I have a confession to make: I am an Olympics junkie. Despite the fact that I never owned a television in my adult life, every four (and later, two) years found me scrounging up a borrowed set to watch all my favorite sports.

My favorites are the ones that defy gravity, like gymnastics, diving, ice skating, and ski jumping. When I was little, I cared little for baseball, basketball, or football. My heroes were Dorothy Hamill, Mark Spitz, Nadia Commaneci, Greg Louganis. When Finland declared a national holiday because their ski jumper won the gold medal, I cheered — and wished fervently I was Finnish.

I love the pageantry of the Olympics, the way the whole world comes together for a short time and declares the “Olympic truce.” I love the fact that there are people devoting their entire lives to little-known sports, like curling or pentathlon, which most of us know nothing about. Can you even list the events that make up the pentathlon? I remember the Olympics before rhythm gymnastics, moguls, and skeleton, and I love the fact that there are new sports to discover.

So it’s probably no surprise to hear that while the XXVIII Olympics were getting under way in Athens, Barry and I were at Lake Placid, New York, home of the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympics.

I’ve seen Olympic venues before — Montreal, Atlanta. Those were just facilities, where the tour guide’s narration echoed across an empty gym or swimming pool. Lake Placid is a live training venue, full of athletes, where even at the height of the summer, there is plenty to see. We sat in the ice rink until our lips turned blue from cold, watching tiny girls in short velvet dresses practicing their double axels. One fellow was doing triples, nearly spraying us with ice as he landed on the other side of the boards.

From there, we passed the rink where the USA upset the Soviet Union in hockey in 1980. Hockey fans stood in the doorway, gazing at the ice in wonder, as if they thought that one spectacular game won the Cold War for the USA and caused the fall of the USSR.

We took a drive to Whiteface Mountain, where a quiet gondola took us to the top. Only a handful of tourists wandered about, snapping pictures, a far cry from the armies of support people, camera crews, and athletes who were there for the 1980 Olympics.

The 1932 Olympics were on another mountain, and the spectacular Whiteface Mountain venue was developed just for the ’80 games. Seeing these places in the summer, with their naked infrastructure uncovered by snow, brings home the realization of just how much is built for the Olympics. In ’80, the Federal Government chipped in to build the Olympic Village that housed all the athletes, on the condition that it would be turned over to them afterwards for a minimum security prison. I’m not sure where they would house the athletes if they hosted another Olympics — perhaps move the prisoners elsewhere?

The combined track for bobsled, luge, and skeleton was on another mountain. We didn’t opt for the 60 mph wheeled bobsled ride down the old track, but took a bus tour to the top of the mountain. Without its snowy winter blanket, the track is ugly, miles of refrigeration pipes covered in orange insulation. In keeping with the desire for more challenges, the new run is an eighth of a mile longer than the old and has four more curves, one of them 23 feet high. It has a section known as “The Devil’s Highway,” where athletes get up to four G’s of centrifugal force, and the poor skeleton fellows can’t even pick up their heads from the ice.

But for me, lover of things that defy gravity, the best part of Lake Placid was the ski jumping complex. There, on the 90-meter tower, skiiers slide down high-tech tracks and launch themselves effortlessly into the air, landing 100 meters down the hill on Astro-turf. They held a competition the Saturday we were there. I can still hear it in my head: Skis whooshing down the hill, cheering crowds, and that distinctive clatter of cowbells. I’ve only heard that particular combination of sounds on TV — during the Winter Olympics.

After watching Jonathan Kling match the summer record for the 90-meter hill (104 meters), we spent a few hours sitting at poolside. Wearing skis, boots, helmets, swimsuits, and PFDs, the aerial skiiers slide down a hill, are launched into the sky, and perform amazing feats before landing in a deep aerated swimming pool. We first saw small children who were there for a four-day camp. After only a couple of days, they could all march up the hill, ski down, and do flips and helis and split jumps into the pool.

But my eyes were drawn to the steps beside the taller hills, where tiny figures marched up carrying their skis over their shoulders. Finally, someone took off down the big hill. Down, down, down, then up the ramp at the end. He flew over 50 feet into the air, performing a triple somersault with so many twists I couldn’t count them. The spectators roared in delight, and I was left breathless.

