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Renata
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I'm beginning to realize that this trip
across America is going to be a schizophrenic journey. The new and exotic
are punctuated by episodes of "This is My Life" because I
am not traveling far enough away to escape my culture, family, friends,
and co-workers. There is always someone familiar. Sometimes I even recognize
myself in strangers I meet on the road.
I met Renata in the street in Santa Cruz the week before I left. She had been standing in the middle of the road looking at the Ural, which was parked in front of my favorite cafe. I looked up from my maps as a car slowed down and maneuvered around her. "Hey, you're going to get hit," I yelled, but she didn't notice me until I walked between her and the bike. This girl was in a daze. She started talking, and we soon discovered that we were leaving on solo motorcycle journeys on the same day. She was actually on her way to buy the bike that would transport her as far as Alaska, the first leg of an around-the-world trip. She was late, but we talked frantically for fifteen minutes, exchanged phone numbers, and walked reluctantly in different directions. I wondered if she'd get the bike, and if she'd really go through with the trip. We talked about riding together as far as Portland where I'd visit my sister who'd just moved there . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book. |
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