The Brigadoon is a 1967 37-foot Blackwatch sloop. (Predecessor of the Tartan model, for those of you following along at home.) She came with the name, and we saw no reason to change it.
Below are some pictures of her before we started making any changes. Enjoy!
Pretty roomy, right? No table yet, that’s why, haha.
The Brigadoon technically sleeps 7, and you can see 6 of those spots from this vantage point. The lower two bunks pull out, so you don’t have to be Slender Man to sleep in them. (I hate horror movies, why do I say things like that and creep myself out? haha)
Yes, we’re making new cushions.
Here’s the view from the non-existent table, facing outside.
The most important room in the house:
Yes, the sink is also the shower. The whole head is also the shower.From left: icebox (soon to be fridge) and trash drawer, three-burner stove and oven, sink.
The 7th bunk is also the radio/navigation area, and it’s also pretty hard to access, so I’m guessing it didn’t see a lot of use as a bunk. We’re going to use it for storage.
And a few shots of the outside, because she’s so pretty.
At first blush, I assumed I was going to be too old for the
vibe. In fact, if you know me, you know I’ve always been too old for a vibe like this.
This is the hallway. Laser tag, anyone?
But, it turned out to be much more than just crazy décor.
The multilingual front desk hosts were so friendly both the guests and each
other, and their family-like attitude made for a very welcoming atmosphere.
Plus, the building itself was designed for mingling, with an open-plan
lobby/dining area (with a beer wall), and a very inviting outdoor patio.
I especially loved the little messages from the brand’s
mascots “Jo” and “Joe,” which were found everywhere and in the least likely
places (the mirror in the individual toilet stalls, the door to your room…)
…the shampoo bottles…
Of course, they made it very convenient to spend money with
them by letting you load cash onto your room key card. Classic move à la Disneyland,
which I would have appreciated more had there been in-house laundry facilities.
Did I mention the beer wall?
Dorm life was pretty cool – all the girls seemed to be pretty respectful of one another to the extent one could reasonably expect. (I’m not counting flipping the room lights on at 1 am, I might’ve done the same thing myself if I hadn’t realized THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THE TOP BUNK RIGHT NEXT TO THE LIGHT TRYING TO GET SOME SLEEP SWEET JEEZUS *ahem* sorry.)
The first night, I had just put on pajamas and debating about whether I was too tired to shower before bed, when a girl tripped into the room from the patio (like, actually fell into the room) and asked where the washroom was. My blank stare (trying to process whether she meant “restroom” or “laundry room”) resulted in her asking if I spoke English. Too tired to respond with a Monty Python-inspired “I got better!” I answered yes, and she immediately asked if I wanted to come with her see the Eiffel Tower light up with a light show at midnight. She was in town on a 24-hour layover, and this was her only chance.
Okay, true confessions: I’m in my thirties. On the one hand, I’m SO lame and want to go straight to bed after arriving in my third country that day. On the other hand… no, I still want to go straight to bed. Who wants to get dressed again, even for an opportunity like this?
Moment of truth: what choice will I make?
The stupid one, and love every minute of it!
It also turns out that UberPOOL is a great way to practice
your French with tired, annoyed French people who just want to get home and
wish the driver hadn’t picked you up too. Some are nicer than others. Others
also don’t seem to know that my comprehension of French far exceeds my limited
ability to speak it conversationally, and that I know when they are asking the driver
why he went so far off course in order to pick us up. I then got treated to the
driver defending himself and his method of making a living. They had no idea I
could even hear them, let alone understand; my new Canadian friend seemed
rather oblivious to the whole thing. So far so good.
Throughout my five nights at JO&JOE, I met quite a few
wonderful people of all ages. There was the Australian filmmaker, who’d made a
whole lot of money at once making commercials and was now on walkabout to
figure out what he wanted to do with his life next. There was the architect
from North Carolina who had been on a tour of Europe with her husband and was
doing the second half of her trip solo; she had a job waiting for her when she
got back, but was unsure whether she wanted to accept it or not. Then of
course, there was my Canadian friend from the Eiffel Tower, who was also trying
to figure out what to study when she got home… does anyone who travels
long-term have any idea what they want to do with their lives?
JO&JOE has no age limit, and retirees hung out watching
little kids toddle about. It was really precious, and I very much enjoyed
having my faith in humanity restored while having a drink in my hand.
