Epicness

A bit of home greeted me on the outskirts of Calgary—a DeKalb corn sign. I hadn't seen that logo in years, in fact, I had no idea that DeKalb corn was still in production (I just checked—Monsanto bought it, but it's still called DeKalb corn). So there I was, in the middle of Canada, being reminded of home; stuff I hadn't thought about in forever: the smell of a greenhouse, the thrill of my dad fumigating and me running away from the fumes. (Why did he take me to fumigate when I was a kid? Kind of dangerous stuff, isn't it?) Also, Corn Fest, the smell of sweat and food on the street, and of course, summers working in the cornfields as a teenager, being in the presence of older guys with their shirts off. Ah, good old DeKalb! I gave a salute to the sign and continued on my way.

Entering urban sprawl, the ease of the open road ended for two reasons: traffic and ice, and these put together were dangerous to the max. This was not a good time to discover that Buck's windshield wipers were useless. Ice accumulated on my windshield, and the wipers just skimmed over the surface. Even blasting the defrost did nothing. I had to position myself in awkward ways in order to peer out of a patch of clear glass. This was happening as trucks barreled past me. I had to pull over continuously to scrape away the ice. This is not how I wanted to approach the Canadian Rockies. I was nervous enough about driving in the mountains, and this certainly wasn't helping. Try as I might, though, I couldn't yet see the mountains. The weather was crap, and it was enough to try and see the road. Thankfully I made it past that rough patch outside of Calgary, and traffic somewhat lessened on the highway to Edmonton. Of course, I wouldn't be going all the way to Edmonton—I'd be stopping in Red Deer.

Canadian Family

I was fortunate enough to have secured lodgings with Chris's aunt and uncle who lived in Red Deer. His Uncle Steve and his Aunt Jane—an absolutely lovely couple. I was able to navigate my way to their house, which was like a haven after my stressful day of driving. They lived out of town, almost in the countryside. Their house was located on a patch of land on the edge of a large river. Even though I had yet to see mountains, the scenery was gorgeous with pine trees and deep snow. Yes, I had officially entered the Great White North. It was Halloween, but winter had already set in for this part of the world.

We sat around the fireplace, sipping wine and talking. Steve and Jane had retained their soft British brogue (Jane's was English, while Steve's was Welsh). What an amazing couple in their retirement years. They were world-travelers and adventurers, and we had so much to talk about. How lucky to have relatives in Canada—our closest family. It turned out that Steve and Jane's daughter, Sarah, lived in Whitehorse with her husband and son. Whitehorse was the closest city to Haines by road, just across the Canadian border. How cool is that, to have family in the Yukon, just a car ride away? (Even if that car ride is five hours away!)

I stayed with Steve and Jane for two nights. Having the basement to myself, it was a perfect respite. On my drive-free day, Steve took me for a hike along the river. The weather was foggy, much to my dismay. I wanted to see those mountains! Still, there was a lot of beauty to be found in the area around Red Deer. Pine-blanketed hills, gorges and ravines and fast-flowing rivers. At one point on our hike, Steve pointed out a bald eagle soaring above us. This was exciting for me, as I had never seen an eagle before. Soon after, he pointed out another one, this time a golden eagle, which I’d never heard of before. Golden eagles are even larger than bald eagles, their wingspan reaching a breathtaking 7.5 feet. Pretty impressive. I was getting a taste of what I might see in Haines.

That night, I accompanied Steve and Jane to the community center where they swam several times a week. I offered to take their dog for a walk. It was dark and biting cold, but I loved getting this doggy time in. And their dog was so great, an older chocolate lab who heeled very nicely as we walked though the neighborhood. There was a point on our walk where we came to an overlook of downtown Red Deer. It was all so beautiful, everything glistening in that frozen landscape. I thought of all the naysayers back home, asking why I wanted to move to Alaska when I hated the cold. Do I really hate the cold? Not really. I've always loved winter, with sledding parties and ice skating at the Lagoon on campus, long snow-filled walks of solitude and running with Kaya (my old dog) in a fresh field of snow. Winter makes me feel alive like no other time of year. What I don't like about winter is getting around in it, when the snow turns to ugly slush. I also didn't like living in a place with little insulation and a flawed heating system (my old house), shivering my way through three months of the year. But winter—I don't think I could live without snow. We didn't have much of it in the UK, though snowstorms did occur in the winters I lived there, where everything shut down because Brits can't cope with anything besides rain. Here in the North, the snow was clean and pure, the kind of stuff I had been longing for in the humidity of Southeast Asia. Deep in my heart, I know I am a Northern girl. I was meant to live in Alaska.

After taking their dog for a walk, I watched Steve and Jane swim, impressed with how active they were keeping. They definitely are are an inspiration. The last I heard, they were traveling by bus from Santiago, Chile up through the Americas. How cool is that? It goes to show that you're never too old for an adventure. I really loved the time I spent with them, with their generous spirit and their knowledge and expansive worldview. I was definitely hoping we could meet up again, perhaps in Whitehorse, as they'd be visiting their daughter from time to time.

So it was goodbye to Red Deer and to the main highway. I was nearly the only car on the road as I headed towards Rocky Mountain House, and beyond that—Banff and Jasper National Parks.

The Grand Scale of Things

It was foggy when I left Red Deer. I feared this would be the way of things, and I'd only be traveling in a little bubble through the mountains. But as I cruised along a nearly-empty road, I pushed upward and broke through the clouds, and there was the sun shining down on a whole kingdom of mountains. Mountains! I had made it, not to Alaska, but I had made it out West. This was actually happening!

The reality of what I was doing hit me—this move, this drive, all of it. How incredibly lucky I was to be here, to be driving into these majestic mountains. I burst out crying.

Now, I've had what I would consider "spiritual experiences" in my life. Two, in fact. To clarify, when I say "spiritual" I'm not suggesting that these were genuine moments of the divine. I have since attributed these moments to massive releases of feel-good chemicals in the brain (not produced by drugs, but rather, by nature). The first of these experiences happened when I was living in Northern Illinois, and was brought on by a moment of clarity when playing with my dog. My dog's heartbeat, the sun shining through the window, the tree outside—the universe inside the synapses of my brain expanded as quickly as the universe after the Big Bang. I saw it all, from the infinitesimally small scale to the grand scale—the whole universe. And I saw how it was all connected, and how I was part of it. I saw the universe; moreover, I saw that I was the universe. And an inner voice told me "There is no need to worry. Everything will be alright." And I wasn't even facing anything in my life where I needed that reassurance. It was an overwhelming feeling of love, much what I imagine Christians experience when they are "born-again." This was a powerful experience, one that has gotten me some pretty tough times, this knowledge that I am part of something large and beautiful. This feeling came again while walking in the Pennines, just outside of Mossley. I followed a trail up a hill, not knowing where it was heading. When I came to the top of the hill, a view spread out in front of me that nearly knocked me on my ass. The sun was shining down on folds of hills as far as the eye could see. It was a moment of standing there all alone, just me and nature, and I was aware of being alive and being a part of it all. This all sounds, crazy, I know, and I can't fully explain why these moments in my life have occurred. In my atheist years, no less. I longed for moments like these when I was religious, and had nothing on this scale. It's the power of nature. What an amazing thing to be a part of.

So perhaps I was having one of those moments as I drove into the mountains. It was just me, with no one else around, a speck in the grand scale of things. It's a good thing that no one else was on that road, as I was blubbering like an idiot. "It's so beautiful," I kept repeating. And it was. I kept thinking how frickin lucky I was to be alive and to be experiencing this. I must have cried for a good hour, as it came in waves, as I rounded mountain after mountain, and new views kept appearing to me.

