Ms Malibu and I traveled 2307.6 miles on the book tour.
“All by yourself?!” person after person exclaims.
I love traveling alone, just me and the radio and long expanses of time to think and just to be, comfortably settled into the driver’s seat, an open snack and bottle of water at my side.
GPS would make sense for me, especially given my sense of direction. If we humans come equipped with an inner compass, mine was put in backwards. My biggest navigational mistake—I made it three times on this trip—is to think I’ve gone the wrong direction and turn around and travel for a while only to discover that I’d been right in the first place.
But I’m not enamored of GPS as of yet. One reason is that I like stopping to ask for directions. I meet interesting people and pick up information about the area. Like in Kenosha, Wisconsin where I visited my high school chum (“We are the mighty Warriors, our hearts are brave and true…!”). Ms Malibu and I drove to and fro on the main drag, unable to find the right road. We stopped twice for help, the second time being informed that their signs identify roads only by number, not name. Oh. “That’s why I gave you the numbers, too,” my friend said when I finally found her. Oh. I didn’t write that part down—because I like to stop and ask for directions, I guess.
Much to my relief, there were no weather complications. I wouldn’t have intentionally planned a late Nov-early Dec. trip in snow country. The original plans were centered on a family wedding subsequently cancelled, by which time I was committed to the events. I did suffer some anticipatory anxiety, however, since I abhor driving in wintry conditions. The day before I left northeast Illinois for a five hour drive to northeast Indiana, Indiana schools were closed by ice and snow. But the toll road was clear as I sailed through the next day. How blessed I felt to enjoy the flat, white fields on either side, farms stretching into the distance, silo after ever-tinier silo—another coming home experience and time to savor the memories of my Indiana years.
Speaking of coming home experiences—NEXT: Friends and Family