Lovely outdoor space pic
Although there were only two other girls in my dorm the last night I was there, one of them went to sleep REALLY early (like, jet lag-early.) I felt like I couldn’t subject her to three hours straight of the enthusiastic squealing that makes up my teaching, so I opted for the balcony. Yes, the one overlooking south Paris.
I love teaching, and am so happy to continue to be able to do it as I travel. My last night in Paris, I had a pretty great view from my office.
Disclaimer: I was busy teaching and forgot to take a picture. Fortunately for me, someone took a picture of the skyline of South Paris and decided to upload it to Wikimedia Commons. Thanks, man.
Also, be sure to check out this write-up – they took much better pictures than I did, haha.
A benefit to going to Scotland when I did is that I got to be there during the Fringe festival. (I’m probably the only person in the country who went to Fringe by accident.) On the downside, I couldn’t stay anywhere near Edinburgh. I ended up in Kirkcaldy, an hour out of Edinburgh by train and bus. Oh well. It was a lovely ride, both from London to Edinburgh and from Edinburgh to God-Knows-Where. Turns out, if you have a validated Eurail pass, you can just jump on. 🙂
My dear friend Arlene Patterson and her daughter Fiona were in Edinburgh playing fiddle for the Edinburgh Tattoo. I got to have lunch with Arlene – it’s so great to catch up with friends on the other side of the world!
Note the sign behind us. I didn’t notice it until I uploaded it onto this page, haha
I was so fortunate to be able to have a lesson in person from my Skype teacher, Gregor Borland, who lives in Edinburgh. We went through the air I played for the US National Scottish Fiddle Championships, and as you can see, it was a valuable lesson. Check out the video!
Wandering around after my lesson with my fiddle on my back, I was approached by an elderly woman who insisted I come play with one of the buskers who was there for the Fringe. We played a little bit, and then my fiddle was borrowed by a young lad for a tune – it was his 21st birthday, how could I say no?
Finally, up to the Royal Mile! First stop, Whiskey Experience. Turns out the tour should be booked ahead of time (which is why I missed out on it on my last-minute adventure), but you can stagger up to the tasting table with no notice whatsoever.
People for miles! Well, for one mile!
I also loved the city’s support of street performing. It was so cool to see performers of all types, all over the place!
Well, perhaps not THE oldest…
Robert Burns in chalk!
Wheels spinning in the street, going nowhere…
These guys were awesome!
Click here for a video of these cool violinists!
All of the hubbub surrounding the Fringe made it easy to find something to do that evening, if the sheer number of choices was a bit overwhelming. I finally settled on an hour-long one-man show by someone who did a stellar impersonation of Trump -in stockings and high heels, of course (not pictured).
His hat says “Make America Gay Again”
The show could have been a spectacular 30-minute show, or even a great 45-minute show, but because it was an hour (and lagged significantly near the end), we’ll leave it as just having been “pretty good.” Spoiler: it ends with Trump pushing “the button” in front of a homemade fangirl poster of Kim Jon-un.
It was all very weird. Still, I’m glad I went, and there was plenty of time left to back to Kirkcaldy that evening.
On the flight from Iceland I had the whole row to myself. ‘Nuff said; I slept most of the flight.
I had a layover in Hamburg in the middle of the night, and a new experience for me was to take busses to and from the terminal to the planes. It was strange to actually stand on the ground next to an airplane – but none of the huge jets seemed like they were actually going to squish me, and I was too tired to care anyhow. I don’t remember anything about the flight to London; I assume I slept through it. I got maybe 4 hours of sleep, which is, naturally, devastating for me.
Just like in Iceland, I was able to take the train from the airport to my friend’s apartment. That had been the idea at least; I fell asleep on the train and missed my stop, but fortunately was able to double back and change trains at King’s Cross.
Wait, I thought; THAT King’s Cross?? I was elated; I was actually there!! I finally got into my friend’s apartment to drop off my stuff, then went back to investigate.
London has fully embraced the Potter. I contemplated standing in line for the picture, but decided to stand in line for the store instead as the wait was about an hour shorter. No sooner had I had them print my boyfriend’s Hogwarts letter (#girlfriendpoints) than they evacuated the station! They instructed us to drop our unpaid merchandise on the floor and leave immediately. I don’t have it in me to walk out without paying so I dropped it on the floor, but I bet they lost more than one stuffed Hedwig in the commotion that afternoon.
