a little talking and a lot of music. My next spot, by the way, will be on Martha’s Vineyard’s community station, WVVY, from 7-9 a.m. New York time Friday, Oct. 16.
http://bsrlive.com/archives/playlist.php?p=11624&PHPSESSID=100c62ee4e36a79e740d76d66cbfae49
(WHITEHALL, Penn.) — I came down sick this morning, and it sucks, but on some strange level, I’m at peace with it. It’s a low-grade thing in my chest, nose and head, just enough to slow me down and remind me of my basic needs. I do feel fuzzy, but a few things are clearer in this state. For some reason, I am reminded of how desperately I want to be able to support myself as a writer and how dearly I really do want to continue on this trip for a year. All I want is to write things that matter, make a little money, and keep my trailer clean. Right now, I know this. Through my sick haze, everything else seems like gravy.
I’m drinking my hot tea and feeling woozy at Panera Bread Co. in an industrial part of some small Pennsylvania town, and memories of the wedding I just attended are drifting through my mind. I really do want to tell you about the surprising comfort I felt meeting all those people and seeing an old college friend take a leap that made her look so happy. But I feel that’s for the next post. I have to finish up with Maine first. It’s too rich of a state not to give it more due.
As I wrote recently, I spent most of my Maine time in Portland, a coastal city which I had once visited but about which I remembered nothing. I liked its cozy yet lightly urban feel as well as being so close to the Atlantic, but I knew I was looking for something else. It took about a week of hanging out with (and working for) my friend’s parents before I became antsy. Of all my desires, my only one that is truly insatiable is the need to hop into my car and explore the world alone.
During my last few days in Maine, that’s exactly what I did. Though I missed the trailer, it was freeing to leave it behind and just go.
 One of the very many, very old cemeteries along Maine's coast. Route 1 is a deceptive. Though it’s tiny and bending, meandering through Maine, it’s so much busier than you would expect. Whenever I pulled off to take a picture of a falling down house or something, cars whizzed past me with an intensity that was continually jarring. For the first few hours out of Portland, the road teased me, allowing only passing glances of the ocean as it dropped me into one quaint tourist town after another. God, I wished that I had time to explore these places. I knew I wasn’t getting their best side. I have to believe there’s more to Freeport and Belfast and Camden than traffic and strolling leaf peepers (my favorite new piece of slang, meaning those who travel to New England for the fall colors). But that is all you see as you drive through. I don’t mean to degrade it, as I have the greatest respect for Maine, its remoteness and its individualist spirit. I only wish I could have taken the time to look beyond the state’s most popular main drags.
But not this trip. I was being drawn north, as I often am, and this time it was because of John Steinbeck. I knew I should see Acadia National Park, but what I was really curious about was Deer Isle, a small island connected to Maine via one little road. In his book, Travels with Charlie, Steinbeck described Deer Isle as something so strange and intriguing that he wouldn’t be surprised if it disappeared at night in the fog. He painted a picture of an area vividly different than anywhere in the US. It was as though he knew exactly how to sell me. His words were enough to make me drive for miles off the main road and onto a miniature highway in the dark. The only reason why I knew I getting even slightly close to my destination was the sporadic signs telling me that the island’s main town was still ahead. Stonington 18, Stonington 12, Stonington 5. As I read these, Maine’s geography continued to taunt me. I couldn’t see much, but I knew trees were thick around the road, and I could feel my elevation dropping as I neared the coast. By the time I crossed the long causeway onto the main island and the moon sparkled across the water, I was sufficiently revved up. Bring on the weirdness, I was thinking. I was ready to be completely surprised. When I crawled under my truck’s camper shell to go to sleep, I wasn’t at all worried that I was parked on a main street (in front of the post office, even). The sleeping village felt safe and full of promise.
 Deer Isle's rocky coast. It’s funny how quickly you can adjust to being disappointed. When I woke up in Stonington, I found it was just another town, albeit an interesting one. Being a fishing community, it wakes up early, and even at 7 a.m., I felt like a slacker. The town is cute, encircled by a calm, clear ocean and little boats tethered close to the shore. I spent some time walking up and down the quiet streets, and while I didn’t feel nearly as transformed as I was hoping I would, I appreciated the place. Without fail, each person I passed looked healthy and awake, and they all wished me good morning. I wanted to photograph and interview them all. This was the first village in Maine I had encountered that didn’t look completely beholden to its seasons and visitors, and I gave it kudos for that in my head.
