Theatrics

Has it really been almost a week since I wrote? How neglectful of me.

I spent most of last week, Monday morning through Friday morning, with my brother and sister in Arlington, Va. Most of the week was me running errands to the post office (again ... and again), visiting with old friends, and passing the time with my brother and sister. But a few things did happen of note.

My brother had two tickets to see "Evita" at The Kennedy Center on Wednesday, Oct. 15, and he invited me to go with him. My sister got two more tickets in the same row for herself and her boyfriend, and the four of us enjoyed a jazz band before we took our seats.

For a family of devoted theater lovers, we don't always get to go very often, especially by ourselves. My parents generously buy tickets for us whenever we happen to all be together and if there is something nearby we all want to see, but for just us younger generation to go is pretty rare. My sister has tried to buy us tickets for things before, but somehow they don't always work out. My brother loves theater just as much as I do, and yet we'd never been to a show together, just the two of us, or even all three of us. Having that experience with them was a real treasure for me.

Then there's The Kennedy Center itself. Though I lived in Washington for nearly two years and have visited dozens of times over the years, I'd never been before. The outdoor fountain and view of Arlington is amazing, especially the night we were there, with clouds dappled all over an understated sky. And of course there is a bronze sculpture of the Center's namesake, along with photo and audio exhibits of the former president's life, assassination and commitment to the arts.

And last, but not least, there's the play itself, which ended up being somewhat controversial among my siblings and I. I'd never seen "Evita" as a play before, only the movie with Madonna in the lead role, made nearly 20 years ago. But I've always been interested in the cult Eva Peron managed to inspire in Argentinians, one that continues in many ways to this day. The balance of the performance was sometimes out of sync, which detracted from my siblings' enjoyment of it (and who can blame them, when you can't understand or hear what's being said) but I think my previous exposure helped avoid that disappointment in myself.

But that's not why it ended up being controversial. On Thursday night, my siblings and I sat up late discussing the play. They both felt that the denouement was disappointing, if it was even there at all. I can't help but agree with them on some level--the end of the play is a bit difficult to digest, with Eva's very sudden demise (which all but the most insightful and observant audience members would not have seen the foreshadowing of), seemingly without explanation (both my siblings walked out of the play asking what it was she'd actually died of), and with the mysterious pronouncement that her memorial was never completed and her body disappeared for 17 years. Both my siblings found that last statement would have made for a more interesting story than the play itself, and while I see their point, I can't quite agree.

Their other main criticism was that, though the play has a somewhat critical narrator in the character of "Che" (who himself caused some controversy among us, with a debate about whether it was meant to be Che Guevara or not--we all researched it and learned that Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice did not intend for the character to be Guevara, but that one of the producers of the play's first production drew the emphasis), the narrator never really leads the audience to draw an opinion about Eva--about her borderline sex work, whether it is good or bad for a woman to use her sexuality to get ahead, whether the charity work Eva Peron did outweighs the corruption and timely "disappearances" of her critics, whether she is, in fact, a good or a bad person, the hero or villain of her own life's story.

I, on the other hand, take the point of view of many of the critics who reviewed the play when it first opened. I like the play precisely because it doesn't tell me how to think or feel about its title character. Her flaws and perfections, strengths and weaknesses, insecurities and proudest attributes are all laid bare, and the audience is free to like or dislike her as they choose. To me, Che embodies this exact thing--calling a spade a spade, but not exactly condemning it or glorifying it either way. I don't need to be told how to feel or what to think about a person to know how I feel or what I think in my daily life, and I see that freedom carried over in a play such as "Evita."

Other than that problem of balance and enunciation I mentioned earlier that made some moments, especially ensemble numbers, difficult to hear or understand, the performance was very well done, I thought. The choreography, scenery and staging were subtle but effective, and the voices of the main characters were extraordinary. In the difficult role of Eva, Caroline Bowman didn't miss a single note, high or low. She eclipses everyone else on the stage, with occasional competition from Max Quinlan as Che--he too gives a dramatic performance, full of wit and bite and magnificently delivered, but the conviction is sporadic, while Bowman effuses it from every pore.

Michael Grandage directs this touring production, and Rob Ashford choreographs it. One of the most magnificent aspects of this production was the use of newsreels and footage of Eva Peron's funeral, which help set the scene of tragedy and worship far more than mere chorus members can do alone.

