Writing retreat- a story in pictures

To be able to get to THIS

you may need to go to THIS

walk past places like THIS

Up stairs like THIS

                                                               past signs like THIS

                                                            To see things like THIS

a view to entice creativity, writers retreat

                                          
                                                      Soak in the sun by places like THIS

                                      

     and then come home and chat about 

your day with writers like THIS

       Then tuck yourself into bed at night 

in a place like THIS                        

                                                 with someone who may or may not snore

When Googled became a verb...

I wrote about this on my writing blog today, but thoughtI should share here too... because, well. I think you all deserve some wise words, and pretty cool links.
 SO... please allow me to repeat myself:

Today, I Googled the phrase, “Places to Write.”

I had been speaking with my writer friend, Gwen Morrison, a brilliant author, editor and publisher, and my partner in the newest venture: Write by the Water: a writers retreatabout the best place to write in our homes… something most people ask of authors at those Q&A’s after the reading, on the big book tour.

As suburban moms, we have both adapted a room in our house to act as office/writing space. A place where children and dogs come and go as they please, usually leaving us more interrupted than inspired.

I hit up my good friend, Mr. Google to see what he had to say what I typed in PLACES TO WRITE.

The writers at Wicked Writers had a list of 10 places to write.

I got a kick out of this one.

5 – From a Jail Cell: Well, not in reality. Whenever I can’t seem to find peace and quiet anywhere, the loner in me dreams of writing from a jail cell in solitary confinement. No Internet, no planning dinner, no vacuuming, and no teenagers not doing their homework. Ahhhhh 

Novelist and Coach Jacqui Lofthouse suggests “going on holiday” is the best way to get any writing done. In other words, get out of your natural element.

She speaks of getaways in  Tuscany and the South of France, dropping uber-attractive nouns; villa, country-home… I like her thinking.

This article reminds me that:

Virginia Woolf famously insisted that in order to write professionally a woman must have “a room of her own.”

Oh, yes. I like that. All you women writers now have a perfectly good reason to overtake the den.

And, yep. Even JK Rowling has something to say on the subject.

THIS IS where I’m going to be writing this fall.

In one of the spacious rooms, on a balcony, under a tree, on the beach, in a kayak…

You can join me…..  it’s easy. CLICK HERE for all the details. I’ll save you a spot on the sand.

Paris. In a hurry.

Ok. I have been before. I have spent hours at the Louvre, and oohed and ahhed in the many churches,  have shopped the streets, eaten at cafe's, drunk espresso at 2 am... I have strolled the Champs-Elysées from end to end... and i would have done it all again - in a heartbeat... if we all could have agreed, and if the cheapass RT AirFrance ticket from Madrid to paris to Athens and back to Atlanta had not been such a sweet deal- I mean, really- 3 countries for 900 bucks??!
So, you see the dilemma.
  When a plane takes you to Paris, you do what the youngest wants to do.

  and maybe you have some fun with the craZy cab ride and the jet lag setting in...

and you definitely shop, and eat, and admire 

  and you laugh at the old man breakdancing  in the blue tracksuit for a few euro.. and the naked statues, because you're punchy and you're American

and then you try to relive a bit of your youth by camping out at the airport for 5 hours until the connecting flight is ready to board- but you remember you're 47, not 27, and instead, you grab a very expensive room at the Sheraton connected to the hotel and settle into a clean, warm bed for 4 hours.

 before you look out your teeny plane window to see this:

oh yeah.

There is something to be said about the European way.

 

You may think this is un American... especially if you have never traveled out of the country.
 But as the 16 yr old can attest, there are some very hot women in Europe. With very healthy body images. And very teeny tiny bathing suits.

 There is a certain freedom in the lazy afternoon siesta, the long lingering meals after sundown. A certain amazement that never ends as you think of who walked before you on the rocky beaches past those gnarled trees.... the mere history... where BC follows most ages of buildings, villages, monuments.
 I am constantly reduced to jaw dropping moments of introspection and awe whenever I am blessed enough to explore another country.

 Here's me, in  the largest gorge in Europe.

