LA for an award? Sure, I’ll go.

It must be an elaborate hoax, right? That my latest book won an award? That I’m being flown to LA tomorrow for a dinner downtown?

I’m packed, I figure even if it is a hoax, I might as well spend the weekend in LA. I haven’t been there in over 25 years, oh shit, that makes me old. Well, is there a big difference between that innocent yet brave kid and my current self? In some ways – no. I write, she wrote, we’re both restless and curious, not satisfied by the mundane but needing to find out other people’s stories and experiences. I’m excited to land in LA early in the morning and have the time to wander around, take the bus to the beach, wander up to Santa Monica to eat fish and chips at the British Pub that I remember.

The first time in LA, I was 22 years old with a backpack, a handful of dollars and one address in Venice Beach. I walked, talked, explored and stayed with a friend I’d met in Germany a year or two before. We’d gone to Freiburg University together, she was a good student, me not so much.

This time, I have a flight, a credit card, a small daypack, and no addresses. I’ll be staying at an Airbnb place near LA Live where we’re having the Awards Dinner. I can walk there and back easily and take the metro in the morning back to the beach before my flight Sunday night. Short and sweet a visit.

Is is hoax? What do I wear? What do I say at the ceremony?
What do I want from the experience? To network and talk to agents and publishers. To find a larger readership. To know that I am a writer after all these years. It’s real. It’s not a hoax.

From the website:

GREAT NORTHWEST BOOK FESTIVAL NAMES “VAN LIFE” FOR TOP HONORS

A woman who decides to hit the road with a van, three animals and her adventurous spirit is the grand prize winner of the 2017 Great Northwest Book Festival, which honors the best books of the late winter/spring.

Author Sarah Leamy’s “Van Life” (CreateSpace)  is the story of a writer who decides that there’s more to living than working retail and yearning for adventure. So it is that she takes two dogs and a cat on a rollicking trip through the back roads of the Northwest, stumbling across rural villages and a microbrewery or three. Her stories of the locals, the scenery and her family of animals are funny, poignant and ultimately a satisfying read for any armchair adventurer who dreams of doing something similar. Leamy and others in the competition will be honored in a private ceremony later this month.

 

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Living The Dream: 9

As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Click on the image for a link to the whole novel if you can’t wait.  

DECEMBER: HOW TO

“I’m not sure, to be honest. Mark’s really good at improvising, that made it all a game, you know?” I reached down and petted Nelson’s head, reassuring myself.   “Mark just knew how to look at what we had lying around, and then create from that. He taught me a lot, that’s for sure. I’d not really built anything until we got to the land. I was the dreamer, the researcher, the teacher but he taught me how to play.”
“Your home became an art project then?” Angie sat back and finished her enchiladas. Jonnie was still eating but listening fully. It was good to talk. I hadn’t stopped yet.

“Yeah, I guess so. We had fun; making plans, playing with the materials. I love how our home was so, well, organic I guess. We didn’t really know what we needed until it became obvious. It was all so different to living in the nice little home in Olympia, gardening and watering with the hose, walking to town if we needed to pick up something. This was a whole new world for us. For me.”

I drifted off for a moment, picturing how Mark and I’d created such a home within months.

 

 

 

 

JULY: ART PROJECTS 101

 

 

“Are you sure that’s level, Jenny?”

I stepped back a few feet and looked again. It seemed pretty good to me and told him so. I walked around and checked from all the other angles. Yep, pretty good. I came back to the first post and took up my grip again. Mark let go of the four by four and grabbed his tools. A new cordless drill and a pocket full of screws made the boy so damn happy. He attached a crossbeam to another angled piece of two by four. The posts now stood up on their own. The porch was taking shape.

Impressive.

