If you’ve never heard of the incredible traveler’s database of couchsurfing.com, you should check it out. I’ve happily been an active member of that gypsy community for three + years now and the experiences I’ve had with it color my life just about every day. I’ve crashed and been crashed upon countless times, always with plenty of adventure – from streaking in Boise, Idaho all the way to drinking Coca-cola at 3AM in Lima, Peru after just being picked up from the airport by an entire family.

Ah, but all things naturally ebb and flow . . . and really for no reason in particular, I took an extended hiatus from using my wondrous network of instantaneous (for the most part, anyway) friends and like-minded folks . . . that is, until last night.

Columbia, South Carolina is alright. I’m working here and my idea of a good time isn’t going to the local hipster bar after a 13+ hour day and re-hashing a bunch of corporate bullshit over frosty PBR’s with a gaggle of frustrated employees. They are nice people, but I crave something more . . . well, local.

Enter couchsurfing. With this database, a person can not only find available places to sleep and rest, but also one can quickly find willing locals to show the vernacular of the area. And that is exactly what I found last night.

I’m staying in an urban heat island right next to a mall on the far outskirts of town because I’m traveling with my cat and the only hotel available for people with pets seems to be in that remote part of town. I can’t stand malls and I feel completely out of place and bored in that part of town. Not to mention that it’s neither smart nor safe for me to swig libations with my co-workers and then drive twenty minutes to my far-flung flophouse. What I needed, I decided, was an infusion of local color.

I perused the profiles for Columbia and came up with but one person I wanted to send a message. She seemed not only my age and crazy type, but fun and approachable . . . my kind of people. She returned my email a few days later with much enthusiasm, inviting me to dinner at a friend’s home followed by promises of a “punk rock house party where we could be the old ladies on the porch tellin’ the kids how ignorant they are.” Sounded like fun to me!

Within four hours last night, this incredible chick did indeed take me to her friend’s home . . . ah! a real, live home . . . not some hotel . . . and we had the best dinner I’ve had since venturing to South Carolina. From there we proceeded to another friend’s home. This friend was a very young, hip mother of a drop-dead gorgeous 19-year-old boy who’d just come back from a two-year stint as an Aussie model. We three “old ladies” walked a few blocks over to the afore-promised punk rock house party. We were the only people over the age of 22, I’m quite sure, but two of the three of us brazenly wore our pigtails with pride anyway.

Honestly, with the craziness of work, I was a bit intimidated by having to go into a house full of punk rock kids, so we went to the backyard, where the largest home-made swing I’ve ever seen hung from a tree. I hopped on and was so swallowed up by the immensity of the wooden slat that I felt like a child as I swung with my arms held wide by the faraway ropes in the humid air that was the same temperature as my skin. Back and forth I swung, the clammy air massaging me in the darkness as I watched the wind blow the other trees in the distance. It relaxed me and I was able to breathe deeply and calmly, a great way to unwind from a hectic office day, the whole while crashing chords hummed in the distance. I found it funny that I had to be mindful as I swung that I didn’t hit any young punks in the head with my feet as they piled out the back screened-porch door between sets.

Eventually I did make my way inside to see the final band play in the back room off the kitchen. The fridge was blocked with a rack full of custom t-shirts. The music was quite good and the band had ventured all the way from Portland just to play this house show. Columbia doesn’t have any venues, I found, so it’s quite common for bands to play house parties. Good to know. Note: In Columbia, you gotta know someone to see a good show.

The best part of this entire adventure is that it happened on a random Monday night in what would appear to the average eye to be a sleepy southern town. And, although I was half-afraid I would run into someone I knew from that other part of my life, I never saw one person with whom I’m working.

Random story time of an event in years past . . .

It was about 3 o’clock in the morning. We were dead tired and heading up a deserted, winding four-lane divided highway toward Santa Cruz. Neither of us could hardly keep our eyes open, so we pulled over to the side of the road, which was littered with about a foot of dry fallen leaves. I could hear them crackle underneath the Jeep tires as we pulled to a stop.

We were masters at the art of car camping. It took only about 10 minutes for us to move all our items into the front seats and to line all the windows with flimsy bamboo beach mats and our tattered sarongs. We unfurled our sleeping bags and cuddled up in the cold and immediately fell into a deep, necessary sleep.

We awoke with the early morning sunrise and the sound and force of semi-trucks barreling past. “Well,” he said. “I suppose it’s time to get going again.” We sat and talked for a few minutes and debated about whether we should wake n’ bake. We decided to hold off, a restraint that we didn’t often exercise.

“I need to pee,” he said. “But I’m kind of nervous about it. Cops love to give tickets for that kind of thing.”