Reflections On the Years

Monday morning I made the drive from Silver Spring, Md. to Arlington, Va. to stay with my brother and sister for a few days. GPS and natives' advice recommended staying away from the city of Washington, DC, but that seemed rather annoying. After all, anybody who's ever been on the Beltway knows that it just ... absolutely stinks. And the district is just so pretty in the rain.

I lived in two places when I lived in the district. The first was a townhouse in Capitol Hill that I shared with about nine other people, and the second was a studio apartment on 16th Street near Howard University and Malcolm X Park. At the time it was right on the edge of a seedy part of town, but gentrification has made it a lot, well, brighter if not safer, and that apartment building happens to be a straight shot from Silver Spring. So I took the scenic route to Virginia.

And while I was driving, I meandered even more. I drove on Constitution Avenue past the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument. I braved Dupont Circle. I went past Blair House and the White House, and eventually ended up near the Kennedy Center and the Watergate Building before finally getting onto the 66 to Virginia.

I didn't really like DC when I lived here. I thought it was small and insular, a real company town where everyone went to Duke or U. Maryland and worked in politics, and if you didn't fit into those categories you couldn't meet anybody new.

But there was culture here. There was history and identity, and beauty. And that part hasn't changed.

And I just kept thinking, I am so lucky to have lived here.

On Contradicting Priorities

For almost two weeks now, I've been making my way south from New Jersey with the ultimate goal of going to California. The purpose for this trip is to move in with my parents, since I lost my job and haven't been able to find a new one. I'll be in Atlanta by this time next week after visiting with a few more friends, and then I'll join up with my dad for the trip west.

Moving in with my parents just in time for my 31st birthday isn't exactly what I would have liked, but this road trip with my dad has its appeal, and I've been spending time with friends that have been dear to me for years. Which is why it's difficult to remember the ultimate priority behind this trip: To find a job.

It's not that I don't want a job, because I do. I've found some great postings and I'm very excited about them. But it is challenging to balance interviews with traveling and visiting. "Hey there pal, thanks for letting me stay with you in the middle of your work week and letting you cook for me since I have literally no money, even for groceries. Mind if I lock myself in my room for an hour or so tomorrow so I can try to get a job?" Don't get me wrong, people are understanding and encouraging of whatever it takes for me to get a job, but I feel rather rude.

I've been able to conduct most interviews over the telephone, FaceTime or Skype, but some people are already asking me to come in person. This means I could end up, somewhere on this trip with my dad, getting dropped off at an airport to fly somewhere else for an interview, then meeting up with him again in a location to be determined--maybe the same city I left him at, maybe something a little further down the road.

The really tough part about it is the transition of it all. Maybe I was wrong to do such a long, extended trip. I'm not really living anywhere, no longer in New Jersey but not yet in California. Everything is still so unsettled, and it's difficult to judge the best decision when you are without a center.

Thoughts on Facing Old Fears

I know this sounds like there's an 8-year-old girl stuck inside my body controlling my every move, but I can't help it: I love ponies.

I was one of those kids who begged my parents to get a horsey when I was growing up (despite the fact that we could walk the periphery of our backyard in less than 30 seconds, and that at Californian walking speeds.) When I went away to summer camp in the mountains, my favorite feature was the horse rides. We rode Western saddles and took rides up the trails to the mountaintops. It was magical.

I went back to that camp throughout my childhood and into my adolescence. By the time I stopped going, I considered myself a fairly accomplished rider--not by professional standards, you understand, just by the standards of almost-everyone-else-I-know-has-never-been-on-a-horse-and-I-have-never-fallen-or-had-a-problem.

Hey, it was mine.

By the time I finished high school, my parents started taking us on vacations where trail riding on horseback was a little more common of a feature. I could not have been more thrilled. With every ride I felt more confident, more accomplished, and certainly far, far superior to my family members.

Then, when I was 19 and home from college for the summer, my family and I stayed at a cabin somewhere. I forget if it was Yosemite or Mammoth or where exactly, but there was a horsebacking trail opportunity nearby and we took advantage. The guide asked us all about our experience, to which most of my family had none to speak of, but the guide was pretty impressed when I detailed my experience. So she put me on this one particular horse that usually only the guides themselves rode. For some reason the guide didn't want to ride this horse today, and she said she thought I could handle him.

