I just returned from a week-long trek to south Florida. No, I didn’t drive there from Denver; I flew.
Two weddings in a seven-day stretch: one in the shadow of the Rockies and the other amid the sweltering monsoons of West Palm. Each celebration inunudated with love unparalleled.
Both weddings were fun and emotional and hilarious and memorable. The first featured my Canadian driving companion tying the knot with an American; the second, my father officiating for his younger brother. I feel so blessed to have witnessed both unions on opposite sides of the country.
It’s been a special season for my road trip. One of friends and family and sacred-silly celebrations that last late into the night and for days afterward.
But the whole thing is quite bizarre; this driving around for two months and flying across the country and laughing around a dinner table for 14 and hugging goodbye and soaring back over the Great 48 to your car that’s been sulking in a parking lot for a week and
I woke up this morning in a daze. Was last week even real? Had I dreamt the whole thing? Can Canadians even marry Americans?
Last week was good. Last week was needed. Last week infused my wandering soul with lots of love and precious memories. I won’t soon forget this last week.
And so it feels strange to resume my road trip where I left off a week ago. To insert this familiar key into the ignition, turn, and drive solo once more. To gaze at the road ahead and fantasize about Mount Rushmore and Milwaukee and, oh, Canada.
Waking up on this 80th day of #RunningTo seemed like a cartoonish dream. Indeed, the morning featured not one, not two, but three hot air balloons soaring high over the Rockies. It’s like Jules Verne himself were crying from the heavens, begging me not to stop, piercing the fragile veil of fantasy and reality to persuade me onward.
To complete this journey.
Because there’s still so much more of North America and the world to go around than what I’ve seen in 80 days.