Essays about places that aren’t my home.
I went to Northern Arizona in June for six days, and I went alone. I wanted to take a break from the verdant Pacific Northwest and gorge myself on big, flat, red, dry, hot land. I wanted to spend a few quiet days not doing anything with anyone. I wanted to write. Mostly, I wanted to…
“Do you believe this?” My family went to Israel. It was a great trip. I mean great like fun, and great like eye-opening, and great like broad in scope, and great like significant. We drove the width and breadth of Israel, from the Negev Desert to the Syrian border, from the Jordan River to Tel…
When you eat alone, and the restaurant is empty, you can type on your laptop and eat a whole pizza. And drink a beer too. I drink the Umbrella IPA, which I read on the wrinkled tap list is redolent of “gooseberry and bright fruit... balanced by a pale malt character.” After it's gone, I’ll…
I ran down the road, pants down to my knees, screaming, 'Please, come help me, that Canadian shaman gave a little too much to me,' and I'm writing a novel, because it's never been done before... ...a line from Father John Misty's song "I'm Writing a Novel" I don’t get philosophical about New Year's until…
Geographically speaking, I have caved in on myself. They say life does that in fall and winter. It caves in and shrivels up and burrows underground. It slows and hunches and reflects. I don’t like winter, so I think about all the places I went when it was warm. Most of the year, I've not…
There is a scallop shell on my desk. It is real. It is the size of a man’s palm. It is smooth and shiny and white, but it has a dark stripe and that is why I chose it. It has what looks like a nibble taken from its bottom edge, no doubt from me…
Just like that. Just like that. Just like that I’m wearing a turtleneck, soaking my feet in hot water scented with spicy healing oils, listening to rich orchestral music, on my second massive American mug of tea, burning a candle, the lights low in the house full of things that are mine. There are root…
Last night, someone asked me to post a blog about my expectations I had before leaving. What came true? What didn't? I'll tell you. I’ll get tired. I’ll get blisters. I’ll wish I never packed this laptop (but I’m going to and there’s no convincing me otherwise). I did get tired, but the exhaustion was worst when I stopped going. As the days wore on, my body ached…
I woke up in Seville, the capital of Andalusia, in the muggy south of Spain, where orange trees grow. I woke up early even though I needed to sleep late: habit. I ate lots of bread and as many corn flakes as I could fit in the bowl, and then I remembered that I didn’t…
Finisterre struck me as a welcoming, aspiring hippie commune. Muxia struck me as bleak, lethal, and sacred. (It's pronounced "moo-SHEE-uh.") I came to the place alone, after the last 32 kilometers of walking. The walk was beautiful and it went by quickly. There was only one place to stop for coffee and I didn’t stop.…
On the 41st day of walking, I walked three kilometers up out of Finisterre at six in the evening. I carried a bag with a bottle of wine, a jar of vegetables, a journal, a pen, and some warm clothes. There were others walking up too: couples and kids and families and pilgrims and locals. We…
The 40th morning was miserably cold. I wore both my sweaters and put damp socks on my hands and strode over gravel in the dark, reminding myself that the sun would rise and a cafe would appear and it would be okay soon. It was foggy. My headlamp just lit up the vapor, so I…
Chelsea the Writer 