I can't remember the names here, so for the sake of argument let's call the horse Buck (you can already tell where this story is going, can't you?) The guide Sarah (another made-up name) chose to ride this docile, submissive-type horse, who we'll call Jane. She put me on Buck.

Now Buck was huge, the largest horse I'd ever ridden. What he had in size he more than matched in attitude and pushiness. He was known to bully the other horses, never to cause pain or be sadistic, just sort of a pack-leader mentality.

There was only one rule: No one goes in front of the guide and no one falls far enough behind that they could not hear Sarah when she talked.

So up the trail we went. Sarah started out on Jane, and Buck immediately fell into step behind. My parents, two brothers and sister followed. We'd barely made it out of the yard and onto the trail before Buck started nudging at Jane's hindquarters and back legs, nipping at them, trying to push her out of his way so he could take the lead. I pulled him back at times, and other times, where the trail was wide enough, let him pull up almost alongside Jane, but still slightly behind, so he could give release so some of his attitude.

Towards the end of the trail and the top of the mountain, the trail narrowed so the horses had to go in single-file. It became rocky and very, very steep. Buck backed off easily and let Jane go up first to the top of the mountain to the look-out point.

I remember it was beautiful. I remember we could see a sun-dappled valley for miles. I remember that to see the almost nothing man-made, except for the trail we'd followed up the mountainside. I remember that it was gorgeous.

On the way back down that steep, narrow, rocky trail, Buck's patience ran out. He moved to Jane's left, off the trail, finally determined to get ahead of her once and for all. He knew Jane was too timid to try to get ahead of him again when there was no room for them both to walk astride.

He made it about three steps--long enough for me to realize what was happening and say, "Uhh, Sarah?" before Buck fell over. With me still on top of him.

There was about a quarter of a second between me being in perfect health and having my left leg crushed between the rocks and an animal that weighed over a ton. Maybe a quarter-second more before my head crashed against those self-same rocks.

Somehow my training from those days back in summer camp--to keep the reins and your seat straight and upright--kicked in. I tugged on him and Buck regained his balance and got back to his feet. He got back onto the trail and into line, and though I could tell he still wanted to get in front of Jane, he wasn't going to try again while we were still on the narrow part of the trail. And my blood pressure couldn't stand it.

As soon as the trail became somewhat even again, I told Sarah I couldn't ride him anymore. We traded horses, but my panic still did not soon subside and I eventually had to turn my reins over to Sarah and let her lead Jane on from her perch on Buck.

I had nightmares about it for days. I didn't go near horses again for years. Until Thursday.

My friend Leila rides a few times each week, and while I was staying with her I went to watch her ride. After her Thursday lesson ended, the trainer let me ride around the yard for about 10 minutes. The trainer kept one hand on the reins, but I held them in the back.

I have to admit, it wasn't as scary as I'd expected, despite the fact that I was using an English saddle (if you don't know the difference, a Western saddle makes you feel like you're in one of those howdahs that you see in Indian art on top of elephants. Now, imagine going from that to something more akin to a high-wire act. And that's the difference between a Western and an English saddle.) Balance is much more essential. Your stance is incredibly different. The directions and way you interact with the horse is different. It's like learning to ride all over again--which, with how long it's been since the last time I got onto a horse, isn't an entirely out-of-place simile.

But I enjoyed it a lot. I'm not about to start riding competitively or anything, but it felt good to put this long-lasting fear of mine somewhat to rest again, and to literally get back onto the horse. In a weird way, it's made the rest of what this trip's all about a little easier to deal with.

And in the Morning ... I'm Making Waffles!

Well, not me so much as Leila. But one thing at a time.

I must admit that I am pretty useless in the kitchen. I know how to make about five things, three of which are chicken.

Luckily, however, I have some friends who are absolutely brilliant in the kitchen. Sometimes, when the things they make are very simple and require no more than about three steps, I can remember long enough to try them myself. But most of the time I just sit back, relax, put on some music, serve up some sparkling conversation and wait for dinner.

Which was pretty much my role at Leila's on Monday, and at Katie's tonight. Leila made manicotti using a homemade marinara sauce and ricotta that she seasoned herself, and oh man, was it amazing. Katie made an old favorite from the months I lived with her, a simple biscuits and gravy, but with the kind of homemade lovin' that only meals from a personal kitchen can have.

