Ode to the People
Where brick pavers meet iron lattice accents and wispy, old trees respect the flames of the gas lanterns that warm every old-world home, Jones Street is one of Savannah, Georgia’s most charming. 11/14/2019.
I recently went to the grocery store for the first time in months. It was a familiar experience, but a new, strange version of it. Same products, same people, but masked and masking so much more than mouths and noses. Fear, sadness, longing, smiles, wishes, truths, stories, possibilities were all kept under wraps, and it made my heart hurt for humanity.
And while I'm not one for stop-and-chats (I've been dodging neighbors and familiar, yet forgotten faces long before germs and droplets were of growing concern), I never avoid an exchange with an unfamiliar face. Maybe it's because the conversation is bound to be unexpected, therefore more interesting and appealing to me. Whereas, a conversation with the mother of a friend from high school or the friend of a friend I was once forced to sit and have lunch with…those conversations are likely to be predictable and painfully ordinary. "Hey! How are you? It's been a while! I know, right? How are you? How's your mom? How's your brother? Are you still seeing so and so? Are you still working at the slaughterhouse? Or is it the Piggly Wiggly now?" Those chats are the verbal equivalents of root canals for me. At some point, I'll zone out and imagine myself being microwaved on high wearing a tinfoil hat, or I'll try to recall which show used to lull my grandma and I into our daily midmorning nap quicker, Flipper or Lassie.
Ask me how I feel about a conspiracy theory – that'll keep my mind and feet from wanting to wander. Ask me some weird existential question…bonus points for a really unexpected "would you rather scenario." If I know you, and it's been a while, I'd be much more likely to want to see you sooner if you came up to me and said, "You know, I've just been dying to ask someone…would you rather never eat a Pop-Tart again, or have to eat one every day for the rest of your life? Yes, you can choose the flavor, and it doesn't have to be the same one every day." If you approach me with an enticing, make-me-think and also make-me-want-Pop-Tarts kind of question, instead of the whole "Hey, how are you" spiel (that I'm guilty of spewing too) I'd be much less likely to implement the five Ds of dodgeball (dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge) the next time I see you. I might even walk away, smiling and looking forward to our next impromptu meeting of the minds, as opposed to wishing I'd faked a phone call for it.
But now, not even mindless small talk has a space in public places. Now, none of the conversations are what they would've been…they're all abbreviated and articulated using as few words as possible to keep risk to a minimum. Everyone feels sad or scared, and I'm stifling the urge to hug every sweet soul I see. Damn my acute ability to detect the emotional state of everyone around me! I soak it up like a sponge.
Walking through the tense aisles of Uncle Giuseppe's, I felt like a dog hearing the high-pitched whistle no one else can hear, but instead of whistles, I was picking up on emotional aches and pains. And I just wanted to let everyone know that they weren't alone and that we're going to get through this together in our own ways.
On the drive home, I got to thinking about how my interactions with perfect strangers have colored my experiences on trips past. I started wondering if I'd be able to really meet and connect with anyone on my next solo trip. It might look a little different, but I'm sure it's in the cards – I hopefully assure myself.
Will people feel comfortable asking me to take their family photos? Will I feel comfortable asking them to take one of me? How 'bout striking up a conversation with whoever's sitting next to me while I dine solo at a local bar? Or will solo dining consist of car meals and takeout? Funny how those are two things I've done on every single solo trip I've ever taken, but somehow doing so now feels so different. It's the having to do so part that makes it different in a disappointing way, I suppose. I know there are lessons in here somewhere, but I haven't uncovered all of them yet.
One is how distance or the absence of something, makes the heart grow fonder and makes our experience of it more enjoyable, perhaps more meaningful. Sushi is more scrumptious after being without it for months. More so than if I was inhaling it several times a week, as I was before. And seeing friends I've been wanting to see for a while will be all the more exciting, the longer we wait.