Next he had me hold more lumber in place as he screwed in the eight footers and tied it all together to make a basic framework for a roof. We’d dug the holes earlier in the day before it all got too hot. No cement but rocks and sand packed in tightly seemed to be enough to keep everything solid. Our plan was to build six uprights and create a frame of two by fours for a shed-like roof. On that we’d simply screw in the old eight foot sheets of corrugated tin that were stacked up near the driveway. Reuse and recycle had become our new mantra. In Santa Fe, Mark had discovered Habitat for Humanity where you could buy lightly used building supplies. It had become a favorite place to visit. Sinks, furniture, plumbing, electrical, you name it, they stocked it. Mark loved coming home from his errands with a box of screws that cost him only a dollar. Or that time he’d bought a kitchen cabinet made of old metal, absolutely rat proof and perfect for his next project. Yep, the homestead was coming along nicely and at a great price.
Mark set up a platform to stand upon by using his dad’s table. He started laying the lumber out for the next stage. I held pieces in place, trying to keep my face out of the direct sun. I didn’t want to look like some of the women around here. Much too wrinkled for my tastes.

“Can you go get some roofing for me?” Mark stood up on the table as he worked. “I’d say we can get this part done today and build the actual platform in the morning. What do you think? Are you up for another hour or so?”
“Sure, let’s get as much done as we can. I’ve still got some energy. I’ll go get you a sheet.” I wandered off down the dirt track and off to the right. Under another bunch of short stumpy trees I found the stack of old tin. I picked up a piece and brought it back to the school bus. I passed it up to him.

“This roof will make all the difference. Can’t you see us sitting on the deck for our morning coffee?” I was excited at seeing our first real building project come together.
Mark grunted as he worked. “Next time get a couple of sheets, okay?”
“Oh, right.”
Back and forth, I carried dirty, somewhat rusty, roofing. I set him up with what he needed, passing screws, tin, bottles of water. He worked. I helped. The roof was done. Nothing moved when I shook the posts. It all held firm.
“Good job.” I congratulated my boyfriend. “What do you need now?”
“A bath? A shower? A pizza and a beer.”
“Okay, let’s see. I have a beer for you. Does that work?”
He jumped back down and stood there admiring our work. He opened a beer and drank a good part of it before answering me. “That’s much better. Thanks. But what do you say to us staying in town tomorrow and getting a motel room?”
“Really? How decadent of us. I’d love it.”
He grinned and sat down in the shade of his new patio. He looked up at new roofing and nodded to himself. His shirt was drenched and his hair lay flat for once. The burnt toast color suited his face nicely. I stayed lobster pink, a rose by any other name.

“How about our goal is for finishing the deck tomorrow, putting across the wood to make some kind of platform, and making sure it won’t move in the wind? It won’t take me too long. I’ll probably be done by lunchtime and we can go to town after that and relax for the night.”
I sat next to him and leaned back. I gave him a short sweet kiss.

“When you do that, if you don’t need me, I want to get the painting done inside. It can air out when we’re away for the night. What do you think?”
“Yep, that works. But more importantly, what’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
I opened the cooler and rummaged around for a second, then pulled out the hot dogs and a pack of whole-wheat buns. Mark grinned.

“I think I need to eat something a bit healthier tomorrow night, but for now, no complaints. Do you need help? I’ll go wash up a bit if that’s okay?”

“Sure, go for it. I’ll make us a fire.”
He wandered off to the car and pulled out a five-gallon container of water. He filled a bucket, found his soap, and striped down to his boxers. He washed. I watched. It was a good evening at the homestead.

 

The night trickled along easily. We had a sweet routine of work, cook, drink, and then daydream. We’d chat about the different ideas for homes, and how could we do it, get a home base by winter? It was dawning on us both that this was a bigger project than imagined. He was growing into the idea of yurts and teepees and stuff like that, each being quick and easy to set up, even if you had to pay more upfront. I wanted us to build with stones taken from around the land, or even better to make adobes and create some funky weirdly shaped dome home. The labor-intensive options didn’t get his enthusiasm for some reason. We were chatting about compromising with a yurt that had straw bales set around the base for extra insulation when we saw flashing lights heading up our driveway.

We both stood up. Visitors? At this time of night?

Mark threw on a couple more logs so we could see what the hell was going on. Three large huge sounding trucks pulled up next to our campsite with their spotlights blinding us but I couldn’t see what was going on. Who were they? I shaded my eyes, unsure as to where to look or talk. A voice from the darkness spoke.

“Do you have a permit for that fire?”

A door opened and in the distance more vehicles rumbled down the driveway. For us?
“What’s going on? What do you mean, a permit?”