I walked 12.8 kilometers through a gorge in Crete Saturday. What did you do?

 And the whole way, the 11 year old WHINED. I was kind of glad the 16 year old was lagging behind.
We finished in under 5 hours.  
Do you KNOW how far 12. 8 kilometers is? 

AND at the end of the hike, you still aren't done. It's another 10 minutes to walk into town, another 100 meters to the beer stall and another 50 meters to the tzatziki.

 I'm just saying.

Sure, I worried about the missing boy.I asked strangers, cute Swedish hiker dudes, and  after my daughter and I ate, drank and swam in the Libyan Sea, I convinced a man with a little bus to drive me up a hill- all in sign language. I wasn't walking anymore... even for my firstborn ...
Oh, not to worry. I found him. 
He was hot, sweaty, sore, and had just finished eating a hamburger.

Where are you taking your kids this year?

It's vacation planning time.  Where to go? When to go? What to do? What to spend? What to expect?

Which brings me to ask, "If you really don't have a desire to go anywhere special, should you just save the money and stay home?"

Educators say we should be immersing our kids in another culture.
The government says we should be giving money back to our own economy.

Everyone you ask has an opinion on THE BEST VACATION EVER.
 There's even a book

Okay, maybe that's not going to be of much help.

A dinner discussion brought up Greece, France, Italy,  Croatia, Spain and Portugal. And if time and money were no problem: Asia, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Dubai and Fiji.

What do you do when you want to please everyone, and yet not repeat other trips, in the fear that they won't stack up and you'll be the one crying in her Pernod and speaking bad french to old men in a cafe in Nice, wishing you'd just stayed home. because you know what's going to happen. It's going to be the Mom making all the plans, and taking time away from her stuff to do their stuff- just like it was with Ireland and Scotland and England. Just like it was with the West Indies, and the Dominican Republic and the Carolinas and NY and all those Floridian adventures. sigh. When you travl alone, it's no problem- you can change plans with a snap of the fingers... it's all those other grumpy pusses- with their NEEDS and their movie screen expectations. ~sigh~

Don't you miss the days of the corner store travel agent? Walk in, grab a brochure, leave a credit card and the whole vacation s done for you. It all comes to you in the mail in a few days: tickets, maps, hotel reservations.. and yes-- someone to blame.

Gators, Crabs, Jellyfish, Sore butts and Claustrophobia. The hazards of summer.

Sometimes when you try to synopsize a period of time, it comes out in spurts and globs-- like a stubborn jello shooter in a too deep plastic cup. Usually I am given the liberty of compiling my thoughts, and then downloading them at my leisure, so the glops can at least cling together -- congealing into a storyline that contains a beginning, middle and end-- but sometimes, I just prematurely ejaculate the memory... and you end up with something like this.


I so wish I had bought this bra. I can already see next halloween.


I caught crabs on vacation.

It was dark and I should have known better. At first, there was a lot of shouting and chasing and running and some cursing, with nothing but a blue pail and a tiny sand shovel.


We always brought home one extra one for the dog to chase. We only lost one under the stove... the same stove that claimed the gecko we caught another night.We bought a five dollar net and the crabs got bigger. Just as much cursing and whooping.


With in days, my son was a pro, graduating to a long handled net and a very bright lantern.

This is the biggest blue crab my son pulled out of the surf. He ate it.

There's only so much you can say about shellfish, except. Yes, I was right about the females and the egg-filled asses.
We rented a boat one day in Panama City Beach. We followed a map to a shoreline supposedly full of shells. Nope. But there were a shitload of purple and clear and pinkish jellyfish. They didn't sting too bad.

Another day, after I was treated to a claustrophobic moment when forced through a black tunnel on an inflatable tube, feeling like a pretty little turd riding a tampon through the sewer( ie: spent the morning riding water slides, and floating down over chlorinated faux rivers).. we ate bar food, drank very strong drinks with silly names, drew on the walls then fed some alligators.