I've met quite a few memorable people throughout my travels. Some encounters were brief, but meaningful, or just plain fun. And others have been more profound…they were people I feel I was destined to meet. And I think some were destined to meet me too. We were teaching each other things – leaving indelible impressions on each other. Bringing each other closer to where we truly wanted to go, like gas stations you stop at along the way, but far more impactful.
Kind Strangers
Looking back at the route of one of my last road trips from a bird's eye, perspective, it feels as though there were people stationed at every pausing point of my journey – there to give me a little boost for the next leg of my trip.
There was the man at the Alamo rental car counter who gave me the white convertible Camaro to take on a 2,000-mile journey through the deep south. Then there was another Alamo man who helped me to my car and put my suitcase in the very awkward trunk for me – he even taught me how to use the drop-top, even though they were minutes from closing. There were two kind, funny men at the go-kart place I went to the next morning in Tennesee, who offered me a pillow to push my tiny self closer to the pedals. I laughed and declined until I got in and couldn't reach the pedals and had to take them up on their offer. Then there was the Mongolian man at the gem mine who taught me about rocks and fossils and wisely advised me to save my money instead of buying a third bucket of gem soil to sift through.
Christine
I met Christine by chance one November Saturday afternoon. Actually, I just barely met her – I almost bypassed her restaurant entirely, but I made a very last-minute turn for a very late brunch. My notes about my time with Christine read, "Couldn't get any better than Christine." And that's all I wrote because I'll always remember what we did for each other that day at the Brick & Spoon of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.
The fact that I was even in Pigeon Forge was sort of serendipitous. On my first-ever major road trip back in 2011, when I drove with three buddies down to Alabama's Gulf Coast all the way from New York, we kept passing signs for "THE WORLD'S BIGGEST TITANIC MUSEUM OF PIGEON FORGE, TENNESSEE." With highway signage scattered all through the Smokies, this funny-sounding town's claim to fame became something we referenced, laughingly all throughout our trip and after.
So when I flew to Knoxville, Tennessee last November for its proximity to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I spent a night in Pigeon Forge, for old times' sake, and because it felt like a funny, nostalgic thing to do. I arrived late one Friday night after work then forced myself into an early start the next day. Despite all the fun I knew I was going to have, it was a rough first morning, emotionally speaking. I was fresh out of a breakup and feeling the pangs of all the knife twisting that followed it, but I refused to let Pigeon Forge pass me by. There were go-karts to be driven and gems to be mined…so that's just what I did.
After I had my fill of Pigeon Forge fun, I thought about stopping for brunch before I left town for the next one. Then I thought, nah, brunch will just slow me down, have a protein bar instead. Then I thought, hey, I'm on vacation, and I want runny yummy eggs over something carby, so I made a last-minute turn into the Brick & Spoon's parking lot. I just really barely made it – almost missed the turn and brunch completely.
I almost didn't sit at the bar either. Up until that day, I was a booth or table to myself kind of solo traveler. But on this particular Saturday in November, I told the hostess I'd like to sit at the bar. Destiny drew me there. Destiny drew me to Christine. She was cleaning, bartending, recommending cheesy grits for a first-time grit eater, then putting in my eggs and grits order while simultaneously running the show with grace and ease, looking like she'd been doing it all for years. But I later learned she was pretty new to town and the job. She talked to me while she did it all, but we could've talked as little or as much as I wanted because she knew just how to read the room and detect how much or how little contact her audience wanted. She knew how to read me, and so our conversation just flowed.
It wasn't until Christine told me that she had just moved to Tennessee from Sedona, Arizona, that I realized we were destined to meet. What? Sedona?? She stopped me dead in my tracks with that revelation. Because Sedona is one of those places I always return to and could totally see myself living someday. I learned that Christine had also lived in Scottsdale, Arizona, a town I'd love to live in, but could never live in due to its horrific, hell-on-earth heat. But Arizona wasn't even where Christine was originally from. She was born in Honolulu, and since her dad worked for Hilton, she grew up living in hotels all over America. What?! I couldn't believe it. What a cool way to live! It was a way I'd love to live. I explained how hers sounded like a dream life to me: a travel writer, aspiring to be a travel writer who gets paid by a big brand like Hilton or whoever, a writer who gets to travel regularly.