I officially crossed into Banff National Park, but the kiosk was closed and I didn't even have to pay a fee to enter the park. I had the Icefields Parkway all to myself. This was a section of road which had worried me in planning this drive. First of all, the sound of it—Icefields. I envisioned ice-covered roads. I also envisioned switchbacks and hair-raising drops. But no such things occurred on this well-maintained road. It was basically a straight paved ribbon of road with steep mountains on both sides. I did climb one side of mountain, only to encounter a few mountains goats. Then I came to a platform where I viewed the Columbia Icefield (hard to make out with all the fresh snow). Somewhere along the line I crossed from Banff into Jasper National Park. My destination was the hostel in Jasper, my accommodation for the night.

In those hours of driving, I encountered two other cars. How bizarre that I had this road to myself. It was almost unreal, like driving in a dream. I stopped in a few places to view the sights: turquoise lakes, frozen waterfalls, canyons. The lakes in Jasper and Banff National Parks are known for the gorgeous hue of their water—a brilliant turquoise, which stands out all the more in contrast to pure white snow. The air was so sharp and so clean, my senses were alive. Was this a taste of Alaska? If so, I was definitely heading to the right place.

The sun started to sink in the mid-afternoon sky. I got back in the car and continued to drive down that lonely road. Night was coming and I had to find that hostel.

Jasper Hostel

In my very limited experience with hostels, I have to say that Jasper Hostel is one of the greatest in the world. It's located several miles outside of town, and is more like a lodge with its giant fireplace and cozy lobby. There were very few guests, as was to be expected in a nearly empty park. It was just me and a middle-aged woman named Trish in the massive womens' dorm. Trish was a bit of a weirdo; a local who had fallen on hard times and lost her home. When she talked (which was a lot), her speech was slow and slurred, as if she were on drugs. I never could find out her story, because I had to navigate through so much bullshit in order to pick out anything truthful. Poor Trish. And poor me, as I attempted to understand her as we sat before the fire.

Not much went on that first night at the hostel. Just me and Trish, and the threat of bears. Yes, we were in bear country, as we were reminded by all the posted signs. One sign in particular was worrisome, the one which said that there was a resident bear who had been spotted recently. This was hard to believe with all the snow. Wouldn't the bears be in hibernation? But it was just the beginning of November, the time of year where many bears were preparing for hibernation. I didn't want to meet any of those bears.

Since Trish was a local, I asked if she wanted to show me around the next day. I had a full day to explore Jasper, and I thought it would be nice to have someone with me. Yes, I knew Trish was weird, but it would be nice to have a guide. I didn't know what I was setting myself up for, as I went to bed that night, but I knew the next day would be interesting. And indeed it was.

Trish frickin talked every second we were together, as we toured the area. Some of her information was useful (receding glaciers and such), but most of it was nonsense. At first, I tried to pay attention to her, but after awhile I gave up, realizing that she was a compulsive talker. We went to a few places, saw a few gorgeous lakes, and the entire time I was trying to get away from her. People like Trish are my worst nightmare, especially in confined quarters, literally making me want to claw out my hair. What was worse, is that Trish thought herself a brilliant person who had been the victim of other people's actions. It was hard to say if any of this was true, but to commiserate with a person who is obviously on drugs is really hard, and her needing attention took up most of my energy that day. By the time we got back to the hostel, I was through with her. I wanted to read my book in front of the fire, but Trish planted herself beside me on the couch. Now, this is quite rude, is it not? When someone has their nose in a book, why would you talk to them? My visual cues couldn't be more obvious, in the way of clearing my throat and leaning into my book. Oh, but she had so many stories to tell. These stories were rambling with no point whatsoever, and never really ended as much as trailed off into another story. "Oh look," I said, "A puzzle." My book reading was never going to happen, so I figured I'd start putting a puzzle together. The puzzle had license plates on it, so Trish said she wanted to tell me a really good story about license plates. I was at my wit's end with her, so I said I'd listen to her story only if it was really short. She started talking about a losing a shoe in the forest, and her dad was this really important man—ten minutes into this story and there wasn't even the suggestion of a license plate. I finally told Trish—and this was the first and only time I have ever done this in my life—that I couldn't listen to her story. "Sorry," I interrupted her, "I just can't listen to this any longer." She looked mortally wounded, but thankfully stopped talking. I felt bad, but at the same time, was proud of myself for speaking up. How many times have I wanted to do that in the past, but have always sucked it up, not wanting to be impolite? Well, Trish was the only person I have ever told to stop talking. But it's rude right, these people who steal your precious time? I feel strongly about this. I'm not here to satisfy your talking needs. Still, I felt sort of bad as she slumped into her seat.

Thankfully, others entered the scene. Located next to the lobby was this fantastically big communal kitchen. Hostelers fixed their dinners and added energy to the room. There was a young English guy named Simon who befriended me, sharing his food and flask of whiskey (alcohol was prohibited in the hostel, so we snuck sips). He helped me with the puzzle, and soon, everyone was in on it. It was a group project, putting together this 1000-piece license plate puzzle. There was a lovely young French couple, and an Australian guy. I've never had so much fun putting a puzzle together! There was a great spirit of comradery at the hostel. Trish had decided to be no part of it, and slunk away to the dorm room, which made me feel only slightly guilty.

The next morning, Trish said very little to me as I got ready for my departure. I guess she had figured us to be great friends. She had even said that she'd come visit me in Haines. In a way, I was afraid she'd stalk me. I was happy to get away from her weirdness, but hard to leave the best group of hostelers I had spent time with. Someday I'd like to go back to Jasper Hostel, with its large fireplace and picture windows looking out over the mountains. I might even spend a night there, if Trish isn't around.

The Highway of Tears

Heading out of Jasper, I made a few more stops in the park. Frozen waterfalls were the thing to see, among pools of turquoise water. By this time, I had grown used to the mountains I was wasn't crying my eyes out like that first day. I was worrying about the next section of my drive, the infamous Highway of Tears.

Steve had told me about this road between Prince George and Prince Rupert. Over the decades, a serial killer had stalked that highway, killing female travelers. Twenty-one girls have been killed or have gone missing along the Highway of Tears. Most of these girls had been hitchhikers, which goes to show you that hitchhiking is not a good idea in the remote north (or anywhere, for that matter). These murders have gone unsolved. Although they did have a suspect, Bobby Jack Fowler, some of the disappearances happened after his incarceration. So was a killer still on the loose? According to the locals—yes! There's a billboard in the town of Smithers which reads "Girls, Don't Hitchhike on the Highway of Tears: Killer on the Loose!" This was daunting, even though I was in a secure car. Still, it served for the backdrop of my drive, and I hoped that Buck would see me safely through to Prince Rupert.

The remoteness of Highway 16 is startling, and sometimes, downright scary. I noticed this when I stopped in a town between Jasper and Prince George. My tank was low on gas and I was looking to fill up, but the only gas station in this town had no power. Cars were lined up; some of them had been waiting for hours. They had no idea when power would be restored. I figured I had enough gas in my tank to get to Prince George (and luckily I was right), but other drivers weren't so lucky. There were no other options for gas between this place and Prince George. This drove home the fact that towns were few and far between in this part of the world. I coaxed Buck into being an even better car, promising that tune-up at the end of the road. Of course, the end of the literal road was in Prince Rupert. I'd be taking the ferry from there to Haines, a three-day journey. However, it was Prince Rupert I was psychologically seeking. If I could make it there, I was good.

I booked a room at a hostel in Prince George. The town was a shit hole if I had ever seen one. There was nothing redeeming to this industrial center; it felt a bit New Jersey, only New Jersey in the 1970s. Nothing seemed from this millennium. As I walked around town, I felt I had been sucked into a time warp. Serial killers were on my mind as I roamed the streets. The people seemed a bit off, but they'd have to be to live in a place this remote.

