Journals

  July 10, 11, 12 We’ve hit the road, heading down to Monterey for another event, in the sequence of changing spaces/faces/places. Nothing wild has been happening other than me randomly running into an uncle of a close friend down at the Bike Shack in Watsonville . The bus is in good working order, my ears are finally adjusting to the constant chatter, I‘m getting used to the newest caravanista , Yogi - who we picked up fresh off a plane from Germany, and otherwise - road life is good.   I really can‘t say that I have a sinking feeling or some sort of weird premonitions…in fact, I’ve been feeling like I am just now settling into life with the caravan boys. But what do they call that? The calm before the storm(s) - both real and contrived.   In true caravan fashion, just as I feel peace settling in, Woody and Sandino move from talking about a woman who just showed up at our Monterey event, to telling me that the woman will be joining us. I’m thinking, “Are you kidding me?! Red flag. Red Flag!” Why? Because I am wondering: Who goes to an event one night, and decides in that moment that they don’t have much going on in life, that they will go home and throw congos and a backpack together, and the next morning just jump on a caravan illegally bound for Cuba?   I dunno but I’m getting that uneasy, queasy feeling, hardcore, all over again.   As we head away from the event, I notice we are driving to our host’s house, high up in the mountains somewhere above Salinas. It is spooky, scary movie kind of dark outside, and I am drifting in thought/excessive worry (mostly about the new mystery caravan girl). The next thing I know, it looks like our host has feet alternating between fire and lead. For real, for real. I’m doing the sign of the cross, Woody is baffled by the lady who is doing like 100 mph around razor sharp hair pin turns, Sandino has the ‘I’m the coordinator but I have no clue how this is going to turn out’ kind of look going, and Yogi is silent (does he speak English - who knows?)   Finally Woody gives up on our ascension in the middle of the night, by pulling into someone‘s random front yard. I‘m thinking this isn‘t good…the lady is nowhere in site, cell phone reception isn‘t working on any of our carriers and we have no clue how to proceed. It hits me: two Chippies, the German punk squatter and the Black girl with music blaring on a crazy looking bus are in the middle of nowhere. House lights are of course flickering on, all over the neighborhood, and almost immediately someone has the bright idea to finally turn the music down on the bus. I‘m having neurotic de ja vu , as this plays like one of those movie moments where a cowboy comes out and shoots the first person they see on their land. Clearly I am staying inside the bus, motionless in my seat.   Under some sort of sanity preservation context, my mind tries to sort out our varied dilemma, as if to search for a plausible solution because: a) there is no space for a u-turn, as b) we are on a one way road, c) trying to get up a steep mountain, d) with a drop off to God knows what depths below, and e) there are no railings with reflectors to guide us.   By the grace of whatever higher power, Woody gets us completely down the mountain with Sandino jumping out to guide us and Woody stretching ¾ of his body out of the driver’s window, while keeping a pinky toe gently on the gas, because apparently the rearview mirrors are of zero help on the creepy dark mountain. Perhaps it was a miracle (or delayed common sense), however some time later our host zooms back down the mountain to check out how/why we were lost and then loads us up into her car, driving off with the same alternating fire/lead feet, all the way to her house.   At this point I‘m just too exhausted and overwhelmed to register anything…maybe it’s the sleep deprivation…maybe the death of cognitive abilities as a result of living in fear for an hour or so…maybe I just don’t care anymore. All I know is that somehow Woody and I wind up in the same bed that night, together. Even in my absolute exhaustion I still have enough strength to emit the Karate Girl vibe . You know…as in, “If you want your hands or man parts to be in tact tomorrow morning, you will not even think of touching me unless you enjoy having said man parts completely severed off.” With that, and a lazy stink eye gaze, I passed out until the morning, waking up in a mix of complete terror and panic.   Opening my eyes, ever so slowly, one at a time so as not to arouse suspicion, I spy a long, mysterious, white, lanky arm stretched across my body, picking up my phone. My mind hits rapid overdrive with: Where am I? How did I survive that bus drive? Who in the hell’s arm is this? Who am I in bed with?   And just as quickly, I realize all those thoughts are nothing but residual stressed out nerves. The white, lanky arm stretched over me does not belong to some freak nasty  mactivist . The arm actually belongs to a beautiful man.  Whatever you want to call Woody, he is an absolute sweetheart and (albeit wildly eccentric) gentleman. It turns out, there is no need for me to be Karate Girl and start the day off shouting with dragon breath. Instead of flashing on Woody, I wipe the crust from my eyes, try not to shoot the dragon breath his direction and ever so elegantly ask him “ what’s going on?” (Hoping he has a clue, and praying it isn’t some random lackluster, forgettable sex between the high strung Black girl and the Chippie activist).   Woody: “Nothing. I’ve been awake for awhile and I was just watching you sleep.” Me: “Really? What was I doing? Oh God - don’t tell me - I snore.” Woody: (smiling) “No, you don’t snore. You just sort of make these little noises.”   It snuck up on me, but came all the same. Something new. I think folks call it - growing trust. For me, that’s a rarity at home and anywhere else. And, I…kind…of…like…it .   Running Vocab List: Flashing On = acting up by way of screaming, shouting etc Mactivist = Mac + Activist Trust = the new thing in my life   In the next installment: One Stop Girl Gets On and Off the Bus LA Slactavists Woody’s Birthday/Break from the Caravan