After a few hours of beer drinking and ride surviving at a carnival in London, I saw a brightly lit camper plastered with photos, and a long line awaiting entry. “Romany Gypsy Fortune Teller” read the sign outside. I joined the line to steady my legs and examine the photos. I had been living in England for six months, so I was familiar with most of the celebrities this gypsy woman was pictured with. I figured if she was good enough for Vinnie Jones, she was good enough for me. I patiently waited in the chilly dark for over two hours, until my friends dragged me home for the night.
The next morning I felt compelled to skip class and try once more to see the fortune teller. The carnival along with the gypsy’s caravan would be long gone by the following day. After waiting another two hours, the woman invited me into her cozy caravan and pointed to her collection of crystal balls. She explained in few words and a thick European accent that the larger the ball, the clearer the images she could see, and the larger the fee to me. She also told me that our session had no time limit. Without pause I grabbed the biggest ball she had and paid her 80 quid – approximately $100 then. The gypsy had me hold the heavy orb as she stared into it intensely.
She never asked me anything, and spoke in great detail about my life. I had no doubt she was the real deal. More than an hour passed as we discussed my present and future. She advised me on things big and small. Immediately upon leaving her camper, I walked to a nearby fountain in the cobblestone marketplace. There I sat and scribbled down every word I could remember into my notebook. Her words impacted me deeply, and after 33 soul-searching hours I dropped-out of the University of Westminster to return to the States. The woman had told me that I needed to relocate to Arizona to finish massage therapy training, and…drum roll...to meet my soul mate. I had searched my feelings and knew it to be true.
Abruptly ending my stint as an expatriate I flew across the Atlantic in time to spend the winter solstice with my mother in Illinois. I had one mission – to acquire an RV. After responding to what felt like hundreds of classified ads, I found the one. Love at first drive. I had never driven anything so ginormous, and the nice fellow’s steep driveway let out straight onto the icy highway, so I asked Eddie, the owner, to drive me somewhere with no other cars around. After giving it a spin we negotiated, and I handed over five grand of my pop’s life insurance money that I’d been sitting on for a couple years.
Eddie sent me on my way with all I needed to captain my new 24ft. class-C Itasca. My mother, who had accompanied me in case I bought it, led me onto the highway. My first panic moment occurred when I rolled down onto the highway and it wouldn’t go. Eddie’s words echoed in my brain, “Wiggle the shifter to make her to engage.” I felt her lurch into gear, and vroom we went. The setting winter sun was burning my eyes, and I felt like I was trapped inside a runaway freight train. My whole being shook as we pulled into a nearby gas station. I panicked again when I wasn’t sure if the beast would fit under the awning. “Those CB antennae out front are as tall as your roof,” Eddie had informed me. I used them like a cat’s whiskers from then on.
Suddenly doubt cast over everything in my world. Is this the right thing to spend that money on, what is my purpose on earth, do “soul mates” even exist, and on were the questions bombarding my brain. I was crying and hyperventilating while the station attendant filled my tank. My mother was trying to extinguish my fears, when a cop came over to see if we were okay. After mother explained the sitch, he walked over to use his radio. Shortly thereafter three more motorcycle cops showed up, and gave us a full police escort onto the highway, lights and all. I was embarrassed and very grateful.
Singing positive affirmations to the tunes of Christmas carols was all I could do to steady myself enough to get home. After the longest 35 miles of my life, I went to bed wondering how I’d fare the next 2,000. I sold and gave away most of my possessions, and packed the essentials into the “Cosmic Camper.” My mother sent me off with a can of mace and a pre-paid mobile phone. We said goodbye at the Flying J truck-stop in LaSalle where I filled up on petrol and propane. Despite taking my first turn slow and wide, a cupboard door gave way allowing some books and tools to crash to the floor.
