California – An Accidental Vagabond

Even upon returning home I’m still an Accidental Vagabond.

A view of the Sawtooth Mountain range, and a green and golden valley in Idaho taken from the highway — A view of the Sawtooth Mountain range in Idaho

We left South Korea in July, and I have been struggling with what it is that I want to do here. I don’t mean in the U.S., but here on this page, on this post. On future posts. The future of this hit or miss blog.

Still a Travel Blog?

Is it still travel if you are in your home country? Considering the size of the U.S. I would say yes, but to be honest it was never much of a travel blog. This is more a blog of reflections on travels of the past.

How to Approach Future Posts

Nothing Stays The Same

There are so many things I have wanted to tell about the places I have visited, but then days pass, and turn to months then years. Life changes, I age, friends age, wars begin, fires rage, waters dry up, rivers flood, plagues ravage, and places once visited are no longer the same or no longer open.

Instant Gratification

How do I write in a world that is instant? I have tried to be instant, and I just can’t keep up with the pace. Even my instagram photos are months out of date, and “instant” is in the name. I know, I am behind. I have always been behind, and as the world turns faster and more aggressively, I see myself falling further and further away, like the image of a person standing on the road as seen from the reflection of the sideview mirror visible until swallowed by the horizon. There is nothing I can do to slow things down or to catch up. Isn’t that life, though? Isn’t that aging?

Take a Picture. It Lasts Longer.

However, I can wander back into the past here on the page and slow things down to the point of freezing. This is possible, yet, I’m not sure how I want to do it.

The Writer’s Conundrum

My Voice

I once had a writing instructor tell me that it is a writers job to solve a problem of writing. My problem is my voice and my presentation. I can’t write about travels as if they are in the present or as an advertisement of place one should visit. So, what are they, stories?

My Stories

They must be stories. Yet, how do I present them? In chronological order? In the order of place? In a historical context? How much research is needed? This is the conundrum. In a world full of conundrums mine is rather mild, but mine all the same. My writer’s conundrum.

A photograph of the Seoul Tower at night lit up with blue light. Taken at Namsan Park in Seoul, South Korea. — Seoul’s Namsan Tower, South Korea

A photo of a Korean man in glasses and his white female partner taken at night at Namsan Park, Seoul, South Korea. — Seoul’s Namsan Tower, South Korea

Travel History for Context

A Decade Overseas

I left the United States in 2013, and I returned in September of 2015 for about 9 months as I waited for my visa, and then I left again in June of 2016. All totaled up, I was living outside of the U.S. for nearly 10 years. I spent my entire 40’s overseas. Aside from the 9 months. I didn’t intend to be away for so long, but being that I am an Accidental Vagabond, I suppose it’s fitting.

Back in the U.S. of A

I returned to the U.S. in July of 2023 (which as of writing this post, was 4 months ago). It has been a whirlwind. My partner, Eun, and I flew into Seattle, with our dog Penny, where we stayed for a few days, then we drove with a friend to Port Angeles in Washington, to visit my aunt. We then drove to Portland, Oregon, where we stayed for a few weeks, and we bought a car. Then we drove down the Oregon coast to California, and then southeast toward San Ramon, California to see my father. Afterward, we drove north again, back towards Oregon to visit a friend of Eun’s in La Pine. The next leg of the trip took us to Eastern Oregon to pay respects to my friend Sue Vanschoonhoven, who passed away in 2008. We stayed in Cove a lovely tiny town in the Blue Mountains. Leaving Cove we headed east toward Idaho, and trip continued on from Idaho to Wyoming, Montana, South Dakota, Iowa, Illinois, Ohio, New York and southern Maine. Once in Maine we headed to a region called Downeast Maine, and that is where we have settled, for now.

