It’s funny how travel works, the way one trip invariably sprouts into three: the planning, the experience, and the memory. How the experience may exactly match, or wildly differ from, the expectations. How memory tends to polish up the good bits and scrap off the bad.

We’ve posted up for a month in Fredricksburg, Texas. It’s a pause, a chance to refuel, a time to ruminate on the last few weeks, and to analyze (and fiddle with) the future. Yesterday, the prevailing theme was panic: Two weeks down. Twenty six to go. What the hell was I thinking? 

Pat asked me what was wrong. “I miss my routine,” I told him, “coffee with my friends.”

Never one to pull out of a good death spiral, I proceeded to miss the new bookstore recently opened in Charlottesville, my barista, the farmer who raises our meat.

Pat said, “Don’t worry. I’m excited. It’s gonna be great.”

I didn’t see this coming. Pat advocating for more travel while I mentally pack the car and head home. But of course for the moment, this is our only home.

Today dawned brighter (metaphorically at least). Fredericksburg is a charmer. I nailed my coffee shop on the first try—the trifecta of friendly people, great espresso, and fabulously unhealthy food. The house we are renting is cozy. Our daughter and her dog ventured over from Austin for a night.

Come March 30th, we’ll move on. 

Our two sons picked the major stops while I knit in the connections. From here the boys picked Marfa, Texas; Silver City, New Mexico; Bisbee, Arizona; and Flagstaff. The only town on this segment that I’d heard of is Flagstaff. I’ve added Marathon, Terlingua, and Big Bend National Park—all in Texas.

Let’s put a pin here while I replan our route through Utah and Colorado. After all, I love the planning part, and hence the fiddling never ends.

As I reflect on the last two weeks, I realize how selective my memory is. It’s like there’s a control center in my brain, seemingly parsing memories to its own volition, choosing what gets filed and what gets discarded. It amazes me how some memories, no matter how special they felt in the moment, simply fall away.

Two places in particular have taken root in my mind. It happens both are cities our sons chose.

First, Greenville, South Carolina. To me this was a ho-hum choice and consequently received essentially no planning. Fortunately, a commenter on my last post told us to go to the Upcountry Museum and Biscuit Head (Thanks! We did!!—although we replaced Biscuit Head with Biscuit Barn). Our bookstore friend told us to visit his alma mater, Furman University (We did that too). Our urban planner son, Mike, had selected Greenville and told us to walk the Swamp Rabbit Trail. (Done)

Let me say now: All hail the urban planners. Greenville exists as a testament to their work. It’s not surprising that our son, who focuses on walkability, had chosen it. I’ve never been more acutely aware of the importance of the work that he does.

Twenty years ago, a highway bridge was torn down to reveal the waterfall hidden beneath, the adjacent park was developed, the Swamp Rabbit trail—which we walked for the seven miles stretch from Furman University back to downtown—was constructed.

Locals described the abandoned downtown, as a ghost town. Twenty years ago, the abandoned brick textile warehouses of the 1800s began their transformation into a plethoria of restaurants, shops, and coffee houses. Although I was totally unaware of what was happening in Greenville, it is a destination city—particularly with people from the southeast.

The cherry on top of our time there was seeing our friends who traveled down from Charlotte for dinner and brunch (thanks again Mary and Bill!).

We left Greenville euphoric, excited to attack this trip, believing that maybe I should always let others pick our major stops.

And yet, the next city, chosen by our more freewheeling son, Ryan, was one I had dreaded—New Orleans. It is a city I’ve visited a few times with mixed results, a place I wasn’t thrilled to enter by car and to deal with parking. Right up until departure day, I considered cancelling it, but we’d made a deal: Our sons pick 20 cities, and we visit them. Period. 

Besides, I wasn’t yet ready to surrender to those nagging concerns which only seem to mushroom with the years.

So I planned New Orleans to be as pain free as possible. I found an apartment in the Lower Garden District—far enough from the French Quarter to be tolerable, decidedly less fancy (and less expensive) than the adjacent Garden District.

I read every Airbnb review searching for any cautionary tale of crime: theft, assault, rampant littering. I’m generally not paranoid, but Ryan reminded me that on his first visit to New Orleans he was awakened at two AM by a stranger sitting in the bedroom of his Airbnb. (And still you picked this??)

When the day of reckoning arrived, we gingerly navigated into the bowels of the city, Pat driving as I called out the directions. We found our place; he secured a perfect parking spot right in front of the house. “If we can survive the next 72 hours, we’re home free.”

I never saw this coming …

All hail the free wheelers! Sometimes you need a nudge to break through your self-imposed constraints

New Orleans was the highlight of our first two weeks. Our neighborhood reminded me of where we lived in Paris: Friendly locals, simple restaurants with good food, adorable servers. There was no evidence of the reputed underbelly—drunks, strippers, and those pesky guys who insistently wash your windshield at red lights.

We settled in, went to the World War 2 Museum (incredible), walked the French Quarter (a bit much) and the Garden District (beautiful). Come dinner time, we returned home every night and ate at the corner restaurant.

The first night everyone was friendly and the food was good. The second night, the hostess said, “Welcome back.” Friends stopped to greet other friends at nearby tables. Couples ordered the usual. It was a neighborhood vibe, and I loved it.

The last night, the hostess asked if we’d like our usual table. Over dinner, Pat said, “I really think I could live here.” I laughed because Pat says that a lot.

The older I get, the more content I am to stumble upon tiny treasures, to chat with locals, to feel a connectedness—however brief. Perhaps that’s the lifecycle of travel, a consequence of aging. If so, I’ll gladly accept it.

As I reflect on those memories filed over the last two weeks, I think about an unsuspectedly incredible city. Welcoming people. Meals shared with good friends. Meals shared surrounded by strangers masquerading as our good friends. A barista so very intent on pleasing me. A feeling that I’m home, even when I’m not. 

After all the chaff is washed away, this is the gold that remains.

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Random pics:

Categories: Ruminations, The United States

Tags: nomadic retirement, the world inbetween, United States roadtrips, Unusual retirement options