Mark walked into the light. I lost sight of him.

I felt naked in my shorts and tee shirt under the bright lights. I never had been one for standing on stage in front of strangers. I wanted the darkness back. I wanted the silence back.
The fire trucks kept their engines running. I moved into the shadows and tried to work out what was going on. Mark was surrounded by some ten firefighters in full gear. Helmets, boots, reflective coats, the lot. Radios beeped and voices bounced off each other.
“Didn’t I meet you the other day?”
I jumped and coughed. Next to me stood the man from the EMT vehicle in the parade.

“No, but I saw you at the Independence Day event. I caught a candy you threw.” I replied in surprise.
“Oh that’s right,” He smiled. He was smaller than I’d pictured, with a bit of a belly stuck out over his pants, and his skin hadn’t tanned like most peoples round here. But he was in uniform, what can I say? I liked uniforms. His dark hair was cut military style, and he had a salt and pepper moustache that didn’t make me laugh out loud. He smiled again. Perfect teeth. That must have cost his parents a fortune.

“I’m Graham. I’m with the Fire Department.”
“Jenny. I’m new to town. Welcome to my home.” and I blushed. It was too dark to tell, thankfully. I wanted to giggle. I stifled another cough instead.

“Have you ever thought to join the department? I could do with some sweet female energy. There.” He stepped closer. Nice aftershave.
“Really? You could? I mean, what do you need? At the department?” I didn’t tell him that I hate blood and can’t stand anything bigger than my campfire. ‘Hot’ scares me. He didn’t scare me. Well, not like that. His green eyes held me captive as he talked about volunteering. I had no idea as to what he said. I watched his mouth. Nice soft lips he had.

I suddenly realized that a couple of men were throwing dirt on our fire. They stood around in a group and with shovels in hand, messed up our very nice new fire-pit. I was  none too impressed.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” I stood between them and the smothered flames.
Mark jumped in and explained to me how there was a countywide ban of open fires. The wild fire risks were too great, he’d been told. In the Jemez Mountains some fifty thousand acres had already burnt up this summer. Everyone was scared. Especially as they were all waiting for the monsoon season to kick in.

“No more fires for us, eh?” He smiled nervously. “And if their boss shows up, we’re in trouble. They’d have to give us a ticket. But since we’re new and haven’t been here long enough to hear about that kind of fire ban, we’re okay this time. The Fire Officer told me it’s a fine if we get caught with another fire. Bummer eh?” He whispered and stared behind me, “Hey, honey, who’s that watching us?”
I turned to see the Graham head back towards the Fire Engines. A couple of men, and I think one woman, walked up to him.

“Hey Chief. Are we done yet?” someone asked him.
“Yes, let’s call it in and go back to Oliver. Did you make sure the fire’s out?”

“Yes sir.”
Graham waved at us both politely and climbed up into the lead vehicle. The other volunteers came and shook our hands first, almost apologetic for disturbing us, and they too left.
We stood in the dark and watched their lights grow smaller and smaller, with no sounds but for an owl to keep us company.

“Bedtime, I guess?”

Awards! Contests! Festivals! 

http://www.greatnorthwestbookfestival.com/

The Great Northwest Book Festival just honored my book VAN LIFE as the Grand Winner of their 2017 contest! I’m thrilled and delighted! They’re covering the cost of the flight out from NM to the awards dinner in LA and even are giving me an appearance fee. Bruce, who wrote to me, wrote: “Congratulations on a fun and page-turning read. Definitely one of the most fun reads I’ve seen in a while.”

http://www.greatnorthwestbookfestival.com/ for a link to their winners’ page.

For me, entering contests and festivals is a chance to find new readers as it’s mostly been word of mouth, going to events, chatting up strangers and handing off books and business cards. The opportunity of a book festival award opens more doors, tells others that my stories are compelling and that self-pubishing works. It does. I’m doing much better for myself these days although I’ll be honest, it’s a small time business, locally focused.

My goal then for this year? To find an agent. To have a chance at getting my books known nationally and internationally – it’s doable since I have a small steady following of readers here in the US and in Europe. I just need to build on that. And I will.

