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Synchronicity Part 2: Holiday Market At The Studios

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

The holiday market was the opposite of a shit show. A Christmas scene played on a big screen—the only snow we in The Keys will ever see.

I also didn’t get there early. I never get anywhere early.

After chatting and syncing up with a few of my fellow creative types selling their wares I look around for the promised–-and promised land–-of coffee and baked goods.

“I made that.” Mr. Sidewalk Synchronicity joins me in the corner I’ve found to sip, nosh, and wake up in.

“Thank you.” I raise my cup. “It’s good.”

“I went for just below rocket fuel.”

“Nailed it.” Taking another sip. “I’m a little disappointed, though,” motioning with my cup, “It’s not much of a shit show.”

He bows his head in fake failure, playing along. “No, it’s going pretty well. I’ve never done it before, so you just never know. I had some good help.”

I look at his tightly groomed hair, smoothly shaven face. Even his eyebrows are tamed. A blue-heathered T-shirt hugs him nicely, accentuating his biceps. He clearly cares–not only about what he does but about how he looks. He doesn’t look like he’s been here since 6:30 am on little sleep.

He looks good. Too good. Crap–he’s probably gay. 

The topic of the film festival comes up (the party for which put us on the sidewalk a week ago). “When the power went out, the first thing I did was go to a window to see if anyone else was out, too. What a relief, it was the whole block. I thought, good, it’s not something I did!”

Boy, can I relate. My default when something goes wrong is that I broke it, and my relief comes from knowing I’m not alone and I didn’t. “I feel like this place [The Studios] is becoming a home base. It started as a place I visited to admire other people’s work, encouraging me to submit my own work. Now, it’s a creative hub where I belong. Like family.”

He can relate. “I know.” He motions into the space between us as he talks. It’s an extension of his words and I feel the emphasis. The energy between us swirls, warming me like the coffee, but differently. “I started as an artist in residence, and now I work here.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist. What’s your medium?” My interest in him turned up a notch.

“I’m a screenwriter.”

I mention a few of my friends who are screenwriters that I met through the writers guild. He’s worked with them on a recent project. 

His eyebrows raise, chin tucks, “You’re a writer? What do you write?”

I pick one of my genres. Travel erotica. “Or, as my ex calls it–-exotica.” Still making me laugh years later.

His head bows again. This time, with respect. “Wow. That’s so cool.” No creepiness, no voyeuristic sideways glance eyeing me up like I must be easy. Actual respect. My favorite response.

“Yeah, I usually travel on my own…

“Me too!”

“And I always fall in love–-with the place and some of the people.” That’s the best way I’ve ever said that.

Then we flick into a mad exchange of our process: “It’s gotta be handwritten first. Gotta be.” He says with arms moving emphatically, like an umpire calling a runner safe.

I agree. “I’ve gotta feel it. Watch as the words pour from my pen. And I have to write every day. Or, as Stephen King says, it starts to feel like work.”

“I lose the flow.” He motions his agreement again, his arm stretching farther into the space between us, the back of his hand landing on my elbow. Briefly connecting our bodies along with our thoughts, words, craft.

“Exactly. Hate to lose the flow.” 

His touch didn’t electrify in the usual way. Didn’t turn my veins into live wires, sending butterflies to my belly.

It was just….nice.

I share what a professor friend once told me when I said I was waiting for inspiration to write. “‘I’ll tell you what I told my students–-that’s lazy. Writers write. Period.’ Nobody talks about the discipline and courage you’ll need in addition to the talent.”

Nodding, “I heard this great quote from Mike Tyson about training to be a boxer. He said discipline is doing something you hate like you love it.”

“That’s good. And we think we need bit slabs of time to write. But in Big Magic, Liz Gilbert says look at the lovers. They look to steal a moment together, sneaking a quick kiss and making it everything. Now I write everywhere, anytime.”

Somewhere it registers that I’ve used the word lover, which has a charge to it, with someone I’m attracted to.

“Ooo, that’s good.” His icy gray eyes burn with the spark of a new perspective. I love it when that happens. I like how he smiles and in all the right places. I enjoy eager and excited people who feel alive, and I can be fully alive with them.

After riffing on how we carve out our creative visions, he goes to ‘make a lap.’ I walk away richer, my mind more vibrant. Enjoying once again how the road curves exactly in the direction it needs to.

I like me best when I’m along for the ride instead of trying to direct traffic.

The slow development of a bond. Intimacy with clothes on. A connection through intellect igniting inspiration. It’s been my M.O. to be swept away by chemistry(eventually landing hard, right on my ass).

This was more of a settling-in. Mind exercised and expanded. My thoughts acknowledged–and finding accompaniment. My world felt bigger and cozier at the same time. 

He’s coming at me from the brain down instead of bottom up. It’s something that I’ve wanted for a long time.

