While our adventure was filled with endless unknown cities and situations, it was the return home that perplexed me most. Returning home was, in a weird way, an anxiously anticipated mystery. It was the move I felt the least sure about, flooded with mixed emotions...
If you looked up the "Top 10 Things To Do" in Nashville, TN, I would safely bet that we missed most everything on the list...
We had done a terrible job of eating whatever food a city was famous for while we were actually still in said city. By the time we hit St. Louis we had only one solid week of the trip left and were determined to make up for that.
As we approached the famed snow-sliding slopes of Vail, CO we were reminded of a trip we planned last winter that never came to be.
The first iteration of this trip, albeit a slightly altered version, was to load up our boards and drive to the mountains of Colorado for a couple weeks of fun in the snow. We planned to hit as many States and sites as we could on our way to and from the Rockies.
Other than the fact that it has a cool, Western mountain town-sounding name, I knew next to nothing about Grand Junction, CO.
We hit the road early the next morning from our overnight stay in Mesa Verde, AZ. The drive would be 8 hours without stops, one of our lengthiest.
Knowing we'd be met at the end of the day's miles with our longest stay of the trip, we agreed to pack in as much sightseeing as possible and set off!
Finally, the long anticipated Q&A with our favorite good-looking, super popular, world-famous, seriously humble, traveling duo formerly known as Tamara & Zan. My friends, I give you, Demanding Art...
I kind of think a better title for this post would be "Wherever You Go, There You Are" or something of that nature...
Whether you attribute the idea to Buddhist philosophy or an excerpt from a Steven King novel, the sentiment becomes clearer to me each time we travel. Within this simple trope, I collide with the best and worst parts of myself and, consequently, my relationship to Zan.
I suppose there's a certain point in every trip like this where you learn to make peace with the fact that it’s impossible to express the beauty of every magical moment.
No matter how many hours we spend capturing images and weaving tales, somehow we know that much of it will inevitably escape the telling.
We arrived in Sausalito just before the sun started to set and were met by our host, Tanya (pictured below carrying a miniature-sized version of herself), outside of her home.
She was bubbly and warm and gave us a million suggestions for places to eat and things to do.
I am the third of my father’s — surprise! — four daughters which made me subject to the wishes and whims of my much older sisters, Gina and Lorrie, on a daily basis. One such preoccupation was Lorrie's cult-like obsession with soap operas.
Never much of a girly girl, I cringed at dolls and dresses and, to this day, all but lose my shit at the words “cheerleader” or “princess.” But, for some reason, when it came to the 1980’s soap opera phenomena, Santa Barbara, I was powerless.
In neither our real, or imaginary life, would we be considered fearless or feisty. I mean, it’s not like we circumnavigated the globe at 14 or sprinted through all 2,181 miles of the Appalachian Trail… Without a reckless bone in our collective bodies, I’d say our tolerance level for risk hovers somewhere at 3-3.5.
So why then should we bother to blog? What's even remotely interesting about a middle-aged, married couple traipsing around the States for a month?