This was the gravity defiance I had watched on TV for years, right in front of (above, actually!) me. And the next time I have a chance to watch the Olympics on TV, I probably will. But I’ll get just as much pleasure out of watching my own little videos. Because I was there, and I saw it, and heard it — in person, at Lake Placid.

We made our meandering way out of Ohio a few days ago, driving northeast on state and county roads. Prussia was unsure where to find the best riding place, so she crawled into the covered litterbox and went to sleep there. Good thing we keep it clean, but I feel terrible when she crawls into the “toilet” for security.

Our first night was a campground at Beaver Creek State Park, lovely views, but nothing compared to what was to come. We continued east into Pennsylvania, which I’ve always thought of as one of those states you drive through on the way to someplace else. On this trip, we found out why people go to Pennsylvania.

We crossed the magnificent Allegheny river, then turned north towards the Allegheny National Forest. We crossed the river again, and again, and again. Each time over the course of two days, we kept crossing that same river, and it got smaller and smaller, until it ended up corralled in a concrete drainage ditch.

But as the river got smaller, the mountains grew larger, towering over us in green majesty. On the ground, we found our first free campsite in the Allegheny National Forest, nestled next to a burbling creek. The next night, the mountains were not the only big things: A HUGE thunderstorm passed right over us, making me cower when the lightning and thunder hit simultaneously. We’d found another free site along a creek, this one in Tioga State Forest. That name, Tioga State Forest, brought up a funny memory. Only a couple of months ago, when we were searching for RVs, we’d found a fun website chronicalling the adventures of “George and Ms. Tioga, the RV.” If you have free time, check it out. George is a real kick, and he’s into “boondocking,” or free camping.

These free nights in the forests are lovely, but we’re getting a little lonely and in need of a shower. Tonight, we’ll look for an “improved” campground. Adirondack Park has millions of miles of wilderness, and many campgrounds, so that’s the plan. Then east into Vermont!

After seven weeks of regrouping in (hot!) Florida, our departure from that state had an uncharacteristic element of stealth. No fanfare or weblog entries, just a long drive north in our new van, nicknamed the Squid Wagon.

The occasion that caused us to leave Dad’s without even a hint on this website was a surprise party planned for Barry’s sister, Julie, in Columbus, Ohio. Driving 18 hours from Florida, we were not the guests who traveled the farthest — that was Barry’s parents, Sharon and Dave, who flew all the way from Washington state. Needless to say, Julie was stunned (and pleasantly surprised, I think!) to have her whole family in town for the week.

At Julie’s party, Barry and I square-danced for the first time since we left Ohio about ten years ago. The dancing left us gasping for breath, we laughed so hard. Barry was not the only one who got his right and left confused!

Back in 1996, when Sharon and Dave were planning their move from Ohio to Washington, Julie went to China to teach English for a year. She’d had her eye on some fellow who just wasn’t responding. So, after her stint in China, she was going to give up on him and settle in the Pacific Northwest.

That wasn’t what happened at all. That fellow suddenly figured it out, and after Julie’s year in China, she and Cody got engaged, married, and now have two boys, Emanuel and Gabriel. At first, I was disappointed that Julie stayed in Columbus. But now, I am so glad! Because with Julie and her family here, plus my brother Hank, we have an excuse to visit almost every year. That means we’ve stayed in touch with our Columbus friends, some of whom we’ve known for almost 25 years. After Julie’s party, we contacted many of them and started a round robin of visits and activities.

Columbus has become incredibly diverse in the years since we left. Tuesday’s lunch was Korean bi-bim-bap and sushi with Lisa, who sold us our first sailboat in 1990. That evening, my old college roommate, Tara, introduced us to Somalian food and to Fatima, the dynamic former Somalian ambassador to the United Nations. At Schiller Park, in German Village, we mixed our metaphors by eating more sushi with our dear friend Carol while watching a performance of A Comedy of Errors staged to take place in a small Appalachian town. Evidently, Shakespeare’s Elizabethan English was closer to what we know as a “hillbilly” accent than to common American English. The director is from Ironton, Ohio, where the town name is pronounced “Arnt’n.”

The following day, nine of us went to the Ohio State Fair for the full midwest experience. We rode the ferris wheel, slid down the giant slide, watched a potbellied pig race, and saw horses, cows, sheep, chickens, goats, and lots of children. One of my favorite things was the full-sized Lewis and Clark — not to mention their campfire — carved from over a ton of butter. We eschewed cotton candy, deep-fried twinkies, and hot-dog-on-a-stick for a picnic of sandwiches and fruit under the trees.