Sidewalk Synchronicity

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
[The Blue Angels at Boca Chica Air Base]

“I think your hair was a different color when I met you,” his words sliced through our circle of girls and explained the pensive eyebrows and stealing of glances. 

I’d been noticing and ignoring him simultaneously. But now he had my full attention because—synchronicity.

“Probably. I was just wondering which CVS store is still open and what color I’ll buy.” 

Truth is, I color my hair all the time, and the other, more subtle truth was that I vaguely remembered meeting him, too. I couldn’t remember where and frankly wasn’t giving it much thought. Too busy grooving on the creative caucus happening with my girl crew. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside the Key West Film Festival party, sipping our rum drinks and having a lively discussion about writing, filming, editing, animation, inspiration. 

But synchronicity turned the volume up on the guy. Not because he noticed the nuances of my hair color—that’s nice, but no longer enough to get me going (it’s too easy, and I want a guy who works for it for a change)—but because he voiced the very topic I’d been silently discussing with myself. 

Synchronicity not only gets me going, it’s what I live for. Seemingly random little things line up, and turn into a big thing forming a rapidly established connection that surprises and delights the two people it’s bringing together.

Synchronicity comes from someplace big and beyond—God, The Universe, celestial beings—and shines down onto some little, seemingly inconsequential moment a couple of humans are having here on Earth.

Like a little gift, strengthening my belief in (and downright dependence on) divine orchestration. 

Synchronicity would strike again between us, and not long after…

I’m biking home from work. I never pay attention to the exact path and I don’t know street names. I flow with my bike, rolling in the general direction of home. I’d worked late, Thanksgiving week, and there were finally people on the island again keen to do watersports. 

Crossing Eaton (I know that one because Eaton Bikes sits on the corner) I see a dark horse of a bike coming from my right and wonder if I can get across before him.

And then I recognized him. From two nights ago. On the sidewalk.

“Heyyy,” I call out, making him look up from his phone. 

“Hey!”

“What are you up to?” It’s an unusual thing to say, suggesting I maybe want to hang, but I want my home and my bed.

He says he just got done at The Studios and has to be back at 6:30am to set up the Holiday Artisan Market. 

It’s 10:30.

“Ahh, the clopen!” I feigned an exhausted look to go with the term that, as far as I know, I invented. “I was thinking of going to that market.”

If he’s amused, he doesn’t let on. “Come early, it’ll be a shit show!!”

I laugh.

“I’ve never done it before and don’t operate well early.”

“Me neither! But I do love a good shit show. You’re selling me.” I slowly start to roll on. 

“You better be there!” he calls into what is about to be my dust.

“It better be a shit show!” I turn and yell backward. Smiling all the way home.

Fucked Up Fruit Bowl

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“I like to do the Southernmost Slow Ride. We ride under the full moon from the White Street Pier to Truman Waterfront Park to catch the sunset—and sometimes we have themes, like fairy rides,” I say.

He looks perplexed over his pitaya parfait. “What did you just say?”

“Is the white stuff yogurt?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Do they have non-dairy yogurt?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t know.”

“I’m doing this to build the anticipation and to distract you. Because you’re about to say you know me from the bike ride, and I know you don’t. I’d remember you.”

“Were you wearing a tutu?”

Snap. I WAS wearing a tutu.

“I was wearing a tutu.”

And then, right there, you could hear the pieces fall into place. The switch flipped on. And in its light, we could see that we both remembered the real first time we met. 

“You were doing time-lapse photography with the cruise ship turning just as the sun set.” I could see in his face that this was true.

“And you were in a tutu and super easy to talk to.”

I smile at this. I’ve been told that before and I really like that about myself.

But it was more than that. Earlier in the day, I’d thought about that encounter. I remember ending the conversation with him because the group was heading to the next destination. Before riding off, I’d said something about missing his final product.

“Look for it on Facebook,” he’d said as I pointed my bike towards the other cyclists.

“How will I find it?” I called over my right shoulder.

“Key West Sunset!” 

And today, weeks later, it crossed my mind that I never did look.

Now, here I am, sitting across from him as a curtain of rain holds us hostage under the awning.

It didn’t shelter us from his ex-wife, the mother of his children, biking by.

She smiles at him. And she turns to me, “Do I know you?”  

You know damn well you don’t, my eyes reply.

“I don’t believe so,” my polite words say.

“Can you give me a ride? I mean, I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she motions to our fancy fruit bowls, “but it’s raining pretty hard.”

He starts to acquiesce, to my slight surprise, and I start to mark the date done.

I still don’t know who she is. But I sense by now that there’s some history there. This is not some random acquaintance encounter. 

“I mean, I’m happy to give you ten dollars for a cab ride home,” he offers. 

Okay, he’s clearly uncomfortable. Who is this woman?

“I hate cabs. They creep me out.” She’s smiling through this scene, but it is not a happy smile. “You really can’t take me?”