Living The Dream: 7

As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Click on the image for a link to the whole novel if you can’t wait.  

DECEMBER: THE BIG CITY

“Old town? Downtown? Uptown? Which one did you want?” The young woman looked up Central Avenue, tugged a long woolen scarf tighter, and hugged herself against the biting wind. “I think you’d probably be happier just up the road, Nob Hill. It’s kinda artsy, lots of small businesses, cafes, restaurants, a movie theatre, that kind of thing, and more your style I’m thinking. Yep, Nob Hill is where I’d go if I were you. There’s this amazing clothes store, kind of a consignment place. Bonanza sells funky stuff from all different decades. It’s really cool, you know?” She nodded to herself and then smiled. “I think I might go there myself today in fact. Yes, yes, I think I will. Well, nice chatting to you and I hope you enjoy your visit. Bye then, bye.” She huddled in the doorway of the café and pulled out her smart phone, ignoring me suddenly.

I pushed past her gently and found myself in line at a counter before I’d had a chance to look around.

“Next.”
“Me? Oh me, right?”

The menu above the counter went on and on. What with the music, the chatter and laughter all around, and a crowd of dinnertime customers pushing against me, I stared uncomprehending.

“Mmm, do you mac and cheese?”

“With or without chile?”
“Without, and a mug of decaf too please?”

I stood aside and waited as she rang me up. Fifties décor filled the huge cavernous café. Bright color photos and movie stills lined the walls, weird odd keepsakes from Route 66, and even two ancient gas pumps stood under the neon signs for the bathrooms. I took my number and found a seat in the far corner next to a window. The place was packed, loud, and anonymous. It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for but oh well. My head was silent for once, words and memories drowned out by the wall of noise around me. Tired and hungry, I waited quietly.

 

“Okay, Nelson, what do you think? A walk around the neighborhood before we find a motel for the night?”
Nelson sat up with a huge wide yawn and jumped out to sit next to me. His light cappuccino fur looked ragged. I felt bad for him. Later, later tonight, I’d brush my boy. I should probably look for some better dog quality food too, we’d been buying cheap crap found in gas stations and tiny rural stores, and it was time to take more care of my boy. I’d been neglecting him.

I hooked on his lead and we took off down Central. A Friday evening in December is a busy time in Albuquerque apparently. Couples, families, students, all walked in and out of the various stores, selling books, new and used clothes, music, and even food. Food. A real live co-op. We stopped and looked in a window to see shelves of organic veggies lined up, bottles of juice and sodas, a deli in the back, and yes, it looked to have a pet food section. Perfect.

“We’ll come back in a bit, Nelson, okay? Grab you a bone at the same time if they have them.”
Cyclists raced past us, yelling at each other over the screech of buses, semis, and trucks all commuting home in the wintery dark. The wind dropped and streetlights kicked on. Christmas was just around the corner and the holiday spirit filled the stores with farolitas, strings of colored lights, everything on sale, and all the paraphernalia for the shopping frenzy to come.

“I wonder where we’ll be, eh?” I looked down at my curious pup as he sniffed and marked every tree we came across. “Do you want to go home?”
Nelson froze. He stared up at me and wagged his tail, low and slow.
“Not now, I didn’t mean right now. I’m sorry Nelson, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But soon, we’ll go back. I don’t know that we’ll stay but we’ll go back. It’ll just be weird without Mark and Frida though. I don’t know if I can stick it out…” I wandered along, talking out loud to my four-legged friend.
“Excuse me?” A hand stopped me in my tracks. “Can you help?”

A middle-aged man with dark brown hair in a ponytail and wearing a ragged but well loved leather jacket stood back a step awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was looking for Kelly’s? Do you know it? Am I even close?”

Nelson wagged and approached the man. I relaxed and looked around in confusion, unsure as to how far we’d walked. Opposite us, a sign proclaimed, “Art walk Fridays. New works and local bluegrass band here at Kelly’s Brewpub 6 p.m. Free.”

I pointed silently, not trusting my voice after days alone.