Some Photos from Our Road Trip

A black and blonde lab/Chow-chow mix dog sitting on a stone slab outside. — Penny enjoying Gyeongju, South Korea

A welcome sign carved in both English and S'Klallam. An eagle carved in traditional Pacific Northwest Native tribal art. — Penny enjoying Gyeongju, South Korea

DownEast Maine

We are here until June or July. After that… well, hopefully we’ll know soon, but until those summer days arrive, I will be here east of Stephen King and joing him in this little thing we call writing.

Expect reflections on travels of the past and life in rural Maine. Write ya’ll soon.

Portland, Oregon night city scape. — Photo by Tabitha Mort on Pexels.com

Leaving Portland, Oregon

I’m what you call between employment. I need to make a small amount of money last a couple of months in two countries before my new job begins. I’m going to be a teacher. In China. I don’t know what that will be like, but hopefully in the next year I will be able to expound on this experience.

The journey started over a week ago. I ended my job, left my room in the house where I rented space, and I left Portland, OR.

Three women bundled in jackets posing on the beach in front of Haystack rock in Cannon Beach, Oregon. — An Oregon coastal January with friends

I’ve lived in Portland for almost thirteen years. It would be thirteen years’ on the 11th, but I didn’t quite make it. I had always had a love-hate relationship with the city. I loved the people I became friends with, I loved the easiness of living, I loved the beautiful scenery and the fresh woodsy air, but there was something I disliked too. It was a something that I could ever put my finger on and still can’t. A feeling of not really fitting in. I could never really make things “work” in Portland. I found that finding the job that was in line with my career dreams was unreachable except through volunteering (which I did but it never or rarely turned to pay) romantic relationships seemed impossible, and creatively I lumbered along like a bog sloth. I was complacent and I didn’t create, and I couldn’t break out of the rut. Yes, yes, I know this is not Portland’s problem it’s mine, but all the same, the dislikes compelled me to leave. To become uncomfortable.

I left Portland on the fifth of August. Most of my personal items were sold or given away. I’ve stored some boxes of books and photos, two small items of furniture, and various sentimental knick-knacks at a friend’s house (my former roommate/landlord). The contents of my life can literally fill a small car. I’ve packed two large pieces of luggage each weighing just under 50lbs. I have a carry on, my laptop, and a purse. These items will be my possessions for the next year.

A Road Trip From Portland to San Fransisco

In order to officially and legally work in China I had to go to the consulate in San Francisco to pick up my visa. This made for a great excuse to take a road trip from Portland to San Francisco where I could stop in a small college city called Chico to visit my mom.

My good friend and I decided to drive down to California together. It was her ideal really. She said it was a great excuse to visit her family, and also nothing is more fun than a road trip. My friend, and I are both Portland transplants. Both of us are Northern California natives, so a trip to California is also a visit to our places of birth.

A woman in dark sunglasses standing in from of a tree in front of glassy Crater Lake in Oregon. — Crater lake and me.

Crater Lake Resurfaces Memories of the Dead

We stopped for a night in Crater Lake and camped. The night air was warm and smokey due to the fires in Southern Oregon. We made a small contained fire and ate snacks. We made vodka cocktails mixed with grapefruit juices manually squeezed from grapefruits, with added bing cherries and cherry juice. All of these items were left over from my going away party. We drank our cocktails in front of the fire. Cocktails and camping in Crater Lake seem contradictory to me like the two don’t belong. We needed beer or a bottle of whiskey. Vodka never struck me as a camping drink, but there are no rules.

In the morning we drove to the lodge and walked to one of the many viewing points. We walked on a hiking path to Discovery Point, and there we silently stared at the crystal water that reflected the clouds. The line between earth and sky was blurred and my thoughts drifted to my friend Sue who died six years ago. It was Sue who convinced me to move to Portland in the first place, and on our drive up from Chico, CA we stopped in Crater Lake. I hadn’t been to Crater Lake since that trip 13 year’s ago. Now, I was leaving and I would never see Sue again. I knew I wouldn’t see her again when I got the news of her death, but sometimes I forget she’s really gone and not just traveling. Death can be like that sometimes. You forget, but then you remember. You remember and you feel the loss, again.

