Tag: road trip

M is for the Marvelous Misti and a Dirty Martini

Truth be told, I’ve always wanted to run away. I was five when I loaded my Radio Flyer red wagon with a few necessities and made it as far as my next door neighbors’ house before my mom showed up to check on my plan. When I was thirteen, I thought my life couldn’t be any worse, and I wrote my Granny and Gramps in Oklahoma City and asked if I could move in with them. My parents put an end to that fantasy. I suppose it only makes sense that I’ve run away from my adult life a few times. It takes so many years to learn how to adult properly. I’m still not sure I know.

Enter Misti.

In 2003, I met Misti at Jasper High School in Plano, Texas, but it feels like I’ve known her forever. We both taught freshmen English, and Misti was also certified as a special education teacher. She co-taught in classrooms with freshmen and sophomores. In 2005, I landed a spot teaching sophomores and a co-teaching position with Misti who taught me much. She would teach our first class, and then I would monkey-see, monkey-do and teach the next one. We were both there to give the students the extra help they needed, and we worked so well together in the classroom because we were friends outside of the classroom. Two of my favorite lessons from that time are Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death” and Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Julius Caesar. And to think that a combined love of literature and kids kicked off our excellent times to come. 

In 2007, Misti moved to Sitka, Alaska for the sake of adventure. She had visited a friend who lived there, and a teaching job manifested itself. We always stayed in touch.

In 2008, my marriage teetered on the brink of demise, and I felt that urge to run. At Misti’s invitation, I booked a flight to Sitka through Seattle. Misti is one of those people (it must be the teacher in her) who makes everything seem easy and leaves a person feeling empowered. During my stay, we hiked mountain trails and chased waterfalls. We boated all around and cast our lines. I caught a fifteen-pound salmon and (mostly) reeled it in. We spotted eagles soaring and whales breaching. We hot-tubbed and karaoke-ed. Every time I hear Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” I smile and shake my head at the memory of Misti with the microphone.

As a teacher and a mom of two teenagers, I hadn’t had the opportunity to book flights and travel solo much, but Misti talked me through everything including a layover in Seattle on my return. At Seattle-Tacoma International, I stowed my carry-ons in a locker and hopped a bus downtown to Pike Place Fish Market. I entertained myself for hours, and I found my way back via taxi unscathed and on time for my flight.

In 2009, Misti moved back to Texas and drove her car home, the first leg via ferry. I flew to Sacramento and met her there. The last half of Misti’s move was a road trip adventure across the American West for both of us. First stop Napa. Then San Francisco.

In 2012, thanks to our friend Michelle, Misti and I both landed jobs in the same new school in another school district just north of Dallas where suburbs meet country and kids greet teachers in the hallways. We had waited three years for open positions, and we took them together. And so our friendship continued with lunch daily and outings to Shakespeare in the Park and dinners and concerts and art museums.

Classic middle-aged teacher shenanigans at the Dallas Museum of Art. We teach sophomores.

In 2016, my friends from school threw me a farewell happy hour. Kody’s job had been transferred to Houston, and so had we. The occasion called for a martini—dirty. Bourbon on the rocks for my friend. I like Houston regardless of some bad luck here, but I miss my friends made over the course of seventeen years—like my friend Misti. But you know what? If I ever need to run away, she has a room to spare.

A to Z Challenge

I jumped on to this A-Z blogging challenge at the last moment and without a plan, and it looks like gratitude has brought me to the half way mark. Thanks so much for reading! All posts are clickable below:

A is for Apple and B is for Boozer and C is for Champagne and Chanel No. 5 and D is for Dad and E is for Epiphany and F is for Faith + Gratitude = Peace + Hope and G is for Great _______ and H is for Hatbox and Honeysuckle and I for an I and J is for Jesus and K is for Kody and L is for the Lovely Lauren

Póg Mo Thóin

To the left of the Winmau dart board hung a stenciled wooden sign that read, “Póg mo thóin.”

“I wonder what that means,” I said with a tilt of my head and my hitch-hiking thumb pointing toward the sign.

sign

“Right?” Kody said as he aimed his dart. “It sounds nasty.”

We had dropped into a new Irish bar, new for us, where the green twinkle lights on the covered patio drew us in, green velvet bar stools invited us to sit, and a darling bartender with long red hair poured us drinks—a Wild Basin Black Raspberry seltzer in a chilled glass and a Jameson Caskmates IPA neat for me. To our delight, there were nice dart boards in a room on the other side of a partitioned half wall and darts with pointed tips. I emphasize nice and pointed because we have a tendency to play in a place with a terrible board and darts with blunt tips that don’t stick. Like the twinkle lights and green velvet, these were wonderful surprises.

