TimWoolery.net Documenting the Journey and the Learning Curve

Roadtrip, April 2004 – Florida

This is how it ends ? the Wolfgang Puck in LAX. I?m eating a salad because according to the new diet book I am reading, it is what is right for me. Strange things happen to me when I travel. The noise of everyday living is gone and only the thoughts remain. God, are there a lot.

The journey began only a few days ago but it feels like a month. The flight to Denver rattles us like dice in a cup and reinforces my fear of flying. Then the ride to Orlando is a magic carpet ride. A magic carpet full of lesbians. I guess being in the Bay has sharpened my gaydar because it?s going off in all directions. I put some of it down to fatigue and drink a scotch.

On arrival, I?m jolted at Steve. He?s lost so many pounds that at first I don?t recognize him. He looks like he did years ago, a kid. It?s one o?clock when I get to sleep getting the grand tour and settling in.

The next two days are a whirlwind ? I go more places, see more people and do more things than I have on a weekend trip in more than a year. It was relentless but cleaning, participating in a marathon that you?re grateful just to finish. It catapaults you out of your routine and lets you see the grass on the other side of the fence.

The thoughts crowd back in after a while. Being on the coast and seeing these kids, these carved Adonnis? and Athenas. That look is everywhere and it gives you that pain. To combat the pain, you make all kinds of noise about ?Oh?must be nice?wish I had time to work out like that?blahblahblah? when inside you?re screaming ?Why don?t I look like that after all these years of going to the gym?? These kids were beyond good-looking, they were perfect. The kind of bodies you see on the cover of fitness magazines and they were in every direction you looked. I?m not going to lie, I was so green with envy that I glowed. You get that old fire, that resolve to do something as a result. That it can be done, that it must be done, that it will be done.

Flying into LAX, some of the harsh realities of air travel manifest themselves. While my flight from Orlando to LA gets in a half-hour early, the one leaving for San Jose is three hours late. So, my choices are wait or get another plane. And then I drop my boarding pass somewhere. Grinning like an idiot in the ?aw-shucks? mode, I get my gate attendant to put me on an earlier flight to San Francisco and ask her to make sure my bags get re-routed. All of this without my boarding pass or my claim stub. A new round of phone calls ensue and all of this on my credit card because I forgot my phone at work.

So, in the midst of all this craziness, when you need to be firing on all cylinders, that creeping feeling of unease sets in. That feeling of you?re losing it ? you?re losing it ? you?re losing it starts to beat in an incessant rhythm and you have to ignore it to do what needs to be done to get you home. I manage. I get my stuff straightened out and mentally prepare myself for the possibility that my luggage probably isn?t getting on my plane (It doesn?t). Is it wrong to feel so nuts? I attach so much identity to little things like being able to hang onto my boarding pass and not freaking out at the gate attendant. I tear up my bag searching for it and feel the eyes of the people standing in line on me because I know that?s what I?d be doing if I were in their shoes. Again, I manage and let the little stuff slide.

The spy bar was cool. By the way, it isn?t called the spy bar ? there?s nothing on the front outside to indicate that there?s a club in the back. There?s a guy waiting next to what appears to be two bathroom doors. He ID?s you, gives you a wristband and you walk into the ?mens? room. Behind this is an open-air bar who, instead of a mirror, has an entire wall of old circuit boards epoxied together. The place is a monument to weirdness and I feel right at home. Close-circuit cameras everywhere, rooms behind bookcases, open a door and find a telephone-it rings and a voice gives you instructions. Follow the instructions to get the bar?s secret drink special.

I look up, a man and his son are waiting to board the flight to SFO. His son is asking questions like a four-year-old does. They are from New Zealand but are watching a friend leave for Seattle. The son carries a knapsack with a Paddington bear sewn inside. It?s nice to know that the classics are still held dear ? makes you hope that maybe one day Harry Potter will disappear into the dustbin but it?s too much to hope for. Ever notice how all stories start out simple and then take on a life of their own? Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island after making a make-believe treasure map with his niece to pass a rainy afternoon. Now that?s everyones yardstick for the era.

Steve has a cat of his own now. It?s really Sandras but now there is a pet back in his life. A long-haired orange tabby the size of a Maine coon, DJ is aloof but warms up quickly. He likes to be petted but not held. He also likes to rough house. Steve is also developing his own identity and friends here ? it?s something I figured he?d do. Goes a long way to quiet those ?He should come home? voices. He is home, he is happy, let him be. I bring him presents and he sends me home with a few of his own. Pictures from the wedding, some shells from our day at the beach and more music for my collection.

I?m glad I?m home but I?m glad I went. The road trips are my chance to get out from under for a while. To refocus and renew. I always go out and come back different.