We talked for a while about our mutual love of solo travel. Sharing my routes with her and some of the great places I've seen brought back so many memories for her. "God, Lauren, you're really making me want to get back out there so badly!" I told her to do it, of course, and she explained how she hadn't traveled on her own in a long, long time because her boyfriend likes to do everything with her and he doesn't understand the need for alone time or solo exploration. She confessed that she's kind of given in to this way of constant togetherness for him. "And it's wonderful – I love him endlessly, but…man do I miss going places all by myself. I used to do it all the time…it's in my DNA. But he just doesn't get why anyone would want to do that."
I devoured my cheesy grits while Christine cleaned, and we continued to talk travel and ways to make both of our dreams come true. "Try searching Convention & Visitors Bureaus and Chamber of Commerce …they like to hire freelance writers to promote tourism in cities less-traveled. Take Palm Springs, for instance – there's no major airport nearby, so it gets less attention than San Diego or LA. And that makes them more likely to want to wine and dine you, bring you out to try local services…hot air ballooning, up-and-coming hotels…that kind of thing could be your sweet spot." It was like she'd turned the key to a door I never even knew existed. Having this insider insight and these new keywords to search were opening me up to a whole new world of opportunities.
By the time the Brick & Spoon was officially closing, Christine had given me invaluable career direction, and I'd been the source of inspiration she needed to get her back on the road for a much-needed solo adventure. And we'd both received the gift of meeting a kindred, wandering spirit at a pivotal time in both of our lives. Imagine that, a woman in need of the inspiration to break out and get back in touch with herself spontaneously meeting a woman living that reality. And on the flip, that same woman living her dream and following a trail of breadcrumbs to bigger dreams found the motherload of direction in a woman who'd lived that life in a previous one. I will forever say and remember that Christine and I met for profound reasons exactly when we were meant to.
Ed
Next, I met Ed in Asheville, North Carolina, while he was living another one of my dreams. Ed was selling his own art at a table under an awning on a lively, artsy downtown street. This was no rinky-dink folding table stand – it was tall and pristine with long black table cloths, artists to both sides of him selling their own works, and the awning overhead…that really made it legit. His scene was clearly approved and encouraged by the city and widely appreciated by locals and tourists alike.
What drew me to Ed's table of all of them? It might have been his unique and colorful artwork, his cool hat and shades, or perhaps destiny was at play again...whatever it was, I could've chatted with him for hours about his art and UFOs. Each piece had a story I was fascinated by. I bought one print entitled "Prehistoric Outpost," which featured a futuristic rocket landing on Mars next to a golden flying saucer, with dino-like space creatures foraging in the background. Ed explained that he somehow made this one using his Atari. That's when I decided Ed was a wizard. Even though he explained exactly how he did it and how he made each piece I pointed at, I'm not that kind of wizard, so I couldn't understand, I could only marvel.
I bought another piece that featured two turtles overlooking a rolling-hills lakescape under a glowing cheese-like moon. It was a cool animated nature scene, and I liked it even more because the turtles reminded me of the Grateful Dead's Terrapin Turtles. I decided I needed it. This one was called "Remember The Moon Trip?" and Ed explained that he made it for the Soviet turtles launched into space in 1968. Before this, I had no idea that tortoises orbited the moon before we people did. I love educational chance encounters!
Scot
After Ed, I met Scot at the Blue Ridge Parkway Visitor Center. I'd spent so much time downtown, I was getting a much later start than I'd planned and I had an especially ambitious Blue Ridge and off-Blue Ridge experience in store for myself. That's where Scot came in. As a visitor center volunteer who stood recommending routes to travelers all day long, Scot was just the guy to help me divide and conquer aka narrow down my overly-enthused itinerary.
He had a great, almost familiar aura…exuding those great explore-America vibes I take to like a magnet to a fridge. He was so genuinely pumped for me to be out doing what I do…road-tripping across the nation, seeing the parks and sites that color our country so beautiful.