I check my phone for the forecast. One, because I don’t know what else to do, and second, I’m hoping it will tell me that the rain is about to end, so her point, whatever it is, will be moot. 

He starts to assert himself. She throws out the idea of going into a nearby store under the same awning.   

I secretly hope she goes.  

And then I say, “Yeah, I can lose an hour in that store easily.”

She looks to him to save her. He doesn’t. Good boy.

She rides off, pouting. Only then does he fill me in on who she is. “She loves to create awkward situations.”  

She’s really good at it. I think, but don’t say.

We resume our awe over the fact that we’ve already met, and the road has somehow curved to allow us to meet again.  

Funny how that works. Funny, even though my world works like that so very often.  

One (and-a-half) Night Stand

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“It’s so aggressive.” Penis imitation, Bridesmaids

Can we talk about getting a dick shoved into our throats while having our heads held down for a second? What makes guys think this is a good idea? And how can we know they’re the type to do it? Looking back, this dominance in bed showed itself sooner. Now I see clearly what I only got inklings of at the time.

He strolled up to my booth, an impressive presence—hunky, sculpted, chiseled—in search of a water adventure. I felt something as I leaned over the binder to turn the pages showcasing our different options. A familiarity. It wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t coming from my head. From my heart? My soul? 

I stole a glance from under my sunglasses, and I swear I saw his face morph a little until it looked like something familiar before quickly disappearing. My eyes offering affirmation to whatever soul code was playing out. 

General Horseplay was the perfect place to meet with its dark, velvety speakeasy style, and they make a stellar Dark & Stormy.

“Here’s your Dark and Lo… I almost said dark and lovely,” he said. “Which you are.”

[This is not a blog about how to spot a player, which I can do and he obviously is. I’ve declared myself off the market until my book is on the market, so that suits me just fine].

He asks about my life, my world, my work, living in Key West. I tell him I’m writing a book and launching a business. I ask about his life back. He’s a bodyguard, from Miami, we talk about who he’s protected and the job that took him to Afghanistan. He’s well read and we share similar views on things.  

Good looks and good conversation, my favorite combination. For me, foreplay always begins with oral—communication, that is. If I’m stimulated intellectually, I’ll be all the more stimulated when things move closer, and lower. 

He feels comfortable. Easy to talk to. But the conversation never swings back to me. No questions about what my book is about or my business. Or anything.

Once outside, he pulls me into a little alcove, slides his hands around my waist, tries kissing me. I turn my head and say I should probably get going home. He purrs into my ear an invitation to his hotel room, which I decline. I say I have a cat to feed, my phone needs charging, my bed has just-washed sheets I’m looking forward to. He holds onto my hand as I try to walk away. He pleads some more. I say he’s got a snorkel trip to get up for, I’ll see him tomorrow night. 

Then he puts his tongue in my ear (a move akin to kryptonite) and my resolve melts. It feels so good to be wanted, desired, pursued—doesn’t it? Screw it, I think. Let’s have some fun. Even though he looks like he could split me in half if the size of him was any indication of his size. Which it was. 

But did you have to slam it into me to validate the fact? With my wince and my hand pushing against your chest telling you to let me expand and welcome you. Was your pride more important than mutual pleasure? 

Sure it was.

Everything after the entry was orgasmic, so I came back for more the next night. It’s not every day you get turned into a puddle in the middle of the bed, and he was only here for a few days. 

The vibe was different. Less sensual, more sexual. He took my hand and put it on his erection. What is up with this move? Do you think I can’t find it on my own? Bruh, I know exactly where it is–-it’s pushing and pulsing against me to the point of bruising, I’m pretty sure I can find it. Relax, I’ll get to it. 

But it wasn’t fast enough because now you take my hand and put it down your boxer briefs. Because I don’t know how foreplay works, and I need you to show me. Is it Thursday and this is some throwback move from my teen years where the great compliment a guy bestowed was, ‘You’re making me so hard!’

As if that’s hard to do. I’ve done it without even trying—bending over to tie my shoes, cooking dinner, trying to leave for work. Walking into the room. It’s not exactly an Olympic sport. 

Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll mistake you for one of those guys who doesn’t like to have his dick touched and sucked. 

I mumble something about not bossing me around and go take a shower. I want to feel the happy anticipation of ‘I’m going to have sex’ tonight, but something prevents me. There’s some sudsy foreshadowing going on.

Shortly after sliding into bed beside him, the “guidance” continues, now with my head. What in the world makes a man think that shoving his erection to the back of my mouth, forcing it into the top of my throat, against my gag reflex, over and over again is okay? And since that doesn’t provide enough torque for you, please put your hand on the back of my head and force it down so you can go even deeper. Block off my airway. It’s alright. You’re getting off. That’s what’s important here.