This one finally woke up, slithered into the water and chowed down on the treats dangling from our gator friendly fishing pole, much to the delight of every boy in the world- and a few drunk womens too. ayuh.
AS for the sore butts portion of the summer hazards, that would have to do with the inability to rent scooters in our local area. AGe, insurance, cost and availability all a factor. Here comes the tricky part. Renting bicycles and getting a decidedly anti- cardio Father and a decidely slowpoke daughter to keep the pace with the highly competitive boy turned out to be only fun for two of us. 12 miles in the heat felt like 30... I am no Lance.

Part 2 Vacation Post Wherein I teach my kid to steal

Renting a beachfront townhouse is never a bad idea. Easy to reach the beach, private bathrooms and cold beer nearby. Only thing is, other folks may want to join you on your perfectly empty stretch of beach. they may even want to shoot an an for YOLO boards, or COASTAL LIVING.


They might even climb on ladders to get the perfect shot and forget those bags of brand new YOLO t-shirts laying in the sand.... on a path directly to my town house.
They may pack up their boards and their sun hats and their classic VW camper bus and drive off leaving their litter behind. A few plastic sand filled cups, one coffee container and gee, look son... four brand new t-shirts, just our size.

Hey, it made the nonshark attack and the almost drowning and enduring both the shittiest meal ever at Goatfeathers and a 24 hour 10 year old barffest almost forgettable, because who doesn't like free stuff, especially when it feels like you've gotten away with something illegal.

Note to the YOLO board folks. We will wear your shirts proudly and even though, as a friend pointed out, we are inland and nowhere near the beach and YOLO board places... consider this free advertising. You're welcome.

What did you do on summer vacation, Johnny? Well, I almost drowned...

So, yes. I went on vacation. And yep, I actually came back. Dammit. The post delay has many reasons... none of which I want to go into right now, suffice it to say this will be a long one.


Sometimes, when you look at the ocean, you think she is a restful, calm place. A place where romance blooms and sweet nothings are carried by the breeze across sandy dunes to land gently on freckled cheeks slightly scorched by the sun.

Other times, you see her for what she really is- a sly trickster PMS'ing in the worst way. She draws you into her depths taunting you with her cool blue exterior only to turn on you in an instant, roiling up underneath in riptides and evil currents of doom, sending man eating sharks, stinging rays and slimy purple jellyfish your way. She plays with your emotions, come deeper she says, look, a sand bar, here and here too... a place you can rest your tired limbs, a place I will drown you. And no one on land will ever see.

Here's a picture of our beach right after some doofus numbnuts hick yelled, "Shark!" Um. No. Dumbass. That was a ray. And a small one at that. Good Lord, am I glad he wasn't around this morning when the dolphins were swimming by just past the sand bar.

A sand bar that looks like this: A sandbar that teased most of us on land into believing she had a sister sandbar a bit farther out, if we were reading her signs- that come hither beckoning finger that said, swim just a little bit more, just a little more.... okay. now DIE.
Um. yeah. Well. almost.

See, right after the doofus yelled shark and scared everyone out of the water, I had to make a point, so I ran INTO the water and said I was going for a swim. My equally brave and equally stubborn 15 yr old son joined me. Everyone else went back to their coolers of beer.

So we swam, and floated, and joked.. and scared each other a little talking about rays and sharks and big fish underneath us. The shore was far away. Very far away. And the elusive second sand bar? Wasn't a sand bar at all... just more deep, deep water. Hiding a rip tide.
There are very few moments in my 46 years that I have thought I was going to die.
This was one of them.

And you know what I was thinking, as I was sinking? That this would be a totally embarrassing way to go, and that how weak would I be, if I didn't try to save my son, or how he would feel if he had to watch me die... we tried to wave to people on shore, tried to get someone to notice we were in trouble. I wondered how long it would take for a rescue to arrive.
And then, I saw all of these things cross my son's face and I changed my tune.
"C'mon Dude. Backstroke? I'll race you!"

We encouraged each other through the deepest water, out of the riptide, down the shore and finally to a place we could float and then stand and far away from our starting point, we hauled ourselves to shore and fell exhausted in the sand, looked at each other and said, "We almost freaking died out there. omigod."
Back at our sand chairs, under our sun shelter, we found a passed out dad oblivious to our plight and a little girl burying her feet in the sand, not a care in the world.

