Setting Out 2.0
In May 2021, confident that the Coronavirus pandemic was essentially over and America was reopening for good, I set out across the country in a car I’d bought the day before, and having packed all I thought I’d need plus all my son Isaac thought I’d need, minus all I ended up needing along the way. This year—am I wiser in my preparations? Time shall tell.
Life is different this time, that’s for sure. The virus has mutated and re-attacked, infecting non-vaxxers and vaxxed, with consequences dire and mild. Double-vaxxed and double-boosted, I’m fairly sure I’ll avoid infection, though I’ll mask in groups in can’t avoid, and stay in private rooms in Airbnbs, as before. Gas is gonna be a much more substantial part of my budget (I’ll report back on how much I spend), but I’ve found good deals on Airbnb. (And no, I’m not shilling for that company—though I can be bought). I’ve settled into my trusty Nissan Rogue, mostly proficient by now at the bells and whistles — though mysterious symbols still appear on my dash that don’t correspond to any in the official manual (what the heck, Nissan?).
Way more critical, my life is different this year. No sage advice from Isaac, who’s returned home to LA. My brother Eric, who lives in an apartment in my house, came up on Leaving Day to make sure I was out of bed to go to the bank to sign documents for my parents’ estate (the bureaucracy seems never to end), and generally to contribute his calm presence to the transition mania I was barely keeping in check. He helped also by gamely, and silently, carrying my regatta of cases, baskets, bags, stray boots, and more last-minute bags to the car AND packing them securely.
“Take good care of the plantation,” I said, pulling out.
“No, I’ll just stay here, thanks.”
Left behind are two humendous* fallen pine trees, one that fell in the winter of 2020, the other recently, and a huge branch of the acacia tree, whose brittle limbs regularly crash onto the roof and deck. Having heard tales of the thousands of dollars arborists charge to cut down, cut up and haul away trees, I’ve chosen to avert my eyes—and, on May 9, 2022, abandon ship for two months.
This time around, I’m much less determined to go solo. Perhaps because I’ve healed enough from my parents’ deaths, Covid isolation, relationship breakup, and whatever else troubled me that I don’t crave the solitude as much. Perhaps because I’ve already proven to myself that I could go solo — and love it — and now I’m ready for sidekicks? At any rate, I’ve invited my friend Sharon to take a short photo safari up the Maine coast with me as my first adventure. For whatever reason, I haven’t planned this trip nearly as … granularly? … as the first, and by the week before the trip, I’m regretting it. Knowing that my first stop is Boston to pick up Sharon eases my trip anxiety immensely: It’s a small buoy in the Sea of Too Many Choices.
No way, however, am I gonna drive all the way to Boston on my first day on the road. I scout around, consulting with Sharon, who consults with her sons Jack and Campbell, about a reasonable stopping point and the best route. Sharon suggests a route that avoids DC and New York City, which sounds wise. Jack, however, says just follow GPS, which’ll take me across the George Washington Bridge, but will merely sideswipe the city before continuing north. They agree that somewhere in the southern New Jersey / Delaware Bridge area is a good midpoint. For how that turned out, see DELAWARE.
* A neologism coined by Isaac, age 3. Walking into a brand-new, suburb-sized grocery store in Brooklyn, he exclaimed, “Mommy! This store is humendous!”