Then he goes to straddle me. Oh, hell no. I’m not letting you pin me. I rolled out, sat up, and thought for a moment before saying good night. 

[Disclaimer: I’m not anti-blow jobs. I can even get off when giving them to the right guy. This isn’t about the dick in my mouth—it’s about dick moves].

Riding the elevator down to my bike, I wonder what makes men do this. This force-feeding of their dicks. Did I shove my pussy in your face and hold your head hostage? (You probably would’ve liked that). I didn’t need to. I let her succulence and sweet nectar speak for itself. Drawing you to it, not smashing it into you.  

This was everything I was trying to say subtly before getting up, getting dressed, and getting out. I wish I would’ve said it all then, and I certainly will, should it ever happen again. If, for some wild reason, you’re reading this, Bodyguard Hottie from Room 417—the inspiration for this blog came from you.

Leveling Up

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World. A movie that makes personal growth into a video game

I just got rid of someone I thought I already had from my life—my ex. I’d broken up with him years ago, but we still maintained a loose friends-with-benefits kind of thing. Because we’ve got chemistry, and good chemistry is a great thing! It’s a personal pastime of mine, carving out and trying to hold onto what worked between a guy and me without all that stuff that didn’t.  As if my men were something to dissect like frogs in Biology class. 

It never works, of course. You can’t just have the passion without the other parts coming along. Painful parts. All the reasons I can’t be with them are still there, and those reasons sneak in and spoil things. 

Mel Robbins did a reel on Instagram about compatibility versus chemistry. Getting with someone who matches your energy is the key to a sustainable partnership. Sometimes someone you don’t even know can call you out and make it impossible for you to hide from yourself in the same way. To do the same things. 

As my ex raises his voice, overrules my emotions, and insults my processing of the rainstorm upon us, I realize Mel was talking about me. Her reel replays and gets ready to say, ‘I present to you, Exhibit A.’ 

That’s how growth works. We hear or learn something that resonates on some level. It sort of festers and infects us, in a good way, and slowly but surely, we rise to the occasion this revelation offers us. 

We can try to forget things we hear, but we cannot unhear them. I could not go back to acting as if someone hadn’t just summed up my post-breakup M.O. in a two-minute video on Instagram. Something in me rose up and said, I’m done. Really done. 

“You can’t act that way and be in my life,” I hear myself say. “You can’t hijack my emotions and use my perspective against me.”

And if I keep letting him in, I’m telling him just the opposite. Louder than my words are my actions. What good are boundaries if you don’t enforce them?

That goes for my inner boundaries, which I have between me and me. I can’t say I deserve better and keep hanging out with someone who treats me like I don’t.

All hope that he’ll change, extinguished. We must accept that some people can’t, or won’t, change. Behavior rewarded is behavior continued. So is behavior justified. If someone gives you all the reasons why they do something—tired, angry, hungry, jealous, frustrated, drunk, stressed—what they are saying is, ‘When this condition returns, so will my behavior.’ 

We may see their potential, but potential is not something to fall in love with. 

Loss is painful, but fear of pain is not a good enough reason to stay. Change always feels weird at first. And exciting. There’s an opening in my world—I can’t wait to see what happens in it.

Promises don’t make change. Begging and pleading doesn’t either. Nor does fighting, demanding, or ultimatums you can’t follow through on. And repeated apologies without any behavioral modifications are manipulations designed to buy time—until the next time. 

The only thing that sparks change is a personal decision, and it usually sounds like, “I didn’t know my actions were having that effect. I’ll handle it differently next time.” And then, they do. 

People tell you who they are every day, all day. Better to believe what you see than your fantasy. 

Another thing I’ve learned (later than I would’ve liked), them not wanting to be without you is different than doing what it takes to be with you. Don’t get it twisted. 

I won’t take the former as adequate substitution for the latter ever again. 

Cream, Two Strangers

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
Throwback Thursday. A blast from the past–on Jason’s porch, 2014 in Melbourne, Australia

My spidey senses tingle. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse why—a guy glancing at me out of the corner of his. He’s looking at my legs, and I’m mentally telling him it’s not gonna happen. Cockblocking with my own thoughts. Don’t even try it. I’m Out of Order. 

And out of sorts.

I’m sitting in Federation Square, smack dab in the middle of Melbourne, Australia. It’s barely into the New Year and we’re off to a rocky start. I’m trying to reach the guy I left two hours and one train ride ago, but Jason’s hopeless with Snapchat. And I’m slowly realizing that’s not the reason why. He’s slipping away, I can feel it and I’m trying to hold on. Fighting the current. But you can’t hold running water and you can’t stop the page from turning after a chapter finishes.

Sometimes the heart needs time to accept what the head already knows.

And sometimes (often, if you’re me), you resist the very thing you need. Stuck midstep, in need of a nudge.

