In many ways, I’m glad to be here. I like having a slight understanding of a city and the time to actually make some friends, see some movies and bake things. There are opulent movie theater brewpubs here, for God’s sake. I mean, that’s amazing. In Austin, the food is great, the cost of living is reasonable, and the video store I frequent is far hipper than I could have ever hoped for. But still, every time I see a large map of the US (as I did recently at the visitor’s center in nearby Wimberley), I get downright hungry and antsy, and I yearn to travel. When I look at the colored blocks of Utah and New Mexico and imagine those wide-open spaces, I have to fight to stay present in my Texas world. I don’t want my traveling to become a neurosis, something I can’t control, but God, it only takes one whiff of drama in this town to make me want to hit the road. I have my job, and I have my younger brother staying indefinitely with me (he’s recently out of college and is looking for something as I am — but this is another story). Both these experiences are absolutely amazing and rare and feel like huge opportunities. They also, at times, make me want to hitch up my trailer and drive west. Alone.

So, in lieu of having some great bit of philosophy for you or a beautiful game plan to share, I’m going to focus this posting on something beyond what’s going on with me right now. This happened a few months in the past, but for whatever reason I couldn’t bring myself to write about it until now. It’s the story of my grandmother’s funeral.

It’s really not a sad tale, I promise. It’s more about discovery than anything else.

I didn’t know her that well, but I have this sense that she affected me more than I understand and will continue to do so. Her name was Vi Klasseen, and she was 88, and she was a world traveler who had lived in Redding, Calif. for decades. Everyone expected her to live much longer, for her death to be a drawn-out and gradual process, as it had been with her mother, who died at nearly 100. But she surprised us.  She fell and broke her hip and sometime during her convalescence, she just went. She had already requested not to be put onto one of those breathing machines, and so she wasn’t, and she died before my grandfather or any of her five kids could see her one last time. This happened a few months ago, and I didn’t write a bit of it down then but instead seared certain moments into memory as best I could. I can’t decide whether this story is complex or simple. While I was visiting California, I kind of felt like I understood things a bit, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Or maybe I was in that comfortable place I often am where I know just enough to know that there is so much I won’t ever understand.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

Here is some of what I do know. My grandmother was an impressive lady. From what I’ve heard, she was at least six feet tall in her heyday and had feet that were size 12 or more. She had degrees from UCLA and Northwestern. When she was my age, she bicycled around post-war Europe and fell in love with France, to which she would return many times. Not long after Europe, she met my grandfather at an intentional farm begun in part by conscientious objectors to World War II (Grandpa Ted had a been a soldier during the war, but I think the two of them became pacifists). They were engaged in a matter of weeks. When Grandma died, they had been married 62 years. Before Grandma’s death, I honestly did not know that much about her, just a bit more than was obvious. She traveled; she had taught kindergarten; she was active in the Methodist Church. She lived in a dirt house that she and Grandpa had built themselves. She was generally an out-there person, and yet we never got too close. That’s the beginning of the part of her I don’t understand. There was always some barrier between us, and it makes me sad. She used to send me money along with letters that were sprawling and personal but never really warm. I should have written back more than I did. In my guilt, I had actually knitted her a hat recently. I had been meaning to send it but hadn’t yet. As soon as I heard she had died, that’s the first thing I thought about. That did and does make me sick to my heart. As my mom told me about Grandma Vi over the phone, the only words running through my head were “I’m such an asshole.”

I think that’s one of the big reasons I went to the funeral, to make up for something I wish I could have given her when she was alive. I didn’t have the money or time, and I was the only one in the family traveling from outside the state. I had already seen all these folks at my grandparents’ wedding anniversary a few months before, and both my parents were telling me that I didn’t have to come back again. But my uncle spotted me the plane ticket, and my work granted me the days, and I did feel that strong sense of duty or guilt or whatever you want to call it. So about a week after Grandma Vi passed, I boarded a plane to San Francisco.