It was hot and smokey like we were driving into desolation. The hazy sky reminded me of images of China’s cancer villages. Rarely a blue sky I was told. I’m hoping that it is not as thick as this burning air.

Northern California

In truth, I never thought I would leave California, but life happens and sometimes your roads take you to places you did not expect to go.

Shasta

In Shasta we took a detour to Whiskey Town Lake. We set up a make shift picnic and split a beer and ate cherries and chips. I waded into the water that was warm. The red clay beneath the water swirled under my feet and turned it pink, but only when I moved. I wanted to swim, but my suit was packed and I knew from many childhood experiences that the clay stained your clothing.

Paradise

My home town of Paradise in northern California is in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. It gets hot and dry in the summer, and sometimes we’d get snow in the winter. My father left Paradise when I was seven or eight, but my mom lived there until her 50’s then she later moved to Chico which is only 20 miles west of Paradise. I didn’t get to make it to Paradise before I heading to San Fransisco, since my parents no longer live there and most of my friends have moved away, but I did visit Chico to spend time with my mom.

Five children sitting in the dirt in front of a dilapidated house. From left to right: A white blonde girl in a summer dress, a dark haired girl, a blonde white boy, a brown haired girl with white complexion, and a Mexican/black girl in overalls. — My Life in Paradise, CA, 1970s

A group of seven kids posing in front of a river. Four kids are standing and they all have their arms around each other. From left to right: a blonde, white, boy, topless and wearing blue jeans; a dark haired, Latina girl with a white blouse; a black boy with short hair is topless in blue jeans, and a white girl with shoulder length blonde hair in a white blouse and blue jeans. Three younger children are sitting on the rocks. From left to right: a white blode girl in a dress blowing a balloon, a dark haired boy with an olive complexion in a blue shirt and shorts, and a Mexican girl with curly hair covering her face, she is dressed in a dress. — My Life in Paradise, CA, 1970s

Chico

We drove the rest of the way to Chico, and spent a night with my mother. That evening we went to a bar I used to frequent when I was a student at Chico State. It’s always fun to be new in a small town, even though you had actually lived there in the past. I spent my teenage years hanging around downtown Chico from time to time, but the places my teen self would go are gone. I spent five years of my twenties, my college years, going to bars and restaurants, and bookstores, and record stores, seeing bands, and running into people I knew, but those days are in the past. The places I used to frequent are gone or have changed. The bands are gone, and the friends are gone and the kids I knew have kids. Yet, this old bar named Duffy’s that catered to the theatre crowed was still there. It was there, but I was different. I moved and grew older. I sat for the sake of nostalgia, in this bar, where I spent one too many days during my spring finals, but it was as if I had never been there before.

The Entrance to Sierra National Forest picnic grounds. Red Bud. — Photo by Guy Hurst on Pexels.com

Five Days with Mom

In the morning my friend said good-bye, and the reality of my actual life change hit. Although, only subtly because I had decided to stay with my mom and staying with her is like nothing has changed. I’ve been here for five day’s now, and tomorrow I will see an old friend, my oldest. A friend I met when we were eleven or twelve, and I will spend the night in my hometown of Paradise, and then on the eleventh we drive to San Francisco, and that is where things will begin to take hold. So, I did stay in Paradise after all.

The Golden Gate Bridge over the San Francisco Bay. — Photo by zahid lilani on Pexels.com

Finally, San Francisco for the Visa

In San Francisco, I have that final step left to take before I get on the plane to China. My visa. It has been difficult getting my paperwork from China in order for me to apply for the visa, but it is all finally here waiting for me at a friend’s house in San Francisco.

So, This is Change.

Two days ago I felt fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of the plane flight, fear of being lost. Today is calm. Excitement hasn’t hit yet. Maybe, I don’t understand what I’m doing yet. I know I don’t understand because I don’t know what I’m doing.