This new guy and I perch on a low wall that’s both plant border and people seating. A concert plays on the park’s stage. A train screeches into the station across the street while another one swooshes off—an apt metaphor.

I’m in that awkward stage of development, My Early Forties. Hormones raving rather than having their final swan song, brain too smart to fall for the usual pick-up lines, and a seasoned heart that isn’t as devastated by endings (Thank God) but still longs for the excitement of new beginnings. 

I traveled almost twenty-four hours and over 9,000 miles to be with my best friend, Shane. Best friend doesn’t quite describe it. Romantic potential would open between us from time to time when our paths crossed, but the roads led nowhere. I was madly in love with him when we first met, but he wasn’t interested. Then, a few years later, when we were in Colombia and his appetite for me increased, I was starting to taste someone else. 

But two nights ago—after ten years of missed moments in various zip codes—we were on the same page on a bridge, kissing in the New Year while fireworks blasted above the announcement of us finally merging. 

It’s the stuff romantic movies are made of. 

That kiss didn’t land like I thought it would, though. It wasn’t giving. It was taking. Sucking from me. Neediness, dry like a drought soaking up my raging river. 

Lying next to him later, I couldn’t sleep. I read the verse tattooed across the wingspan of this man I’d elevated to angel. It’s from A Course In Miracles—the book that brought us together in The States and the teaching we traveled Colombia offering. Shane was there when I got my first stamp in my passport. 

Waiting in the Customs line, I’d made the exasperated remark, “We’ve been traveling all day!” (It’d been about eight hours).

Mr. Around the World Ticket Holder scoffed, “Not even close. Travel to Australia. That’s all day.”

That comment had been the start. It took years to actualize. Being here now, my breath against his inked back, felt like the end. I wonder if I was sensing what was to come, my emotional distance preempting the physical.

Shane and I had logged hours on Skype, making plans to travel the country in his modified van. But he was backpedaling like a bait-and-switch salesman. A weird kind of control had set in. I wasn’t free to just come and go from his place. I couldn’t have my own key. 

You don’t really know someone until you live with them, even if it’s just for a few days.

Out wandering the neighborhood one night, blowing off steam and searching the stars for guidance, I met Jason. Over cups of tea and a joint, we got to know each other. He took pity on my plight and I melted into his gentle generosity. We talked and touched for hours on his porch, an ocean breeze adding its own caresses.

Things imploded the next day between Shane and me. Jealousy? Whatever it was, he was too guarded to tell me, his heart made of bullet casings. 

I left. Took the train to meet another Aussie friend for coffee and a strategy of where I could stay instead. And then I came here to Federation Square for WiFi in hopes of connecting with Jason. My fingers swipe, press, hold, and hope that my phone will ping back, already suspecting it won’t.

A sudden, strong wind whips through my semi-denial and tips the styrofoam 7-Eleven coffee cup between my next-door stranger and me, much to his horror. 

“Oh my gosh!” He jumped up and looked frantically about for a napkin. “The wind took it! I’m so sorry!”

I trace the milky tan stream snaking its way down my shin, then put my finger in my mouth, smack my lips and say, “Cream, two sugars?”

Our laughter leads to talking, which leads to walking around. As I snap some photos of the view from a different bridge, he stands just behind my shoulder, eyeing my shot and adding anecdotes. I switch to video in time to capture the sound of his next words forever. 

He breathes an invitation, warming my ear and tickling my clavicle. “You need a tour guide.”

Be Who You Were Created to Be

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

Holy macaroni! I had my first coaching session yesterday–and I was the coach! I’ve been taking free webinars lately all about online marketing, social media marketing, branding and biz building. But you know how she found me? Not through any of that stuff. She found me simply by me being me.

More and more I step into my purpose, spiritually and verbally, and with each action there’s a counter action. It’s like playing Candyland. And in the days prior to this appointment, I was in the Molasses Swamp. My laptop was resisting everything I was trying to do and Apple Support was uncharacteristically, extremely non-supportive. 

Times like these make me think of archery–the arrow gets pulled backwards before launching forward. Most of my best moments, maybe all if I sat and really thought about it, have happened this way. 

During the maiden voyage of my first camper, it started on fire. Being fired lead to me going on a 30-day spiritual retreat that ended up lasting twelve years and completely changed not only my life, but myself. And getting diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease gave me the gift of needing to access the power of the mind-body connection.  

I haven’t talked much here about the book I’m writing Gut Instincts: How To Get Off the Medical Merry-Go-Round and Have a Self-Induced Healing. I was diagnosed over thirty years ago, back when Crohn’s was weird and rare. No one I told had heard of it, much less had it. The book is about how I found my way through the wilderness and healed it. And the coaching business I’m building, Gut Instincts Coaching, is to help people find their answers by following their inner wisdom and guidance. 

My life has been calibrating around this purpose for a while now. And my mind has been spinning with all the ways to let the world know about it. Cutting through the mist like a laser, comes a text asking for a couple hours of my time to help with something someone is writing. 