Thus my journey west was launched along a road steeped in history and littered with legends. Erased from “official” maps around 1984, this road goes by many names: the Mother Road, the Golden Road, Bloody 66, Will Rogers Highway, and America’s Main Street. Our first national highway enjoyed decades of heavy use until motorists wanted to go faster, and interstates left US Route 66 in the dust. The panorama transforms among corn fields, water towers, red barns, metropolitan hubbub, Indian reservations, Civil War sites, prairies, bizarre monuments, and remnants of lives long past.
Leisurely I crossed six states in four and a half days. Camping in Missouri on night one, I went to light my furnace and almost blew up. That’s when I discovered I had a propane leak. I arose from my semi-slumber early the next morning, stiff from the night’s frigidness. A little farther along a $3 truck-stop shower was much nicer than I’d imagined, and reheated my core. I drove through a corner of Kansas and into Oklahoma, always careful when parking to pull through so I’d never need to back-up.
After fueling-up at a small station, I began to pull around and out when I realized I had over-estimated this and under-estimated that. I was stuck. I did not posses the know-how to exit without damage to my camper and the pumps. Then along came my hero to rescue me. Tall, strong, skillful and kind my savior, a former trucker, hopped up in my rig and masterfully executed precise little turns to set me straight on my way. I’ll never forget her; Veronica was an angel.
I lived on PB-n-J, listened to the audio version of Kerouac’s On the Road with Matt Dillon, and stopped at random roadside attractions. Day three I struck breakfast gold at Ye Olde Pancake Station, a mom-and-pop classic in Amarillo, Texas. There I saw a pair of lovebirds who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They giggled, flirted, snuggled and smooched. I was very curious about them, so I chatted them up. I was blown away when they told me they had been together for 68 years. I could see in their eyes that true love exists. They taught me something that morning that I am eternally grateful for. The gentleman said, “There is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way.” Cheers Bud and Rose.
After hitting a Stuckey’s in New Mexico for some pecan logs and spicy beef jerky, the camper filled with “brown air.” I met the Youngbloods, a super sweet couple, at one of the many trading posts along the way. I gave them some cash and a couple of tie-dyed shirts I’d made in exchange for some of their gorgeous turquoise jewelry. Cruising around Albuquerque on the interstate panic struck again as the road began to feel and look a lot like a roller-coaster ride. I thought for sure the RV would tip over, but the Cosmic Camper remained upright and rolled onward. The setting sun signaled it was time to rest. A neon wiener dog who ate hot-dogs and wagged his tail beckoned me to stop. Yummy chili-dog = more brown air.
Day four I arrived in Arizona and marveled at the Painted Desert, Petrified Forrest, and Grand Canyon – each a breath-taking testament to the power of time. I side-tracked 75 miles up to the canyon’s south rim, and was so enamored that I decided to camp overnight and hike in for a few hours. I saw mule deer, jack rabbits, eagles, hawks, and ravens galore. A smattering of sunlight awoke me from a frozen coma the next morning, and I was very sore from the hike. I arrived in Phoenix before noon, and stopped at a Wal-Mart to use the payphone. Now I had to find a spot to dock my land yacht.
You may be unaware, as I was, that if you are under 55 or your rig is over 20 (no matter how well-kept) finding a long-term RV space is no easy task. In fact it is virtually impossible in an urban area, yet I found a perfect spot within biking distance to everything I needed. I used the rest of my money to enroll in school and pay up a few months on space #13 in the palm rich RV park. I enjoyed the many characters who visited the park. There were a few long-termers, and plenty of silver snow birds coming and going. I transformed my patio into a make-shift massage studio, with a collapsible massage table, shades that I made from palm fronds, and little white lights strung on my camper’s awning. It was there that I was able to log the many hours of practice required to graduate.
On top of school and work, my days were spent sucking gallons of H2O from a camelback, peddling around the desert slathered in SPF50, sneaking into private pools, and developing a big Jamba Juice habit. Fast-forward 14 months, and I am one week from graduating from the Southwest Institute of Healing Arts. Simone, a girlfriend from school, suggested we make a celebratory road-trip that weekend 90 miles up to Jerome. “I know you’ll adore it there,” she insisted. We called for reservations, and found out there was a wedding taking place that weekend. All of the hotels in the small town were full. Did we call this one? We found our last chance, and they had one room. “BOOK IT,” we exclaimed.