There were also lunches and long evenings of talk and laughter with Mowgli, Linda, Dave and his two Maggies and Trip, and Georgia. And still there are people we didn’t have time to connect with. Next time, we’ll put them first on the list.

None of this visit would have been possible without the help of our special friends Carol and Steve. Back in 1994, we stayed with them while we prepared for our big bicycle trip. This visit, they opened their home to not just us, but to Prussia, too. Talk about kitty heaven! She had a whole two-story house to ramble around in, and “Auntie Carol and Uncle Stevie” lavished her with attention. In short, they spoiled her (and us)!

Our whole visit was so pleasant that Barry mused, “Wouldn’t it be fun to get a job and live here for a few months sometime?”

I was floored. “What’s this about getting a jay-oh-bee? I thought we were retired!”

“Well, just so we could hang out with our friends for longer than a week,” he explained.

Maybe someday. But not now. We’re headed for a September 8th rendezvous with my Dad in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. And then we’re going to start building our dream boat someplace near Seattle. But we’ll be back, I’m sure. We just can’t seem to stay away from this funny, flat, magical place.

At least that’s what the Indigo Girls said in one of their songs. But then again, they were talking about real action where you really do something, not just plop down some money and sign some papers. Well, anyhow, we did make a real decision finally, and I really hope (and think!) that the best part is yet to come. The part about making the decision sure was a lot of work, and wasn’t much fun.

While looking for a conversion van, we stumbled onto an oddball: A Ford E150/Econoline Club Wagon. It is a full-sized van, and this particular model had an aftermarket awning like a small RV, mini-blinds and screens on most of its windows, and was two-tone red and white and looked pretty cool. (well in a funky sort of way….) It was very old (1989), but very low mileage (50k). The A/C even worked, front AND back. The best part was that the third row of seating was a bench seat which folded down in three parts, and was long enough to sleep on. We thought this vehicle was wonderful! Then we took it for a test drive. The cruise control broke while Meps was testing it on the road. Then she drove it in a tight circle, and the steering or front suspension jerked and jumped. She was scared, and this vehicle was written off. Then we talked to the guy who ran the used car lot, and found him to be at least as bad as the worst sleazy car salesman stereotype. We pointed out that the inside rear-view mirror wasn’t there, and he told us how dangerous it was to use those instead of the outside mirrors on a big van. In fact, anything we mentioned that was a problem, he explained why it was wonderful and implied that we were ignorant or stupid.

We spent another few days looking at conversion vans, and then realized: Aha! The Club Wagon was the vehicle for us. We can just drive off in it, rather than have to spend a week removing and replacing expensive upholstery in a conversion van. Which would probably reduce its resale value as well. This is perfect. Oops. There aren’t any more of them within 100 miles of us, and are only two or three possibilities worth driving 200 miles to see. So we spent a day driving across the state, and found a good old one (overpriced) and a newer worse one (bad feeling brake pedal, poor shifting…) which was more expensive, but would have been well-priced had it been in good shape. And kept on looking. And re-considered conversion vans. And figured that we were just being stupid and couldn’t make up our minds.

Then another week went by with thinking, fretting, phone calls, negotiations, and internet searches, and looking at one more interesting semi-destroyed vehicle. This one was our second “Half-Back” which is a conversion van with front bucket seats, a back bench seat that folds down to a bed which isn’t comfortable my six-foot frame. But behind that is a opening plexiglass window like a truck cap has, and a big unfinished area in the back for cargo. This seemed like a really interesting idea for a vehicle. Too bad both of them we looked at had problems like a shot suspension, worn out seats, brakes that pulsed when you used them, and a check engine light that was on.

Friday was another long day, but we came home with a new (to us!) 1990 Van. The process of having it checked by a mechanic went flawlessly…except that on the way, the gas pedal fell to the floor, and wouldn’t stop revving as high as it would go. The poor woman who I was about to buy it from was really shaken up, but she did stop the van and turn it off. Eventually her husband returned, and all four of us were standing around trying to figure out what was happening, and wondering if anybody was really going to buy or sell a van today. But it turned out that the air filter housing had pivoted out of position and then caught the throttle lever on the engine and held it nearly to the floor. Once the filter was back in position, the throttle was back where it belonged, the van was back to its usual behavior, and then it made it all the way to the mechanic who said “You’ve got a good truck,” and advised some minor stuff like front-end alignment, tire balancing, and new transmission seals and fluid, before we drove it across the country or towed something really big. So we went to the DMV, gave them money, signed stuff, called our respective insurance agents, and then it was done.