“What?” I said. “Cops don’t give tickets for peeing on the roadside!”

“Yes, they do,” he laughed and got out of the Jeep, leaves crunching underfoot.

I was naked in the Jeep and covered with blankets and leisurely waking up while he was outside quietly pissing when all of a sudden, I heard the voice of another person.

“Whatcha doing there?” said the voice. “Are you peeing?”

“No.” Later as he re-told the story, he mentioned that this was about the time he ‘quietly put his dick away.’ He said, “I’m checking my tire pressure.”

“Really? Cause I thought you were peeing there, son.”

“Nah, just waking up. Girlfriend’s in the truck. Checking that we’re good to go.” I heard him move through the leaves again back toward the rear door. I thought that was going to be it, but I heard the crunching of leaves by a second set of more determined footsteps. It was about this time that I was really glad that we’d chosen not to break bread that morning.

“I’m gonna need to take a look there in the truck,” the cop said.

“Why?” he asked.

“What if there’s someone back there with a gun?” What is that cop talking about? I thought to myself. It was one of those frighteningly absurd moments that just come from out of nowhere.

“She’s naked.” He said to the policeman.

“Well, I have to make sure she’s not a hostage.”

Again. What?!!? I was busy throwing on a shirt and pants in case this situation went spiraling downhill. The door cracked open. I could see the policeman inching closer, could hear the leaves shuffling. I did the only thing I could think to do in such a strange situation – be a goofball. I laughed and giggled and called out in a sing-song voice, “I’m here of my own recognizance, Officer!”

And the next moment was an unfolding of reason. The policeman realized he was out of line, I could tell by the suddenly self-conscious look on his face, a look of “Oh shit, I’m being ridiculous.” And then the three of us all made acute eye contact and exchanged those real moment of truth kind of looks with each other. Then the cop said, “Have a nice day, folks!” Then he waved and retreated, crunching backwards through the fallen leaves. (The spot was so tight that the two of them had been in, that the cop didn’t even have room to turn around.)

He jumped into his squad car and zoomed away. He’d been sitting there, we figured out later, since well before sunrise, just waiting for one of us to pop out of the car in a marijuana smoke cloud, or brandishing a gun or a hostage or something. He’d pulled up deliberately into the blind spot of the Jeep so no one would see him when they got out of the car for their good-morning piss . . . or whatever it was he surmised we might be doing wrong.

So let this be a lesson to you all – yes, cops do indeed give tickets for roadside pissing. If you get caught – keep your cool, put your dick away quietly and just say that you were checking the air pressure of your tires. Try to make sure that your naked friend who’s still in the car has stashed all the guns and hostages into the glove box. You’ll be fine.

Ah have arrived, my shugahs. 

And aside from the taxi cab ride to my hotel and the ritual of hanging of christmas lights in my hotel suite . . . I have done not a damn thing except acquire frizzy hair and view some magnolia blossoms. All these things make me very happy.

Frank was EXceptionally good on the two plane rides, shuttle van ride, taxi cab ride and short subway jaunt it took to get here . . . nary a meow.

He’s not even holed himself up underneath the hotel bed yet . . . a new one for him . . . I think he’s getting the hang of this whole travel thing . . . but you can see for yourself . . . he’s become a blogger too . . . I was a bit afraid that the TSA might try to confiscate his catnip lined scratch pad as some kind of contraband, but that didn’t happen. There would have been some clawz flyin’!

I’m going to be gone (?) two weeks, three weeks or possibly one month or more. I’m going to the humid lands of South Carolina in the late springtime. I’ve done my research and packed accordingly. I’ve traded heavy coats for my cute little dress collection.  I’m going to be working in an office for a couple of weeks. Then I’m headed to a huge camping event outside of Austin where we’re going to burn stuff and get kind of crazy. All within these next few weeks.

All before I come back – ahem – home. Err, well, that is to my (haha) Albuquerque storage unit and my car which I’m going to stash at the airport.

I have to pack for both. So I’ve done it . . . I’m traveling light and I’m traveling strange. This is a new one.

Among the standard fare like toothbrush and undies, I’m also bringing my roller skates, a cat litter box, camping tent, an alphabetizer and an array of sparkly stuff. I think that says it all. But every swath of strangeness fits snugly and conveniently into one rolling duffle and one box. 

I’m settled in my hotel room finally, with christmas lights, candles and swatches of colorful fabric everywhere. I just know that when I’m gone during the day that the maids have tours come through my room . . . it looks that good.

Travel well tip - In a hotel room, drop the jizz blanket (you know, those nasty bedspreads that NEVER get washed) to the floor. Replace it immediately with an awesome blanket of your own. Notice the change in blankets from a week ago.