She’s a new friend I’d met through a mutual friend who’d hired me as a writer for her business. I’m just so entertained by how it all works. Doing what I love–a reset afforded me by a pandemic that took away the work I was doing, hospitality, and gave me time with myself to hear what I really wanted to be doing, helping others–has lead to me doing more of what I love. 

Instead of fitting into various pay scales, I decided on what I was worth and defined my own minimum wage. I’m just starting out so it’s low, but it’ll grow. It always does. Once, as a daycare administrator, I took a center from having two empty classrooms when I was hired to having a waiting list two months later. My last job, playing pool games at resorts here in Key West, (think cruise director, but on land) started with three pools a week and it grew to fifteen. 

I’m not bragging. I’m reporting on what happens when I follow my gut. It never fails me. While the brain is busy thinking and figuring and weighing and analyzing, the gut knows and it broadcasts it like a beacon. In songs and serendipity, inklings and seemingly random encounters. In nudges and nuances. It’s a station you need to be tuned into–an already programmed preset. Just push. 

And the more we listen, the louder it gets. 

Thanks for celebrating this milestone with me. Leave a comment about a time this was true for you and I’ll celebrate with you, too!

“I was smart enough to go through any door that opened.” ~Joan Rivers

One Night In Bangkok

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

My Facebook memory feed just popped up and took me back nine years–to Thailand. I had an eleven-hour layover on my way back from Australia. A“one night in Bangkok (and the world’s your oyster).” But what good was that? I couldn’t do much of anything with just one night. 

So I called the airlines and asked if I could extend it. 

“Sure,” she said, “you’ll just have to pay the taxes.” 

While she put me on hold to find out how much they were, I did a quick Google search of ‘things you need to know when traveling in Thailand.’ I was through the first ten–exchange rate (awesome), cost (cheap), the cuisine (good for vegetarians)–when she came back on the line.

“About twenty-two dollars.” 

Sold. I stretched it to a week (once there, I would wish I’d made it for longer). I made no plans, just followed my gut. I jumped on a ferry to the island of Kho Chang, then took a taxi–which meant riding in the bed of a pick-up truck and whacking the quarter panel when you wanted to be dropped off. I watched until I caught the vibe of a place. 

A poster advertising a full moon party piqued my interest. It was in front of a little resort with cheery yellow hobbit houses. A place to stay with a party on the beach bonus. Whack! I hit the quarter panel.

Fire twirlers kept time with the drum beats as the sun set over the gulf. Then a DJ came on in the moonlight. When I got tired, I swung in a hammock on the porch of my hut, listening to waves. Eating breakfast the next morning meant sitting on a cushion on the floor at a low table. Going in to a 7-Eleven, you took your shoes off and added them to the neat row of flip flops by the door. Thailand smelled like incense and felt like devotion. 

On my second night, while trying to take a selfie on the beach at sunset, a German guy approached and kindly offered to take it for me. We hung that night, sitting on cushions and drinking cheap Thai beer. He mentioned he was going exploring the island the next day and invited me along. The next morning I hopped on the back of his scooter zipping over hills and washed out gravel roads towards Lost Beach–so remote it ran on generators. We stopped at a park on the way to climb boulders and jump off into a swimming hole with waterfalls. We drank more Chang beer on the beach and acted out a play with twigs and shells. As night fell we decided to not go back, climbing a ladder up to a hut on stilts next to the shore and becoming lovers. 

In all my travels, this was the first time going to a country where I didn’t know anyone, didn’t speak the language and was all on my own. A powerful experience I wanted to commemorate with a tattoo. Like everything else, they were cheap. Different from the States, they were done with a needle made from bamboo. The shops were everywhere. I saw many getting them done while asleep, or maybe they were passed out, either way they were verifying the advertising touting it as less painful than machines.

It wasn’t. It took me two whole pokes to figure that out. But what do you do? I considered calling it off but then I’d have a few black dots on the backside of my neck. Keep going, hoping I’d toughen up, but each poke seemed to be more painful. I seriously stressed at my decision, my conundrum. Just then the South African chick I’d watched a few doors down popped in to show off her completion and ask how I was doing. 

“It hurts!” I almost cried. 

Her accent was soft, but her words were strong, “That’s because you’re resisting. You’ve gotta go into it.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. What if my acceptance was mistaken for approval and make it even worse? 

The artist stopped and asked if I wanted a cigarette.

I hadn’t smoked for years but I reached for it with an I’ll-try-anything attitude. 

Inhaling, exhaling. Breathing in pain, releasing it out and accepting. A little more each inhale and exhale. I found the rhythm comforting and paid more attention to the music in the shop. By the time the cigarette was done I’d relaxed into it, puffed my way above the pain. I went even further into it and it continued. I was in some sort of communion with it. 

