Getting My Bearings

I'm back to where I started today, sitting outside my room at The Desert Lily facing east, except now rather than watching the sun slowly rise in a left-to-right arc across the sky, I'm gazing at the shadows cast by its setting behind me.

Bob is gone now but I'm not alone: I've just met a young neighbor named Jimmy who sauntered around back like he lived here, and a young boy named Timmy who's staying at the B'iltmore, another house on the property.

I spent most of today loving people. From the sideburned, pompadored guy at the Crossroads Cafe who told me where to get wireless to Orv, the enthusiastic California Welcome Center greeter, everyone has been so nice and helpful and friendly and interested and interesting. The checkout woman at Wal-Mart called me "sweetie" and "honey" and told me to have a good day and meant it.

Still, I got a little tired of civilization.


I took a drive up Pioneertown Road, past Pappy & Harriet's into the Pioneertown Mountains Preserve, on the other side of the Twentynine Palms Highway. I stopped to snap a photo of the rocky, green-dotted terrain and a truck drove up behind me and kindly waited for me to finish. After that, I didn't really see anybody else.



The Preserve has been ravaged by wildfires, something I hadn't seen since last September's trip through Julian into Anza-Borrego. I couldn't even get all the way to the preserve headquarters because the road leading to Pipes Creek was closed. Even the rocks look burned.

As dead as the joshua trees all around me were, charred and split down the middle, falling over and twisted, seeing them made me feel more alive than I had since I arrived the night before.

Could I be a wilderness girl?

I suppose so, as long as I have a car with air conditioning.



I had no desire for my usual comforts today. I apathetically strolled down the snack aisle at the grocery store and didn't feel tempted by any cheese curl. I went to the movies and didn't get popcorn. I resisted the cookies in the kitchen and ate grapes for dinner. Instead, I feel comforted by the intensifying vibrato of crickets, and the moving image of the road passing underneath me in my head.

I'll go to bed early again tonight and hope to wake up again around 6 a.m. to watch the sun rise. Out here, it seems to be enough reason to get up at all, something I struggle with every day back home.

Welcome to Joshua Tree

As soon as I passed Cabazon on 10E, I was welcomed into the California desert by high winds which nearly blew my Nissan over and which really fueled the turbines spinning on either side of the freeway. I was driving about 100 mph in anticipation of my arrival, thankful that I’d shaken the traffic that plagued me on 15N and 215N as I drove through Escondido, Temecula, Riverside, and all the depressed little towns in between.

I have arrived in Joshua Tree. Thankfully I slowed down a little on the stretch of road where Park Blvd becomes Quail Springs Road, allowing two roadrunners to skitter across and watching the quails scatter as I drove by.

I’m still acclimating to my surroundings, especially now that I’m staying at The Desert Lily as a temporary resident rather than as a tourist. Tonight I’ve seen two young coyotes chasing a rabbit right behind the house, and two bats flapping above. The sound of crickets and a ceiling fan will lull me to sleep instead of traffic, sirens, rattling bottles.

There’s no TV signal here and no cell phone reception. It’s not exactly Into the Wild but it’s about as cut off as I’ve been since trekking the Laura Ingalls Wilder Historic Highway with no place to stay, a GPS running out of juice, and no cell reception.

Bob grilled up some chicken and asparagus for dinner and we ate it out on the patio in the dark, our plates illuminated only by a rainbow LED candle. Bob leaves tomorrow afternoon so I’ll be on my own. Before he goes he’s going to show me how to water the plants. That’s pretty much my only job while he’s away for the next week.

Joshua Tree is unseasonably cool, not nearly the 105 degrees that Bob and Carrie warned me about, but it makes for a nice transition into desert life. I'm falling asleep facing a water glass that's reflecting the blue standby light from my laptop, and in the dim night's blue I can see two bugs struggling to survive on the water's surface.

