Let me tell you the whole story.
I decided to go west. Nowhere in particular. And once I got there I would force myself upon old friend's sofas and do WorkAway programs while looking for something somewhat productive to do out there. Done. Decided.
BUT I didn't want to drive out there by myself. The stretch from Tennessee to Colorado intimidates me. I'm gonna have to stop in there somewhere. What's in there? What if the only place to stop for gas is a rundown biker bar and the door swings open to reveal me, a lone giggler amongst thousands of pounds of tattooed flesh. "Do you serve sparkling water?" I'd ask, perched delicately atop a sticky vinyl barstool. "With a lime, please." I'd add, smiling politely at the droopy-eyed patrons rubbing chalk on their pool-cues, the cavernous roadhouse reeking of stale beer.
So, I started my search for a co-pilot and I found almost no one. Trouble with kids my age, they either have real jobs or they're flighty. "Sure, I'll go!" they all say at first. But when you ask for a date and tell them that all their things must fit inside my trusty 4Runner, they don't say much at all.
So I forced Omar to forgo his flight to Portland at the end of the month in favor of riding out there with me. He had almost no reaction to this but politely agreed after a few days.
Just two days later Mattie arrived back in the States from Spain and I called to hear all about it. "I've got three week to kill before I go to Greece." Mattie told me, "I'll ride out there with you." And just like that we started scheming. Now Omar is off the hook, though I have been instructed to drop off his golf clubs in Portland.
Mattie will be here next week to map out a route and help contact all of our available sofas, I mean, friends. As of this moment, we're planning to leave the first week of June.
I'm not ready.
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