As we made our way verrrryyyyy sllloowly to the door (no one was running in a panic! I couldn’t believe it), the unconcerned, gum-popping security guard was saying “nothing dangerous, they’re just evacuating. Keep moving.” After the past couple of years of US news I can’t imagine such a thing, and my eyes darted around nervously as we shuffled toward the exit.
It was probably just a power outage that was delaying the trains, not a mass shooting or anything like that. Of course, I’m an American so I decided not to stick around for the station to reopen, and walked back. No particular pride in that; far from it. I just figured, I’m on vacation; why spend my time in London doing something that’s so commonplace at home?
I spent the next couple of days sightseeing, going to the wax museum, having lots of afternoon tea, and finally getting that pedicure.
Protip: Groupon.
I highly recommend the circular cruise on the Thames – even without a regular tour guide and only a member of the crew to show us around, it was still highly entertaining, even if the seats were wet.
They call this “London Dry.” Hmph.
Straight out the gate: “On the right, you’ll see a building that was named by Prince Charles as “The Ugliest Building in London.” And he knows a thing or two about ugly things, doesn’t he? Buildings, of course, right.”
Or in reference to one of the many glass structures that line the Thames: “Like all new buildings in London, it has a row of shops on the bottom, a fancy restaurant at the top, and unaffordable housing in the middle.”
I did manage to get a nice dramatic picture or two in, just before it rained all the way back.
Unfortunately they were doing so work on the Tower, so I wasn’t able to have any closer a look than this.
It’s either construction, or a very expensive condom campaign…
I also visited Madame Tussaud’s, and although some of the likenesses appeared not to be very alike, I was happy to get some photos with some of my favorites.
Of course, the first ad I saw after I left the museum was too perfect to ignore. I’m convinced even British humor wouldn’t have thought of this.
Note: There are penises in this one. Consider yourself warned.
Jam Session!
Just before I arrived in the country, I was invited to the Wednesday night jam session by Chris Foster of Funi. I had a great time, and was pleasantly surprised to find that I knew many of the Irish and Scandinavian tunes which were common at the session.
Icelandic Musical Instruments
Even given that they are probably related somehow, it seems unlikely that Sigrun and Chris should live on the same street. Nevertheless, I woke up Thursday morning and walked the two blocks to Chris’ place. Chris was so kind as to give me a thorough explanation of the history of the Icelandic folk music tradition, although I discovered it was largely a vocal one.
The Penis Museum
Well, come!
Left to my own devices in the afternoon, I did the responsible thing and “headed” to the penis museum. While a bit overwhelming, the Icelandic Phallological Museum has to be seen to be believed (including by the elementary-aged kids of one particularly open-minded mom.) For those with an active imagination or who would rather skip this “part,” well – just know it’s exactly what you think it is.
This part is literally just pictures. For more information, check out their website https://phallus.is/en/.
The gift shop is a lot of fun too; after such “scientific” study, it’s nice to be sure that they don’t take themselves too seriously after all.
They also have the Leaning Tower of Pisa, is case that’s a better fit.
Grocery Shopping, The Pool, and Candy Tasting
For my last day in Iceland, we went grocery shopping (stay tuned for the video), went to the pool (no video for obvious reasons), and finally, did a tasting of various Icelandic candies (stay tuned for a video of me hating licorice over and over).
I loved Iceland, and I know I’ll be back! Thanks for the memories!
Fortunately for me, Sigrun had briefly picked up a job as a tour guide when she moved back after grad school. Not only was she willing to drive me all over the place, but she filled me in on the history of her country to a level of detail I am certain I would not be able to match were I showing her around even just the San Francisco Bay Area.
Certainly in San Francisco, one would not be able to see this variety of active geological wonder in so short a timeframe, even without the traffic.
Our first stop on my own personal tour of Iceland was Kerid, the dormant volcano which is now home to a very blue lake. You can hike around the outside, or take stairs down to the edge of the lake – but if you want to fly a drone, you are out of luck.
Drones – for how long has this been a problem?
The vegetation reminds me of the plants at home. They’re very similar, but not exactly what I’m used to.
Except the dandelions. Those are the same.
Since we’d gotten off to a late start (my fault, as always), the next stop on our trip was “the tomato place” for lunch. Fridheimar is a greenhouse complex where the majority of Iceland’s tomatoes are grown. Geothermally heated water is pumped through pipes, keeping the place pleasant (if you’re a tomato) for the whole, unnaturally long growing season.