To Leave, and Not Be Left Behind

In pretty much every case except for my parents’ house, I’ve always had a hard time leaving. I’m likely the last one left at a party, bagging up the leftover food and collecting empty bottles and cans for recycling. I predictably walk out of the Marshall Stack ladies’ room around 4:15 a.m. to find all the lights on and the bartenders flipping the stools up on the bar. I stay and watch the credits in the movie theater not just to catch the names of the songs I heard during the movie, but just in case there’s some funny bit that I might miss otherwise if I left, like at the end of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

In 1995, I left Nicki’s family and my first boyfriend behind to spend a semester in London. I sobbed on the Amtrak to Terry’s house as I tried to lift my four months’ worth of baggage onto the rack above. I came back a little more world-weary, with dirty nostrils and a taste for hard cider.

In 1997, I wasn’t entirely sure I would even leave Syracuse to move to NYC. I was really happy in my job at Media Play, and with the potential of moving up the ranks possibly to management, I imagined myself staying local after graduating from Colgate, getting an apartment somewhere and having a blast every day working with Chrissy, Tyler, Nyki, James, the whole gang.

Ultimately I followed my calling to NYC. It wasn’t easy. At the end of my senior year, Maria helped me pack just enough belongings to cram into the NYU Third North dorm room I was moving into for the summer, and I rented and drove a truck down the day after graduation. Tim even took on the adventure of driving down to NYC with me, an inexperienced (though licensed) driver who’d never operated a ten-foot truck before. I kept swerving over onto the rumble strips on 81S and assuring Tim, “I have complete control of the vehicle.”

Along Route 17 through New Jersey – having taken the route suggested by my father, aided by a road atlas I “borrowed” from Jon – we stopped in Paramus for McDonald’s and a bathroom break. As we nibbled nervously on our fries, the weather worsened and the approaching night signaled our need to take our impending trip through the Lincoln Tunnel as soon as we could. I got too scared and handed the driving duties over to Tim, who obliged with a bit of reckless abandon, an embrace of the unknown perils under the Hudson River, and beyond.

Through lightning and pouring rain, we careened through the tunnel and down 42nd Street to Third Avenue, the most seemingly direct route but probably the most perilous for New York City newbies who had no business being behind that wheel.

We rolled my stuff from the truck to the dorm in those big gray rubber bins, with casters that rumbled against the sidewalk in harmony with the thundering sky above. We were soaked and cursing ourselves for bringing so much stuff, as little as it was. Tim wiped the storm from his shaved head and flicked it off his hand onto the dry dorm carpet below, and slept on a bed with no sheets, no blanket and, as I recall, no pillow.

I put him on a Greyhound back to Syracuse the next day and suddenly I was alone.

Lucky for me, I ended up with a great roommate with great friends, so I wasn’t alone for long. And I knew that Daria would follow me to NYU within a month, and that Terry lived close enough upstate to come down and visit and look for apartments for us while I started my career in the music biz.

Nobody’s coming with me to California, though. Can I spend weeks alone? Will there be a courtyard where I can meet other people my age, as I did at Third North? Will I find boys to buy me beers and make out with me in bars?

Will I want to come back? Too soon or not at all?

I’m trying not to focus on what I’ll miss while I’m away, because most of what New York City has to offer will still be here when I come back. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of making up for lost time and getting to do the things I’ve always wanted to do, so I have to keep telling myself that there’s nothing I could miss that I wouldn’t eventually get the chance to do. In reality, there aren’t that many once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. A retreat in Joshua Tree is something that may only come around once for me. For most people, never.

The lights are about to turn on for me. The truck is waiting and the bags are packed. I know what I’m leaving behind. Nobody can ever say I didn’t give New York City my best effort.

And in the end, I'd rather be the one to leave, than be the one who's left behind.

The Things New York City Couldn't (Or Wouldn't) Let Me Have

After recent visits to my hometown of Syracuse, Jon's place outside of Boston, and the California desert where I'll soon relocate temporarily, I can't get this list off my mind.

