Growing up in Hawaii, I only had two words that I associated with trailers and RVs:
white and trash.
This was due to the fact that it took a maximum of two hours to drive from one side of the island to the other. There was no need for recreational vehicles. If people had a trailer (and if they did, it was likely a rusted out 1970s RV with peeling hood paint and mold in the gutters), it was likely a person’s permanent residence– hidden amongst the Naupaka trees at a beach park on the west side of the island.
With excellent Pacific Northwest fall weather in the forecast (clear skies! High of 66!), the doggy and I left the house early this morning with the intention of hiking to Mailbox Peak. We got off the interstate and turned onto the access road only to be turned around by a road construction crew.
The first time I got divorced, I spent the better part of a year sobbing on my therapist’s green couch. I was acutely aware of the fragile strands of thread separating beneath my khaki pants.
The complex and excruciating decision to end my nearly four-year marriage intensely haunted me. “It would have been easier to stay,” I would sniff as I wiped my eyes with Kleenex. As I mindlessly picked at the fraying couch.
I’ve been wanting to visit Washington’s Olympic Peninsula for a while now.
Late May brought excellent weather.
On a Friday morning, the skies were pollution-free. It was still too early and too cool for the flies.
When the weather got warmer, we would spend our Thursday afternoons rushing out of work, flying down the Ring Road (as much as we could, given Cairo’s insane gridlock), breathing in thick clouds of diesel exhaust and burning trash, listening to endless honking and yelling before finally arriving at Maadi’s corniche.
In the middle of May, I tagged along with Q for a weekend in Beirut– who was going for a work trip. We had been to Lebanon before, but I was definitely looking forward for a chance to get away from the flies, heat and general filth of Cairo.