The guy laughed in delight. “Isn’t that just the way? Same at the store, whenever I ask for something, it’s right in front of me. Now I feel like a right idiot.” A wide smile lit up his brown eyes and I couldn’t help but smile. We chatted for a moment as he waited for a break in the traffic. Suddenly he turned to me.

“Hey, do you want to come? I’m meeting my wife at six, so I’m probably late, but anyway, come on. Oh there she is. Angie. Angie.”

A tall slender figure hidden in a long ankle length leather coat waved to us. She grinned widely and pointed to the propane heaters on the patio, motioning for us to join her.

“Oh hell, why not? It’s not like we had plans, right Nelson?”

He wagged and peed on one more tree and we all ran across the six-lane street, laughing at the crazy wind that suddenly battered us and died out again before we reached the sidewalk.

 

“Angie, I just met this young lady, but I don’t know her name yet. I’m Jonnie.”
“Jen, and this is Nelson. Hi.” I held out my hand to his wife, suddenly shy, unsure of myself. Nelson nudged me out the way and sat at her feet, tail thumping silently. Angie knelt down to pet him, letting him sniff her hands before touching his coat.

“What a beautiful boy you are. How handsome.”

Nelson smiled. He knew those words, he heard them often enough. He looked over at me, checking in, and smiled his wide toothy grin when he caught my eyes watching. Thump. Thump. My boy’s been lonely, I guess.
I followed Jonnie and Angie to her table under the heater. Nelson sat between Angie and me with Jonnie opposite, facing the street. The tables all around were packed full despite the bad weather. Music blasted out from the speakers by the door to the restaurant.

“Is it always this busy?” I looked at the beer menu. Sixty beers on tap confused me for a second but I found one familiar to me and ordered that. My new friends chose a couple IPAs brewed on site. Jonnie shook his head and shrugged.

“We live south of here, in T or C. Well, Angie? Why did you pick this place to meet me?”
She leaned back and undid her scarf. Her hair was surprisingly short, a buzz cut of silver and black. “It’s on the old Route 66, like in all those movies we love. And it’s nearly always this busy on a Friday evening. I thought you’d enjoy the vibe, remind you of those college days of ours, Jonnie.”

The beers arrived and she took a sip, toasting us both. The waitress returned with a small bowl of water and a treat for Nelson.

“So tell us about yourself, are you a student here or something?”

 

As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Click on the image for a link to the whole novel if you can’t wait.  

Solo Travels: Tips for women

Tips on how to travel solo, especially as a single woman. How to. Q&A.

http://www.fempotential.com/scared-solo-female-traveler/

“Aren’t you scared?”

Just yesterday a friend asked me if I ever got scared camping on my own, travelling on my own. No. I don’t. There’s more to it than that, but simply put, no, camping on my own is where I am happiest and most relaxed. In towns, in cities, surrounded by people, traffic, noise, music, talking for the sake of filling in the silence, no, that is not where I relax.

Last year, I had the honor of being a panelist on a discussion about the art of solo travels. Overland Expo West 2016 had almost 10,000 people all interested in vehicle dependent travels, whether local or worldwide; we all were there to get inspired.

To hear the stories from others who just have the wanderlust in their blood like I do was reassuring for me. I’ve been settled for too long now, and I’m restless again. I have been for the last few years, working towards getting on the road again.

That weekend at Overland Expo, I talked about crossing the States at 22 years old, hitch hiking with a small backpack and no credit cards or money, just following my distracted ideas of what to do next. I talked about riding my 1976 Yamaha XS750 across the Midwest repeatedly even though it would break down every other day, street performing in Guatemala, and driving the high elevation passes in Colorado in a 1973 VW Beetle. I never knew what to expect — these stories are part of me. I lost my two front teeth in Tarancon, Spain. I woke up on a train in Switzerland, not quite sure which country I was in. Hitched to the Munich beer festival. And yes, I travel alone. And I like it.

I admit, I once traveled with someone. It was 1989. Steve joined me in Chicago, a friend from my small hometown. I was walking down the streets in the city, knowing we’d find each other somehow but since neither of us had phones or hotel rooms, it would be a challenge. I walked with my backpack clunking away against my hips when I saw Steve sitting on a bench smoking. I sat down next to him and took his smoke.