For 12 years, New York City couldn't find a way to give me:

• A screened-in porch
• A window in the bathroom
• A car
• A boyfriend
• A morning when I could walk without limping (thanks to humidity, flip flops, hangovers...)
• A starry night sky
• A bedroom
• A pet that's not an unwelcome mouse
• A sense of meaning

You have to put a lot into New York in order to get anything out of it. A good cup of coffee, a fun night out on the town, a job in your industry of choice - all of these things come at a cost. These things can drain your bank account as well as your soul. And sometimes you're left asking the timeless question, "What have you done for me lately?"

I'm hoping a trial separation will improve my relationship with the City, but according to this week's issue of Time Out New York, I'm probably ready to go.

A New Version of Me?

How is it that just three days before I'm taking a leap into the California desert, I'm on a bus to Boston?

Shouldn't I be packing?

Actually when I got home Wednesday night from San Diego - after the LIRR conductor held the 9:39 train for me and then didn't collect my non-existent ticket - I spun like a tornado through my apartment, collecting tank tops and underwear and toiletries and cables and wires along the way until I had a huge pile on my couch and my rolling suitcase was refilled with appropriate resort wear for 105 degree temperatures. By the time I went to bed, I was pretty much packed.

From the moment we got in line to board our flight back from San Diego, I couldn't wait to get back to NYC just so I could get back to California.

But for whatever reason, instead of selling back more CDs to the used record store or washing my silverware, I decided I had to finally get to Boston to see Jon and his new (or, not so new anymore) baby who I haven't even met yet. At times I still think of Jon as the Colgate first-year I met by a tree in front of the campus chapel. It's hard to imagine either one of us having a baby.

I've taken the trip to Boston many times over the years since Jon moved after grad school. At one point it became relatively routine for me to take either the Amtrak or the Greyhound up here. But this trip feels different, and not just because I paid $15 for the Bolt Bus (which continues to annoy me despite the nice new leather seats and WiFi) this time. It feels like I'm saying goodbye.

That's not to say I'll never see Jon again. But I feel like this may be the last time he sees this version of me. I'm getting ready to change, not only my surroundings, but myself. I don't know what will happen once I spend more than a few days in California. Sometimes the best things happen when you just close your eyes, hold your nose and...leap.

I suppose the worst thing that could happen is that nothing changes at all. I spend a few weeks in Joshua Tree, drinking wine and working on my laptop, and I come back to New York in the same old apartment with the same old stresses and nothing but a sunburn to prove I even left in the first place.

Most people - especially New Yorkers - can't fathom what I'm going to do in the desert all by myself. I respond that I'm just "going to be" and they cock their heads to one side, lift a brow and move in a little closer, waiting for something more. But that's it.

I was the walking dead for the greater part of last year. I ran away from everything. Now I'm running towards something, I just don't know what.

My clock has been ticking for a long time. It's time I really wind it up and let it run...

The Giant Dipper

When I was preparing to return to San Diego after having visited there a handful of times last year, I came across Belmont Park, a seaside amusement park featuring a historically landmarked wooden rollercoaster called The Giant Dipper.

Say no more.

On Sunday Edith and I drove to Mission Beach to go check it out.

Most of the rides are for kiddies but we squealed on the truly nervewracking Dipper which shook us to the core and gave us a mild case of whiplash. It only lasts about a minute and a half but the restored coaster - which features original wood and replaced screws to make it slightly less rickety - gave us some twists and turns and heights and dips to rival the Coney Island Cyclone. Only, lucky for us, this one had a nice, sturdy lap bar keeping us in our seats.











After we survived the Dipper and cracked our necks to each side, we made ourselves sick on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

I can't think of a better way to spend vacation than a hot air balloon ride, winetasting, and an amusement park. Add to that a ferry ride and a hot shell massage, and I can't wait to go back.

Scary Food

Sea urchin bisque at Sea Rocket Bistro in North Park, San Diego. It's served in its own spiky dark purple shell (though they'll put it in a cup for you if you're a scaredy cat).

You can also order fresh sea urchin in its own shell but I was scaredy of the spongey texture.

