How about that? We made it to Colorado with minimal death and destruction. 

I can't lie, it was really hard to leave our home. Harder than I imagined it would be. I had prepared myself for weeks, months, and when it finally arrived I was an absolute wreck. We spent the last night in our empty little house, save for our bed and the coffee maker, and when it was time to go to sleep I just stood in the barren living room and cried in the dark, and I couldn't really stop. I could barely function to pack the remainder of the items the following morning; the beau hustled around doing the majority of the work himself.

Thanks for that, beau.

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I went camping recently, and I gotta tell you. There is nothing like nature to remind you how remarkable indoor plumbing is.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You think I'm gonna trot out the same stale jokes we've all heard before about how wonderful it is to stay inside with all these lights and endless streams of running water. Well, get ready because I am. I am going to tell you all of these jokes and more.

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I recently spent three days in a car with classic rock on the radio, and it gave me a lot of time to think. About opening the door and hurling myself out of the car.

But no, instead I kept my hands and feet inside the moving vehicle and quietly turned questions over in my mind. So many questions. Questions like:

Does some FAA regulation require that classic rock stations play at least one Led Zeppelin song every half hour?

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During the last week of October, I had an opportunity to roam southern Arizona by myself for three days. This post is about the second day. The first can be read here.

***

I'm awakened at 7:30 a.m. by the sound of someone power-washing the sidewalk below my hotel room window. A city is its own alarm clock.

I get dressed and head out for a run through the historic district. I'm eager to finally see downtown Tucson in the light of day, but it would seem for the locals plodding to work that I'm the thing to be seen. I feel eyes on me everywhere I go. Heads turn in curiosity as I pass by. At first I try to ignore the stares, then start meeting them. Has no one in Tucson ever seen a person running?

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During the last week of October, I had an opportunity to roam southern Arizona by myself for three days. This post is about the first day.

***

The rental car lady walks briskly over to the last row of the lot, me trailing behind with my rolling suitcase. "You have a choice between that white Chevy HHR or this red Kia Soul," she says, gesturing to the left and right of us.

"Uh," I stutter. "Um."

"A lot of people like the Kia because of the hamster commercials," she leads.

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One of my earliest and vividest memories is the time I sneaked out of bed and into the dim hallway with a box of crayons. The flickering television screen in the adjacent living room cast just enough light to let me see what I was doing. I chose the blue and red crayons and set to work on my vast canvas of a wall. On one end there was grandma's house in the United States, and on the other our new apartment in Germany. Between the two I drew a series of squiggly lines depicting our recent journey. In my view it had been a very long, confusing trip, so the more squiggles the better. Cars had been involved, and planes. And trains. And lefts and rights and straight aheads and circles and who even knows what else.

I added more squiggles for good measure.

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So, Colorado! I have so very much to say about it. But first, some general observations. In part because it gives me an excuse to make a list.

Okay, mostly because it gives me an excuse to make a list.

God, I love lists.

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Dear Modern Hotel Bathroom Designers:

First, I'd like to congratulate you on your influence. Thanks to you, nearly every hotel that has ever dreamt of being regarded as "hip" and "chic" and "sleek" and "quotational" has remodeled its bathrooms in accordance with your trendsetting vision. And thanks to you, nearly every single one of those bathrooms now follows an open concept treatment of the shower: a wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling stone tiles fed by an overhead waterfall fixture and shielded with a little bitty strip of glass. Sort of like this:

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When I booked my tickets to Detroit, the email confirmation read “Republic Airlines on behalf of United.” This made me frown slightly, for Republic is not among the airlines at my tiny Santa Barbara regional airport, nevermind the fact that I’ve never even heard of such a company. So when I arrived at the airport I figured the United counter was my best bet. I swiped my card at the kiosk and the screen told me to go check in at Frontier Airlines.

Sure, why not.

While I was standing in line to check my bag at Frontier Airlines, I overheard a lady from the Alaskan Air counter ask a traveler in the terminal if her name is Lyn. “I’m Lyn,” I called to her, and she brought over the boarding passes for my two flights. “You could have checked in with me!” she mock-scolded.

“Okay?” I said.

Later, as the man at the gate scanned my pass and handed me the stub, he looked me in the eye and said, “Go through the doors and to the left. Look for the plane that has 'Midwest Airlines' painted on it.”

"Okay?" I replied.

It was only when I was strapped into the plane that I noticed my tickets had “British Airways” printed on them.

Oooookay.

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