We crossed to Maine, New York, Washington; we took trains, hitched, and then stayed at random homes of the families we met along the way. It wore me out. Steve let me make all the decisions. It wore me out. The responsibility. The constant discussions as to what we would eat that night, where we would sleep.

There have been other moments, a week here and there, spent on a road trip with a friend, but nothing as extended as that initial travel with Steve, bless him. Since then, I tend to go off on my own, I’m happier that way.

You see, it’s that on my own, I’m free to follow my nose, or rather the signs that capture my attention. It’s usually the ones that say ‘lake’ or ‘4wd only”, and off I go. I generally have a loose plan, places I’d like to visit if I’m in the area. I set a few goals, for small weeklong trips and for the extended travels. These days with the Internet, I plan a lot more, looking at photos, reading forums, and asking for suggestions. Whether I follow the ideas, that’s another story. I tend to forget to read my own notes.

 

Since I’ve done a bit of everything, backpacking, hitching, motorcycles, busses, trains, VWs, trucks and now a van I’ve learned that I have to be aware of what I bring. Packing has become more complicated nowadays, as two dogs and a cat come with me. I’ve made a short list for this latest configuration, and with the idea in mind that I might have to abandon ship (van) in an emergency, all the necessary items must fit in a small backpack too. I can leave the rest. I have before, in a dead VW bus in the middle of nowhere Missouri. I never did see that red camper again. I miss that van. Oh, well. But it was an adventure…

I love that I can eat what I like and when I like. Frito pie for breakfast? Bacon sandwich before bed? Chocolate? Cheese and crackers? Veggies and eggs? Whatever I like, when I like. It’s wonderful and one of the biggest perks for me.

As a solo traveler, I interact much more with locals. Since they appreciate how trusting I am, it’s always come back to me that these strangers treat me with the same level of trust.

As a twenty-two-year-old, I was hitching through Wisconsin, heading north to catch a ferry across to Michigan. My destination was a tiny village along the small blue highways in the Midwest. A truck pulled over, and two men started chatting to me. Two men and myself as a young woman? I talked to them, the father and son, and they offered a ride, but first they wanted to call ‘Mother’ and ask about dinner. I listened in as one of them chatted away, grinned, and said it was okay with her but I had to agree to come over to meet her! We ended up sharing a meal, they put me in the son’s bedroom, and dropped me off at the ferry in the morning, after introducing me to the Ferry Master. Safe? Yes, I remember them so clearly all these years later.

You see, I’m curious. The people I meet and their stories feed me. I also found that when I first crossed the States alone that many families I met wanted my stories of other states, places, towns, ones they had never visited themselves. My anecdotes of their own country paved the way for their hospitality. It was a trade in a sense. The armchair travelers got to explore their own country through me.

But I have to admit, I’m not very safe. I go places I shouldn’t. No one really knows where I am these days. I follow roads, conversations, and dreams. I have no back-up plans. I take risks. I fly by the seat of my pants and all without a safety net. I like it. Traveling like this wakes me up. Opens me up. To answer the question I started with, have I ever been scared? A couple of times. That’s all. First was when I had to get myself back from the South of France as an eighteen-year-old who’d been fired from her nanny job. I had a passport and a plastic bag of clothes. No money. No credit cards. And this was before cell phones, not that I would have called my parents, I preferred to get back and then tell them. I didn’t like to worry them! Poor buggers. I stowed away on a train, stole food, had a guard try to rape me, smashed him in his privates, and locked myself in a bathroom on the train. That was the first big solo trip and the sense of achievement at the end was incomparable: “I can improvise. I can get out of trouble. I should keep traveling!”

And I have. Looking back, even in the last ten years of ‘settling’, I took a ferry back from Alaska and a salmon cannery down the Canadian coast, camped all over the Southwest, spent three months in the Northwest, took a winter living on communes in North Carolina and Tennessee, rode my motorcycle across Wales and Ireland, studied in San Francisco, and had many other random shorter trips in the States. Not bad, not bad…

In my twenties, I just traveled without thought, it was an addiction, a need. I couldn’t sit still for more than a few months. I settled for a while but that addiction has kicked back in. I built a home, worked, settled and now the last few years, the need to explore new places has taken over.