I encountered my first Tim Norton's, just a few blocks from the hostel. This is a Canadian chain restaurant which specializes in donuts. I ordered a bowl of chili and had a donut thrown in for free. I thought that a weird combination, but somehow it worked.

There wasn't much going on at the hostel, so I went to bed early, and rose early the next day, seeking to reach Prince Rupert by evening. I had the ferry to catch at 5:00AM the next day. There was no way I could miss it, as ferries sailed only once a week, and this was it.

It was an incredibly long day of driving. The mountains were behind me, all I could see were trees. There were a few cars on the road. Every time a vehicle pulled up behind mine, and no one else was around, my heart would start racing. Was this a serial killer? I'd slow the car down and let them pass. There's something very creepy about having a pickup truck on your bumper in the middle of nowhere. I just wanted to get done driving the Highway of Tears.

Weather-wise, I had lucked out on this venture across America and Canada (other than that ice storm outside of Calgary). The sun was shining and the roads were clear. I hit one snag along the way, not weather-related, and it was due to an accident. It must have been a huge accident, as both lanes were blocked. I tried to gather information while I walked along the line of cars. The word was that it could be hours before the road was cleared. This sent me into a mini-panic. I had to get to Prince Rupert. I couldn't miss that ferry! Some of the drivers were talking about taking an alternate route. Of course, most of these drivers were in huge-ass trucks. How would little Buck do on a back road? Well, I decided to go for it. I couldn't be waiting around for hours. I followed the convoy of trucks onto a dirt road. It was pretty rough, but we made it, landing back on Highway 16. I was a little shaky by this point and just wanted to get to the end of the road.

The last stretch of the highway was gorgeous, as it ran alongside a river, however it was windy as hell. With the sun going down, oncoming headlights attacked me around curves. This was my first real test driving at night with my bad eye. I was feeling the full impact of my corneal scar. When light hits that eye (which being my left eye, is particularly bad with oncoming headlights), the light disperses, as if giving a mini fireworks show. This is horribly bad, as I lose sight of the road while this light show is going on. The last leg of my epic drive was fraught with high anxiety as the curves in the road never seemed to end. Finally, I pulled into Prince Rupert with a huge sense of relief.

My dinner was at Tim Horton's, then I continued on to the ferry terminal. I had planned to spend the night in the parking lot, but it was freezing cold and no one was around. It seemed a very dismal place. So I broke down and got a hotel room for the night. I'd be checking out at 2:00, but at least I had a nice warm bed for a few hours.

I was told to show up three hours before departure. Seems silly now, but I believed them, so I dragged my ass out of bed at 2 in the morning to line up for the ferry. There was only one car in front of me in the line. We waited there for an hour, with nothing going on. Finally we were summoned to a kiosk where we were to fill out customs information. After all, we would be entering America, and this was a huge process. The only thing of interest which happened here was getting my oranges confiscated. No fresh produce allowed in America from Canada. Isn't that insane? Anyway, one of my oranges rolled under the seat, and I only found it when I got to Haines, so I had unwittingly smuggled in produce.

It was another hour of waiting while they lined us up. I don't know why, but I was put into the lane that went last. They were even waiting for last minute vehicles while I sat there. Ridiculous, waking up that early just to wait. But finally I boarded the ferry, and the epic drive portion of my trip was over. I could relax now as the ferry took me to my new home.

Fjord Crawling

Hardly anyone was on the ferry. The older couple which had been before me in the car line were on board; we'd nod to each other in passing. I had booked a cabin, but it was stark and so quiet that I preferred being in the observation room at the front of the ship. It was a great place to read, as the hum and vibration of the engine had a relaxing effect. Large windows lined the sides of the observation room, perfect for watching the scenery inch forward as we crawled along.

Ketchikan was our first stop. It was raining so hard that I didn't even consider venturing out. The town was colorful, even in the rain, with layers of painted houses on the hills. We stayed about an hour, and then pressed onward.

It was rainy for that entire first day. But the scenery was still wonderful. Spruce- and fir-covered hills. There was nothing dramatic, but it was gentle and lulling, and my book reading soon led to napping.

That evening after dinner (there was a cafeteria there that served pretty decent food), I spoiled myself with a drink from the bar. The older couple was in there and we got to talking. They were from the interior. They'd be disembarking in Haines and driving up to Anchorage. They told me about the temps they'd be encountering in the interior—minus 40 below. They said when it was that cold, you didn't even turn off your car in fear of the gas lines freezing. Wow, I was getting stories from real Alaskans. They seemed hardcore, which led me to believe that maybe they had been Palin fans. I had some pretty weird concepts about Alaskans back then, which I laugh about now. I was worried about the kind of people I'd find in Alaska. But I was pleasantly surprised when the bartender announced that Obama had won the election. Yes, this was election day. It was hard to imagine, in the middle of Alaskan waters, but the rest of the country was embroiled in politics. When the bartender casually announced that Obama had won, I looked over at my bar mates. They were silently pumping their fists, and I felt a huge sense of relief. We said very little about it, but the older gentleman made the comment that "some people in this country just can't accept a black president," and one of the guys sitting at the bar goes "Yup, and I'm one of them." Still, it was quite civilized in that ferry bar. It kind of showed me that Alaska is a world apart. Anywhere else in America, this election would have been a big deal, but not out here. There wasn't even a TV on to show the election coverage. The ferry chugged along, and politics seemed a million miles away.

We stopped at many ports of call. Many of these came in the middle of the night, and I couldn't be roused from my bed. The only port of call which really caught my attention was Sitka, as it was the former capital under the Russians. As the ferry dock was miles from town, a few of us organized a taxi to take us. We organized a time to meet to get back to the ferry. This left about an hour in town, which was enough to walk around and see the highlights of a ghost town. It being the non-tourist season, not much was open, but fortunately the Russian gift shop was open for business. Because I'm a sucker for matryoshka dolls, I bought a few for my collection. Yeah, I might have splurged a bit, but I haven't seen such a fantastic selection of dolls since I visited St. Petersburg, Russia. The owner was Russian and she got the dolls directly from a place back in the Mother Country. I was in Russian heaven. I've always had a thing for Russia. And here I was, moving to Russia! Or at least a place that had at one time been Russia. The influences were felt in Sitka, especially in the Russian church which dominated the downtown area. I visited a museum which was free (got to love this off-season stuff) and then went to go meet the group to get back to the ferry.

The ferry ride in general was very relaxing. I got a lot of reading done. There were so few people on board that we could space out and watch the slowly-emerging scenery. One thing that caught my attention is just how long dusk lasted this far up north. The sky would turn purple after the sun set, and would remain that way for close to an hour. The further north we crawled, the steeper the mountains and the more prevalent the snow.

We pulled into Juneau at 3:00 in the morning. I heard an announcement, noise erupted in the hallway as passengers disembarked. By the time I woke up, we had pulled away. I had missed Juneau, but it didn't matter, because I woke up to a completely different setting. First of all, the ferry was now crammed with people. No more quiet reading in the observation room. It didn't matter, for I had lost interest in my book. The weather, and the scenery, had completely changed. We were heading into an alien world, full of unreachably high peaks against a bright blue sky. We sailed through a narrow sliver of water between high mountain ranges. This was Lynn Canal, I was to find out, one of the longest fjords in North America. My excitement could hardly be contained. At the end of Lynn Canal was Haines. It was hard to believe my new home was somewhere among those tall peaks. There was no mistaking it—this was the North. And we were sailing directly into it.

I can't convey the beauty of that first ferry trip up the Lynn Canal. It belongs to a magnitude reserved for such things as gold rushes. Imagine, this is what those goldseekers experienced on their way to the Yukon. I wonder what they thought when they saw those mountains and realized they had to make it over them. Wow, what an epic time in history. Everything's epic about Alaska, more so than I had imagined.