I had been practicing my aim, and our game was tied. It was a matter of shooting two more bullseyes. I already had one, and so did Kody. With my eyes on the board, my ears  overheard a conversation between two guys at the bar, “What’s the longest road trip you’ve ever taken? I mean, not with your parents as a kid, but that you drove yourself.”

I couldn’t hear what the other guy said, but the bartender said, “Probably Austin. I never drive anywhere.” She seemed very young, but now that I’m fifty, so many people do.

I wanted to pipe into this conversation, but I was busy concentrating on my target. Ready. Aim. 5. Ready. Aim. 16. Ready. Aim. 2. Kody said, “I’m telling you, you’re on the spot.” My darts were close, but not close enough.

Kody couldn’t hit his either. His darts fell on the 9, the 14, and the 8. He breathed out with a huff.

“Thanks for giving me another chance,” I said with a smile. My wins against Kody are few and far between.

The first road trip that came to mind was the one I took with my friend Misti back in 2009. She had moved to Sitka, Alaska for a couple of years, and she was moving back to Texas and driving her car, the first stretch for her via ferry. And so I flew to Sacramento and met her to keep her company for the rest of the way home. We stayed in Sonoma Valley that first night, toured Napa, and dined at Bottega, Chef Michael Chiarello’s restaurant, where I had my favorite meal of the trip—Tortino Rustico Southern Italian ratatouille in a mascarpone pastry shell, fresh goats’ cheese, heirloom tomato sauce and arugula salad. I hate to be one of those people snapping photos in fancy restaurants, but I don’t regret keeping the memory.

My Bottega Dinner

I threw my darts again—6, triple 12, 10. By the way, if you don’t play darts, I hit the twelve on the small red strip on the inner circle, which means absolutely nothing. Triples on 15-20 is exactly what you want, but I had closed those numbers.

From wine country we spent a couple of days in San Francisco, drove down Lombard Street, toured in a double decker bus, walked on the Golden Gate Bridge, ate at Fisherman’s Wharf, caught a performance of Wicked, and ate pizza in a parlor alongside the famous San Francisco twins. From San Francisco, Misti and I traded off driving first down Pacific Coast Highway One and then east toward Las Vegas. And you know what they say about Vegas—what happens there, stays there.

Pacific Coast Highway One

Kody had another opportunity to beat me, and as he threw 20, 17, and 16, I heard the guy who proposed the road trip question mention his travels between Houston and Odessa. “It’s a good ten hour drive, but I just take my pee bottle.”

“Did he just say pee bottle?” I said to Kody in a voice quiet enough that no one else could hear. “Who needs a pee bottle? Just stop the damn car.”

Kody said, “I don’t need that much time. I’m already driving 110.” 

There was a note of truth behind his joke, and suddenly his driving seemed better than traveling with a bottle of pee. No offense if you happen to use a pee bottle, just not my style, and I laughed and shook my head.

From Vegas, Misti and I drove southeast a bit before hitting the Historic Route 66, stopping for restrooms and gas along the way, and after an overnight respite somewhere in Arizona, we sped on toward Santa Fe where we spent another night at a nice resort and celebrated with massages in teepees. Misti planned every last detail, and I’m the friend who says, “Okay!” I’m not sure who was Thelma and who was Louise. Brad Pitt may or may not have shown up along the way. But instead of running away and driving off a cliff, we drove right into Dallas back to our jobs and the reality of our lives. No one was hurt in the making of our escapade. Well, Misti might have been, but that’s her story to tell. Anyway, that is how you road trip with one of your besties.

I held the dart with three fingers, my index and my thumb with my middle finger to steady it. I stared straight in the center of the bull. I threw. I missed. I refocused. I threw my second dart. “Kody?” I said, pointing.

“Is that it?” he said, and he walked forward for a closer look at my dart in the red center of the board, worth a double bullseye.

“Didn’t you have an opportunity to take some points on me?” I said, rubbing it in just a little bit.

“You really gonna say that? I’ll be taking my points next time. Another game? I’m bringing the pain.” He was totally jesting.

“Well, game on.” I said with feigned bravado. “Game. On.”

“My Name Is Human” played in the background. This was Kody’s playlist. To think that jukeboxes can be controlled through the touch of a phone. Anyway, I had a friend tell me that he always liked my playlists. So Tim, this is for you—a random sampling of our Wednesday evening songs, old and new, from the jukebox to the car radio to videos on our TV in the living room.  And for those of you who don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day—try, “Póg mo thóin.”  St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner.