As of today, a year has passed since my husband David and I set out on this strange, wandering adventure, though I’ve been slow to document it in writing. I think it’s taken just this long for me to understand the thing we’re doing. Our initial plans fell through early on, and maybe it was finally letting them go that reminded me again that we’re experiencing something important, that few people are living a story like ours. And now I think I’m ready to share it, to capture this elusive thing that no one knows better.
What we’re doing isn’t glamorous, not by any means. We aren’t in a vintage campervan, not even an adventure-worthy car: just an aging PT Cruiser that serves as a traveling closet. We work too much, because we have to, and between stops, we find a cheap campground to pitch a tent. A few weeks ago, we camped somewhere in the Kansas plains at the end of a 100° degree day, sweating on top of our sleeping bags and wistful for any hint of night breeze. But bullfrogs and cicadas sang us to sleep that night, and we dreamed all the same.
Ours is a scrappy adventure: not often photogenic, but always unpredictable and free. On the same kind of schedule, I’ll tell you about it.