They announced that we'd be docking in Haines in half an hour. I caught glimpses of the town as we sailed past. There was a section of white houses on a hill—other than that, I couldn't see much. The town was located on a strip of land with soaring mountain peaks in the background. On every side were mountains. Mountains—those very things which had made me burst out crying just several days before. It was pretty obvious that I'd be in ecstasy in Haines.

As we neared the dock, a ripple of anxiety rose in me. Okay, this was it, the real end of the road. It had taken me ten days, thousands of road miles and a ferry trip, but I was here, I had made it. And now my real life was beginning.

Driving up the ferry ramp and approaching the highway to town, I spotted the sign which read: "Welcome to Alaska." It was official—I had made it to Alaska.

Alaska-Bound

This flight into Chicago was entirely different from the one seven months prior, when I was sentimental about touching down on American soil. No time for sentimentality this time around—I hit the ground running. I had a ton of stuff to do in preparation for Alaska. First and foremost, I had to buy a car. There would be no epic drive if I didn't have a good set of wheels.

While in Britain, I searched the internet for used cars in the Chicago area. After doing some research, checking the advice from seasoned Alaskans, I learned that Subarus were the way to go in the Great White North. With a stroke of luck, I found the exact car I was looking for at a dealership in DeKalb, about a mile from my parents' house. It was the right model, the right color, and most importantly, the right price. It looked great online, but how would it measure up in person? If everything checked out, my car search would be very short.

Within hours of landing at O'Hare, my dad and I pulled into the parking lot of Brad Manning Ford, under the shadow of Interstate 88. And there it was—the perfect Alaskan car. An all-wheel 2005 Subaru Forester. It was love at first sight. I'm one of those car buyers who goes on intuition; when it's right, it's right. Two minutes behind the wheel and I knew the car was mine. The man who sold us the car was a lovely gentleman who gave me a great deal, seen as how I was paying cash. I found out the next day that he retired; mine had been his last sale. Either I had been a nightmare customer, prompting him into early-retirement, or he felt he had done his last good sale, and he wanted to end on a happy note. Honestly, I feel it was more the latter, as the whole process had gone smoothly and there had been some rapport between us. It just felt like it was meant to be. I drove my new car home with an enormous weight off my shoulders. After informing Chris about my purchase, he said I should name the car Buck, after the dog in The Call of the Wild. It seemed a fitting name for this Alaskan-bound car. The name stuck.

Though my driving experiences over the past 3 1/2 years had been minimal, I figured driving was like riding a bike. I had a 2,600-mile journey ahead; this driving thing had better come naturally to me! But two moments shook me up prior to my epic drive. The first one happened in the parking lot of a grocery store, where Buck decided to take a snooze while cruising for a parking spot. He just sputtered and died. I hadn't had him more than 48 hours, and he was already dying on me. This was somewhat of a concern. Would this be happening in the middle of North Dakota, or on a busy freeway through Minneapolis? This was not good. Still, I tried to suck it up as a one-time occurrence, part of Buck's growing pains under a new owner. The second moment happened in that same parking lot, this time when I was pulling out. Though I had never properly driven in the UK, I had been a keen observer as a backseat driver. I was used to pulling out of intersections into left-hand lands. This is exactly what I did while pulling out of this said grocery store. There was a divider between lanes, and I found myself in the wrong lane with cars coming directly at me. I made a quick turn into another lot to avert disaster, but the experience still shook me up. Was I really prepared to make this epic drive?

Well, ready or not, I was leaving. I had secured my job in Haines, thanks to a phone interview with Mountain Market. I would be starting work there on November 12th, fifteen days after pulling out of my parents' driveway in Northern Illinois. Was I nervous? Hell yes I was! But I was bursting with the excitement of starting out on this adventure. This was bigger than the adventure of traveling six months through Europe and Asia; bigger than selling everything and moving to Britain; even bigger than meeting a stranger off the plane in NYC. Yes, in a lifetime of adventures, this was the biggest one yet.

A Royal Tea Party

I had a few days before my departure. Though these days were busily spent with preparations, buying stuff for the journey and sorting through the boxes I had stored at my parents over the years, I wanted to do something nice for my nieces. Who knew when I'd see them again.

There was some contention. Not overly, but enough to be felt. This was felt from my mom who couldn't understand why I was going to Alaska. Why so far away? First, I had moved to Britain. That was bad enough. But that was only a six-hour flight away. Even though my mom has some kind of fascination with Europe, she never came to see me when I lived there (though she and my dad had toured much of the continent that past year, even making a stop in Ireland). It was hard to understand why she wanted me to live closer. Didn't she want to visit these cool places? Didn't she want an insider's tour, something that couldn't be found off a cruise ship dock? There wasn't much support from other members of my family. Why Alaska? It's so cold there!

Why could no one see just how awesome Alaska was? There was only one friend of mine who understood it—my old manager, Ray. Good old Ray. What a history we had together. Though he was a good fifteen years older than me, I used to have a sort of crush on him. He had reminded me of Midwestern version of Morrissey with his tall stature and chiseled-chin good looks. I went to visit him at the old workplace, and he must have sensed my wounded soul. "I totally get why you're going," he told me. And I knew he got it. He was only person from my past who was giving me a genuine thumbs-up on this adventure.

Anyway, back to my nieces. Yes, I had no idea when I'd see them again. I talked of reunions in places like Yellowstone National Park. Isn't that what our family did so well? Grand reunions? Well, the Lane side of the family, who had been dispersed across New England and the Midwest. Under my grandparents' guidance, ever since I was a wee thing, our family came together every few years for a bonding experience. Some of my greatest memories are of these reunions: the Catskill Mountains, the Florida Keys, a Caribbean cruise. I thought this was a legacy that my parents would carry on. But no matter how I tried, I couldn't get my mom to be excited about the prospect of a reunion. The reality of this didn't hit until a few months later, but at the time it was very discouraging.

So I wanted to do something for my nieces. Something memorable. At the time, I was nurturing the thought of opening a tea room. While in the UK, I’d conducted some research on British tea rooms, going out for afternoon tea at some posh locations. Hell, I had even worked at a place that did afternoon tea; I knew the appeal of tea and finger foods. My original plan had been for Boulder, Colorado, in the university area. Chris had supported this vision of a tea room. He wanted to name it Lady Lane's. I wanted a literary theme with a Victorian feel. I'd call it Great Expectations and have classical books lining the walls. My employees would be dressed up like characters: Pip, Estella, and I would be Miss Havisham, in a ramshackle wedding dress. I would be the baker. Chris would handle the finances. He'd play the part of Mr. Pimplebottom (or something like that, I can't remember), an eccentric (and entirely made-up) character. Though it was fun to play around with these ideas, there was a seriousness there. I had worked in catering so long—why not do something with it? It only seemed right to want to open my own place. How Alaska fit into these plans, or how these plans fit into Alaska—we'd just have to see.

In an effort to test out my afternoon tea skills, I determined to put on a tea party. Mom had this great British baking book with all the classic recipes. I'd be making everything from scratch—scones, shortbread, a Bakewell tart, and of course, finger sandwiches. My nieces weren't tea drinkers. I decided to try out the jasmine buds I had bought in Vietnam (for presentation purposes, if anything else). I made the party as formal as possible, and played Mother (it's a British thing). We wore our Sunday best, with hats and pearls and all (faux pearls, more like), and acted like ladies. "Tea is to be taken very seriously," I told them, taking on the seriousness I had encountered with the old, rich ladies at House of Fraser, where I had worked in Manchester. Mom had all the right equipment for such a party, with the platters and china, even a perfect tea pot so we could watch the jasmine buds in action as they expanded in the hot water. To my delight, the girls liked the tea, and everything else too, from what I could gather. I don't know if the party was as special for them as it was for me. It was a perfect moment with my nieces, my mom and my sister.