Tuesday morning before I came to Baltimore, Leila woke up early (don't ask me how, I still get shocked when people try to convince me there's such a thing as a 6:30 in the morning) and made us waffles. Having a homemade dinner is one thing, but breakfast too? Such luxury, man. And with syrup and Nutella and strawberries, there just really isn't a better way to start the day off right.

I took a break from these homemade meals Tuesday night when Katie and I went to one of our old haunts, Ale Mary's in Baltimore. It's one of my favorite pubs quite possibly ever, and of course the Catholic kitsch is just hilarious. They've made some new additions to the décor, including, but not limited to, a leg lamp à la "A Christmas Story." Go ahead and try to hate any place with a leg lamp on the bar. Go on, I dare you. It simply cannot be done.

I don't really remember what we ate, but I remember falling easily back into conversations with Katie about her new job, her family and friends, my family and friends, my trip, her pets, basically "of shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings." (That's Lewis Carroll, by the way, from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Later co-opted by Disney.) Mostly what I am glad for in the two nights I'm spending here, in my old room and with an old friend, is how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends in my life.

Trying to Let Go

After I got to Leila's home in northern Maryland Monday (yeah, I'm a couple days behind--I'll try to catch up), I was forced to confront the most difficult physical manifestation of this cross-country move I'm doing. That's right: The sheer amount of stuff.

I've never been one of those people who could pack light or get rid of things. I'm not a hoarder--I'll get rid of newspapers, (most) old magazines, clothes that don't fit. There are no jars in my apartment of my nail clippings or errant hairs. But when it comes to things like books, pictures, even kitschy old gifts, I just can't bring myself to divest myself. I keep thinking things like, So-and-so gave me that, it means something to me since so-and-so is now living thirty gazillion miles away.

I also blame my mother in part for this, too. She used to get fed up with the state of my room (she called it "messy," I called it "organized chaos"--you know, the kind where nothing's where it belongs per se, but you can find stuff because it's where you expect it to be. To me, this was a perfectly acceptable state of affairs. Not so to my mother. So she would take an entire weekend and basically sort through every piece of paper, every piece of clothing, every single item in my room--and then put it in a place where she thought it ought to go. (I don't think she ever read my diaries or journals, but she definitely made sure she knew where I was keeping them. My sister, on the other hand, would pour over them, usually with a couple of her friends.) Most of the time during these "cleaning" binges, the piles of things to be thrown out would often become simply enormous, often outstripping the piles of things I got to keep. And, of course, my mother was the final authority on what should go into which pile.

But the real reason is that I think I'm like this goes back to a moment during my senior year of high school. I came across a photo from my freshman homecoming dance with several friends, including one girl who'd been like a big sister to me. She was a dear, dear friend, but after she'd graduated the year before she'd kind of dropped off the radar. I went away for the summer and even though I'd called and called when I got back, I never heard back from her. The photo had melted to the glass or something (hey, it gets hot in the desert, especially in second-floor bedrooms where the air conditioning doesn't work properly) and I didn't talk to anybody in the photo anymore, so I thought, What the hell, and I threw the photo away. A couple of months later, her mother called to invite me to my friend's baby shower--turned out she was six months pregnant. About two months after that, my friend was killed in a car accident while still pregnant. When I got home, I just kept thinking that I'd have given anything to get that picture back.

So here we are, and I am basically incapable of throwing away anything with an iota of sentimental value. Which makes moving ... a real pain. Most of my stuff is in a storage unit back in northern New Jersey, but the rest of it had to fit into my car... my teeny, tiny little Honda Civic which, after owning a Jeep and an Oldsmobile Aurora, is sort of like moving from a 4-bedroom house to a studio apartment. The trunk is full to capacity. The back seat has about three inches of wiggle room total for all the stuff that's back there, and that was before I even put in the bags I'm using on my trip: Clothes, toiletries, computer, papers, purse, shoes. All this stuff ended up in the passenger seat. As for me, my knees keep bumping against the steering wheel and my elbows get cramped.