They also have some really energetic horses.
It can’t be jet lag; she doesn’t know what time it is.
There are three or four things on the menu, but you’re supposed to get the soup and bread, so we do. We also get a red tomato beer to try, and Sigrun only has one sip, because she’s driving. (Iceland has a zero-tolerance policy on driving while intoxicated.)
Over the best tomato soup of my life (sorry, Mom), Sigrun informed me that everyone Icelandic is related to each other, and they even have a “Book of Iceland” which outlines exactly how everyone is related to everyone else.
“See, the founder of Rekjavik is my 33rd great grandfather,” she began, “and my roommate is both my 8th and 9th cousin…” As my eyes began to cross, she pointed at the waiter behind us. “And that’s my cousin, too.” I turned to look and chuckle at her joke, but he smiled and waved, and Sigrun waved back. She explains he’s her first cousin, and they grew up together.
Ah. Welcome to Iceland.
I didn’t realize we actually have a word in English that comes from Icelandic! The next stop on our trip was Geysir, a now-dormant geyser that lends its name to a park full of geothermally powered spectacles. After a strong earthquake in the early 2000s it would erupt again about once a day, but it has since gone back to sleep.
Totally apart from spending time with my friend, I loved the opportunity to hear Sigrun’s stories of visiting these places as a child. Apparently her little brother, aged five or six at the time of this story, had been waiting all day to see Geysir erupt. Finally, he kicked the side of the opening with his little rubber boot in frustration, and the geyser went off less than two minutes later.
Next up, the waterfall. This is the waterfall that one of Iceland’s first environmentalists threatened to throw herself into if Iceland sold its natural resources abroad. Fortunately she didn’t have to, and Iceland considers her a hero. I can see why – who’d want to give this up?
No leprechauns, I checked. Could still be elves, though.
Our last planned stop was to go swimming at the Secret Lagoon. We thought it would be a pool heated by geothermal energy, but it was not a pool – it was a warm pond fed by hot springs. As an American, I’m used to chlorine not just in our pools, but in our public drinking water – so this was a real treat! Of course, I still overheard an American child saying “I’m getting out, the water feels yucky.” I wonder how she felt about the mandatory nude showering in the women’s locker room.
The water goes straight from the springs into the pool! Amazing! Someone would definitely pee in this in the U.S., no question.
After a visit to some more horses, we ended up at Sigrun’s family’s house for a traditional Icelandic dinner: lamb, potatoes, and some type of leafy green. Of course, there was ice cream for dessert (which Icelanders apparently enjoy no matter how cold or dark it is.)
Iceland smells different. I grew up by the coast so I’m familiar with the scents of land meeting the sea, but this is a little bit exotic; the air seems heavier, with a richer mineral content.
Iceland’s tourist industry appears to be alive and well. It makes sense to capitalize on their prime location between Europe and North America, and they are really going for it. All the signs in the airport are bilingual, and the bus from the airport will not only take you straight to your hotel (after the 40-minute drive into town), but will happily drop you straight off at any of a number of tourist destinations instead.
The geology and plant life are fascinating, even out the window at 60 kilometers an hour on the bus. The environment contains elements I’ve experienced before, but never in a combination like this. Dense lichen and moss cover an alien landscape of igneous rock mounds that punctuate a prairie of short, soft grasses and dainty purple flowers, with cinder cone volcanoes dominating the skyline. We passed several stands of miniature conifers, which in North America would clearly be a Christmas tree farm. All this within view of the ocean. It’s at once magnificent and confusing, and I love it.
Botany at 40 km/hour
As we get closer to downtown, however, I am less impressed; I didn’t travel all the way here to see Taco Bell, KFC and Domino’s marring the view. Although I know I shouldn’t worry, as this part of the world has iffy food of their own, I have to cringe again when I think of all the other awful U.S. cultural exports that aren’t viewable from the road. (See reality TV or any current political programming for more details.)
After failing to get a pedicure at the Minneapolis airport despite a 6-hour layover, I thought I’d look into getting one done in Iceland. A preliminary search showed several options within walking distance, including three that were open even though I managed to arrive on Icelandic Labor Day. Now, I’m not very experienced in exchanging foreign currency, but I get the idea (not to mention Google can tell you any current exchange rate in real time). The prices listed were so outrageous that I had to ask Sigrun to verify, thinking I’d done it wrong somehow. No such luck, and I wasn’t about to spend $90 on a pedicure. According to Sigrun, “everything in Iceland is expensive.” Borrowed nail clippers for me, please.