The irony of the fact that my novel is called, WE'RE NOT WAVING, WE'RE DROWNING is not lost on me. Thanks for the reminder, God. It's me, Linda.

more tomorrow, with a slightly less morose theme I promise

Vacation is just not the same without Wi-Fi

Yes. I am officially addicted to the internet. I suppose having my Crackberry connecting me to the etherworld should be enough, but no. So, here I am in a coffeehouse stealing wi-fi airtime and getting my fix.

But in my defense, I have a deadline and the noise of the surf outside my sliding glass doors is a bit distracting.
*sigh*

Let it be known that as soon as the sun shone down ever so brightly, I closed the lid and ran outside, espresso in hand....
next stop?
beach.
and picture downloading
You can take the geek out of the suburbs but you cannot take the laptop out of the geek- or something like that.

It's pretty, isn't it?
A place I grow more fond of every time I visit, even if it is off the beaten path- at least the best parts of it are. It's the Florida Panhandle on the Gulf of Mexico, with quartz beaches and sand that doesn't stick.
If you drive the length of it, you will be treated to a cultural encapsulation of the USA- from small town hicks of Alabama to the uppity Beverly Hills-ish faux folks to the old blue hair NY Jews to the the Ivy League Spring Breaker Party crowd to the Ex- Hippie Lets camp on the beach and let the dogs shit everywhere while we eat oysters sort of family folks.
Undeniably, the place has its charm, one being its location in retrospect to large commercial cities, the new airport on the way and the undeniably sweet income tax structure.

I can almost forget the traffic jams and construction delays always encountered getting down there and how I almost died and got divorced on a shitty 3 hour walk once. Because each time I try a new area, I learn something else. Like, cheap rentals are cheap for a reason. There isn't always a grocery store around the corner. You don't want to stay where people shop. It's best to be on the south side of the highway. Oysters can go bad fast. Crabbing isn't as easy as they say. And when away from the shore's breeze, summer may be way too hot and buggy to be enjoyable.

I have always been drawn to the ocean. Our family vacations were spent at The Jersey Shore or in Cape Cod, and once The Virgin Islands, which I thought was a funny name for a sexy place.
When I was old enough to strike out on my own I finagled a deal with a small company, convinced them to send me to the West Coast to open new locations and settled my little ass in San Diego. I went to the beach almost every day. Gave directions that started with, head toward the water... Later, after I left that job, I took sideline jobs that were on or on the way to the beach. I dated boys that lived in small apartments on the beach, married a man who grew up on a California beach and still pretty much plan all my family trips around beach time.

During the recent visit with the psychic-- who so far has been RIGHT ON THE MONEY-- he told me I was fueled by the beach, that being near the ocean was good for me creatively. It is a happy spot for me. I cannot agree more.

For the past four years, I've been shopping beach property. First with the idea of rental income, a family getaway spot, then with the intention of having my writer's escape pad. I went to South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia and three different areas of Florida searching for a place that felt right, a place I could convince myself was "it."
I still get emails from realtors every week, and I troll Trulia and Realtor.com like a crack whore, looking for my fix.

Sometimes in life, you find yourself waiting for that "aha" moment, and when it doesn't come, you think ok... not here. Time to move on. But I have found, with both my writing muse and my inner navigator that sometimes the moment is hiding just around the bend, sometimes it won't look perfect, it won't be without a challenge or a few road blocks, and if you blink you might miss it. You have to believe it's there, be open-minded about what it looks like and you might have to pull on some gloves and dig.

In comparing the perfect, bug free weather of laid back but costly ( earthquaking) California to the culturally rich ( hurricane-y) communities of North Carolina, the golf and tennis folks of South Carolina, the partiers and history buffs of Georgia and the buggy, muggy and sometimes snooty, yet tax-free and very tan Floridian beaches, I'm thinking I may need a few pairs of gloves. I'm thinking not just one place will do.
Especially when I remember the gorgeous possibilities of the Greek Islands.