We had lunch, then prepared for the three hour drive back to Vero Beach. I was in the same Toyota Camry that had been “Buddy Boating” with us back when we were on Cayenne, following Meps in the new van. Everything was fine until we stopped at a traffic light on the outskirts of Vero Beach. Since the van is quite tall, I didn’t realize that the light had turned green a while ago, and since I had the stereo on and windows closed I couldn’t hear the starter turning to no effect. But eventually I noticed that she had put the hazard lights on and realized that something was wrong, and went see what was going on. She had run one tank dry, and the engine wouldn’t start on the other tank. We spent a couple minutes looking through the manual and trying to find the “emergency fuel shutoff valve reset button,” and tried a few more times, but then it started up again. We decided to just drive the rest of the way home and hope for the best. We got safely home, and all is well now….or at least I think so. Prussia was giving the van the strangest looks through the window!

The last mention of this decision we put on this website was something about trying to pick an RV for ourselves to travel around in, and then plop down someplace to build a boat in a few months…or possibly longer. We were ruminating on that and having trouble making the choice. One day driving back from yet another trip looking at the RVs which wasn’t particularly productive, I said something like “If we didn’t have to accommodate our cat on this journey, how would we do it”? We started talking, and decided that we weren’t really RV people and would probably just camp with a car and a tent, like we did on our first Interlude. Or maybe we would get a big old van and camp in it, rather than the tent. For this sort of travels, we did fine in Peepcar for ourselves ten years ago, but we would need a big truck or cargo van later for boat-building, so why not get a big vehicle now?

But the RVs just seemed too big to drive around. We were arguing about whether it would be worse to have a truck w/ a trailer (overall length of 35-40 feet, impossible to park anyplace but a campground or truck stop), or just to have a 22 foot self-propelled RV that would almost fit into a parking space, but would mean not having transportation unless we were willing to move our house…at 7-9mpg. Regardless, it just didn’t make sense to spend $8000 for an old RV just for the cat. We decided that we would somehow find a way to make a smaller vehicle work, and our travels might have to be planned around the cat, but at least they wouldn’t be planned around the vehicle.

In trying to figure out the RV stuff, we had read Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck, and Blue Highways, by William Least Heat Moon (ok, we had to return it to the library before finishing it, but we will get back to it someday).. Both these guys traveled in modest vehicles, but both of them were single guys. One was a small camper made on a pickup chassis, and the other was a Ford cargo van with a bunk built into the back. So we started thinking about cargo vans.

After looking at cargo vans, we figured out two things: One, they never seem to have cruise control, which Meps dearly wanted in our next vehicle, and, Two, they are just plain raw inside, and would need a lot of work to make them look anything like civilized enough to spend a couple months driving to Seattle the long way in.

So next we started looking at old Conversion Vans. These are the opposite extreme, with lots of fancy upholstery, real wood trim, and a TV and VCR installed. As most of you know, we detest TV on general principles, so that wasn’t a big plus, but these vans were pretty cheap, and were generally pretty low mileage, so we looked at quite a few of them. Plus a lot of them have a high ceiling, so when we built a bunk in, there would be more headroom or underneath storage available. And they came with windows that open, and already have screens and curtains. But most of them were a bit tired, and several of them behaved quite badly on test drives….so we lost our enchantment with them.

When we arrived at Riverside Park in Sebastian, the first thing I saw was a pony ride. I knew then that this Independence Day celebration was the quintessential family-oriented small-town event, with folks of all ages enjoying themselves.

Armed with a small picnic and a couple of camp stools, we plunged into the crowd, our heads swiveling from side to side. There were booths selling everything from airbrushed art to temporary tattoos to cheap imported windchimes.

Over by the Indian River, folks had set up their blankets and folding chairs for many blocks along the shore. The orientation was puzzling; they seemed to be aimed based on which way the walkway pointed, rather than all looking at a single point out in the water. Unlike Seattle, there was no barge where they set the fireworks off — probably too shallow for that.