I haven't seen my family since I left in October 2012. Though we're not really emotional people by nature, there was that moment saying goodbye that sparked tears, particularly with my mom. There's always that feeling when we say goodbye that it might be the last time we see each other. We kept up communication for awhile; I gave updates about life in Alaska, and I got the news from back home. This went on for a few months, but somewhere a corner was turned. It may have come from my side, as I continually perceived a a lack of interest in my life. I suppose Facebook didn't help with this, as I constantly had to read about my mother's ambitions to travel. She was obsessed with Italy. Italy-this, Italy-that. She was planning for more trips to Europe, and among those plans there wasn't one damn mention of coming to see me. Even though I tried to rouse enthusiasm in a reunion, there was no enthusiasm from the other side. I felt I was a one-man show in trying to muster family bonding. Because of this frustration, I decided to unfriend my mom from Facebook. I didn't need that constant reminder that she wasn't interested in my new life. Does that make me a horrible person, unfriending my mom like that? The jury's out on that one, and by that, I mean my own personal jury. But there are other reasons I did this, and it was a long journey to that point. Forever I've held onto the hope of gaining my parents' acceptance, of being understood by them. Others noticed this long before I did. Why are you always looking for their approval, Sarah? You're never going to get it. I came to the point where I realized it was no longer important to me, what they thought of me. Because I left their religion, I'll always be a little less to them; not entirely dead, but flawed, no matter what I do with my life. I have to go ahead and live my life, without that baggage strapped to my back. Unfriending my mom was just the first step toward liberation. Soon after, I wrote a letter to their church, making an official break with the religion. This action may have prompted a complete cutting off of communication with my family, as they have their rules to follow. Though my parents will respond to emails (credit especially goes to my dad on that one), there is complete silence from my sister. After hearing through the family grapevine that she might have MS, I sent her an email to share my sympathy. In that email, I also extended an invitation for the nieces to visit. Nothing. I have no news of my nieces or what's going on in anyone's lives. So I guess that's that.

In the words of Forrest Gump: "And that's all I have to say about that."

A Rough Start

I was packed and ready. Buck was filled to the hilt with boxes, all that was needed to start my new life in Alaska. I left on a crisp fall morning. My driving goal was ambitious for the first day, somewhere near 600 miles, from DeKalb to Fargo, North Dakota. I'd be on the road for 10 hours. At first, it was the familiar highway past the Wisconsin border. There was a sense of unease to my journey, maybe because of Buck dying on me in that parking lot. I felt as if something out of blue was going to strike me, and all the dead deer lying along the road weren't helping. I made a deal with Buck: "If you get me to Alaska, I'll spoil you with a tune-up."

Not much happened in that first day of driving. I played my CDs, I sang, I drove, I ate granola bars, I dodged roadkill. I encountered a massive traffic jam outside of Minneapolis, which put me behind schedule. I drove like a maniac, just wanting to get to Fargo. I had booked a night at a Super 8 in West Fargo, and I wanted nothing more than to collapse on a bed. I have never driven such a long distance in my entire life. My eyes had somewhat of a deranged look as I crossed into North Dakota, road-weary and unnerved by the miles. I pulled out my print-out from Google Maps with directions to the hotel. Unfortunately, Google Maps led me to an empty cement lot. I circled that block in Fargo for ages, rubbing my forehead, trying to figure it out. "It doesn't make sense!" I shouted and cried, banging the steering wheel, as if this would help anything. Finally, I found the number to the hotel and called them. "Oh, you're on the west side of Fargo," they told me. "You need to go to West Fargo." Turns out West Fargo is an entirely different place, a few miles down the highway from the actual city of Fargo. I couldn't believe I had wasted an hour—a whole hour I could have spent soaking in a hot bath or relaxing in a comfy bed.

Back on the highway, I sped towards the signs of West Fargo. I was in farm country, with silos everywhere. A full moon was rising over the horizon, giving me a moment of the spectacular before I cruised into the Super 8 parking lot. As I was pulling into a parking spot, Buck died on me. He sputtered and just died. What a perfect end to my day. At least he decided to die on me at the end of the day. Poor Buck. I had pushed him hard on that first day out.

I was still stiff and tired as I set out the next morning. Perhaps that's why I drove the wrong way down a divided highway. Yep, I did it again, pulled into the left lane. I drove through a red light at an intersection to correct myself. What an awesome way to start my day! That woke me up good and proper.

I headed into the grasslands of North Dakota. On Interstate 94, it was business as usual, with semis and billboards and whatnot. At some point I turned off, heading north towards the Canadian border. This is when I felt I had left home behind and had entered a whole new world. The sun hitting haystacks turned the land gold. Though the landscape was monotonous, it was thrilling for me all the same. I was the only one on the road. Hours went by where I didn't see another single car. I cranked my music up and sang at the top of my lungs. This truly was the open road I’d been craving. I don't know how I managed it, but I made a wrong turn (how this is possible in a place where there are few turns altogether, I'll never know), putting me out of line with the border. So I aimed for another entry port into Canada. Did it matter? I wasn't too sure. But one thing I was worried about was my gas situation. I had filled up in Fargo, but hadn't seen another filling station in hours. There has to be something, I thought. People out in the middle of nowhere need gas too. I scoured the map, looking for towns, but as I passed through these towns, there were no gas stations. They'll be something near the border, I thought. There has to be. Nothing. Absolutely nothing but a flat line of road which gently rose and fell between fields of golden grass.

I came to the border. It was my first time driving across a national border. Needless to say, I was a little nervous. I stopped at the building on the American side. Other than a few guards, nobody was about. "You need to go through Canadian customs," I was told by one of the guards. "This is the American side." I got back in the car, and circled the lot. I came to another door, which I pulled on. I encountered the same guard. "You're still on the American side," he told me. I felt like such an idiot. Squinting around, I couldn't see the Canadian side. The guard pointed to a shack, just a few meters away. "That's it?" I asked, not believing it to be true. How can you have this massive building for the American side, and a simple shack for the Canadian side? I guess there's a lot to be said there.

Canadian customs took no longer than two minutes, and there I bloody was, in Canada. At the outset, Saskatchewan didn't look much different from North Dakota. The desolation, and the gas situation, were about the same. Luckily I came across a gas station just as Buck expressed his abject need for fuel. Once I filled up, the road was open to me once more, and I drove it with pleasure, almost whooping at the freedom it gave me. Canada was a new country for me. Sure, my family had driven through a portion of Ontario when I was just a kid, on a scenic route to Niagara Falls. But I don't remember much from that trip, other than a diner, so I hadn't really counted it. This—this was Canada. Miles were now kilometers. The maple leaf was found on highway signs. Other than that, the difference was hard to make out.

My stop for the second night was in Medicine Hat, just across the border into Alberta. I hadn't reserved a hotel room, so I was surprised at the price of accommodation for the night. The first hotel I checked was $150. That seemed outrageous to me, so I popped across the road where I found the other one to be the same price. "They're all the same," the lady at reception told me. So Canada was expensive, I was finding out.

As I was just off the highway, I was concerned about the safety of Buck. Not that I had anything terribly valuable in the car, but I had a lot of personal stuff, like photo albums and journals. I didn't want anything happening to them. I didn't sleep easily that night, as I would get up and look out the window, making sure Buck was still there under the parking lot light. I was still in Northern England mode, where you can't so much as leave a bag on a seat without the threat of getting a window smashed in. In the morning, Buck greeted me in his reliable way. I was forming a bond with him. He hadn't died on me that day. And he wouldn't again for the duration of the journey. "Alright, pal, let's go," I told him. I had broken both myself and him in. Two days under our belts, and eight more to go before setting foot in the Last Frontier.