Thanks to VRBO, I can continue to try out new beaches, continue to fuel my love affair with ocean views, maybe even finding a little place with a sunny window where a writing desk needs a home.

By tomorrow night, I will have survived yet another road trip to a sandy location. This time no whining kids or dogs that need to pee, just a few good friends with a common purpose: warm sunshine, cold beer and great conversation.

Home Sweet Home, if I'm in charge.

There are things you miss when you are away, especially when you leave pets behind. I came home to 2 very happy pooches, a NASA approved bed and an air conditioned house that I could control.
Maybe that's the thing about coming home. Reestablishing your parameters- your reign- your sense of environmental control. The hassle of returning is almost enjoyable knowing you'll have a normal/recognizable re-entry to the "real" world.
AS long as no one has messed with your tidy little space. It can make you a little sick, like you've been robbed by someone who knows you - like the time I traveled from west coast to east only to have an ex-beau make the reverse trip and rip off my then empty house. Ouch.

Once, in Germany, I had to sleep in an unfinished windowless room on plywood because I missed the last train back to town. I called that an adventure, not a mistake. Maybe I can look at my husband's version of "keeping house" the same way-- in a few days. Or a few months when my beautiful red maple grows back- it will grow back won't it?

Still, I love to travel-- even better if I'm going solo to a place where no one knows me. I can make decisions for me a lot easier, than for 2 or 3 others and I never have to worry about pleasing anyone else. Selfish? yes. But healthy. I can adapt to strange surroundings- like say, a shared dorm room in a college campus or my parents' hard double bed in a too bright traffic facing heated room...when I have to. And I always meet the most magnificent people.

Strangers in my house, some from my loins.

Yes, it is officially summer in sunny Georgia. My children and their friends have taken over my house.
I am a woman who likes QUIET. Peace and QUIET. I sit in dark rooms THINKING. I frequently walk around an empty house TALKING TO MYSELF. I often read 2000 words of a current story or novel I'm writing out loud just to see how they sound before I curse, then delete them and start all over again. I like to pace, take long showers and write some more.
I have spent the last 180 days doing this daily.
Let's just say it's KINDA HARD to stop.

So, when my kids call me grumpy because they come in my office- oh ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN times in three hours, when the phone rings and rings and people scream and cry and kids come to the door and someone wants a freaking sandwich... I tend to lose it.

My answer?
1. headphones
2. send them outside then lock the doors
3. spiced rum
4. long long trips to the library
5. buy a monthly massage program

The only thing I can't solve right now is the interruptions from absolute strangers- the ill-timed Spanish speaking tile guys and the too slow cabinet maker, the wiring specialist and the tree sprayer, the lawn guy and the aeration specialist, not to mention the charity pick up dude and the really nice British guy from the theatre.

Maybe I need vodka.

Enjoy a STAYCATION this summer.

The urban word of the day for May 23 is staycation.

A vacation that is spent at one's home enjoying all that home and one's home environs have to offer.

ex: The high price of gas, tedium of airline travel, difficult scheduling with family members and abundance of alcohol in the pantry make a staycation the perfect answer to our busy summer.

Cape San Blas Sunset

Cape San Blas Sunset
Originally uploaded by Another Good Thing

Some days I feel all sentimental- in a kind of old lady watches Kodak commercial with boys and puppies sort of way- or young pudgy recently dumped girl drinks too much wine then drunk texts the night away... I cry more, I crave chocolate and I generally feel sorry for myself- then blame it all on off-biorhythms- or bad feng shui because of course it isn't MY fault.

I hope that someday I will stand in front of site as magnificent as this and say just one word
and really really really mean it.
.......perfect........

Going Waldo on you.

It only looks exotic. CAPE SAN BLAS, FLORIDA.


About a six hour drive, in which I plan on catching up on some sleep as I plug my massage mat into the SUV cig holder, set up the kids with movies and snacks and hand my hubby the GPS.

I wanted to be able to have the whole novel rewrite done for a last read through but am about 20 pages shy as of 5 AM. Maybe if they all sleep in, I really can finish before we go.