I did have a grilled whole sardine which I filleted myself and some amazing Winchester gouda with honey. Now making plans to visit the Winchester Cheese Company...

Adventure Is Out There! Wine Country Edition

As I approach turning 34 and my metabolism slows, my joints ache and my hair sprouts bright white roots every three weeks, I think my brain tries more and more desperately to retain its childlike appreciation of the simpler excitements in life. Whether that’s by way of making up for lost time by driving me to do things now I never did as a child, or by clinging to those things that I always loved as a child, there’s a big part of my mind that feels and thinks exactly as it did when I was a child.

I still can’t get enough fireworks.

I’d been campaigning to myself and others around me for a while to take a hot air balloon ride. After my 30th birthday skydiving trip when I realized that I liked the gentle parachute sail down a lot more than the dive itself, I figured a nice relaxing lift into the sky would be nice, especially when lifted by a nylon rainbow. A couple years ago I actually booked a ride in Jamesville over Maria’s birthday weekend, but the weather forced a last minute cancellation. Since Maria was terrified – though very willing – I didn’t push the issue again.

It seems like since then, brochures, flyers and advertisements for balloon rides have been dropping from the sky all around me, so when I saw that the annual Temecula Balloon & Wine Festival was this weekend, I couldn’t resist going.

Ballooning is a relatively common and popular activity over wine country, so I suppose I could have gone any of the times that I was in San Diego County last year, but booking our ride as part of a festival seemed like such an event. When we were driving our Malibu at 5:30 a.m. down Warren Road in Lake Skinner National Recreational Area along with a line of other cars, we thought, “Are all these people ballooning too? Or just coming to watch?”

We had plenty of fellow aeronauts join us for sunrise, not only in our own balloon’s gondola (which fit 12 plus the pilot) but for lots of balloons – more than 20 of them ready to launch around the same time as us, some from the festival grounds, some from a vineyard a short drive away.

It seemed like we drove around forever looking for the right spot to launch our balloon. Our driver would pull our van over, inflate a small black balloon, get out and release it and watch which way it went. As the wind shifted from southernly to westernly, so did our plans and we did more than a few U-turns to pick a new spot.

A few of the passengers got antsy in the van, asking a ton of questions, requesting the windows to open, shifting around in their seats, but I just kept telling myself it was worth the wait. As the sun rose higher in the sky, other balloons started popping off the horizon all around us – a blue one with a yellow star and moon they called “Fantasia,” a bright yellow one marked “California Dreamin’” after the company responsible for our launch, and even one with a lion’s head on it. They all sailed off into the cloud line as we watched our crew inflate our rainbow-colored balloon with a sunset on it, called “Daydreamin’ in San Diego.” Perfect.


When we finally climbed and crammed ourselves into the gondola, I felt like I should have been wearing flight goggles and a helmet, or a lifejacket or some kind of World’s Fair-era protective gear for our “first flight.” The physics of the hot air balloon are relatively simple, but it still baffled me into a blissful, wondrous state.

The Temecula wine country is gorgeous – beautiful, rolling hills with green orchards and vineyards and mountains in the distance. Our pilot chose to give us the most scenic view possible rather than letting the balloon sail to too impressive heights. We probably never got above, say 1200 feet off the ground, but it seemed like we went far, and we saw a lot. No scary acrobatics for this pilot: he gave us the smoothest ride he could, enough so that when we poured our champagnes and mimosas mid-flight, we lost not a drop.


All of the balloons were quite an attraction locally. People pulled over their cars and got out to watch. Workers at the wineries waved hello and shouted greetings up to us. I’m sure the other balloons watched our flight pattern as much as we watched theirs, marveling at the balloon-dotted sky and at our own shadow on the rugged California terrain below.


On our return trip, we got almost as far as the lake, but ran out of juice just before it, so our pilot targeted a thistly hill upon which to set us down. Caught up in some crosswinds and what he kept referring to as a “thermal,” our balloon touched down on top of the hill, then lifted back up, touching down again and eventually sliding all the way down. I positioned myself at the back of the gondola, so when we were landing with a gentle crash, I saw the brown, twiggy earth rising before my eyes as our balloon descended farther and farther down. Just enough peril to make a great story.