 

Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part III

I wasn't expecting this to be a three-parter, but I guess I have a lot to say about Britain. After all, it was my home for three years. It might seem like a brief span of time, but it was crammed full of so many experiences, both good and bad, that it seems like a lifetime. I was grateful for the few days Chris and I had together to revisit the south of England, as it brought back so many of those good memories for us.

Chris' Backyard

The coast of Cornwall is a special place for me. Back in 2008, Chris and I had explored different places along the western coast. Though the seaside villages were quaint and cozy, it was the old stuff which appealed to me the most. When you come from the American Midwest, where the oldest building in your town is 150 years old, the age of ruins in Europe can boggle the mind. To my utter delight, on that trip in 2008, I found out that Cornwall is steeped in Arthurian legend. I've never been particularly big on the whole King Arthur legend, but the mystery surrounding it has always intrigued me. Though it's widely known that such a person didn't exist, there are elements of truth to the legend. No doubt there were real people and events which inspired the story of Arthur, Lancelot, and Guinevere. As so much information was lost in the Dark Ages (the early Medieval Period when few written records were kept), we will never really know the true story of Camelot. Still, visiting places like Tintagel Castle on a high cliff above the sea, it's easy to envision it as the residence of a powerful king and his sorcerer. Tintagel is hands down one of my favorite places in Britain. It ticks all the boxes for me with its rambling mix of Roman and medieval ruins and cliffside/island location. Tintagel also comes with a cave, named Merlin's Cave, underneath the castle. There's a narrow cave corridor you can walk through to get to the pounding sea. There is also a nearby church on the cliff with a graveyard which sports weathered Celtic stone crosses. There was something about that humble stone church that spoke to me back then, and I went in to kneel before the candle-lit altar. I had been the only one in the church at the time; Chris had stayed outside. I could hear the pounding of the surf against the cliffs, as well as the howling wind. I didn't utter a prayer in that church, rather I soaked in the feel of the place. There is no doubt that Tintagel resonated with something inside of me, and its one of the most inspiring places I've been to. There's a story inside of me I still need to write about what may have happened in this dramatic setting.

So why I am bringing this up, seen as how Tintagel wasn't on our itinerary this time around? I suppose it's to evoke an air of mystery and wonder when describing Cornwall. It really is a magical place. Though my husband grew up in Cornwall, he fails to appreciate the history of his home county. Chris is more of modern history enthusiast—anything after the French Revolution. Kings, castles, standing stones—bah! Ancient history. I suppose when you grow up surrounded by ancient ruins, you might have a blasé attitude about the age of things.

After spending the night in Newquay, we headed back through the interior of Cornwall. Inevitably, we ended up in Liskeard, Chris' hometown. We stopped at Moorison's to buy some lunch, then we drove through Chris' old neighborhood. He paused the car outside of his mother's house. She may have been in there. We played around with the idea of paying her a visit. After all, I have never met the woman. The less said about that situation the better, as I respect Chris' privacy concerning his family. However, I think it's safe to say that if I didn't meet my mother-in-law then, I will never meet her.

We kept driving and ended up at a park at the end of the street. We sat on the swings and ate our lunch. After that, Chris drove us to the Minions, a wonderfully named village on the outskirts of Liskeard. I wasn't sure what there was there to see, as we started walking across what seemed like a barren moor. There was the chimney from an old tin mine in the distance, serving as a reminder of Cornwall's industrial past. However, as we continued on, we came to a standing stone ring. The Hurlers, Chris told me. Stone circles can be found all over Britain, though none quite as impressive as Stonehenge. Stonehenge is the only one you have to pay to see, and is protected behind a fence (thanks to the hippies who kept trespassing on private land). It's quite fascinating to come across these rings in the middle of a field with no fence and nobody around. You can touch the stones and lean against them and do whatever you want, though I think it's safe to say you can't dig them up.

According to Wikipedia, the Hurlers are actually three separate stone rings. There isn't a ton of information on them, other than they seem to be aligned with the sun. I circled them several times, touching them (I've read books on ley lines across Britain, and though I can't fully subscribe to the idea, it still doesn't hurt to think these stones have special powers), before we continued on towards a pile of rocks. The pile of rocks turned out to be quite a massive assemblage of rocks called The Cheesewring. I suppose this geologic wonder is named this because some of the rock stacks look like cheese presses (though I've never seen a cheese press so I couldn't tell you how accurate this is). Now that I'm studying geology, I can tell you how cool these formations are. Essentially they're slabs of granite that have been weathered, resting on top of each other like a stack of plates. I wish I had had some knowledge of geology back then to really appreciate them. To have a rock formation in the middle of a field is quite remarkable. There must have been some heavy-duty weathering going on to smooth the granite into layered slabs. Sedimentary rock, yes I can see. But granite? I can only imagine that this part of Britain had been underwater at one time. Maybe I'll go back there someday and study them closer.

As it turns out, there is a lot of granite to be found in Bodmin Moor, the area outside of Minions. We followed a path that led us to a series of rock quarries. One of the quarries had been filled with water. Chris said that he used to swim there when he was a kid. In fact, this whole area had been his playground as a kid. This was unbelievable to me that this was the first time I had heard about stone rings and piles of rocks in his backyard. What did I say about blasé?

Now the only thing I have left to see in Cornwall is Brown Willy. That'll be on our next trip through.

We made the long trip back to Salisbury, driving by Stonehenge but not stopping (we have seen it up close and personal twice, plus you can see if from the motorway). We opted for a night of reliable comfort at the Premier Inn. We have stayed in countless Premier Inns on roadtrips across Britain, and they have never failed to provide a comfy bed with the best duvets and pillows around. Also, Chris and I are suckers for the Harvester, the chain restaurant which comes attached to just about ever Premier Inn. A family-style carvery, it's not the most elegant of places, but when you're on the road, it's just what the doctor ordered. This was to be our last night together in travel-mode for a very long time.

One Last Goodbye

We rose early in the morning, before the sun, to return the car to Heathrow. From the airport, we entered the world of mass transport, the thing that has always turned me off about London. The Tube—I hate it. It's convenient enough (especially after living in Manchester where the trains run every hour, which means if you miss one, you have a long wait until the next one), but it's the maze of the underground and the heaving mass of humanity which makes me uncomfortable and out of my element. I found it daunting the first time I was in London; I found that if you pause for just a second, you risk getting mowed over. Chris loves it. London is the whore he constantly longs for. He's an absolute natural in the city, blending into crowds with ease, whereas I'm claustrophobic and anxious about flowing with the human traffic. I will never get used to it. Needless to say, I was relieved when we ascended from the rat hole of the Tube and passed through wide green openness of St. James Park to Buckingham Palace. We had some time to kill before catching our bus to Manchester, and the Queen's residence is close to Victoria Station. We joined the crowd of tourists at the gates and watched a guard do his pointless paces. It was the first time I had seen this exercise. It looked utterly ridiculous to me. Funny how tourists see this and somehow think this encapsulates British culture.

Chris was happy to revisit Victoria Station as it brought back so many happy memories for him (not so for me), and we found our bus to Manchester. We could have taken the train; it would have been quicker. But we were looking to save money, so it was one last bus journey for us. We had done this bus trip before, against our will, when we had flown back from Greece and had been redirected due to Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland erupting. Instead of Manchester, we had landed in Gatwick and been put on a bus to Manchester. It had been a long ride then. After all our bus journeys through Asia, this one should have been a piece of cake. But, for some reason, the last leg of a journey is always the longest.