Once known as the wickedest town in Arizona, Jerome was once a thriving mining camp turned ghost town, now an artist’s outpost and tourist’s haven. Sitting 5,200 feet high on Cleopatra Hill, Jerome is America’s most vertical city. Fires and landslides plagued the city’s early history, so most of its structures today were rebuilt around the turn of the last century. Many have been restored while many have succumbed to gravity, and slid down the mountainside, including the town jail.
We hastily checked-in at the old brick Connor Hotel, and ran out for grub. The lady at the hotel recommended the brewery up the street in the old firehouse. While we feasted on the best pizza I’ve ever had, I told Simone, “I am going to meet the man of my dreams in Jerome.” She chuckled and I knew why. She said, “You know only 400 people live here, right?” We looked around and didn’t need a statistics major to tell us that the median age was around 50. Not exactly dream-man material for your average 26 year old. “I don’t know how or when, but I will meet the man of my dreams in Jerome,” I said with indescribable certainty. After topping off with chocolate cake we walked all around the enchanting little town. High above the desert’s colorful canyon walls we explored many historic buildings, magnificent art galleries, and delightful shops.
We walked back to the hotel and saw more than a dozen vintage Harley’s parked outside the Spirit Room saloon below. We went upstairs to our room for a nap and showers before heading downstairs to enjoy libations and live music. As I made my way across the floor of the old saloon I observed the slew of locals drinking and rocking-out to the power-trio on stage. My eyes soaked in the scene when suddenly they locked with the drummer’s. I felt as if I was stuck in his tractor beam. Is he looking at me? His lips formed the shapes of “I love you,” or “olive juice,” as he spun his sticks in the air. The stage went dark except for one bright white spotlight on the drum kit. Thunder discharged as he beat the drum-heads with syncopated rapture. My muscles and bones couldn’t NOT move. Bits of hickory flew from his sticks as he pounded with them. “Rock and roll souljer, shoot me with your magic sound.”
I felt Simone’s hand grab hold of mine and pull me across the floor. “Ground control to Major Tom, are you coming Sarah?” We settled in at the bar for a well-deserved pint. “Hey, these guys are playing the night after next at the Sail Inn,” Simone said while looking at a flyer on the bar. We lived two blocks from the Sail Inn; it was our favorite dive bar. During a set-break Simone waved over the bassist to buy CD. He then called over…drum roll…the drummer with the merch. Introductions took place, and Thomas and I easily got to talking about the hauntedness of the building. From that first moment on I was totally in love.
At the next set-break we talked more, and I felt like I’d known Thomas my whole life. The bartender came over and told him, “Hey, you all sound great! When I booked you though, I thought you were a different band. But I like it, and obviously the crowd does too.” I could feel the magic that had pulled so many strings to bring us into the same room at the same time. The guys were touring full-time and based in Santa Cruz, California. Simone and I danced our hearts out late into the night. As we watched them pack all of their gear into a van, we overheard some hullabaloo.
It seemed that part of the band’s payment was to include a room for the night, but there were none. The hotel had mistakenly given their room to us. There they were at 3am being forced to drive down the mountain to seek a camp site. “Stay with us,” I heard myself say. The Connor’s room #2 is small, but it does have a pull-out sofa. Simone smiled and shrugged. That night the five of us stayed up til dawn talking, and investigating the halls and stairways of the spooky hotel. Unexplainable sounds and paranormal sensations sent us barreling down the hall back to our room. Our cheeks glistened with tears as we choked back laughter so as not to wake the guests in the 13 other rooms.
In the morning we went to the Flat Iron Café where I devoured an open-faced pumpernickel bagel smothered in cream cheese, smoked salmon, red onion, cucumbers and capers. Then we all trekked to Tempe for the St. Patty’s Day show at the Sail Inn. As when water and earth meet to form mud, the two are never to be separate again; my dream man and I are an inseparable force. I guess it’s about time to make those investments the gypsy told me about...