When he was done, I was disappointed it was over. 

Years later, watching an episode of Parts Unknown, I heard a story that reminded me of this experience. It gave a take I was proud to resonate with. A native Hawaiin told the story he’d heard from a guy going out on a boat with his grandfather when he was five years old. 

“He said ‘When the wave make the canoe move, the canoe make me sick, my grandfather throw me in the ocean so I can go inside the wave. And when I go inside the wave, I become the wave. And when I become the wave, now I’m navigator.’ At five.”  

Acceptance doesn’t mean giving permission to get worse. Acceptance means going into it, joining with it. That’s where my strength is–in realizing I don’t have any limitations. Resistance is really just arguing for my limitations. Becoming one with what I fear dissolves limitations.

Right On Time

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 3 Comments

A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to. ~Gandalf 

“Why’d you come at the end!?” My friend and fellow writer, Arida, exclaimed a couple days ago, at an event honoring Black History Month with readings of poems by Black poets.

I got there late but not at the end, she just hadn’t seen me. We cleared it up, and the whole interaction cued up the scene of Gandalf responding to Frodo’s similar accusation. I often get accused of being late and this quote eases my mind every time. 

I’m arriving at another event, Arida launching her own book of poetry, and I appear to be late again. She’s not reading though, so it’s all good. It’s on the rooftop terrace of the Studios of Key West.

“Going up?” I say to the guy at the elevator doors. 

He smiles a gentle smile and nods.

I quickly laugh, “I guess there’s nowhere to go but up!” trying to shrug off my awkwardness. The awkwardness I often have when half my brain is still on whatever I was writing before, as I try once again to merge back into social traffic. Adding a bit of random information pushes the gas pedal down a little more. “No one has a basement in Key West. We’re at sea level.” 

We step into the elevator. He asks how long I’ve lived here and I ask how long he’s visiting for. He’s from northern Illinois. I’m originally from Madison, Wisconsin.

His eyes light up, “I’ve been to Madison. Loved it!” Of course he did, I think, Madison is amazing. Mentally, I put up two points on the scoreboard my subconscious has suddenly erected. 

We step out onto the fourth floor: Hugh’s View. Giving a 360 degree angle of this island beloved by so many. The bar greets us to the left, “Can I get you something?” He asks. A couple more points go up.

You might be wondering, ‘Is it that easy to impress you, Jen? Been to your hometown and loved it, offers to buy you a drink.’

Yes. Yes it is. 

Turning from the bar, I see there’s a mic and a chair onstage. As we turn further, towards Arida’s table, I hope she doesn’t do her exclamation again. I’m in the bubble of pseudo-perfection that a new, chance meeting creates and I’d like it to not burst quite yet. 

“Arida, meet…” I motion to my companion, “I don’t know who this is.” Then I look in his eyes and laugh, “Who are you?” 

“Will.” He says to me. “I’m Will.” He says to her. 

He leans in, watching intently the mutual admiration flow between Arida and I. “You are such an incredible writer, Jen.” Then to Will, “This chick’s poetry is so profound, I had to read it twice.”

I praise the animated way she delivers her material. The confidence she exuded when she read at the launch for the guild’s hot off the press anthology a few days ago. “You inspire me. I took mental notes.”

His eyes are wide with engagement and he nods along, showing belief in everything we’re saying. Tipping his head down to the table, he asks,“Well then, which book should I buy?” Breaking his wallet out again.

Arida could’ve promoted one of her own books, but she directs him to the anthology. “You’ll probably like this one the best. It’s got a bit of everything.”

A warmth climbs my neck–my poem and story are both erotica. That’s a heck of a first impression. “Every poem and story inspired by and set in The Keys,” I chime in.

“That’s what I like, the slice of life kind of stuff.” And now he’s using my line. 

He asks us both to sign it. I add to mine, ‘thanks for the wine!’

He and I move over the the edge. He shares about the radio show he had in college on the campus radio station, based on the experiences he and his co-workers had delivering pizza. “To the middle of a football field. To a strip club and getting tipped in a stack of ones. Once I had to help rescue a lost cat.”  

His voice sounds sexier to me as I imagine it caressing the airwaves with his slice of life stories. Pizza slices of life. 

We point to things from the rooftop–church steeples, the haunted Artist’s House B&B, sailboats bobbing on the Gulf. He’s open, inviting. Present. Truly interested. He travels like I travel–totally immersing ourselves into someplace new, becoming intimate with the unknown. He makes some jokes and keeps putting up points.

The rooftop portion closes and we go down to the second floor where the theater is. Like many places in Key West, it’s said to be haunted. It was once a masonic lodge, the chairs with members’ names, numbers and various decals still remain. In trying to decipher their meaning, I guess the double eagle with a ‘32’ is the highest rank. “Eagles are regal,” I reason.

