Category: Unsolicited Advice

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Some people have asked if I get lonely on the road. Not very often; I like to spend time alone. Of course, it helps that I can stay in touch with people so easily through emails, texts, and phone calls. But once in a while I do get lonely.

A movie theatre advertised a funny old movie I had watched with my brother, and I thought that if we were in the same area, we might go see it again and laugh. Then we have family traditions, like going to the botanic garden around Father’s Day or my dad’s birthday, and I missed them both. Some weekends I’ll be in areas with cute little shops and see pairs of women, and I’ll hear, “Mom, look at this!”  “Mom!” “Hey, Mom,” and I’ll think, Ohh! I want to be here with my mom! At least I still have the option.  

Another time, I went to a baseball game in West Virginia. I’ve never been into team sports, so I thought I should attend a sporting event just to see what I’ve been missing. The capitol city was scheduled to host a minor league baseball game the night I’d be driving through, so I decided to go. That night also happened to be their weekly Take Your Dog to the Park Night, a novelty designed to generate public interest.  

I naively assumed that people who attended baseball games were baseball fans. What I discovered was that hardly anyone in the stands paid attention to the game. Kids ran wild through empty rows, slid down handrails, and badgered their parents for concession stand money. High schoolers met up with friends, ate nachos, and chatted, never glancing at the field. Couples ordered beers and talked with other couples. Some people texted nonstop. Then there were those who brought their dogs, making sure their dogs were fed, watered, exercised, relieved, and petted, while throwing out compliments and questions to other pet owners.  

A major league game might be different. This ballpark seemed to be purely a hangout venue, and I was there alone. I could have talked to other people sitting in the stands. I could have talked to the players or the employees. I could have talked to dog owners about their animals. But I didn’t.  

Another activity I had wanted to try was cheering insanely at a sporting event. Here was my chance to try two new things at once! In reality, since hardly anyone was watching the game, there wasn’t a whole lot of clapping to begin with, let alone the roaring crowds heard at major league playoffs.  

I started out by politely clapping for the home team when they made a play. But I thought it was cool when anyone made a good play, no matter what team they were on. For a little while, I clapped for both teams. Even though the audience seemed lukewarm, I remembered how insane fans can get, covered in body paint and team logos, and I didn’t want to get beat up for clapping for the wrong side. It felt strange only clapping for one team, though. It’s not like I had anything against the visiting team. Why shouldn’t I show appreciation for their effort, too? Plus, I didn’t live around there, so I didn’t know the home team, and I didn’t have any allegiance with them. Unfortunately, with all the rationale, by the end of the game, I wasn’t clapping for either team, even though that felt just as awkward. And I realized how ridiculous I was, sitting there alone, reasoning out why I should or shouldn’t clap, knowing that no one else would have cared either way, and even if they did, why should that have stopped me? Meanwhile, the rest of the ballpark was enjoying spending time with their friends, both human and canine.  

I could have cheered, no matter who else was or wasn’t cheering, no matter what team made a good play. I could have started a trend! But I didn’t. It was too out of character.  

My feeling about going to a game alone was that my time would be better spent elsewhere. But I was glad I went so that I knew I wasn’t missing anything.  If a friend ever wants to meet up at a game, I suppose it’s as good a place as a coffee shop or a city park.

I think what I really hope to be better at is cheering on other people in life, not just professional athletes at a sporting event, and there doesn’t need to be any insane yelling involved to accomplish that.

You’re No Fun

My first grade teacher handed out award certificates when he saw behavior in the classroom worth encouraging. I got an award ‘because you enjoyed yourself!’ It’s hard to imagine that this happened so rarely that he felt the need to reward me for it, but apparently that may have been the case.

In the same vein, you may have noticed that there was no mention of ‘fun’ as one of the reasons for my taking this trip.  

I’m sure people mean well with parting words of ‘Have fun!’ If the tables were turned and someone else were travelling, I would probably say the same thing. But I think fun is more appropriate as a by-product than a goal. My internal reaction to the question “Are you having fun?” is, Who cares?  

It reminds me of people saying that when they grow up, they want to be happy. As charming as that sounds, it’s unrelatable. When hearing this, I would think, It was never the job of a writer to be happy. My job is to be present.  

“Fun” is not the word I would use to describe climbing a 100-foot-tall fire tower, standing outside in 20-degree weather waiting for sunrise, looking into the chilling eye of an alligator, or visiting the Holocaust Museum. However, that doesn’t mean those activities weren’t worthwhile.  