It was bittersweet when the Pennines came into view. We were back in the North, the cold, hard, gritty North. Yes, I suppose that the North is harsh when compared to the green, gently rolling hills of the South. I suppose I always picture it sunny in the South, though this is just a dream scenario in my head. When I think of the North, I think of rain, red brick, and abandoned mills. Of course, the North is so much more than that. Manchester is a cultural hub, particularly with its music scene. Who doesn't know about Madchester—Manchester's cultural heyday? Well, I suppose I didn't know much about it while living in Northern Illinois, but boy did I learn about it after living in Greater Manchester. Manchester taught me so much about music; I came to appreciate music I hadn't listened to before: The Stone Roses, The Verve, Happy Mondays, Joy Division, New Order, James, The Smiths... well, I suppose I knew some Smiths' songs before leaping across the pond, but I never knew they were from Manchester, nor did I care. But now when I hear these bands, I hear Manchester. I hear the grit, the industrial grind and the red brick. And I love it. I fucking love it. If nothing else, Manchester opened the door to different types of music for me, and offered a new catalog of bands which I had been secretly craving (and no, I'm not including Oasis in there—pretentious wankers).

As the bus followed the spine of the Pennines, I felt a draw to the landscape and also sense of dread. My time in the North had been tainted from the start with psychological trauma (and a serious physical injury). I remember returning to Manchester in 2009 after spending a month in the States. As we drove through the wet, dark streets of Ashton-Under-Lyne, a severe depression descended, and an immense feeling of dread. This had to do with where we were staying at the time, in Dukinfield, which was Ground Zero for my trauma. I felt a prisoner to northern England and to all the bad memories. Thankfully things got much better after moving to Mossley, my real home-sweet-home in Britain, that quaint storybook village on the edge of the Pennines. Just getting away from red brick made a huge difference to my sanity.

It would be interesting to see what kind of effect the North would have on me after all this time. I have a different perspective on things, and Alaska has pretty much restored any sanity I might have lost. I also have my faith in humanity restored. For a long time, I felt as if the North had chipped away at me, much like the weathered granite in Bodmin Moor. I was hardened and roughed up. Perhaps I still have an edge of hardness, as it's something I will always carry with me as a souvenir. But being toughed up is a good thing as well; I don't go prancing through life like I once did, thinking that the world was all rainbows and butterflies. Of course, living in Alaska, some of those butterflies and rainbows have returned, so I have a bit of both sides now, which is a balanced way to be.

I can't say how Chris and I spent our final moments together. We stayed a few nights with his sister, Danielle, in Ashton-Under-Lyne. Her little rugrats kept us entertained and exhausted at the same time. Chris had an interview in Manchester and I went for one last visit to Mossley, climbing that impossibly steep hill in order to visit people and places I had come to love.

It was one more goodbye at the airport, as Chris came to see me off. In a history of airport goodbyes, this one was significant, as we didn't know when we would next see each other. I felt confident that we would play our roles successfully, and Chris would receive his Green Card in due time. There was a long journey still ahead of me, and for Chris, who would be navigating the maze of American bureaucracy. But there was a long journey behind us as well. Not just our world travels, but the time we had spent together in Britain. The pubs we had sat in, the drinks we had shared while engaging in hours-long conversations, the nights out in Manchester with friends, the music festivals, the spontaneous vacations in Europe, the road trips, the countless miles traveled together...

We had come so far. And still had so far to go.

 

Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part II

We woke in our cozy room in Bournemouth. A light rain fell outside, which may have been a contributing factor to our laziness as we watched TV and sipped tea. British hotels all have electric kettles in the room, along with a basket of assorted teas, and sometimes even biscuits. This was part of the vision I had entertained in Asia, crossing a room to prepare a cup of tea. It's amazing how significant those little things can be.

In Search of My Ancestry

Now that I was leaving Britain, it was time to make a very personal trip. I've always known that I have strong English roots. Ironically, more English blood flows through my veins than Chris' (he's a mix of Russian Jew and Scottish). Due to the Lane side of my family keeping accurate and detailed records, we have a family tree which goes back to the 1630s, when my English ancestors landed in New England and helped establish the town of Hingham outside of Boston (my mother's side kept a family tree as well, though it doesn't go back quite as far). My oldest ancestor is named William Lane who, according to the family tree, hailed from Dorchester, England. So, it was time to pay Dorchester a visit to see if I could dig up more information about this William character.

A rainbow greeted us upon arriving in Dorchester. This seemed an auspicious sign; I felt a trove of treasure would be found at the end of that rainbow. Indeed, Dorchester is geared for genealogy searches, mostly due to the Dorchester Company and the Great Migration. Just to give a brief history lesson—when Puritans came under persecution in England, certain preachers rounded up their members with the view to set up colonies in the New World. Companies were formed, such as the Plymouth Company and the Dorchester Company, which were supported by landed gentry (landowners and prestigious members of the community). There's a good chance that William Lane was on one of the first boats over to America, under the guidance of John Winthrop. Though there's a good chance this ancestor of mine was a Puritan twat (Greg Proops comically pointed out in one of his acts that England was more than happy to kick these fundamentalist weirdos out), there was also a good chance that he was of high rank in society. After all, I've been raised with the Lane urban myth that we are all somehow related to Ann Boleyn. Somewhere there is a royal link. I was hoping to find that link in Dorchester.

Chris was more than happy to help me on this search. We started off at a museum, but a helpful lady there pointed us in the direction of the History Centre, just down the road. We hit the jackpot as far as records were concerned. There was an archive library where we thumbed through books and poured over microfilm. There were a lot of false starts, as Lane was a rather popular name, and many Lanes had filtered through Dorchester on their way to the New World. I did find a blurb in a book with the mention of a William Lane from Dorchester, who, with his family, departed from Weymouth on the Hopewell in 1635, to land in Massachusetts Bay.

I still searched for that royal connection. By some thorough digging, I found that there was a Maud Lane, the daughter of Sir William Parr, a relation to Catherine Parr (Henry the XIII's sixth and final wife). I was not able to link Maud Lane to my ancestor, William Lane, but at least I found a royal connection. It wasn't Ann Boleyn; it was Catherine Parr, who fared much better than poor Ann. Ann had more notoriety, yes, but I'll settle for Catherine. But the link isn't concrete. There were a lot of Lanes kicking around in southern England in those days. Perhaps the most famous Lane was Sir Ralph Lane, husband of Maud Lane (Parr). He was one of the first English explorers in America, looking to colonize Raonoke Island in North Carolina (he didn't succeed). Knighted by Queen Elizabeth, he held a position in Parliament for Higham Ferrers. What's Higham Ferrers, you may ask? Why it was a small town in Northhamptonshire. Maybe it's a stretch, but it certainly sounds familiar to the town William Lane helped found in 1635. Higham, Hingham—see the similarity? Ok, it is a stretch, I admit that. One may have nothing to do with the other. But there's nothing to suggest that Ralph Lane isn't my ancestor. My grandmother Lane used to speak about an ancestor of ours who founded a colony in America. I'd like to believe it, even if I can't necessarily prove it. I'll keep looking, as more information is available on the internet, and I find this genealogy stuff so damn fascinating.

The British Seaside

We left Dorchester with a sense of accomplishment. Dorchester and the surrounding countryside is gorgeous, especially when the sun is shining. Between the white poofy clouds overhead, and the poofy clumps of sheep across stretched green hills, England was looking very storybook again.

Chris had a hankering for fish n' chips. The best fish n' chips in the world, so he said. As he's always going on about British fish n' chips being the best on the planet (they'd better be, considering Britain doesn't have much else going for it culinary-wise), I was looking forward to our lunch stop in Beer.