We talked like we were old friends – so comfortable with each other. "So what should I do, Scot? Take the parkway to Looking Glass Falls or spend less time on the parkway and take that long route to Chimney Rock?" Scot replied quietly, almost tiredly, hilariously, as though the answer should be so blatantly obvious it was totally unnecessary to ask, "What do you think I'm gonna say?"
And since the path of most resistance is usually the first path I choose, I imagined Scot's answer would be the same, "Chimney Rock?" I asked with uncertainty. He quickly and loudly replied while marking my map with a big pink highlighter, "No, no, no! Take the PARKWAY! Always take the parkway…there's nothing better than the Blue Ridge Parkway!" He made me laugh hard! Of course, he'd say take the parkway! We were in the Blue Ridge Parkway Visitor Center for crying out loud! It's a designated All-American (scenic) Road…anything designated by the National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management or other government-funded program for the people is automatically guaranteed to blow you away.
And so it was decided. I was going to take the famed parkway from Asheville to Brevard to see the foliage along that iconic winding road I'd been planning to drive for years. I told Scot I was a little nervous about not having cell service or GPS signal and being able to find my way through Pisgah National Forest. Scot literally drew and highlighted my entire journey all the way to where I was staying that night, three hours away in Columbia, South Carolina. He also did something he hardly ever does…he gave me his phone number in case I got really lost and was able to call, he'd be able to direct me. I was so blown away by his kindness and generosity. He really emphasized that he never gives out his contact info. I felt so honored. What was it about me that made him so generous to share his phone number with me on an in-case-of-emergency basis? I'm still grateful.
And not just for Scot's kindness, but also for his genuine enthusiasm and excitement for me and my journey – my travel-writing mission. When I told him all about it, he could hardly contain his excitement, "Are you kidding me?! You're out here living the dream! It's incredible!" I told him I'd been to Yellowstone and the Tetons, Glacier, Mount Rainier, and Craters of the Moon earlier that year, and for my birthday, I'd be heading to Arches, Canyonlands and Capitol Reef…and that was last year alone. Talking to him was a really touching reminder that I've seen and done a lot – I'm making my dreams come true. And because I'm always pushing to do more, be more, see more, sometimes I forget to take a step back and look at all I've done, all I am, all I've seen.
Because of his genuine interest in my travels, I gave Scot my business card so he could check out my blog. Later that day, I got a really sweet email from him saying, "It was nice talking to you today. Went to your website and you have seen a lot of this country. You are living the dream and then some. Good luck and safe travels."
His simple yet sincere words still move me. He reminded me that no matter how far I'd still like to go, I'm making my dreams come true. It's so easy to fixate on where we're not or what we don't have just yet, what we're working so hard to get to, but Scot's words remind me to keep it all in perspective. So what, I'm not traveling full-time …that's another major goal I can attain…I've seen 40 of our 50 states, explored national parks and monuments galore, and I'll keep on truckin' to see many more.
Shannon
Next, I met Shannon at a souvenir shop in Charleston, South Carolina. A woman whose ambition was so much bigger than her petite frame. As she rung up my mandatory Charleston Christmas ornament and tchotchkes, we got to talking about travel. I shared some of mine, she shared some of hers, and we discovered we had a mutual longing for free-spirited living. Like me, she was a kindred spirit who felt compelled to design her own life. She was currently debating between opening a B&B for dogs or becoming a full-blown artist. Her fiancé was a construction worker, which sparked the brainstorm, "Maybe you guys will flip houses together! Or maybe he'll help you build your B&B!" She loved the ideas, and I loved her confidence. She spoke like she was genuinely just deciding which she'd rather do…there was no fear of which would work out for her or which she'd be better at…just a genuine, "I'm not sure which I'd prefer." It was innate that she'd succeed at whichever she chose. I took a lot from that interaction as well. We're only as capable as we believe ourselves and allow ourselves to be.