“Safe travels” seems to be the preferred goodbye between travellers; it allows for complexity in the experience. For variety, we need more phrases that convey, “I hope you don’t die, but if you do, I hope it’s while you’re doing something amazing.” 

The Purpose

People have asked about the motivation for my road trip, the purpose, and whether it’s everything I thought it would be. I didn’t know what to expect; there were so many unknowns.

As far as the purpose, on one hand, the only reason I took to the road was to do something that I had a desire to do.  

On the other hand, there are lots of reasons for a cross-country road trip: to change, for adventure, to explore, to see what’s out there (and what isn’t, but should be), to expose myself to different lifestyle and viewpoints, to expand my worldview, to learn, to try new things, to challenge myself, to grow, to live more fully, to follow my intuition, to open myself to opportunity, to live more spontaneously, and to create a pivot point, to take a chance.  

I bet that after this, after seeing the results of taking this one chance, I will be more inclined to take other chances.

Am I getting out of the trip what I hoped to get out of it? It’s more a matter of whether I’m putting in what I hoped to put in. I’m getting better.  

The Other End of the Spectrum

I’d asked myself what I’d do with one year left to live, but I should have also asked what I’d do with 70 more years to live. Not everything can be accomplished in one year. Learning to play the violin at the level of the Boston Philharmonic probably takes some time.

I wish I had started earlier. I should have chosen goals with varying timelines and worked toward them simultaneously.   

It’s become a new game. Subtract your age from a hundred (or, if you’re really ambitious, 120). Think of the social movements you could lead or be involved in, the skills you could master, the experiences you could have, the ideas you could come up with, the wisdom you could gain and pass along in that amount of time. It’s amazing.  

I’ve wasted the last twenty-five years. I can’t go back in time, but I can make sure I don’t waste the next twenty-five.  

The Catalyst

One of the classic questions to ask yourself when trying to figure out what to do with your life is What would you do if you had a year to live? 

I don’t remember where or when I first heard this idea, but every now and then the question would resurface, and I always had the same answer: I’d go on a huge road trip all over the country.  

This went on for years- possibly even decades- until last summer. Nothing special happened. Nobody died. I didn’t hear a story that made a huge spiritual impact. I was sitting in my car at a red light and the question came to mind again, along with the same answer. I thought, Is that what it’s going to take? Do you actually have to get diagnosed with a terminal illness before you start doing what you really want to do? Is that what you want to happen? Of course my answer was No!!!!!!  

We’ve probably all heard stories about people who planned to travel the world when they retired, only to die young and never live out those dreams. Why wait? Why wait to visit state parks with phenomenal hiking trails until I’m 97 and in a wheelchair? There was nothing stopping me except my own fear and laziness.  

That day, I stopped thinking of a road trip in terms of some far-off fantasy and started asking How can I make this happen (now)? I started to think about the road trip as inevitable; I just had to come up with the logistics. 

I brainstormed. Hotels, an RV, couchsurfing, bicycling, a travel trailer, backpacking, a van, cheap motels, tent camping, a tiny house, hostels, a pickup truck with a cap, volunteer vacations, travel for a cause and find a sponsor… I researched, weighed the pros, cons, and realism of each option, test drove a few larger vehicles, and even tried sleeping in my sedan three different nights. In the end, I bought a tent for the price of a one-night stay in a cheap motel. That tangible step became the first flake in a snowball that rolled onto the highway.  

The Birth of Panic

I’m afraid of alligators. A couple months ago, I went to an alligator farm. Beside a pool crammed with alligators, a sign read, “Alligators don’t eat people, crocodiles do.” So now I’m afraid of alligators and crocodiles.

Speaking of fears, I had a panic attack once. 

In my 20s, I developed a vague fear of hospitals and anything medical. I’m not sure why. It wasn’t enough to stop me from driving someone to a doctor’s appointment, but I didn’t like being there. Around the same time, TV became flooded with reality shows about doctors performing surgery, women giving birth, dogs having surgery, and fictional dramas set in the hospital. Any time I saw scrubs, I’d change the channel.  

One summer, I was taking an Intro to Psychology class. We were studying the growth of the fetus. Our teacher told us that she had a video for us to watch that showed a birth. She gave us an out: anyone with a weak stomach could sit in the hall. I didn’t like the idea of watching the video, but I also didn’t like the idea of quitting before I even started. It’s not gonna kill you, I told myself. Suck it up.  