“Thirty-three is the highest number in Masonry, so, yeah.” He says it like he’s saying ‘The sun sets in the west.’

Seriously, who is this guy? 

Walking to my bike, the regret of missing Arida’s reading tugs at my heart. It’s followed by the replay of running into Will at the elevator. Would I still have ran into him if I’d arrived earlier? Maybe. But one little change sends out ripples. Swap out one of the puzzle pieces and the big picture won’t come together the same way.

I settle once again into the comfort of Gandalf’s quote. I had arrived precisely when I meant to. 

Flip or Flop

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

Some things are best mended by a break. ~Edith Wharton

I know I promised last Throwback Thursday to write about the three things that led to my gypsy life on the road. But there was one big thing that cleared the way for them–I’d better talk about that first.

I bought a house (this probably sounds like a move in the opposite direction, but stay with me). A broken house bought with a man I was in a broken relationship with. Perhaps I thought I could fix them both.

The house was a foreclosure, the deep neglect of it assaulting my nostrils with a stench of mold so strong I thought it must’ve opened the door itself, to escape. A small pond had gathered in the basement, black mold climbing the walls like velvet wallpaper. Wires and plumbing hung from the rafters where the furnace and hot water heater had been ripped out. If a house could be raped, this one was. Plugging my nose and holding my breath, I couldn’t see any potential through my watering eyes as I ran back out to the motorcycle waiting for our ride to resume. 

But M could. He convinced me we could flip it, make a profit.  

A few months later, when the lease was up on my apartment, I moved into this work in progress–everything I owned in the garage, an air mattress on the floor where spackle would fall all around but thankfully never on. I hung drop cloths for curtains and aligned my transformation with the house’s–knowing when it sold it would send me somehow…somewhere. I’d been escaping winter more and more and for longer and longer, leading to the realization: the world was too big and beautiful to keep living in one place. With each trip, my grip around the only place I’d ever called home loosened. 

I was living on a launchpad.

Searching through paint samples prompted the searching of my mind–I was looking for what spoke to me on both fronts. “Caribbean Aqua Blue” and moving to an island. “Afterglow” and afterthoughts; all the things I’d miss, leaving all my friends. Could I do it? Would I be miserable? I painted walls and contemplated possibilities, altering us both. Designing the bathroom while searching new designs for my life. Out west? I loved the Zen feel of Sedona and her hundreds of hikes. Farther? The part of California where some of my dad’s family lived had a chic vibe with laid back surfer towns a quick drive away.

Into this reverie and renovation came an invitation to attend the wedding of M’s cousin in New Zealand. 

Our feet were dangling from the chuppah where a freshly minted marriage had vowed “til death do us part,” but my relationship was dead on arrival. No, nothing had happened. There hadn’t been a fight, none of the usual drama. Just an insight breaking across my heart, as soft as the mist beginning to fall–that’s how I knew it was true. We’re not going to make it. This will never be us.

An inconvenient truth only three days into a trip on the other side of the world. The timing was weird, ditto the location. Our vintage dress and the black and white photos would show us having a great time, our inner demons distracted for a while. But there was no mistaking it. A chasm was opening between us. M was sitting and talking right next to me, but he felt farther away. 

The mist turned to a soft rain, drops hitting my skin like punctuation marks. Okay, I get it. To make sure, it rained harder–in exclamation points. We ran into the big tent and joined in celebrating the newlyweds’ love with a night of drinking, dancing and laughing. Everyone was happy. We were happy. I pushed the chuppah revelation away, back to the inkling it typically was.

But the next day, it started to develop, like a photo appearing in the darkroom. Faint at first, then becomes more defined with time. Finally, as we traveled to the tip of the north island–officially named the Far, Far North–I could see it clearly and had to call it.  

Each linoleum square on the kitchen floor represented the intermittent intimacy in our six year on-again-off-again relationship. Both had fallen out of fashion. Both took time, strength and deep determination to rip up, my motivation rewarded by what I was uncovering. The original design. Hardwood floors and a heart ready to shine.

I learned mistakes could be corrected, sanded out, painted over, re-measured and re-cut–no one was going to look at my results as closely as I did. We took chances on a lavender accent wall in the living room. The belief everything was always getting better carried me and a trust in the outcome–for the house and for the new direction of my life–gave me inner peace (and power). There was a divine designer in charge. 

PS I like to sleep on everything I write, editing it the next day before posting. I’m on my way home and quickly pop into a Mexican restaurant for some guacamole to go. Without knowing why, I decided to dine-in instead. Amidst chips and salsa, a song M used to sing while strumming guitar comes on. It’s old and obscure, I’d never even heard of it before him. And it’s no mistake it’s playing now, in the hang time of this piece being published. Now I know why I felt pulled to stay, and I’m glad I did. M and I may not have been good romantic partners, but we’d been great business partners. And the house venture is what opened the way for me living on an island in January.