If you haven’t traveled alone before though, you’d need to ask yourself: Where are you happiest? How do you spend your days? Are you mostly surrounded by friends and co-workers? Or do you work alone? Live alone? What are your social needs in other words? Think about what stresses you out and what makes you relax. For me, time without words, yes, I know, ironic since I’m a writer, but still, empty heads talking at each other wears me out. I like silence. I like mountains. And I like the company of animals more than people. But that’s me…and then after a couple of days alone, I love to sit and chat to friends and strangers alike. I have the energy and desire to hear their stories. To tell mine. To connect. Knowing yourself is one of the amazing benefits of solo travels, you have to take care of yourself and you will. There’s no one else.  Each time, I learn new rhythms and routines that are mine, pure and simple.

Close friends still ask, how do you find meaning when you have no one to share the experiences with? But I do. I write. I photograph. And simply sitting next to a lake in the mountains alone with my dogs, I know that our world is magical, stunningly beautiful whether I am there or not. I am a very small speck in a huge world and that is reassuring to me. I relax.

There is an art to solo traveling and the more I travel alone, the more I appreciate nature and the random conversations with people I meet. I am not afraid. I am open to life and adventures…and after doing this since I was a teenager much to my mum’s horror, I’m getting the hang of it. Finally. The question for me is where next? And when?

To hear more about Sarah Leamy’s solo travels, check out her book, Bring a Chainsaw & Other Stories From My Solo Travels

Solo traveler Sarah Leamy shares why she loves to solo travel and why it doesn't scare her to see the world alone.

 

Calendars: A photo essay

Walking around Madrid, NM on the weekend, I spotted a new gallery. Popping in, I had an epiphany. Photography! It’s a passion of mine, another that I’ve been dabbling and studying all my adult life, even getting on an 18 month professional training in London as a 23 year old. It was too easy; I took it for granted and since then photography took a back burner to my wanderings and writings. But why?

Carlan Tapp has published numerous articles, had various photo shows, and published books of his motorcycle travels with his Harley. The gallery was on Hwy 14 and was brightly lit by sunshine and good humor. We chatted for ages, all about our travels and the cameras we’ve loved. Right now he uses a Fuji dSLR and strongly recommended I look into them. I will. It’s time to upgrade. His photos are a true travel essay, a way to describe a vanishing Americana. Backbone of America is available online as a photographic journey, an interactive book with maps, routes, motels and all that he recommends from personal experience. He rode his Harley from Highway 50 from Missouri to California, all on small local roads, talking to the folks he met, staying in mom’n’pop places, and recording all with his camera: Black and white strong iconic images of America.

How could I not take myself as seriously? What have I done since leaving England in my twenties? What do I still do? Travel, write, and photograph. On motorcycles, on a route very much like Carlan’s, I took Hwy 56 from Santa Fe, NM to northern Michigan, on my own with an unreliable 1976 Yamaha XS750, stopping in some heavy monsoons at a truck stop and being adopted by a group of truckers. When it was time to leave, they drove their semis on all sides of me, keeping the other night drivers in that storm from running me off the interstate. When my exit came up, they all slowed down, flashed lights and wished me well on my solo travels.

But why haven’t I told you about this? Why no photo essay either?
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This summer, three  months in a van with Harold, Rosie and the cat called Stephen, my focus was consistently on photographs, wishing the camera was a dSLR for more control. Coming back to NM, I’ve since written up the trip report and published a travelogue. The photos lingered on my computer, tempting me to do something with them.

Talking to Carlan was a revelation, his positive attitude, like-minded presence, stories and willingness to chat with me about our road trips and photos has inspired me to take the photo essay seriously again. A documentary about squatting in London was the entry in that full time course at Pimlico. So why not start again? Refresh my skills?

With that in mind, I just signed up for a photo class at the local college. I’ve set up an account with Lulu.com for publishing calendars.

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There are now two calendars available. The first is focused on Land Rovers, the old classic Series III. The second calendar offers up the night skies of New Mexico. Please check them out. This is a new beginning. A photo essay book is in the making.

What is fascism and why is it a threat in the US now?