Bob
I don't quite recall how Bob and I got to talking, but it probably started with a "Beautiful, isn't it?" comment as I was taking photos in Charleston's south end. Or knowing Bob, he might've started the conversation by saying, "See that house right there? It used to be the most popular B&B in Charleston. Owned by the governor's uncle." If memory serves, he was a fellow, native New Yorker, and an incredibly kind and intelligent individual. He was a well-traveled man who was well-versed in U.S. history and the history of my new favorite southern city. He'd been to Africa, Greece, Haiti, Ireland, and more, but we mostly talked about Charleston and its rich history.
We walked the Battery together, and Bob pointed out who bought each mansion and how much they sold for, what they've been used for, he made recommendations for places to see before I left, and interesting wartime anecdotes made their way into our conversation here and there. Bob was a fountain of knowledge. And he imparted more than I could've ever retained, but it was relaxing to hear him talk. Something about his voice and his northern accent, mixed with his old-world, gentleman style of speaking, comforted me and made me giggle to myself. Was it my openness that brought so many locals to me? Was it me who was striking up conversations with the people I met? If so, what was drawing me to them specifically? Whatever it is, from Tennessee to Florida then out to Alabama, I was meeting a lot of memorable people.
Brenda
Brenda was one of the lovely Georgians I met who was loving my mission to see all 50 states and promote lesser-known destinations. Her vibe was so "right on!" She was so supportive of my dream and so genuinely curious about what sights-less-seen I'd be seeing in her home state. When I told her about Providence Canyon State Park in Lumpkin, Georgia, she was fascinated. She'd never heard of it before, and she has family out in Columbus (near Lumpkin) that she regularly visits, so she was especially surprised to learn of its existence.
The more we spoke about it, the more it became clear that she was going to go there based on my recommendation. I love when that happens! She jotted down the name of the park and my website info in her notebook (because I'd already run out of business cards by the time I hit Georgia). And while she did that, I pulled up pictures of Providence Canyon on my phone to blow Brenda's mind. And indeed, I did. If my description hadn't had her fully sold, Google Images sure did. And then I treated myself to two pieces of jewelry at her table in the River Street Marketplace. I left Savannah with a big smile on my face that day.
Morris
I met Morris sitting beside the breakfast buffet at the Hilton Garden Inn of Jacksonville, Florida. We sat at high-top tables parallel to each other, and I'm not really sure what got us talking. I'm not even sure what really brought me to Jacksonville. I was there for one night and spent less than 24 hours in town. And the one activity I'd planned to do there was one I could have lived without. Did I just want to get a taste of what Northern Florida was like, after spending many a family vacation down in the Tampa-Orlando area? Maybe it just seemed like the best, least expensive stopping point between destinations. Or maybe, I was there to meet Morris.
Morris was an HVAC technician, a kind, gentle man who lived life the way his parents before him lived theirs, according to tradition, always playing by the rules – he described it as a sort of linear, predetermined life, but a fulfilling one for sure. And he didn't use those words – that would've been too poetic for Morris. That was the life for him, and he was totally content with that. You go to school, you work, you get married, have kids, keep working…that's life. But Morris had a son who sounded destined for no such life. Morris's son, seemed more on a zig-zag, uncharted-waters, roundabouts and rocket ships, ArcticTumbleweed kind of life's journey – that which Morris cannot relate to.
Morris opened up to me about his son once he learned that I was a writer. He spoke to me with deep worry in his eyes. His concern was for his son, who wants to be a writer, but seems to require all this alone time. "He just wants to be alone. He'll lock himself in his room and ask us not to speak to him for hours…and he's just locked in there...writing. I mean…is this healthy? Is he ok? Isn't it better for him to be out interacting and working with others? I'm so––I'm so worried about him. I don't understand." Every wrinkle in Morris's forehead told me just how truly worried he was about his son. It made my heart so heavy, but I was smiling. We fear the unfamiliar. It would've been simpler for him if his son were just like him, but maybe their differences were there to teach each other something. And maybe that's why I was there too.