It was a tiny catharsis toward the middle of the flight that let me know I was doing exactly what I should be. A few hundred miles out of Austin, I woke up and looked out my window onto a brown, barren, snow-dusted world. It was covered with ripples of mountains and canyons and completely free of houses or roads. It didn’t look familiar at all, but it seemed friendly to me, and I instantly felt protective over it. I had feeling it was Utah, and so I asked the flight attendant, and she confirmed this. I don’t know how long I sat there looking at my old home, my smiling and sleepy face pressed up against the glass. It was one of those pauses in time when everything felt connected.

An hour later, I was walking out of the terminal at SFO when I heard a woman calling my name. I looked to my right and saw Jen Sadoff, a friend of mine from Moab. She had just arrived in California to pick up her father who was moving back to Utah with her. I was dumbstruck. I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year, and she looked exactly the same — a bright, friendly burst of Utah sticking out against my old life of California. We talked a bit and made tentative plans to get together while we were both in town. This never materialized, but that’s fine. Seeing her was enough to make the beginning of this trip feel like magic.

Not long after, I was in the back of my family’s old Toyota camper, and we were driving north. My mom was at the wheel, and my father and I were sitting at the dinette set and drinking beer as we watched videos of Centennial, a 1970s mini-series based on an old James A. Michener book. These movies were an integral part of my growing up, and something about seeing Lynn Redgrave and Timothy Dalton in their prime always makes me optimistic. Anyway, the five-hour drive was goofy and near perfect — except for the absence of my brother, who was still motorcycling around Mexico by himself then. At the funeral the next day, no one would seem miffed about this, however. In fact, the general consensus would be that he was respecting Vi’s memory by being on the road. People would leave it at that.

••••••••••

Everything felt new and strange in Redding. The grandparents’ dirt house and their intricate maze of gardens perched on their hillside were quiet or lacking in vibrancy or something. Without my grandmother as the rudder, the family seemed scattered. For years, Grandma Vi hadn’t been very physically active and had been losing her hearing. She was not, to say the least, the spryest person, but she was someone around which we all revolved. Now, there was no one filling that role. I hung out with Grandpa and aunts and uncles, and everything felt so final. When would so many people from this family get together again? I couldn’t imagine then, but I can now, and I don’t want to think about it.

In contrast to this solemnity, the funeral was amazing. Every pew was packed, and all kinds of people were there, from former teachers to former farmers to Redding police chiefs, past and present. In front of me was proof of how much this woman had affected this town, and I was crying before the minister even started. When he did, his presentation was fair and sweet, a mixture of adoring and real. He did a little prayer in French, and I strained to follow along. Led by my aunts, there was singing, a lot of it, as would have been my grandmother’s want. At one point, the women joked that they had originally wanted to make the entire funeral a series of hymns, and I believe it. Strong singing is something the Klasseens hold dear.

Then there were the remembrances. A microphone was passed around and my aunts talked, their words a mixture of grief, pride and humor. Aunt Joanna did a pitch-perfect impersonation of Grandma chiding Grandpa, and crowd’s laughter was seasoned with personal experience. Then some other people spoke, people I didn’t know. And then, instinctually, I knew it was my turn. I hadn’t really planned on it and didn’t know what to say, but I stood up and grabbed the mic and looked out over the very full church. Soon, a hand belonging to an elderly lady I barely knew was touching my arm tenderly. This was because I wasn’t talking. I was just standing there, silently sobbing, unable to utter anything.

This pause was somewhere between 30 seconds and a year, depending upon your perspective. Eventually, something changed, though I don’t know what, and I was able to talk again. My words came out in fits first and quickly became smoother. I didn’t touch heavily on how much I regretted or how desperately I wished my relationship with my grandmother had been deeper. Instead, as I collected myself, I told the group how incredibly supportive she had been to me, her first grandchild. As this was all rolling out, I realized how true it really was. She had always been there for me, in her way.

“I ended up working for newspapers in the middle of nowhere,” I told the crowd. “And instead of asking ‘Why are you doing that?’ — she would subscribe.”

That got a kind laugh. In my relief, I decided to only talk for another 30 seconds. In the wake of this, my father got on his feet and started crying as well. He praised the job my grandparents had done raising their kids and said through sobs that from the moment he met my mother, he knew he could trust her. I had no idea how all this was received by everyone at the time, but later, as the audience dined on finger foods together, I heard that people thought my father and I had brought a lot of heart to the ceremony. Strangers kept coming up to me and thanking me for my words. I felt like someone I hadn’t ever really felt like before, like my grandmother’s granddaughter. I have always felt a bit disconnected from my mother’s family, but there I was, one of them. And I was proud of it.