The video chronicled four women from the time they checked into the hospital with contractions until their babies were swaddled. Watching these women as the dealt with contractions, I felt uncomfortable and mildly queasy. But the worst part was the epidural. The camera showed closeups of the women’s faces while they endured the injection. Even though they tried to be brave, through fleeting moments of terror in their facial expressions and the wiping away of tears, you could see how much pain they were in. At this point, I felt like I might actually throw up. I wanted to stand up and walk to the bathroom, but I didn’t feel like my legs could support me. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t try, because a minute later, all of my muscles started shaking, like a muscle spasm all through my arms and legs. I didn’t know what to do, so I slowly folded my arms across the desk and gently laid my head down. Then I blacked out.  

When I regained some consciousness, I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything- I only heard babies crying. I’m not sure how long I was out, but in the video, all of the babies had been born. The next thing I was aware of, my body jerked upright. I had been falling backward in my chair and instinctively caught myself before I fell out. That snapped me back into full consciousness.

Soon, the video was over. The teacher let us take a break, so most people trickled out of the room. “What did you think?” she asked the few of us remaining. I let other people answer first. Then, I planned to tell her, “It was so weird! I passed out!” but right when I started talking, I started totally crying. It was really embarrassing, in addition to the shock of it happening unexpectedly.  

After class, I wasn’t sure how well I could drive, but it was a short trip, and I made it home. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I could feel adrenaline rushing through my veins, my nerves going haywire. I would suddenly start sobbing for no reason. I felt possessed, like someone very unstable had inhabited my body. This went on for two days, until I returned to normal. I’ve never experienced anything like it before or since.  

If a person had one of these attacks every day- not to mention multiple times a day- it seems like they would never get a chance to recover. I can’t imagine trying to go about an average day at school or work with those symptoms, not knowing when you might burst into tears. The constant adrenaline rush alone felt like a highway to burnout; I don’t think the body can sustain that level of intensity long-term. The experience gave me a lot of sympathy for people who regularly suffer from panic attacks. It’s also a good reminder that you never know what someone else is going through when they don’t say hi or they commit some other petty social offense. When I think of this event, I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt.

My fear of hospitals seems to have faded in recent years. Not wanting to take chances, though, I’d still change the channel if I saw scrubs on TV. I guess what I have now is a fear of a fear of hospitals.  

A Different World

Second through fourth grade, I went to school with a girl named Winnie. Both of Winnie’s parents were doctors. One year, they had gone on vacation to Austria or Switzerland or some other European destination, and they’d brought Winnie back a pair of blonde yak hair boots. That winter, you could tell where Winnie had walked each day by following the trail of pale yak hairs down the school’s carpeted hallway.  

I was invited to sleep over at her house once. Her mom had told my mom to pack a dress for dinner and a swimsuit. Dressing up to eat dinner was a foreign concept to me. I’d packed a bright pink floral sundress with ruffles, which seemed naïve and garish next to Winnie’s closetful of velvet and satin gowns.  

The night of the sleepover, Winnie had a loose tooth. We were taken to a crowded restaurant with crisp white tablecloths and candles on each table. Winnie ordered French onion soup. Since the soup comes with a layer of melted cheese over the top, her first spoonful was pure cheese. She bit into it, and her tooth fell out. I guess she lost her appetite, ‘cause she didn’t try to eat any of her dinner after that. It seemed like such a waste- the special outfit, the expensive meal, all for nothing because of a tooth.  

Winnie didn’t place the tooth under her pillow. She owned a small, decorative pillow with a tiny pocket sewn on the front expressly for this purpose. I bitterly guessed that, in the morning, her tooth would be replaced by bills, not coins. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember what she found in the pocket.  

One room of their house was devoted to a hot tub, with curved glass walls, a glass ceiling, tile floors, a round sunken tub, and underwater lights. We played in the hot tub with plastic toys like My Little Pony until bedtime.  

In the morning, breakfast was a selection of junk food cereals. I couldn’t believe, with both of her parents being doctors, that they allowed her to eat cereal loaded with sugar and every food coloring approved by the FDA. My parents didn’t even buy that kind of cereal.  

Before we left the house, Winnie got called into the bathroom, where she seemed resigned to stand in front of the mirror while her mom brushed and styled Winnie’s hair with a curling iron and hairspray. At the time, I wondered if she realized how extravagant it was, having someone else do your hair for you. I even fantasized that when Winnie’s turn was over, her mom would ask me if I wanted my hair curled, too. (That didn’t happen.) It didn’t occur to me until years later that Winnie might resent being primped and dressed to the nines before stepping out in public, whether she felt like it or not.  