Fascism began in Europe in the 1930s with Mussolini in Italy. Not so long ago, right? After World War II, Italy and Germany were in a terrible state financially, emotionally, there were torn by economic hardships and the constant migration that is part of life in Europe and always has been. Such levels of unemployment and cities destroyed by bombing, there was little to stop the anger building. Mussolini and Hitler both used that bitterness to create an ideology based on the concept of ‘us’ as good, and ‘them’ as evil. All of society’s ills were blamed on ‘them’, the immigrants, and in that case the Jews.

In the United States, during this election campaign in 2016, those same angers, frustrations, unemployment and struggles were blamed upon all immigrants. Trump called specifically upon Muslims, Mexicans, and all immigrants to blame for the economic struggles faced by many.

So what is fascism? And why am I worried about living in this country? When I look back to the history of Europe in the last hundred years, I’m sick to my stomach. Looking at Hitler and now Trump, the similarities are terrifying.

Hitler used racism to rise to power. Trump used racism to rally his supporters and yes, rise to power as the next president.

Hitler proposed and acted on mass deportations. Trump has proposed mass deportations.

Hitler was anti-jew and Trump is anti-muslim. He even claimed at a rally in Ft Lauderdale in August that “ISIS is honoring President Obama. He is the founder of ISIS. He is the founder of ISIS. He’s the founder. He founded ISIS.  And I would say the co-founder would be crooked Hillary Clinton. Co-founder. Crooked Hillary Clinton.”

Hitler blamed jews for all the economic problems. Trump blames immigrants for the problems. His son, Eric, in an interview on Fox, claimed that the wage stagnation is due to Syrian refugees. The concept of building a wall between the US and Mexico has been proposed often by Trump even though undocumented immigration via that border has fallen considerably in the last few years.

Hitler made Jews wear armbands for easy identification. Trump has proposed the same for Muslims, saying  that they need “a special form of identification that noted their religion”. 

The control of the media, of the law courts, of the police, the use of extermination camps for any of those “others” that Hitler blamed, the Gypsies, the Jews, Blacks, Homosexuals, and intellectuals, this all comes under consequences. The consequence of voting into power a man who preached hatred and fear. The German public didn’t see it coming, din’t guess at the level of horror, intimidation, or the extent of the changes that such a personality in power could do.

Who am I to say that Trump will create such atrocities? Look at the similarities in the rise to power. Look at the records of his campaign rhetoric and actions to see the man behind the comb-over.

During the last few months, Trump has called Mexicans rapists amongst other things. “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you. They’re not sending you. They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.” June 2015.

Really? Or how about his claim that President Obama was born in Kenya, or at least claimed he was to get aid for scholarships. Or questioning his religion? And why did he even bring it up? Racism. Stirring up the racists in his rallies, that’s how I see it. Don’t you? Such vague statements were used to get them riled up about a potential Muslim as President!  “He doesn’t have a birth certificate, or if he does, there’s something on that certificate that is very bad for him. Now, somebody told me — and I have no idea if this is bad for him or not, but perhaps it would be — that where it says ‘religion,’ it might have ‘Muslim.’ And if you’re a Muslim, you don’t change your religion, by the way.”– March 30, 2011

Trump proposed banning a whole religion, yes, you guessed it, all Muslims were to be deported and none allowed in despite citizenship or residency status.
 What else? Mocking a disabled reporter who questioned Trump’s stories of witnessing thousands celebrating the fall of the Towers in New York. Trump has even bragged about sexually assaulting a female TV presenter, watching teenage girls dressing for a beauty pageant, not paying his taxes, and then said that Hillary Clinton should be jailed. The control of the courts will be in his hand soon enough and if anything like Hitler, he’ll do what he wants when threatened.
 Are you not worried? I am. I’m terrified by the similarities between Trump and Hitler’s rise to power. I’m disgusted that this behavior is ignored by the masses who voted for him, condoned even. A racist, misogynistic, bullying tax evader, a six-times bankrupt businessman, and an alleged sexual predator and rapist (in court this month for such charges), this man is to be the next US President? Let’s only hope that once inaugurated, Trump becomes a true statesman.
As if it were possible. We’re screwed.