“It’s on the way, which means we have to go,” I told him. By that point, he’d grown used to my map-scouring and park visit-plotting ways, and while he cared little for history, he was a good sport about it, especially if there were comfy benches for him to sit on while I chattered about random pieces of history or artifacts in a display case.
I think one of the reasons I like historical fiction so much is that it takes me to a specific time and place – usually, one I am vaguely or reasonably familiar with – and makes it more real. Yes, it’s fiction, so it’s not really real, but it gives me characters and locations and tiny details that are hard to grasp or connect with, especially when talking about something as vast and complicated as war or murder.
FIVE. That’s how many times I’ve run the Frostbite 15K, and I know I say it about every race, but this one really is my most favorite Richmond race. It’s the only one I’ve never missed due to injury, deployment or any other life-type obstacle and it’s one I’m quick to recommend to nearly everyone, new and old runners alike.
I can’t remember when we discussed it or when we made the decision, but at some point, between America and the Middle East, we decided.
“We’re going to Italy,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re really going to Italy.”
We were deployed then, when we made the decision, that much I do know. He was in Jordan, I was in Kuwait, and we needed a distraction, some event on the horizon to look forward to and Italy was it. I ordered travel books, had them sent to me and him and we started planning.
It’s been four months since I went to New Mexico. It was the first solo trip I’d ever taken and I can’t stop thinking about it, especially lately as I put together my next adventure, this time to Arizona for my birthday in March. I keep coming back to the way I felt while I was there, to these specific moments that seem suspended in my memory. They’re glowy, like an old television flashback, with a certain amount of sparkle around the edges.
We broke up six months ago, but there we were, driving south from Richmond to Gatlinburg, Tennesse, toward the Great Smoky Mountains. It was an unintentional farewell tour, a trip hatched months ago, planned and booked right before things broke again and executed defiantly and stubbornly because that’s who we are, defiant and stubborn humans with an excessive amount of love for one another and hopelessly divergent viewpoints.
Work sent me to Iowa and after sending a text to my friend who lives there, I looked up the National Park situation. Iowa has just two National Park units, Effigy Mounds National Monument and Herbert Hoover National Historic Site. With limited time and an already-packed schedule, I decided to aim for the closest park and on my last day in Iowa I woke up well before dawn and headed to the Herbert Hoover National Historic Site, located in West Branch, Iowa.
I was 19, maybe 20, the first time I considered living alone. It was right after I joined the Army, during basic training when I was living in a bay with 49 other women, doing what the Army told me to do all day, every day. I was somewhere in the middle of those nine weeks, somewhere past the initial misery and not quite to the point where I’d knew I’d make it to the end.
Mexico City is HUGE. It’s home to almost 9 million people, encompasses more than 550 square miles and has some of the worst traffic in the world. Knowing that I knew I had to go prepared and so, after making lists and reading travel blogs and getting a ton of recommendations, I picked three things that I absolutely had to see while I was there. Visiting the ruins of Teotihuacan (teh-oh-tee-wah-kahn), located just about an hour from the city center, was on the top that list.
I listen to podcasts all the damn time. I listen in the car, when I’m in the shower, while I’m cooking dinner, when I do chores around the house and when I shovel snow. I listen when I run and when I walk the dogs and when I’m working on things that don’t require much concentration.
Visiting Alcatraz Island is maybe my most favorite thing to do in San Francisco. To me – a true crime lover, a National Park nerd and a history buff – the place is fascinating. I love the access visitors get to the notorious former prison, the views of San Francisco from the island, the self-guided audio tour and the intensely spooky vibe of the place.
I’m not much for resolutions. I figure if you want to make a change, do it, don’t wait for the momentum to pass just because the calendar isn’t where you’d like it to be. When it comes to self-improvement it’s always seemed silly to wait for Monday when you can just as easily start a new fitness routine or savings plan on a Thursday.