Over the crest of that hill, we saw another balloon close by getting ready to take off again, and we watched it lift off and sail right towards us. We all cast our gazes upwards to watch their gondola graze our deflating balloon, which had started to whip in the wind and seemed to thwap them a little bit. No harm done. Just a little balloon traffic in the sky today, folks.

After we were returned safely (and a little drunk off champagne) to the festival grounds, I didn’t really want to do anything else. I didn’t even want to leave the balloon behind. We finished the last bottle of champagne with another couple and the pilot and exchanged stories and let the feeling of the ride – that gentle lilt – linger just a little while longer.

For more photos, click here.
For video of the takeoff, click here.
For video of the landing, click here.

To become a fan of Avoiding Regret on Facebook, click here.

Following in My Own Footsteps

I haven't been travelling all that much since I quit my job in January, but when I found out Edith was going to San Diego on a business trip next week, I jumped at the chance to join her early and carve out even more of Southern California to make my own.

After arriving early this afternoon with relatively no itinerary, we ended up back in La Jolla for a nice oceanside patio lunch. We'd had a nice time at George's last year during our first ever trip to the San Diego area, watching our sunburns emerge on our arms and legs and feet as we sipped cocktails and sat once again unprotected from the sun. Back then we were delirious from kayaking, and although we made it down to La Jolla Cove to watch the birds and listen to the sea lions, we somehow missed out on La Jolla Cave, which must be entered by its folksy "Cave Gift Shop" at the end of the busy, trinket-laiden commercial strip.

Today's maitre d' at the Trattoria Acqua sat us directly overlooking the Cave Gift Shop, and given any inkling of a missed opportunity being repeated, we couldn't resist going in.

A white-haired, hunched man behind a desk took our four dollars each and pointed us to a stairway leading down what we were warned as "wet, slippery steps" - 145 of them, in fact. This is the only sea cave you can access by land on the California coastline, making it not only historic but also quite the curiosity. Scrawled in paint above our heads read, "LOW CEILING" and even we at five-foot-four had to duck and hunch ourselves just to make our way down.


As we descended down into a roughly-cut or blasted hole in the earth - reminiscent of our descent into the Atlantic Tunnel - the distance between the stairs seemed to get shallower, and the dampness nearer, until my sandals were squishing in puddles and trapping the water between my toes. We could hear moans in the distance - were they lost souls, or sea lions, or the incoming tide?

Turns out they were the pigeons that live down there.



At the bottom of the steps, you climb out onto a platform that brings you close to the mouth of the cave, with the sun filtering in blindingly. Even at low tide, the ocean comes in and splashes up on the rocks like an attack, waiting to snatch your camera or your shoes away from you.

At the end of the platform, just when you feel like you're all alone in the world like many a great explorer before you, snorklers bob their heads in and out of the water's surface, and a new group of curious folk - these some blonde-streaked, flatchested college girls - come down the slippery stairs in your footsteps.

And then you go back up.

But those few minutes you have marvelling at the jagged edges of the aperture makes you glad you're inside the cave instead of outside of it. And now you know what it's like in there.

I used to never want to go back to the same place twice, but I've learned to appreciate gaining a dynamic, quality understanding of a place rather than a superficial overview of it. So although I was tempted to try some new restaurant in some other neighborhood in San Diego today on our way to Escondido (which is new to me), I'm glad we retraced our steps. Maybe the place is the same, but it's a year later and we are different. It was nice to be able to see La Jolla just a little bit older and just a little less burned.

Brooklyn Navy Yard Tour

Just about a month ago I convinced Edith to play hooky and join me on a bus tour of Brooklyn's Navy Yard. They usually do these for free during Open House NY, but I've usually got some hospital to explore, so I bought a ticket for this one courtesy of the Municipal Art Society, whose tour was cheaper than the one offered by Brooklyn Historical Society and the now-defunct BCUE(!!!).