Fortunately, I was able to take the same bus all the way from the airport to “Tales of Iceland,” which is now my Number One Recommended Stop for first-time visitors to the country. The small storefront opens up (abruptly – watch your step) to a rather large room filled with TVs and mismatched couches. Pass the obligatory gift shop on the left to the counter, where you can gain access to a locker (a big plus if you’re coming directly from the airport), as well as catch a glimpse of their local sense of humor.
They are the center of the map, after all.
An interactive love letter to the country, the exhibit consists of sixteen four-minute videos about Iceland, synchronized so that you have 20 seconds to move between videos. On the bottom floor, watch mini-documentaries about the arts, culture and sports of Iceland (did you know that one in 10 Icelanders has published a book? Or that the country has no mosquitoes?), as well as a few little video travelogues in which foreigners document their experience in the country from their unique perspectives. The top floor is full of “Iceland in the News,” each one covering the basics of the country with video footage from the era; topics include volcanic activity, naming conventions, the Cod Wars (s&*k it, Britain), and pop culture (“More than Bjork, Parts 1 and 2”).
Good to know, thanks Coat Room!
In addition to the videos, there are several interactive media opportunities. One is an augmented reality look at Iceland’s thirteen Santa Clauses (none as awful as the Krampus, but still not the jolly fellow of my childhood photo ops). Another is a virtual video experience where you can fly over the country’s breathtaking scenery with a 360 degree view. Finally, there’s a choose-your-own-adventure-background photo booth, where you can pose with a variety of “Viking” props, including a life-sized stuffed sheep on wheels.
Math says it takes just over an hour to complete all the videos, but you can stay as long as you like. Many I found I wanted to watch again, as they were so densely packed with information that I wanted another crack at absorbing it. Thanks to the fascinating content, free WiFi and included snacks and beverages you can take around both floors with you, I happily whiled away close to three hours waiting for Sigrun to return from tour.
It was around the eighth or ninth sheep selfie that Sigrun messaged me to let me know she was home.
Protip: watch your step on the way out, too. Thanks to jet lag (admittedly debatable but I’ll play the card), I tripped in the doorway in both directions.
My boyfriend refers to sleeping as my “superpower,” and once Sigrun and I got settled in and adequately caught up at around 4 pm (sorry, 16:00), I made good use of the rest of the day, and night, and much of the next morning by exercising it.
There’s something oddly comforting about your computer remembering the WiFi network in a place you haven’t been for a while.
It’s been over a year since I was last at the Minneapolis Airport (for a marathon weekend of a Suzuki Conference followed by a friend’s wedding), but my trusty little laptop was on the job. I love knowing that although so much has changed in the past year, this one little thing is still the same. Feeling grounded at the airport isn’t always a bad thing. #dadjoke
I’d spent the previous week subbing in the house band at the Scottish Country Dance Teachers’ Association of Canada summer school, playing more cello than I ever had in my life, and falling in love with playing something other than fiddle in a fiddle band. Don’t get me wrong; fiddle is my first love, but it’s pretty great not to have to be the musical face of the ensemble for once.
For the record, I also got roped into playing oboe and musical saw. (Read: an instrument I played for about three years in high school, and an “instrument” pulled off the wall of a local’s garage. You guess which is which, ha!) No, there are not going to be videos available. But do check out my first attempted fiddlecam video on the lovely Mount Royal campus!
I taught a few music classes – fiddle, sure, but guys – I actually taught a piano class twice! Think about it – that means they actually let me come back a second time – but largely the week consisted of playing for lots and lots of dance classes. By the end of the week I may have finally gotten the hang of playing cello for the Strathspey, a type of dance and tune unique to Scotland (just in time to leave, ain’t that always the way?). But the highlight of the week, of course, was playing with the full band for the evening dances.
Playing with Reel of Seven is a lot of fun! I’d missed playing with a drummer, and Gary is one of the better folk drummers you can work with. You can’t beat four strong fiddles, each with their own unique background and set of strengths, and Sherryl’s recorder sits nicely on top. Andy is a solid pianist and a good bandleader; he knows what he’s doing and he’s not afraid to apologize when he’s messed up. They even get along well enough to have a band-only party one evening, and everyone seems to actually want to be there (at least enough to work together to sneak extra cookies and pizza from the dining hall for the occasion). A bar set this low may sound like a joke to the uninitiated, but trust me: a long-running ensemble made up of genuine friends is, sadly, not the norm in my experience. All in all, it’s a good situation musically and personally.