Now, here's the rub: Somewhere along the route of this trip, my dad is meant to join me on this trip. That's right, my just-shy-of-six-feet-of-father will supposedly want to have a seat in this car (ideally he'd have the back seat so he could sleep, but realistically the passenger seat is the best he'll be able to hope for.) He'll also, one can expect, will bring a suitcase of some kind. This means I have to ship stuff home to get it out of my car, and that I have to do something much more difficult for me: Get rid of stuff.

When I got to Leila's, I had to start bringing things from the back seat into her house. I was planning to drive down to Baltimore to stay with my friend Katie, and I figured it would be easier to bring stuff into Leila's house, where you can indefinitely park on the street right in front, than into Katie's place, which is on a narrow one-way street with no parking allowed. I did leave a few things in the car, though--mostly, things to ship back to California.

The shipping of boxes is one thing. Even with flat-rate boxes, that's still $17.90 per box, and I think I've spent over $300 on these things so far. I have gotten onto a first-name basis with people behind the counters in the last couple post offices I've gone into, and the people in the local Baltimore post office have seen me five times in the last two days. And the worst part is, I still don't know if I've gotten rid of enough people to fit my dad and his bag.

Then there's the other thing: Getting rid of the stuff. I like my stuff. It's what helps me feel like I'm at home no matter where I go. At yet ... now I have to drop it because there's nothing else to be done.

All of which leaves me with one overwhelming feeling:

This is tough.

Goodbye, Home

After bidding goodbye to K&J at the totally reasonable hour of 6:30 a.m. Monday (I mean, honestly, probably the only good thing about being unemployed is being able to sleep in--something I really don't think anyone can appreciate until after you've gotten up at 4:30 a.m. every weekday for months for a 90-minute commute each way, and especially during one of the worst New York winters on record), I packed up (and forgot a pair of pajama pants) and got on the road. But first, a pit stop--at the old alma mater.

Bryn Mawr was my home for four beautiful years, and has never left my heart. I went around the campus, cataloguing the things that have changed (my old dorm has been gutted and renovated; there are hammocks outside the library) and the things that have stayed the same (my mail box still has the same stickers I put on it 13 years ago! Result!) Most of my coworkers from Canaday Library were sick and not in the office, but one, Beth, was around and generously offered to take me to lunch. 

With a few hours to spare, I went around campus. I entered Thomas Great Hall and left offerings to Athena to hope and pray for a job. I went to the cloisters and dipped my toes in the fountain--somehow ever since then I've felt a cold coming on. I went to the bookstore and tried to buy stuff, but of course my inherent insolvency got in the way of that plan in a hurry. 

Mostly, though, I tried to take pictures of memories. It's a bit of an impossible task, since everyone I knew who went there and even most of the people I knew who taught there have moved on now. But I snapped photos of the leaves changing color in front of Taylor Hall, of the light shining through Pembroke Arch and through the glass windows at Carpenter Library. I took photos of how Senior Row looks just from the pathway on Merion Green, and then, a few feet away, how the Campus Center and Radnor look from the far edge of the green. 

It's a good thing I had to drive to meet up with Leila in Maryland, because otherwise I don't think I could have kept all the tears at bay.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

There's nothing quite as sad or terrible as knowing that each moment you have with your friends, doing your usual weekend-getaway routine, could be the last time.

I know that sounds a little fatalistic. What can I say? I've had some fatalistic moments in life. Sometimes we like to tell ourselves we have all the time in the world, that the things and people we love will remain in a more-or-less permanent stasis until we return. They won't stay precisely the same, but you don't expect big changes. You don't expect people to move, or change jobs, divorce, or die, or anything that would really change their lives beyond the reality you know.

On Saturday night, I met up with my friends K&J at their usual Saturday night hang-out, where several usual friends joined up with our usual karaoke DJ, Tom, and our usual bartender poured more-or-less our usual drinks as we sang our usual songs. It was all the normal thing, which was wonderful. The only difference was, this time there was an unusual theme. That theme was farewell.

There can be great comfort in routine, in seeing the people you love and partaking in a favorite activity. This was made far more bittersweet by the fact that I may never be back here again, with these same people, singing these songs at Saturday karaoke. We may never spend a Sunday morning lounging around before finally dragging ourselves two blocks to our favorite brunch spot, then spending the rest of the afternoon shopping, lounging and catching up on the newest episodes of our favorite shows. Every joke, every bite of food, every debate, every stupid argument, it all becomes sweeter and more poignant.