••••••••••

So now it’s a few months later, and I want that feeling back. I know that’s part of why I’m writing this. As I my trailer sits, settling into the soil of this friendly, out-the-way RV park, I worry that my sense of wonder and adventure is ebbing away, dissipating into all the traffic and people and cool neon signs of Austin. I can’t quite explain it, but something about being in California, in the presence of my family and my grandmother’s memory, was a reminder that it doesn’t have to be this way. Looking back, I feel this collective force giving me permission to take risks. It’s permission to be different, to not settle down, to make art. It’s permission get the hell out of Austin if I want. What’s surprising is how easily I forget these things sometimes.

OK, I’m  awake. Now all I need is a dream.

This is why I know he would have loved the Hampden section of Baltimore.

I was there a month ago, and I think it has taken me so long to post these pictures because I was afraid of screwing this up. My experience of Baltimore was so delicately strange and homey, so unlike any other city I have been to, that I didn’t want to short change it. As you might guess, that’s a good way to never get something written. But I suppose that’s normal. I mean, aren’t all the things that really matter the scariest do to?

OK, deep breath. Here it goes.

I liked Baltimore. I liked it a lot. It wasn’t my hometown, but I could feel its colorful funk tugging at my heart, asking me to take it in like an sweet, scraggly, stray puppy. I didn’t see much of downtown, and that was just fine by me, as the part that really spoke to me was Hampden, a neighborhood that was a pretty good mix of hipsters, artists, and rough, poor folks who have lived there forever. The homes were narrow, tall and interconnected — row houses, a term I had never used before I landed there. While I walked the traffic-free streets, there was no consistency around me, which I believe I mentioned in an earlier post. One house might have been decked out with cutesy lawn ornaments and a mailbox that looked like a duck, and the next house over might have been this side of abandoned, with a stroller in its front yard and a broken down car alongside that. Something about this lack of uniformity touched off a little spark in me, and I was continually elated whenever I explored this section of town. It reminded me of Moab and Silver City, actually, by how its creativity could border on junky. I couldn’t imagine any homeowner’s associations around there. It was as though people had their personalities on display without much editing. That made me smile.

For a week, my car and trailer were parked on a quiet stretch of street near an auto repair place in the same neighborhood. No one bothered them. No one seemed to care. Live and let live, just the way I like it.

It was in this personal kind of environment that I reconnected with Meredith and Avelino, old friends from New Mexico. I doubt I even would have stopped in Baltimore if it hadn’t been for them. I had this feeling as I was driving up to their home, another insanely tall and thin structure, that our hanging out for days on end would be just fine, even though we hadn’t seen each other in more than two years. And it was. They have this cute, coupley way of interacting that is so disarming and good-hearted that even when my mood took a lonely turn every once and a while, I didn’t begrudge them their adorableness. They are both artistic, smart and well-read, and they’re also the kind of people who love Christmas and get googly eyed over their cats. Being with them I felt taken care of in a very genuine, comforting way. What a nice respite before I moved on to the hectic world of D.C. and northern Virginia. God, I must think of a way to give back to them.

It seems weird that was just a month ago. Now, I’m by the North Carolina ocean, and I’m staying with a woman who owns a vintage clothing store downtown and who reminds me so much of Cary Bradshaw. I like it here, in all its damp, green glory, but I will admit to having little daydreams of Hampden. I like that about traveling, how you carry the places you really care about with you all the time. As much I love to discover all these new towns, it’s also such a comfort to be able to close my eyes and think back to the places I hold in my heart. To Baltimore and Silver City and Moab and so many other towns, I miss you. And think of you often. Same goes for you, Erik, Meredith and Avelino.

Here are a few shots from Baltimore and around.

Avelino and Meredith's kitties, Squishy and Nutmeg, in their domain.

My New Mexico friends, Meredith and Avelino, experiencing a very non-New Mexican annoyance/joy: leaves.