The Macbook travels well, wi-fi at the destination. Spa, off shore fishing, snorkeling and horseback riding all booked. Got me a case of beer, a bottle of spiced rum and some dramamine. All electronics primed and ready to go.
But I'll miss my house and the one bad hipped dog who can't handle the exercise.

Future satellite location: Saturday 4 pm

Never off the radar. Got a dog with a micro chip in her back and a GPS in my bag. Couldn't run away if I tried.

15 minute blog

I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions. I Have NEW DAY resolutions. Like thinking I should be able to write a blog entry in 15 minutes or less. AND continue on the 1000 word a day novel writing. Deadline January 31.

So, my house is quiet again. Company gone, sick kid back in school, dogs asleep. Except for the sound from the laundry room, and the ticking clock on my desk, things are back to normal.

it was a good two weeks of stress. I am broke but happy and have some more memories and good stories. This is my dad trying to pick Dick Clark's nose.
The next day I let this same man drive my 2008 3.2 Audi TT quattro. But I DIDN'T let the 16 year old nephew. Instead I took him and my son to indoor laser tag and let them all run around the yard with silly string.

We went through a few hundred bucks worth of wine and beer and champagne, and no one died from my cooking ( all meals should take 30 minutes or less, right?) also, no family fights broke out and I am already making plans to travel to NY and see them again soon... thinking of AMTRAK instead of airlines though. Something about the sleeper car intrigues me.. and yes, sadly, it will be nothing like the European railcars I so love.

Also, beginning the search for a family vacation spot this year. Any suggestions?

Legal Organ for Name Changes

My local paper has a Thursday section called The Legal Organ. I love everything about this,
especially the name changes listings.
This week I found that:
Huai-ting Yen is requesting a name change to: Teresa Huaiting Yen-Willis
Morgan Lynett Grant to: Najya Sharifah El
Richard Long to: Long West Border

Those are great. I found one a while ago where the guy changed his ordinary name into a royal one. I cut it out and stuffed it in my files, and had to stop myself from calling him and asking him "Why?"

The most interesting thing about the name changes is how they are posted in the Legal organ. They say, "Notice is hereby given that XXX filed his petition to the Superior Court of XXX on the day XXX of 2007, PRAYING for a change in the name of Petitioner XXX .....Objections must be filed with said court within 30 days..."

The PRAYING part is weird enough, but I wonder what would happen if I filed an objection to Richard Long on behalf of California?

Summer Lovin'

There was a list on the side of the fridge of all the things she’d planned to do this summer: go camping, travel, rock climb, sightsee, go to the aquarium, attend outdoor concerts, set up birthday parties, pack picnics, host pool parties, and spend many cool afternoons at the cinema.

But in the end, when the 81 days of summer vacation are over, the list has barely anything scratched off, and there are lines added at the bottom by the husband who feels a failure if things are incomplete, though she argues getting braces and going to a summer herpetology camp don’t count as a family activity, nor did the trip to the ice cream stand last Tuesday.

Summer is an excuse for her. A way to go schedule free for the first time in a year. Vacations that need too much planning are no fun—the old adage of take less stuff, bring more money is her mantra. The idea of traveling light appeals to her vagabond ways and she finds herself daydreaming in a colorful hammock of the year she backpacked through Europe hauling seventy pounds and sleeping on trains but never once feeling the aches and pains she feels now everyday before noon.

There’s a mandatory trip back home—this time to celebrate a marital milestone and when the weather turns to shit, most people rally—the better ones anyway. Thinking about it now, she realizes the problem with the hometown folk is that they don’t want. They have no desire to better themselves or their surroundings. They encircle themselves with people who are the same way and belittle those who embrace change. She thinks wanting should be a good thing. She can’t watch a home improvement show without trying the same techniques, without wishing for more, while she supposes these people would just shake their heads and switch the station to the poker playoffs.