The overwhelming feeling from last night was joy to cover up deep pain and sadness. Some people have tried to get me to look on the brighter side, but I'm definitely more in a wallowing mood. Luckily some people were definitely down there in the muck being miserable with me. As Tom said, "There's nothing fair or well about this!" (Thanks, Tom, I wholeheartedly concur.)

But unfortunately, in this instance, I don't think there's anything else to do but to sign off and go back to the latest episodes of "Homeland" with my friends. Goodnight, guys.

... Begins With a Single Step

I thought yesterday, leaving my home and beginning this trip to California, would be the most difficult part of the trip. Today seemed even harder.

It's probably a sign of the company I've kept today that that last line is causing a few giggles. But, moving on.

Today (or rather, yesterday--Saturday, Oct. 4) was my first full day of this trip to California. I spent it in Narberth, Pa., and Philadelphia. The weather today was lousy, and I took the opportunity of it being both rainy and a Saturday to sleep in quite late. When I finally did wake, it was in fits and false starts before finally being tempted with K's delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon and sourdough toast. I have to admit, that was even enough of a bribe to face the two voracious dogs (who, it must be admitted, stole quite a bit of my share of bacon from directly off my plate.)

Eventually I found the willpower to shower and take the train to Philadelphia to meet S, another dear friend. I considered S something of a wonder when we were in college together. Although I was technically "older" (a year ahead in school of people who might technically be older than me, thanks to a fluke of California education laws and a couple of parents who I'm guessing were more determined than anything to just get me out of daycare already), I must admit that there were many students in the years below me who were eons ahead of me as far as travel, cultural exposure and human understanding go. S was certainly one of these people. She had an implicit empathy for everyone she met, it seemed to me, and could divine, comprehend and react to any situation with grace and class. This is such an enviable skill, especially to someone like me who seems to have an endless talent for saying exactly the wrong thing in almost any situation. Over the years I've come to understand that S's gifts have come from the singular advantages of her life, and to recognize the breach between her own upbringing and mine, which extends from exposure to legal knowledge to the plucking of eyebrows. I don't think she knows how much she has affected me and my understanding of myself, my own upbringing and the world at large just by her existence. When we were in school together I found her quite intimidating, but I wanted to be around her as much as possible so I could continue to learn from her (I could hardly have let her intimidation frighten me off, especially since I found most of the people I ended up in school with to be extremely intimidating.) Now, 12 years after we first met, I find her to be far more human--not flawed, just understandable and relatable on a level I don't think I could have managed when I was younger.

S and I passed a wonderful, low-key afternoon and evening together, and at the end we hugged endlessly and I am so sad to see the days pass where she was only a train ride away. But unfortunately, other goodbyes followed in the evening which were even more heartbreaking. Yet that goodbye to S was something special, at least to me. We were out of touch for many years between our college years and the recent months, but she never stopped being a person of admiration to me--not an object, an inanimate, flawless thing, but a person, with unfulfilled dreams and aspirations but the promise of tomorrow to sustain her. S was and is someone who always managed to fill me with hope for a better tomorrow, and I must admit, that is something I really need right now.

The Journey of 3,000+ Miles ...

Just over 13 years ago, I got into my parents' car to drive to a motel near LAX airport. It was August 2001, and the ultimate destination for my parents and I was Bryn Mawr College outside of Philadelphia, Penn., where I was about to start college.

There are many things I remember about the days that followed, but the first night of my trip to the east coast? That night itself is mostly a blur. The only thing I really remember about the trip to the airport that August night is fear. I don't really know where that fear came from--I'd started packing for college about five months earlier, and planning for it at about 8 years of age. Now the day was finally here, and all I could feel was fear mixed with sadness. I was 17 years old, so ready for the chance for a little independence from my overbearing family and from classmates who, like most teenagers, thought they knew who I was without hardly speaking a word to me. I only had one or two really close friends, and they were confident that I would be happy and successful at college. And to be honest, so was I.

Until I got into the car to go to the airport. That was the first step on the trip to college, and all I felt was fear. Paralyzing, terrifying fear. I remember biting my lip to stop myself from calling to my parents to turn the car around and go back home, where it was safe and warm and predictable and where nothing ever happened that I couldn't figure out or deal with. I bit down so hard my lip bled.