 The cheapest rent on Deer Isle Then I left.
After Deer Isle, something shifted in me, and I was able to enjoy Maine fully, without the mess of too much expectation. Acadia’s beaches are no more interesting than what I’ve seen in Northern California, but its Cadillac Mountain caught me off-guard with its beauty. From its rocky top, I could see for miles in all directions. Being confronted by that much open space was a release. The colors were vibrant — blue ocean and sky, white clouds, green and yellow grass. People were everywhere, but it didn’t matter. The vastness made me happy, and I sensed a connection to the nature near me in a surprisingly personal way. For a moment, this was my ocean, my sky, my grassy fields. It was perfect how, at the peak of this headiness, a Korean couple from Denver offered to take my picture against the rugged backdrop. From our conversation I could hear that they, too, were feeling something strong being in that place. We were in one of the country’s most visited national parks and yet, it felt fresh and intimate.
 Looking down on Bar Harbor, Acadia National Park. That juxtaposition left me surprised and energized the rest of my day-and-a-half in the area. I poked around Bar Harbor, and even though it was touristy to the max, I didn’t even mind. A certain, famous cruise ship was docked nearby for the first time, and because of this, the town was celebrating. There was free cake being handed out and performances being given by Native American drummers and an improv troupe and more. I marinated in the excitement. I hadn’t expected to like Bar Harbor, not with its unending supply of T shirt and ice creams shops, but I could feel myself growing fond of it. There was a basic friendly and intentional quality to it. By the time I arrived at the local movie theater to see a free showing of a Ken Burns documentary about the national parks, I was sold on the idea of coastal Maine. My fantasies about moving there were gone — I couldn’t even tell you when they left — but they were replaced by something perhaps more interesting and definitely more complex. I felt a deep respect my surroundings, even though I knew I probably couldn’t live in them. Though I wouldn’t have expected it, that let down freed me up.
 Acadia National Park. What geography will I fantasize about now? I can’t know for sure, but I feel desire for the desert creeping in. I’ve only been away from its dry openness for three months, but its scrappy draw is already trying to reel me back in. I’m curious how I’ll feel for the next few months, as I let that hunger steep.
(Boston, Mass.) —Today was filled with such luscious luck that I’m smiling and biting my lip, despite the fact I’m tired, a bit sick and surrounded by hundreds of strangers wearing Celtics hats and jerseys. As I’m on a commuter train between Boston and Salem, I only have a few minutes of internet to convey all that I’m feeling, and so I know my words are going to pale in comparison to my emotions. But isn’t that always the frustration?
I was only able to spend one day in Boston, but it felt full of importance somehow. I still can’t get over how completely a place warms once you know someone it in. Here, it was Jerrie, my sweet, Russian friend from Colorado. She took me through an old cemetery, the Italian section of town and the Holocaust memorial. While this might sound disjointed, it wasn’t. I felt immersed in Boston and its specific brand of loud, blunt yet friendly people. I liked the fact that so many Bostonians had a Sox hat, thick accent and complete disregard for jaywalking laws. I love being somewhere where everyone is on the same page, even if I’m not reading along with them. It somehow feels secure. Just as in Toronto, Portland (Maine) and Québec City, I would have been content to simply watch all these people pass me on the street for hours. The sightseeing was just a bonus.
This is the beauty of cities to me. All day, I didn’t lapse into being in my head. I was simply wide-eyed, watching all that was around me. Jerrie and I did a lot of talking as well, but never did it feel overly cerebral. I felt incredibly present, and that made me happy.
Well, we’re pulling into the station sooner than I can spell check this thing. I have so much more I want to convey but, ah, that’s nothing new. I’ll write more (including my conclusion to my Maine story) quite soon, and I’ll continue with this train of thought, too. Until then, thank you Eric, Lynn and Jerrie. Thank you for your kindness. To everyone else, I’ll explain more in the near future.
Onward to Pennsylvania. Oh, I’ll explain more about that later, too.
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