He was looking to me for advice, for guidance, and I felt really lucky to be able to give that to him. "Morris, everything you're describing to me is so perfectly normal. I promise. When writers write, we do it best when we're totally alone, with no interruptions. You know how it's hard to count money when someone near you is listing other numbers out loud? It's confusing – you lose your place, you have to start over. That's kind of what it's like when writers hear words, or when someone's trying to talk to us while we write. It breaks our flow, breaks our concentration. Famous writers talk and write about this too, how interruptions and distractions are the killers of imagination."
By the time I finished my long-winded thoughts, Morris had tears in his eyes. He exhaled audibly, and he was smiling big. "Wow! You have no idea what that does for me. Wow! You really think he's…it sounds like he's ok and maybe I shouldn't be so worried. I just haven't known what to make of all this. I'm a simple man. I don't know about creative processes or arts." I told him what a great father he was to have so much love and concern in his heart for his son, but I assured him that all of these "strange" or against-the-grain behaviors he was seeing in his son were not only normal given what he wants to do, but all good signs that his son is listening to his instincts and what he needs to hone in his craft for his calling.
I told him how I do the exact same thing and how I'd write best locked away somewhere in the middle of nowhere totally out of reach. "My god! You sound just like him! He talks about wanting to be alone in the woods to just write, and I just––I just don't understand it. I'm not what you'd call––a creative type. This is all very foreign to me, very new. But maybe it's nothing to worry about after all."
We talked for a while. He asked such genuine and innocent questions that had answers that came so naturally to me. It was as though Morris had never heard of the concept of farming in his life, and I was the farmer who got to introduce him through my infinite wisdom. It was so special to hear his questions and watch my answers resonate with him.
I gave him every insight I could possibly dig out of myself to help him understand what his son was going through and how he could be supportive of his son's passion and needs to pursue that passion. It was a conversation that felt worth its weight in gold. I could tell I genuinely helped shape this man's views of his son's reality. That conversation alone was worth my 2.5-hour drive from Savannah to Jacksonville. Truly.
I gave him my information and told him to have his son reach out to me if he ever has any questions or wants to run some writing ideas by a fellow writer. And I told Morris that he and his wife were also welcome to reach out anytime if they were concerned. Morris thanked me profusely, but something in his thanks made it clear that he wouldn't need to reach out for more reassurance because I'd truly gotten through to him.
Leilani
And then there was Leilani at the Midnight Sun crafts, crystals and candles shop in a cool Jacksonville neighborhood. Last year, I got into the habit of wearing at least ten, more likely 13-14 rings on my fingers at all times, and I loved collecting more from my travels. And since this shop was named after one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes, I knew I had to stop here. And boy was I like a cat all yipped on nip from the moment I walked through the door. Emeralds and rubies and sapphires and sodalites and so much more, all sparkling in unique settings, you'd never find in Zales. They were more the kind you'd find at street fairs, Southwestern jewelry stores, or gypsy caravans. And on this particular trip, the reds were speaking to me.
Since the start of my trip, I was feeling drawn to red stones, like garnets and rubies. I remembered how a lovely woman I met back in Sedona years ago told me when I was buying a bunch of blue-green gems, that I must be needing more blues and greens in my life. And what she was referring to was what those colors represent on the Chakra chart. I'm Chakra-intrigued, but still a Chakra-newbie.
I shared this info with Leilani, who worked at Midnight Sun, and it was right up her alley. She had a ton of metaphysical knowledge to share – far more than my mind could've possibly absorbed. But I liked her way, and I was fascinated by everything she had to say. We talked art, travel, self-expression, self-care, our love of people, and the purpose we all bring to each other. We made each other laugh, and we brought more light and more color to each other's worlds on that gloomy day in the Sunshine State.
These are the kind of experiences I'm really looking forward to having again. Making memories with memorable folks from all over, taking photos of them with uncovered faces, shaking hands, sharing stories...I look to a future with those yet-to-be-made memories with much hope and optimism. We can't go back to where we were, but we can make today beautiful, and we can forecast a brighter, more united future.