I was successful, though. I didn't ask my parents to turn the car around, and by the time we got to the hotel I was feeling somewhat better. I don't really remember how, but I even managed somehow to get to sleep that night, to get on the plane the next morning, to collect my luggage from the carousel and get into the rental car in Baltimore. I managed the drive to our Philadelphia hotel in what I recall as mostly silence, and certainly betraying none of the fear I felt the night before. The day after, I got back into the car with my parents until we finally arrived at the Bryn Mawr campus. By that time, there was nothing in me but excitement.

I've loved my life on the east coast. I was born and raised in California, never spent more than two months away from it before I went to college (and actually, considering how often I went back home during my freshman year for family celebrations and health issues, quite a while after I went to college), but now I feel a deep affinity for the other coast. I've been blessed. I've lived in so many states on the Atlantic Ocean--Pennsylvania, the District of Columbia, New York, Maryland, New Jersey. I've attended two of the finest institutions if higher education this country has to offer. I've seen the Liberty Bell, gone to the top of the Empire State Building, Philadelphia's City Hall, the Washington Monument, and Rockefeller Center. I've seen Antietam, Gettysburg, Fredericksburg and Arlington. And more than anything else, I've made some of the best and dearest friends with the best and most provocative people I've ever known.

I don't know exactly why I'm telling you all this, except to say that it now appears to all be ending. I was laid off in April from a job I'd been at for eight months, and I haven't found new work, so I'm moving back in with my parents in California.

I can't remember how many jobs, including part-time student work, I've had since I arrived. The latest, an engineering consulting firm in New York City, was a job where I made friends with my colleagues and I showed up each day willing and eager to work and learn. I was fortunate to leave on great terms with my employers and managers, and many of my coworkers offered to serve as references for me. But that was six months ago. My lease ran out, and while at first I subsisted on house-sitting and pet-sitting gigs, now I'm going back to that place where, 13 years ago, I nearly didn't dare to leave. I was 17 then. I'm nearly 31 now. I've accumulated a BA in Philosophy and an MA in Journalism. I've worked for some wonderful people, in start-ups and long-established institutions.

When I first came to the east coast, not even my bank account was in my own name (my parents had to open it for me, since I was under-aged. They also had to sign a work authorization so I could qualify for the college's work-study program.) Now I have credit cards, property, debt and assets. I didn't even dream of owning a car back then--now I'm on my third automobile, a 2009 Honda Civic that I bought two years ago after it had been leased and returned by someone else. I've named the car Lulu, and she will be my only constant companion on this trip. I'll be staying with friends along the way most of the time, and other times I'll be staying at motels or relying on the help and support of an extended network for help. My dad will join me for part of the trip. I'm calling it my Farewell Tour.

I intend to use this blog not just to document my journey back home but also to record my thoughts and feelings as I make this trip. It's not easy to move back in with your parents after so many years of independence, especially when independence was foisted on you before you could vote or sign a check in your own name. I know my parents understand and they're doing their best to be supportive. Some days they don't really live up to that goal; some days they exceed it far beyond my wildest expectations. Like most things in life, it changes.

That's the biggest thing I'm trying to remember as I take this step, a step which feels unmistakably like a backwards failure: That life is change, and only a fool tries to block change. Anyone who has the wisdom of a peanut knows that you should take change, even if you're not ready for it, and just be willing to roll with it. But that can be hard to do when you're moving back to a place that hasn't really been home for years, and when it was home, it was home to a person you barely even recognize anymore.

I left northern New Jersey today, the place that has been home for the last five years. There were times when I hated it and times when I loved it, and the final departure was definitely more bitter than sweet. Whether the rest of this journey will follow that pattern, perhaps this blog will, in time, tell.

My first stop on the Farewell Tour is in suburban Philadelphia, only a few miles from my alma mater. I'll take a trip to the campus on Monday, but for now I'm sitting in the apartment of a dear friend from my college days. Her dogs are on our laps, and her husband is in the other room playing video games as I type. My friend sits next to me, mostly asleep, while tears fill my eyes. We've watched some television and had some dinner, and more than a little wine, and we'll be heading to sleep soon. And now all that's left to me for tonight is to wonder if, 13 years from now, I'll remember anything more about this night than the feeling of fear that keeps creeping into my heart, than I do about that night 13 years and approximately six weeks ago when I first began the journey out to the east coast.