I felt kind of sorry for her. It didn’t seem like she got to invite friends over very often, on account of her parents’ work schedules.  

Thinking about the situation now, I’m sorry for my own attitude. There I was, observing this family like aliens and judging them because of their income level. What did they ever do to me, besides take me out to dinner, let me lounge in their hot tub, feed me breakfast, and give me a ride home?  

My Own Private Cinematic Experience

When I was a teenager, I watched the movie My Own Private Idaho several times. [It’s not for everyone.] I had a little crush on River Phoenix. About ten years later, I was living in Portland, Oregon, where parts of the movie had been filmed. I lived about a block away from two different movie theatres. Gus Van Sant, a Portland resident and the director of My Own Private Idaho, was releasing a new film. To celebrate, several theatres around the city were holding special showings of his earlier works. One of the theatres right near me was going to show My Own Private Idaho. I decided to go, partly for nostalgia, partly to see what I thought of the movie now that I was older, and partly to see if living in Portland would alter my perception of the story or the viewing experience.  

The movie started, and River Phoenix was in the first scene. Horrified, I realized, Oh my God! Do you know who he looks like? He kind of looks like…my brother. Back in the day, I hadn’t noticed. But apart from the initial gross-out factor, this had an even bigger effect later.  

In the movie, Keanu Reeves plays a young man from a rich family, while River Phoenix plays a homeless youth. The two are friends until Keanu Reeves returns to his roots. A scene near the end of the movie shows Keanu Reeves in an expensive suit, riding in the back of a limousine that is passing by River Phoenix, who is sleeping on a sidewalk. I recognized the sidewalk and the general area. I had gone to an employment center there when I was job hunting. It truly was the Bad Part of Town. The area had a sketchy vibe and reeked of urine. It’s a place I wouldn’t want to walk in after dark. So, being familiar with the area pictured in the scene, and River Phoenix looking like my brother, There was my brother sleeping on the street in the ghetto. It was really unsettling. It’s probably not an effect Gus Van Sant intended, and it’s not a reaction every viewer would experience.  

For a while afterward, it made me more compassionate toward any down-and-out person I encountered on the street, thinking, That could be my brother.  

Unfortunately, like so many other good intentions, the effect wore off with exposure and time.

Adventure on the Rocks

On another meetup in Wisconsin, my mom and I hiked a trail that led to a waterfall. The trail crisscrossed a river a few times, which led us to snake across by stepping on precariously balanced stones protruding from the water. I made it to the end, and as I turned to start the trek back, I slipped on a wet rock. When I fell, my face hit another rock, busting the skin near my eyebrow. Another hiker happened to see the fall and was luckily carrying a bandage. My mom did a good job of matching up both sides of the cut so that it healed fairly smoothly. I guess that’s when you know you’ve had a real adventure: when you have the scars to prove it.  

The worst part was that the waterfall was about two and a half feet tall and not worth the drama.  

Nowadays, I select shoes based heavily on the non-slip quality of their soles. Also, in times of stress, it helps to frame whatever I’m experiencing as an adventure.  

Enjoy Your Stay!

Some people really know how to camp. I’ve seen groups cart in bicycles, 4x4s, kayaks, canoes, inflatable pool rafts, fishing poles, lawn chairs, hammocks, coolers, a baseball and catcher’s mitt, corn hole boards and bags, plastic buckets and trowels for the beach- any toy, tool, or contraption that can be used outdoors. They grill a feast, light a bonfire, roast marshmallows, wear glow sticks after dark, and blast the radio… seemingly unconcerned with whether or not everyone else in the park wants to hear it.  

I’m amazed at behavior I see in campgrounds. Some people act as if there is a fence surrounding their campsite and they are no longer in public. As if the rest of us can’t hear what’s said through a thin sheet of nylon and netting. Part of me admires their authenticity, and another part cringes. Out here, I get a glimpse- or, in some case, an hours-long dramatic production- of what I assume normally happens behind closed doors. I find out which parents smack their children, who deliberately belittles and insults others, which kids run wild without discipline, who engages in shouting matches, and which rare families spend time peacefully playing frisbee together. I also realize that the reason I’m free from any of these particular judgements is because I’m camping alone.