Girl getaways are bargained for late at night amid twisted sheets. With her ploy being to tell him he is such a great father that this is his reward- to not have to share the kids. She can’t say it with a straight face and is glad of the dark, but he knows her too well and tells her no, this is your reward. Go ahead, have fun. Be safe. Never realizing that she’d be the one to jump out of the $83,000 BMW in the middle of traffic and run around to the trunk for the bottle opener and Chardonnay. Though he might be proud to know that she was the only one to remember the raft, the inflator and the herbal remedy.

The mountains of North Georgia are like most mountains, with scratchy bushes lining narrow roads (a negative for the new car) and a low river filled with fish ( a positive for an eager fisherman.) She is pleased that the cabin of choice is new and she won’t find herself cleaning or wincing at bug debris or restlessly stirring as she imagines alternate furniture layouts, better color schemes, more clever décor. The girls enjoy the benefits of a new log cabin with all the upscale accoutrements of a real house, including pool table and hot tub, yet the mountain goat terrain and the drought level Coosawattee River leaves something to be desired.

She wanted more than anything to fish, to wake early and be the first one to see the sun rise, to hear the geese take flight downstream and watch the neighbors do what neighbors do when they think no one is watching, but instead, she drinks too much, reads too long and sleeps too late. Maybe those are the things most girls would do without kids and so it seems okay, especially when she pops a beer at 11 AM and quotes a crappy country song, claiming, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

They browse shops, buy pastries they may never eat and wonder if the cancer survivor thinks she’s fooling anyone with her bad wig and painted on eyebrows and if she’s so sold on the strength of homeopathy, then why is she hiding her reality? They eat Cajun food, share secrets and laugh a lot. She’s amazed how the same yellow jacket sting can be handled in two absolutely different ways. Unlike what husbands imagine about girl getaways, there are rarely pillow fights in babydoll pajamas, or hair twirling confessions of closet lesbianism. For these girls it would be more likely they'd get tattoos, spend the day at a truck stop swapping stories with Bubba and the evening nursing injuries incurred on a drunken trek to the river's edge. They must not be the Grease Loving girls the husbands thought they married.

No one is the same age from the same place with the same family setup. On this vacation, no one pulls on their arm, no one needs them. There is no judgment, only freedom in their choices—when dinner is wine and cheese and breakfast is strong coffee, kiwis and clementines.

For some, an impromptu summer escape will be too frightening to enjoy. Those controlling, compulsive types can never just up and go. For some, a bit of preparation is best and for others, to not have specific arrangements means fate will have to intervene and if the outcome stinks, you won’t be responsible- because nothing is worse than a fully planned event that flops. She believes in the luck of the draw- with some pre-education. For instance, if there is no booze sold on Sunday, she needs to know by Friday. She acknowledges That the best things are discovered down unmarked roads. The person who travels away from crowds is a true adventurer, as is the person who follows screaming sirens. That was how they found the babies of The Deadheads.

In a small town in North Carolina the babies of The Deadheads gather in a parking lot waiting for the concert to begin. They are a hairy people. They smell musky and travel with dogs in painted buses and walk barefoot through modern towns like old hobos, some play bent saws with horsehair bows while others hawk tie-dyed skirts and thin t-shirts of hemp. They carry black balloons for reasons she cannot fathom and cherish untouchable creatures like whales, unreachable places like rainforests.

She takes her husband’s hand. It is their first trip without children- ever, and she wants him to experience every moment. They have planned only a few stops on this trip, waiting for the rest to unfold, to capture them, knowing that at some point they will be in the background of a stranger’s family portrait, their voice heard laughing for eternity as they pass the Japanese tourist with the video camera. Someone will remember this trip.

Prepared to be wowed by the wealthy, she’s instead disgusted by the choices those with money make. She is almost as sickened as she was in Vatican City, and feels certain if God were to bless her with millions she would never build a cold castle, leave it to people who would sell off the bountiful land and charge admission to see her drained indoor pool.

A month later, when they flip a coin and end up in a cottage on a barrier island off South Carolina, she knows she could return His blessing by buying a beach house and opening the doors to everyone they love. For the first time ever she feels at home in a place far from her house and more surprising than

that—she can’t wait for next summer.