As we walked along the path, we came across a couple of ladies whose chairs were pointing in the wrong direction. “You must know something nobody else does!” I said. “Are they going to shoot the fireworks off over there?” I gestured back towards the throng in the park and the associated row of sani-cans. Laughing, they admitted their chairs were turned around for conversational purposes. One of them pointed south. “They shoot the fireworks from that island, at the end of the pier.”

Armed with this information and noticing there were still plenty of good spots, we took a quick circuit through the food booths, where french fries and greasy hot dogs reigned supreme. Large bags of Kettle Korn were selling so well, the fellow didn’t have to resort to free samples, unlike the beef jerky lady. In a thick New Yawk accent, a man from the Italian-American club was announcing “Hot Italian sausage! With peppers and onions!” Seeing us walk by carrying a cooler, he shouted, “Next time, come hungry!”

Since soft-serve ice cream wasn’t available for our appetizer, we took our pasta salad back to the waterfront, looking for the ideal spot. We found it, right on the river bank smack dab between the two long fishing piers.

A few minutes after we arrived, I noticed a family walking by, wearing all red, white, and blue. The kids were carrying flags and one of them wore a headband with red, white, and blue streamers. It was so cute, I wished I’d had the camera ready.

I had it ready a few minutes later, when a couple walked by, wearing matching patriotic t-shirts. I stopped them and asked if I could take a photo, and they posed willingly. It turned out they’d set their chairs up almost next to ours, with only one couple between us.

One thing led to the next, and we started chatting away with Ron and Carol, exchanging important information, like the fact that they are from New Jersey, near Atlantic City, retired (they looked too young, but who are we to talk?), and have been in Sebastian since February. They were enjoying themselves so much, they extended their stay until September. For all its flaws, Florida in the summer beats New Jersey in the summer!

You might be wondering, were we just talking over the heads of the folks sitting between us? No, we drew Al and Lynn into the conversation, too. They were from Micco, a town north of Sebastian and even smaller. The fireworks in Sebastian had become a tradition of theirs, and this was their seventh year. They’d been at the park since 4:30, and Lynn said she’d been eating too much junk food all day. About this time, Al came back carrying a bag of Kettle Korn, which she opened and shared around. Ron then got up and shortly reappeared with his own bag of the addictive stuff.

As nine o’clock approached, the sky grew black with thunderclouds, as if to set the stage. To the west, cloud-to-cloud lightning rivaled any of the small Roman Candles and bottle rockets that were being set off by kids up the beach. On cue (Lynn had told us they wuld do this), they turned off the lights on the piers, provoking a huge “ooooooooh” from the waiting crowd.

When the fireworks started, we truly had front row, center seats. Not only were the fireworks perfectly centered in front of us, but we had the Indian River reflections, giving us a double display. Behind us, hundreds of people had set up their blankets and chairs, but no one was in front of us. You simply couldn’t get any closer to the show. Unbelievable!

But to be honest, one fireworks display is a lot like another. This day will stay with me for other reasons, not just because of the front row seats. This one, I’ll remember because of all the cheerful people having a good time and especially the two charming couples we shared the experience with, like family members we adopted for the evening.

In early May of last year, Barry and I sat down on the couch for a Big Decision. At the end of the evening, we had worked out the actual dates when we would leave our jobs. Despite six years of planning, I vividly recall being terribly afraid of this rash step we were taking. For weeks afterward, I felt as if I was leaping off a cliff, unable to see the bottom.

We all build up momentum in our lives. It’s hard enough for a single person to decide on a change, but for couples, there’s more mass and therefore more inertia. Increase the family size, add a house, cars, and personal possessions, and the thought of making a change starts to look like a big train wreck.

A year into our retirement, Barry and I have never been more free. We are currently unencumbered by “stuff,” having no car, no home, no furniture. Without jobs, nobody owns our time but us. If we could figure out what to do with the cat, we could sign up for private space travel and go to the moon!

But that doesn’t make decision-making any easier. It actually makes it harder. Think about it: When was the last time you had to make a really big decision? Not a little decision, like what color of underwear today. Not a little decision, like whether to order tofu or a cheeseburger. A big one, that would impact every single day and might change the direction your life would take.

If the thought of such a decision makes you want to stick your head in the sand, like an ostrich, you know how we feel. When I lift my head, I see a vast horizon littered with choices of where to live, what to do with my time, how to make a difference in the world.