They picked us up in a new blue bus, reminiscent more of a prison bus than a school bus, but full of excited retirees like myself. I love a good urban tour.

Navy Yard has a long, rich history of shipbuilding and has been transformed into a historical industrial park. In addition to the new facilities (which are surprisingly green), there are lots of old crumbly buildings and even a Civil War-era abandoned hospital (which fortunately has been stabilized). Security is pretty tight given all the workers who still come in and out of the main gates, so the bus tour was the best way in.

Of course it was raining and we couldn't get into a lot of the most appealing buildings, but we got to skulk around the outside of ones like the old Paymaster building (until recently, still used in its state of extreme disrepair by some industrious Hasids).



Like Red Hook and DUMBO and other waterfront neighborhoods of Brooklyn dependent on ferry landings and boat slips, Navy Yard still has the old trolley tracks set into cobblestone. A little part of me still hopes that Bob Diamond gets to finally realize his dream of bringing those old trolleys back.


It really started to pour while we were poking around outside, so we sought shelter back on the bus and drove too quickly through the rest of the Navy Yard sights, especially the abandoned hospital and a lot of the old residences all boarded up and rain-streaked. We even passed a preserved part of the old Brooklyn Naval Hospital Cemetary, which was dug up in the 1920s to relocate the remains of more than 2000 military service members to Cypress Hills. Unfortunately, as our tour guide told us, they didn't get all of the remains, and some kids playing soccer in the late 1990s kicked a bone instead of a soccer ball. At that point the cemetery was closed to the public and "preserved" as a memorial.

We also whizzed by Admirals' Row, the former home to high-ranking military officials. Those houses, which were particularly spectacular in their hey-day, have been entrenched in a tug-of-war between the National Guard (who owns them), historic preservationists, and neighborhood advocates who want a grocery store for the low income housing projects that face the Navy Yard. The longer they're tied up in appeals and hearings and petitions, the more they are worn down by the elements and will cost more and more to fix up.

Despite a fever and impending thunderstorms, I went back this week to get a closer look at Admiral's Row. It's right off of Flushing Ave near the corner of Navy St., a B61 bus ride down from Williamsburg, and you can see the houses' facades easily from the sidewalk. Overgrown and falling down, there's some question as to whether those houses can even be saved. Part of me loves them the way that they are, only wishing it were safe for me to skulk around inside. (I'm not as brave as some other urban explorers...) Or maybe for them to be preserved as a historic ruin like the smallpox hospital or Eastern State Penitentiary.



Honestly, to look at their shattered windows and piles of rubble, with the sounds of nesting birds rustling in the overgrowth, it's hard to imagine those buildings being anything but razed.

And it's not hard to see why the residents think it's an eyesore. The entire corner of Navy and Flushing is under the shadow of a red brick wall, topped with green overgrowth and these relic buildings looming above. A little farther down Flushing, right across from a playground, the red brick wall is replaced by a black wrought iron fence that doesn't look too hard to climb, save for the barbed wire twisted above it.



It's actually kind of nice with all the greenery, the serene quietude of abandonment, but I would imagine that the locals have a hard time understanding the purpose of preservation when they have nowhere to get fresh produce. And so they ditch their empty bottles of water and orange soda over the fencing, under the barbed wire, and watch it collect on the ground along with the broken glass and window frames.



On most Navy Yard maps, Admirals Row is referred to as "Federal Property," but it's easy to find and is right around the corner from the historic Sands Gate. The B61 drops you off right to the side of it, two stops after it turns right onto Navy. But a word of warning: it's not a very nice neighborhood, so go during daylight and be prepared for catcalls from passing cars.

I've made a mental note to go back and explore the other end of Navy Yard on foot, near the hospital and more "federal property," if I can avoid being rained-on and apprehended by the Yard's security.

More info courtesy of the Municipal Art Society:



Further Reading:
Officer's Row Project (great photos of the delapidated interiors)