Day 1 of the Morton Road Trip Adventure. Leaving home.

I haven't been anywhere for a while, and I certainly haven't packed my 2 weeks worth of personal belongings into the trunk of a car and hit the road for a very long time.  Once upon a time, when I was someone I barely remember, I loaded a tiny orange Ford Fiesta, the odometer  bespoke of 300,000 miles worth of endeavors before I got behind the wheel. with every item my newly married self owned.  My new husband and I drove from Minnesota to Arizona that sun baked August.  That trip introduced me to my America.  We sat in a traffic jam in the middle of of a sheer rock wall in Utah, listening to the Joshua Tree on cassette and contemplating a glorious future.  We saw families packed into station wagons and it seemed romantic that someday, in the too distant to really imagine it future, it could be us.  I swear I saw the face of God in a sunrise across the barren desert backdrop, and felt nothing but bliss in that little Fiesta that we push started almost 2000 miles to find our new home.  

We took the short route back home to Minnesota  less them a month later.  Who moves to Arizona in August but young fools in love with the idea of a desert? 

 I was pregnant within the year and our first anniversay was spent sleeping in a military sleeping bag on the floor of a cockroach infested apartment that was walking distance to the gates of the army base in Colorado.  I found God's Country about the same time that I lost faith in most everything.  I found myself again in the blue eyes of a baby that I had when I was but a babe myself.  

It is 25 years later, and I am packing my bags to go and visit that beautiful blue eyed girl that is off on her own adventure now, but still humbles my heart when I look into her eyes and remember what once was. 

Waiting

After months of gray dormancy I am ready to feel alive again.  We've done little things here and there on the house.  More maintenance than creation.  I've grown so accustomed to it's little idiosyncrasies that I hardly notice the things that used to annoy me.  I think that the blanket of snow that slowly piled and covered us into a bitter cold silence also begins a slow maliciousless suffocation of my creative energy, my wishes, and just as spring hovers upon emergence, I wonder if I can possibly make it out with anything left at all.  Then, the sunshine, the hint of green, a gentle spring rain all remind me of the dreams I'd buried under winter coats and heating bills.  It is coming, I can see it in the sky, the way the clouds roll across the Wisconsin forests to the river and the plains.  I can't wait until it gets here again, my flighty mistress, Summertime.

I keep the patio door open when I am in the hotel room.  The warm floral scented air reminds me that I am not where I am from, and the honking, bird calls, and occasional sirens remind me that a vast city lays just beyond the canopy of luxury I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by.
Yesterday, I asked a hotel driver about going to the City market, also known as Krishna Raja Market.  I'd read it was a great place to get a feel of the local culture, and also a spot to find great trinkets to bring home. The driver raised his eye brows as he did the Indian head nod/bob that indicates they hear and understand what you are saying, but not that they agree.  (The head bob is very contagious and I'm trying to stop Jeremy from doing it because I keep thinking he is agree with something and then realize he is quickly assimilating and may soon be wearing a Dhoti...ah, but I digress and that IS a whole different story).  "You will not want to be there." he said.  "It is a very dirty place, you will get Malaria."  he added.  Malaria?  Hmmm.  Of course, I was even more curious about it at that point, and so far as my basic medical understanding of Malaria goes, it's mosquito born and I am taking those Malaria pills everyday for a reason.  Might as well put it to use, right?
I called the corporate driver, and his only response, as usual, was "Yes ma'am." and we headed off into the heavy traffic.  I usually enjoy the traffic in front of the hotel gates.  Buses filled to capicity, motorbikes whizzing by with an entire family on board.  Noise and hustle and a slight element of danger seems to be my happy place.  Today, I was surprised to hear a knock on my window.  I turned to find a little boy, maybe 7 years old, making a gesture of hunger towards his mouth.  He probably saw my heart drop and my eyes tear up as he held up his left arm, twisted with scars, and he pulled back his shiny silver shirt sleeve to expose more wrinkled ragged skin.  Then I heard a knock on the other window.