When we left Cayenne, I thought we might stay on the east coast and buy a small boat. Barry was inclined towards going back to Seattle and building our next boat. The day we left the boat, we started exploring those options and found problems with both of them. Barry pointed out that a used boat would probably require a lot of work, and he wasn’t enthusiastic about being in a boatyard so soon. I was lukewarm on building right away, for the same reason.

Zooming down the interstate on cruise control, with our four-legged feline napping in the back seat, a plan started to form. We once took a long vacation from work that we called “The Interlude.” Now it’s time for “The Interlude Two,” an attitude adjustment and respite from working on boats.

The original interlude was a two-year odyssey in Peepcar that involved crossing the country five times and riding 1500 miles on our bicycles. Not exactly a great lifestyle for an 18-year-old cat. Her Royal Highness has demanded that a) this time we bring her along and b) we provide her with some sort of conveyance appropriate for her station in life. To wit, an RV!

Now, you’d think that once we acquiesced to this demand, the decision of which RV to buy would be easy. Not so! HRH Kitty’s demands are simple, compared to ours. She wants a cool place to nap and a clean, tidy MFCS (mobile feline comfort station). But Barry and I want something that’s got tons of living space and at the same time is easy to drive and easy to park. And which is exceedingly cheap or nearly free.

Every day, we study the Internet and the classified ads. We’ve climbed into truck campers, Class C motorhomes, and fifth-wheel trailers. We’ve discovered that the construction of these things gives new meaning to the words “flimsy” and “shoddy” (thank God they don’t have to float). We’ve seen 1990′s “geefatchie gold” trim and 1970′s “harvest gold” upholstery. We’ve disoriented the salesmen by showing up on a 95-degree day riding bicycles.

And still we can’t decide what rig to buy. Probably any of them would be fine, but which one we choose influences where and how we travel. We’ve tried sitting on the couch, discussing the options. We’ve tried debating our choices while taking long walks. We’ve tried “visualization exercises.”

You know what I think? I think it’s like the story about Winnie the Pooh and Piglet, lost in the woods all day with Rabbit. When Rabbit finally went chasing off in the wrong direction, Pooh took Piglet’s paw and led him right home. Said Pooh, “With all the noise Rabbit was making, I couldn’t hear my honey pot calling.” Once Barry and I get tired of all the discussing and debating, we’ll fall quiet. And then, I hope, the right answer will call out and we’ll hear it.

When Barry and I left Cayenne, driving a characterless rental car packed to the gills with our belongings, we were in a state of shock. Unused to navigating roads and freeways at 60 miles per hour, we took an unintentionally circuitous route out of Baltimore (i.e., we got lost). Our first stop was Crystal City, Virginia, outside Washington, D.C., where we took advantage of the lack of government security to walk unquestioned into Andy Johns’ office.

In a former life, Barry was a patent examiner at the U.S. Patent Office, where he and Andy met. Both were using their recent engineering degrees, but the intensive writing and lack of hands-on problem-solving was Barry’s downfall, and he left after only a few years. After almost fifteen years, Andy is still thriving at the PTO. “Hey,” he admits, “I like to write.”

The visit with Andy perked us up after our last days on Cayenne. There were so many interesting topics to discuss, from Andy and Sandy’s skiing adventures in Europe to the fun of splitting firewood. For quite some time now, Andy’s been actively involved with BookCrossing.com under the screen name “ResQgeek.” He puts a label with a number on an individual copy of a book, then releases the book “into the wild,” leaving it someplace for anyone to find. The person who finds the book is encouraged to log onto the website and enter comments, then pass the book along. The website allows you to follow along on the book’s journey and see what people thought of it.

As full-time adventurers, it’s time for Barry and me to become “BookCrossers.” As a matter of fact, one of our books began without us. Many years ago, as a joke, we gave Andy a copy of “Human Limbs and Their Substitutes.” We wrapped it up with a cutting board as a Christmas gift. Recently, Andy found the book in his attic and decided to send it out traveling (you can see where). It’s already been around the U.S., and if it wasn’t such a heavy beast, it would probably make it overseas.

After our lunch with Andy, we declined to pay our last respects to Ronald Reagan’s body and made it out of the D.C. area before the funeral-associated traffic mayhem began.