But wait, wasn’t that eight people in Reel of Seven?
Waiting afterwards at the Calgary airport, I had nearly dozed off when a dancer on my flight approached me. We had been at TAC together all week, but had never been introduced; she recognized me from the band (and I’m sure the fiddle case I had with me helped). Despite copious airport warnings not to watch luggage for strangers, she agreed to keep an eye on my stuff while I ran some errands.
We weren’t seated together, but once we reached Minneapolis we became fast friends. We spent her three-hour layover having a late lunch, introducing her to the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, and bitching about the state of the world. We’re now Facebook friends.
Once her plane took off, I tried unsuccessfully to get a pedicure (one location was closed and the other was booked up), and then spent the rest of my six-hour layover at the bar, nursing a scotch and troubleshooting the code for this website. (Please pardon the dust – who knew a blog had a higher technical barrier to entry than a YouTube channel? Well, I suppose anyone who’s browsed YouTube for five seconds might have suspected as much, silly me…)
My section of the international terminal was filled with iPads from which you could order food and drink from the restaurant nearby.
The upside: less human interaction, when all you want to do is sleep.
The downside: no one to ask about your onion allergy.
Oh well, at least the presentation was amusing.
You see it too, right?
Time to settle in for my first Transatlantic flight!
It was a humbling experience, after a decade of living on my own, to find myself back in my childhood room. It was clear that it wasn’t just time that had passed – the room that had once been full of my junk was now crammed to the gills with the last crap and testament of nearly half a dozen of my deceased relatives. Fortunately the relatives themselves have all been laid to rest, as my allergies seem to be worsening as I get older.
How a musician packs to travel cross-country
Of course I’d always had the choice not to move back in; I’d had a secure, well-paying job teaching public school music in Colorado Springs. From the outside it appeared that I was pretty well set up ($40K a year will get you pretty far in most of the country) until a combination of burnout, a bad breakup, and my grandpa’s steep decline sent my mom and me hobbling across the Nevada desert in my $1500 overheating-prone Subaru towards home.
*****
Then: my grandparents bought the house I was raised in for $13,000 in 1963.
Now: Today, Zillow prices the house at over half a million dollars. The only thing that has changed about the house itself is that it’s 56 years older.
*****
Thanks to my choice of career (i.e. anything other than tech), living even in a remote corner of the East Bay with several roommates tricky to pull off, and impossible to do so without a job already lined up.
I graduated from college in 2009, when no one was hiring. Most of my high school friends chose to stay in the Bay Area and tech it out, achieving widely varying levels of success. One has bought a house, others are employees at Google, Craigslist and OpenTable. Others are flailing, some even adding to their student loan debt by going back to school, hoping for a better job that will simply allow them to continue to live in the area where they were born and raised. All but one of my high school friends have chosen to put off having kids for the foreseeable future. My graduating classmates and I are 32 years old this year.
There are things to love about the Bay Area, of course
I thought I’d never move back; but here I am, and I’m getting ready to leave again. I’m grateful for this precious time spent at home; I’ve been able to reconnect with my family in a way you can only do as an adult, after years away. It’s because of this, coupled with watching my grandparents age and pass on, that I’ve begun to see my parents in a new light. I now really understand that my parents will not be around forever, and I am grateful for this time spent with them while they still have their faculties.
A benefit to moving back was that I’ve also met the man with whom I’m hoping to spend the rest of my life. He’s the sailor (don’t worry, I’ve taken a few classes) and although this started out as his life’s dream, it’s now our life’s plan. +1 Commitment.
As this brief chapter of my life comes to a close, I tie up what loose ends I can. I scramble madly to finish recording my first-ever solo CD. I madly line up appointments, dental visits and travel vaccinations before my work benefits run out and doing so becomes much more expensive. And, I say goodbye to my grandfather for what turned out to be the last time. Life is long, but life is also short.
Now, tethered to my family only by their Netflix account,I prepare for several years of long-term travel. It is honest-to-goodness cheaper than living here in the Bay Area. What adventures await me? Stay tuned.
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