outside, so what should be done with me? Finally the subject was broached. Tathiana and Sandra thought


I should stay. Arthur said I was welcome to sleep on the couch and leave with Tathiana when she went to work in the morning. However, he said he thought I should keep going, speculating that I would have an easier time finding long distance drivers at night. “You have a long journey ahead of you,” he said. “You can’t


afford to waste any time.” I can’t really explain how I knew, but somehow I understood


that Arthur was a prophet. Fate was speaking to me through him. I thanked Tathiana’s parents for their love and kindness. Ten I


bid them farewell. Te on-ramp near the Vasquez house saw very litle traffic at


night, so Tathiana offered to drive me to the next exit north. On the way, driving along I-75, we saw a rest area. We agreed that would be the perfect place to find long distance drivers.


W


e pulled in and started looking at license plates. Almost all of them were from Florida, which was discouraging. Ten, as we idled slowly through the parking lot, I saw one that wasn’t.


Knowing how to approach the car was a new challenge. As a


hitchhiker on the side of the road, I was minimally obtrusive and ultimately passive. I liked that. Approaching people and asking them for rides seemed so much more invasive, aggressive, and frankly, weird. It made me really uncomfortable. But Tathiana wouldn’t indulge my insecurities. She was


insistent. We’re all spirits in motion. And as much as it is sometimes noble and wise to accept more passive transportation, I guess sometimes you have to have enough faith in your own intuition to be proactive. I knocked on the driver’s side window of the car. “I couldn’t help but notice your license plate isn’t from


Florida,” I said. “Where are you from?” “South Dakota,” she said. “Perfect!” I exclaimed, thinking that I would likely be able


to ride with her most of the way home. “Is that where you’re heading?” “No,” she said. “I’m going to New Orleans.” I cannot describe the supernova of ecstatic excitement that


erupted through my spirit in that moment. I made no atempt to conceal it. My face exploded into a crazy wide-eyed smile and my voice jumped an octave or so. “Oh my god!” I yelped. “I’ve wanted to go there so badly! May


I ride with you?!” Bewildered doesn’t begin to describe how she must have felt.


Despite her beter judgment, the kind woman, whose name was Mary, consented. I gave Tathiana the most emphatic bear hug ever and said farewell.


30 Eastern | SPRING 2013


“As we are liberated fom our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”—Marianne Williamson


I spent a week in New Orleans. I’d never found a place that fit


me so well. Superstitious as it may sound, I can’t help but wonder if some intangible energy pulled me there, some universal force or maybe just the spiritual power of my own heart. Perhaps it’s coincidence, some surreal stroke of luck, that I


was at the right place at the right time to meet someone who was driving the 657 miles from Tampa to NOLA. But I suspect otherwise. You see, despite prudence urging me to stick to I-75 and thumb


back to the Miten, I had been quietly fantasizing of ending up in NOLA. Two close friends, both Midwesterners who had fallen head over heels for the Te City that Care Forgot, had talked of the bohemian oasis as though it were a home I’d yet to know. Coincidence or not, I’m so grateful it happened. Te one drawback to my stay in NOLA was that it leſt no


realistic window of time in which to hitchhike back to Michigan. However, in an unspeakably endearing show of support, my parents bought me a last minute bus ticket home. Eternal gratitude goes to them for their love and support in spite of my insufferably idealistic whims. As delighted as I was to get to spend a week in NOLA, I felt


a lot of cognitive dissonance about not accomplishing what I set out to do. In fact, I felt like a coward, like I had taken the easy way out. I was so dejected that I scarcely talked to anyone on the zigzagging Greyhounds that bore me home. Late in the day in Nashville, about an hour before I boarded


the bus to Detroit, I started talking to a 29-year-old woman named Catherine. Catherine had a wearied vivacity about her, as though her


face were glowing with wisdom and grace. Several years ago, she had worked as a preschool teacher and was considering buying a house with her fiancé. For all intents and purposes, she was living the American Dream. But something in her changed. She decided she needed to be doing something else with her


life. So she quit her job and became a wilderness counselor for troubled youth in the Outward Bound program. As a result, she and her fiancé broke off the engagement. I was fascinated. I immediately explained my journey to her


and told her I felt like I had failed at what I set out to accomplish. She seemed amused. She pointed to everything that had happened to me and asked


how I could be disappointed with myself or my journey. She said, in a very reassuring sort of way, that sometimes you have to be humble enough to let your plans change. As to my concerns of what to do aſter graduation, Catherine quoted John F. Kennedy: “Whatever you are, be a good one.” 3


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