Photo by Avelino Maestas.

I don't know what these are, only that I probably shouldn't eat them.

Hampden. This is Baltimore to me.

If it looks like there's a story here, that's because there is. This fellow, the owner of a Hampden music store, was my conversation buddy for about an hour-and-a-half. He talked mostly, and I listened, and it was strange, but it was also kind of perfect. By the time I walked out of there, I had no idea what had just happened. I still don't. But at least I have photographic evidence. I wish him the best.

A Baltimore-centric joke. This city is the home of the Hons — fabled stereotypical women with beehive hairdos and cat eye glasses. This is the kind of woman who might be your waitress at a pie diner and call you "Hon." Or she might appear in a Gary Larson cartoon.

Time to get creative. Some part of me is excited by the challenge, by the feeling of having to stand on my own. Just like my dad’s motto has been informing me for the last 20-plus years: Whatever it takes.

On an unrelated note, here are some photos from one of the two days I spent in Washington, D.C. recently

Entering the belly of the subway in Bethesda, Maryland.

In the presence of greatness: Julia Child's kitchen at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C.

Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, Washington, D.C.

Rockets, man at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, Washington, D.C

Veterans at a Veterans Day Ceremony at the Viet Nam Memorial, Washington, D.C.

Maybe it’s just a reaction to being in an intimate place after visiting so many huge places recently. In the last few weeks, I’ve seen New York City, Baltimore and D.C. Now that I’m out of all that, I look back on it warmly, but I’m also happy to be away. I’m on my own again, far from all my extremely sweet and welcoming friends who have migrated to the East Coast in the last few years. Now I don’t know anyone for thousands of miles, and that feels good somehow. I already miss my friends, but it’s time to be alone. I’m craving solitude in a way I can hardly explain. I want to write and take pictures and plan my next few moves. I want to see how well I get on while being completely alone. Really, isn’t that what this trip is all about? I think so.

In honor of my last month or so, in the next week I’m going to post quite a few stories and photo essays of my recent travels, mostly to cities. Right now I’m going through a real turning point in my trip. I get to choose it all over again and decide if this life is really what I want. I think is. I almost know it is, but if that’s the case, I have to start making more money and soon. These next few months are going to be the test of whether I can do this or not. I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I just want to do good work and support myself and see more of America, but I know those aren’t the easiest of things.

Tonight, at the lovely RV park where I’m staying (Country Waye RV Resort — total gem), a guy from Québec looked at my trailer and said, “You have to be a poet to live like that.” To this, I replied, “I’m trying.”

Until I’ve got some words to give you, here’s a photo album of my Halloween, spent in New York City. It was a rainy night, so most of the pictures are from the subway. My favorite costumes were clever, homemade ones, and I loved watching people shine with pride when they were complimented on them. I saw one guy dressed as “balloon boy,” complete with the titular, silver balloon and a sock monkey. I gave him a thumbs-up as he boarded a train, and he mouthed an excited “thank you” at me as his car pulled away. That sort of innocent, bubbly energy is my favorite part of Halloween.

OK, I also get a kick out of men dressed in drag, too. Don’t ask me why…it just makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside and reminds me that anything is possible.

Cirocco, my friend's roommate and my guide into the crazy web of New York City's Halloween parade. Under this black jacket was a beautiful, vintage dress from the 1960s or '50s. But no, no, no, she was not someone from Mad Men. That she made clear.

I love it when you tell a complete stranger to "work it" for your camera — and then they do.

Save the children!

One of the many, many zombie parties going on Halloween week. I have to say, I love zombies, but I can't exactly tell you why.

Any costume that makes a girl cover her face completely in makeup is a costume I like. The dedication is awesome, I think. She is an Oscar, by the way.

I, on the other hand, was just dead.

This is the only pictures I took at the actual Halloween parade. Damn the rain.

I have no idea what her costume is, but I'm impressed.

Best group costume ever. A gaggle of gay Tiffany jewelry boxes. What you don't see here is that theyr'e all wearing togas.

Work it.

I loved watching his couple in the subway. They were cute and caring toward each other, exchanging knowing glances that I couldn't decipher throughout the whole ride. This was around 11 p.m. Halloween night.