Traveling south on I-95 has its parallels with the Gulf Stream and the Intracoastal Waterway. The speeds are alarming (like the Gulf Stream) and you pass the same cars over and over (like the ICW). Like the ICW, it is monotonous. And away from Andy’s cheerful conversation, we fell back into recriminations, rehashing, and general depression over the Cayenne fiasco.

Crossing into North Carolina, we started thinking about a place to spend the night. Barry was struggling through pages of ads and coupons, trying to find the cheapest motel, when we saw our first South of the Border billboard. “Do they have a motel at South of the Border,” he asked? And what started out as a gloomy drive to a motel turned into a gleeful pilgrimage, complete with pictures.

Now, if you’ve ever traveled through North or South Carolina on I-95, you already know what I mean and you’re either rolling your eyes in disgust or chuckling. If you haven’t, I’m gonna try to describe it for you.

Each billboard tells you how far you are from South of the Border. We started taking photos when we were still 61 miles away, but all were out of focus until this one.

From New York to Florida, you’ll find the trademark billboards. Every one is black, with astro-bright colors, a sombrero, and a simple saying, like, “Keep Yelling, Kids! (They’ll stop!)” One guy came up with all those silly sayings. Close to the North-South Carolina border, they pop up every mile or so, like old friends. And when you arrive, you get to drive right through the legs of the largest neon sign east of Las Vegas, a huge “Pedro” character outside the original restaurant.

Small “Pedros” look across at big “Pedro” in awe.

Picture a place with acres of lousy restaurants, cheap motel rooms, gas stations, import shops, antique shops, miniature golf, amusement park rides, and fireworks stands. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But it’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it! From the swimming pool in “Pedro’s Pleasure Dome” to the sombrero-topped observation tower to the dozens of cute concrete sculptures, the place is full of whimsy and humor. And it’s the product of a self-made man, who took a theme and ran with it for over fifty years.

Meps makes a couple of new friends.

Barry’s hangin’ 10!

Embarrassing, but that’s me at the bottom.

Admittedly, in this day and age, S.O.B. is an anachronism. The sombrero and pidgin Mexican sayings on the billboards are no longer politically correct. Walking around, the paint is peeling and the place looks seedy. Still, it was a fun and crazy place to stop for the night, and who cares whether the guy who built it got rich? He has a great sense of humor, and he’s made millions of people smile. We’d been in the depths of despair that day, but the evening found us frolicking on the concrete statues like a couple of kids. The guy who came up with South of the Border didn’t just make us smile, he made us laugh and restored something we’d lost.

Y’all come back now, y’hear?

Outside my window, the lawn is green, the sky is blue with a few puffy clouds, and the new little condos look charming in their yellow and white color scheme. But the pleasant tableau is deceptive. This is Florida in the summer. I open the door, a bounce in my step, and I meet a wall of heat and humidity. Suddenly, I am drenched in sweat, the victim of a lassitude beyond my control.

The sidewalks are strangely empty. From the air-conditioned house to the air-conditioned car to the air-conditioned store, no one strolls the sidewalk or rides a bicycle in this heat. Except for us, because we are here with no car. We walked a couple of miles in the heat of the day, then shocked ourselves by sitting in a freezing cold movie theater for three hours. When we got home that evening, we drank about a quart of water each, then collapsed and slept 12 hours without dinner.

Still, it’s a wonderful place to rest and recuperate after seven months of trying to be something other than ourselves. Even with the air conditioning turned up above 80 degrees, it is still cool and comfortable, and there are books, CDs, and movies to enjoy. The kitchen is full to bursting with conveniences like a blender (for fruit smoothies), a toaster, and an ice-maker that delivers crushed or cubed ice. We have access to the phone and the Internet at all hours. The cat flops contentedly on the tile floor or the foot of our bed.

We spent over a year preparing for our time on Cayenne, mentally and physically. Once we traveled to the boat, we spent five months working in the boatyard and then two months sailing her from New Orleans to Baltimore. That’s nineteen months, and we thought we would be on board for a comparable amount of time. Now that we’re not, we find ourselves unprepared for a life with no boat, no car, no home, no furniture, no jobs.

We have a few weeks, here in this peaceful house-sitting situation, to come up with “Plan B.” Our natural sense of humor and whimsy is returning, and our world is becoming one of smiles and laughter again. I never thought I would live so long without them.