I sold my Hiker Hostel
The season of my life was changing and I felt the universal shift around me. It was much like watching those flags erected on my walks to sell pianos after 9/11. There was a lot of movement everywhere. To prepare for the drama that was unfolding, I spent an entire year doing nothing much other than a grinding routine. I told people I needed to lift weights to keep my mind. Again, I felt like that was my sanctuary as the monkey bars were in my youth. Every physical discipline I implemented made it far easier to transmit into all of the other challenges I faced.
It had been seven years since I bought my writer’s lodge on the river. Shortly after I bought a home with an apartment attached and outfitted it to receive guests. The master bedroom was bigger than my first apartment and it had a balcony. The grass was lush and during the fall there was the most exquisite view of every shade of red and orange one could desire.
When I’d sit on the balcony I would remember staring into the gulf watching dolphins in my dirty clothes sweeping up demolition. I had worked on mansions being built in Florida as a teenager. It was really something, they had elevators and I just couldn’t imagine who would need that but the view, on the other hand. I’d live in a box just to experience something like that, I’d think. I was always the only female in these crews of men. They’d laugh in the truck after a long day in the sun. When the contract manager would come out in a suit he would sometimes walk behind me with a broom too. They’d have their beers popped and cigars rolling back to the slums with us and shout, “That asshole never touched a broom before kid.” We’d laugh and walk in the mini mart where Swiss rolls were 25 cents and plenty of days that was dinner. I liked the work and I liked the people. So, after all these years, once I had something I wanted to serve again. Maybe I had a contract with the divine. I was blessed over and over again. My life was rich in love and meaning, in fact I was just soaking in it. I ran my Unite on Union place for four years. Just like my time in the Army. Every weekend someone was celebrating something. Couples had anniversaries, thru hikers were meeting their girlfriends, DC couples were getting away from the tar and noise, new love, old love, happiness was the aroma of a fine cooked meal downstairs. I’d get really excited if someone messaged me about why they were there and sometimes I spent too much money on gifts for them. Sometimes I’d buy really good wine from my favorite vineyard, a beautiful bouquet of roses and chocolate for these strangers but all of my guests got muffins. I’d always rush home on a Thursday or Friday and clean for hours like I used to when I was a maid. See, all that love and servitude kept me humble and juicy.
Really, when you experience the slums in life you get an experience far greater then a short dopamine rush from someone telling you you’re pretty, or driving an expensive car, or having access to whatever brilliant mind you want to debate with. People with nothing actually offer you themselves. In the other cultures, that was off limit all the time. People walked the halls with airs truly believing in this elaborate character they were playing. They were so serious. But, the hardest part in seeing this contrast is trying to keep a straight face and not call them on their shit or just avoid laughing all the time. Both worlds are magnificent, mind you but knowing the sense of community and love you experience from the cost less things in life makes you so fearless and bold enough to piss people off with trouble making. I’d remember the crowds of neighbors I had in the apartments I lived in. I made a best friend after I picked her 7 month old up that was crawling on the sidewalk. Apparently, he had escaped. Before I had children I spent years drinking her Mt. Dew, watching her make sugar rich pancakes, and listening to her start every story with, “Well I know I’m crazy but…” I stood in a gas station and made friends with every single patron that would walk across the street from the apartments. We’d party. All of us working class people cost shared our human experience, we raised children as a village, we were free to be crazy and weird, and we laughed our asses off at how shitty our lives were. I haven’t called her in a few years but if my entire life burned down she would take me and my kids in any day. This is not faith, it’s experience. When I lost my baby as a still born she was there with Sage. She was so loving to me that I moved just to be her neighbor again. In my free time I got to play with Sage in the backyard with hoards of frogs. She let me be another Mom. She lived on social security and couldn’t drive because she had seizures. So she stretch 1100 dollars to support her entire family. We didn’t even have computers then and Beverly had mapped out every single resource in the community to survive. When we had a great day together we would stroll Sage to the thrift store and buy him something. I didn’t go to clubs or bars. I didn’t pretend to be some type of amazing person. I was in this village of people who were consumed with how to survive with nothing and it was fun. I guess I really missed that sometimes. I tried to create the best of both worlds with that in mind.
Throughout four years, I only received a handful of complaints and that restored my faith in humanity. It was really hard for me to let all of that love go but a change was coming and there are a million ways to love. I guess I was a real life Forest Gump.
