May 28, 2019 – It’s daunting heading out on the road for more than three weeks. I regrettably had never done that, never traveled west despite tentative plans with friends who did. I was feeling a mix of childlike excitement, anxiety and maybe a little fear. I mean, we had a good plan – stopping in 15 cities and towns over a 22-day span – but there are a lot of variables, right?

Plus, the plan was to sell our 2006 Toyota Sienna minivan when we got to California and fly home, so there was added stress there. Would it even make it?

And we booked almost exclusively Airbnbs, which I prefer to hotel rooms, but there’s always an element of Christmas morning when you open an Airbnb door.

There was also a little guilt.

I was leaving my wife and almost 19-year-old daughter, Sarah, to handle all the tasks I do, like mowing the lawn, cleaning up the bag loads of maple seeds from a neighbor’s tree, maintaining the pool and any other mechanical task that might arise.

I worried about the lawn.

I work hard to maintain that lawn.

More on the lawn later.

But there we were, May 28, 2019, days after Kirsti graduated from the University of Vermont, getting ready to head west – well, south, then west, then northwest.

I had uprooted the captain’s chairs in the back of the van and stacked them behind the passenger’s seat to facilitate a twin air mattress that would come in handy during 8-hour driving stretches.

Sarah snapped a mini polaroid of Kirsti and me in front of the old van, the last picture of it until I shot more on a Santa Fe hillside for the California Craigslist ad.

We said our goodbyes and “I love yous,” gave out big hugs and headed down Kensington Road and onto I87 South, the first of lots of highways over the next 5,000 miles.

For three hours, we chatted and sang along to Spotify favorites from the Beatles to Lady Gaga. “Shallow,” by the way, became an anthem of the trip. We liked singing it, just listening to it and we both got chills at the crescendo – if played loud enough. (We would more recently harmonize to “Maybe it’s Time” by Bradley Cooper, also from the movie, if you want a listen.)

We like the same music, for the most part, which is one of the reasons we travel so well together. So, three hours passed like nothing. Little would we realize that by the end of the trip, a three-hour drive would seem like a trip to the store for groceries.

So, the trip is going perfect.

Then I had Kirsti jump on to my Airbnb account from her phone to check on something, what it was escapes me now.

Bad idea.

Apparently, we broke some Airbnb rule because we got a message that my account had been removed.

Removed?

I freaked.

Mind you, we had about $1,500 worth of reservations from Philadelphia to California on this now-removed account.

How could that be?

We also missed our exit in New Jersey as this was going on because Kirsti’s phone we were using to navigate briefly crapped out.

I pulled into a gas station, stressing!

It was going so well! Then bam!

Kirsti was the cooler head, saying she’s pretty certain they wouldn’t cancel all the reservations, but I, probably seeming much older than my 52 years, needed to hear from someone. We got the GPS working, got back on the right path and called Airbnb customer service. I waited for a while for a human, and was then talked off the ledge by a kind woman who assured me the reservations were still valid. 

Kirsti was probably thinking, “Oh my God, if this rattled him, what are the next 22 days going to be like?” 

Fair question.

Three hours in and you have your first spot to root for Kirsti, right?

We resumed the music, life was back to good and Philly was within reach.

Our time in the City of Brotherly Love was brief, but was punctuated by a stately older Uber driver, a very cool lunch at an eclectic place called “Tattooed Mom,” that featured a red painted cubby hole that gave off a devil’s lair vibe, and a trip to Citizen’s Bank Park to see a monster thunderstorm – and the Phillies not play.

Oh, we also visited this cool place called Magic Gardens, where walls are plastered with broken glass art.

 We made it to the not-so-amazing Airbnb that Kirsti booked and pondered whether to even go to the park because of the ominous, definitely-going-to-rain forecast. You also should know we took turns booking and therefore paying for Airbnbs in various cities ahead of time.

The ones she booked had better stories, but to be fair, she’s on a tighter budget.

This one was fine, but there were ants and stained rugs and bedding that didn’t feel great.

And we really considered bailing on the game.

We went back and forth. I already had the tickets, but damn, it was going to pour.

But then what would we do? We were full from Tattooed Moms, so we didn’t need food. We could go to a bar, maybe find live music?

No, “let’s just go,” we agreed. If nothing else, we’d see a really spectacular lightning show from a stadium.

The radar was ominous.

Deciding to go was a good call, if for no other reason than us getting to meet William Johnson.

Over the $10.64 Uber ride, we learned about his prior life as a career Verizon lineman who retired a while back. He talked about his kids a lot, like a proud pop.

I do that too.

His oldest was 56 I think, so he was clearly at least in his seventies.

He spoke slowly, like Forrest Gump, and I mean no disrespect by that. His delivery simply reminded me of Forrest.

 He said he liked driving for Uber as a retirement job and also spoke about a co-worker who was a hobby photographer who now sells his pictures for $1,000 a piece.  

Traffic was blocked when we got to the stadium, so we hopped out a little early, said goodbye to William and headed to the park as the black clouds encroached.

I’ve been to at least 10 different stadiums in cities from Anaheim and Colorado to Cleveland and D.C., but never have I seen a jumbo screen in the outfield engulfed by a weather radar map showing lots of red, yellow and green as rain pounded down.

We each had a large $12 can of beer and watched the show, just as we planned.

We walked around the park a little and found spots where the wind wouldn’t blow the rain on us. Kirsti actually finalized the Amarillo, Texas gig while we watched the rain and plotted our next move.

And then.

The rain stopped.

The field crew sprang into action dragging the huge tarp toward right field and leaving a literal pond between first and second base.

   Within half an hour or so, the pond was gone, players were on the field and we were watching baseball. The Phillies went on to beat the St. Louis Cardinals that night, 4-3. As Red Sox fans, we didn’t really care who won and left around the 7^th inning. We were a little tired and knew we were back on the road again in the morning for the first gig in D.C., so we figured we’d call it a night. But we saw a lot more baseball than we thought we would and were happy we went!