Beer—isn't that a great name for a town? Though we didn't consume any beer, we ordered two servings of fish n' chips from a shack and sat on the beach in the sun. British beaches aren't the best, since they mostly consist of pebbles or cobbles. We didn't go running barefoot into the water; in fact, the wind was quite brisk and we had to bundle up as we sat there. But it was still a perfect moment. The fish n' chips were good, though a bit on the greasy side. I've always found the British style (served in one huge battered fillet) is heavy. When the breading flakes off, it comes off in one grease-laden piece. Also they give you the tiniest of forks, like a fairy's pitchfork, to eat with. It makes stabbing the chips (fat fries) easy, but is rather impractical for fillet of fish. Still, with a bit of malt vinegar and a squeeze a lemon, maybe some tarter sauce (and a side of mushy peas if you're lucky), British fish n' chips are indeed the best, especially when consumed on a beach in the sunshine.

Our stop for the night was in Plymouth. We had booked a room at a hostel, though we requested a private room. Located in a line of row houses by the Hoe (yes, the Hoe), we were set for a night out. The Hoe is a seaside promenade, elevated on a cliffside above the sea. This stretch of the city offers fantastic views across the water, and also a bit of culture with monuments and statues. The most famous person hailing from Plymouth is Sir Francis Drake, the English navigator and sea captain commissioned by Queen Elizabeth to circumvent the globe. As this was a day for ancestors, Chris proudly stood by the statue of Drake, claiming his bloodline. Turns out his family has their own version of the Ann Boleyn urban legend.

It wasn't a crazy night out in Plymouth (though if you stay out late enough anywhere in Britain, a crazy night is almost always guaranteed). We revisited a pub we had sat in on that legendary first road trip through southern England. It's a nautical-themed pub right on the Barbican, the harbor area. The streets in the Barbican are brick, narrow and sloping, and lined with quaint buildings which date back to Mayflower days. This particular pub looked old enough to entertain Pilgrims, or more likely, pirates. Old, leatherbound books adorned the nook where we sat, the exact same spot we had sat back in 2008. We had fallen in love back then with our flirting and conversation. This time, perhaps there was less flirtation, but the conversation was flowing, despite having spent the last six months together. It felt good to be back in Britain, for both of us.

The next day we continued along the coast, heading to Cornwall. Cornwall is like the Maine of England: farmers and fisherman, and the wild, wild sea. And sheep. Lots of sheep. Cornwall can be considered its own country, as its distinctly different from the rest of England. Though it's technically a peninsula, with the Tamar River dividing most of Cornwall and neighboring Devon, it can feel more like an island with its isolation. Culturally, Cornwall has more in common with Wales than it does with London. This is because with the Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Norman invasions, the Celts got pushed to the fringes of the island. Like clans in Scotland, they have their own tartan (yellow with black). They also have their own language (though not really in use), and more importantly, the Cornish are the creators of the Cornish pasty.

We were dying for a pasty by the time we got to Marizion. This was a new place for both of us. Even though Chris grew up in Liskeard, a mere 9 miles from the coast, he had never been to the tip of his home county. The attraction in Marizion is St. Michael's Mount, the counterpart to the more famous Mont Saint-Michel across the English Channel in France. Though smaller, it's located on a tidal island with a causeway. Having been to Mont Saint-Michel (one of the wonders of the world, in my opinion), we were delighted to find the similarities. We ate our pasties on the beach (the weather was on our side once again) and jumped across the channels of water. We didn't bother to walk to the actual Mount (which is a castle and a chapel, unlike the walled city of Mont Saint-Michel); it was impressive enough from a distance.

Our next stop was Land's End, on the tippy tip of Britain. This is great place to watch surf pounding cliffs and stare out across the giant blue stretch of water, envisioning the Statue of Liberty thousands of miles away (though I think we were looking more towards Spain). Land's End is popular for hikers looking to walk England end-to-end, the other "end" being in John O'Groats, Scotland. Chris and I have both entertained the idea of doing this walk. It's approximately 1,200 miles in length and takes about 3 months to complete. The tiny museum at Land's End features the profiles from some of these hikers. There was the guy who ran it in 9 days, 2 hours and 2 minutes, the world record. My favorite was the guy who hiked it naked (quite a feat considering British weather). Looking at the photos and the smiles on their faces, you think that it's a walk in the park. Britain is flat, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. Britain has hills, which are really ancient mountain chains. Chris and I attempted part of the Pennine Way back in the summer of 2009, and we found out just how tough these "hills" can be (that was the trail we had to abort when I sprained my ankle). You never know, maybe someday we will tackle that end-to-end walk, but only when Britain undergoes a drought. (Hiking in rain day-in and day-out, to me, is a form of torture.)

The sun was on our side. It's to be noted that Cornwall boasts the best weather in all of Britain. If Chris and I decide to retire in the UK, we're retiring in Cornwall (there are even palm trees!) St. Ives, our next stop, was drenched in sunshine. Neither of us had been to St. Ives before. Perhaps we had avoided it in the past because of the crowds. It seemed that the whole population of Cornwall had gathered at this seaside artist enclave. But then again, Brits sure do appreciate the sun when it's out. They go bonkers for it. As Chris and I enjoyed another meal of pasties, we sat on a fine-sand beach and watched locals and tourists alike soaking in the sun. Ice cream sales catapult on sunny days in Britain, as it's an unspoken rule that everyone must buy a 99 Flake (a vanilla ice cream cone with a Cadbury Flake jammed in). Oh, I do love the British for this though, even when it's 40 degrees and blustery, they'll sit there with ice cream cones. And their tea. Yes, in Britain they bring tea to the beach. Crazy stuff.

Our stop for the night was in Newquay, Cornwall's party town. At least I was led to believe it's a party town. I've never seen it for myself. It must be some kind of myth. Chris and I hit the string of bars by the water's edge and ate and drank with a subdued crowd. It was Saturday night and moms were out sipping wine. Chris was a bit disappointed, as I think he wanted to relive old times. He had gotten together with his brother earlier, driving to a midway point between Newquay and Liskeard. I was glad that they had had a chance to catch up. With Chris moving to the States, it was uncertain just how often he would be seeing his family.

Everything was going so smoothly on this goodbye trip around Britain. The travel gods were blessing us, though they were making it hard for me to be leaving all this charm and beauty behind.

 

Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part I

We were due back in Britain for October 10th, our anniversary date. By that, I mean our wedding anniversary date; not our travel anniversary date. We had bought a flexible RTW pass, which is the way to go when you're traveling without a fixed itinerary. Though we had purchased our round-trip tickets from London to Bangkok (via Dubai) with six months between, we had planned to change the return flight for a longer stay. But, as you can gather from previous posts, due to a mixture of travel fatigue and dwindling funds, we stuck to the original date on our return flight.

 

Okay, so we didn't get our full year abroad. Boo hoo, right? Not at all, as there is only so much you can do while backpacking. There are only so many restaurants you can sit in, so many beers you can drink, so many beaches you can lay on, so many temples to explore. Perhaps it was because of our age—we felt we’d done it all and were feeling a bit jaded. In fact, that last push through Laos and Northern Thailand had been brutal for me. I was lusting for something different; a cultural experience from the opposite end of the spectrum. Because of this, Alaska was all that more appealing. I was itching to get on the road, driving across the open swath of country, heading into the great white north.

 

I had booked my ticket to America, from Manchester to Chicago, allowing a few extra days in Britain. This was brilliant, as Chris and I could take one last whirl around the UK together.

 

It's to be noted that Chris was going to be staying behind in the UK while I returned to the States. There was the little matter of obtaining a Green Card—a process not to be taken lightly. Chris had started the process before we left on our travels. Now he had lots of paperwork and a daunting interview ahead of him. My job was to set up a place in the States, to have a permanent address and adequate income to support him. This meant no dilly-dallying on my way to Alaska. I was focused in my goal to set up shop. After months of luxuriating in the sun, it felt good to have the drive to get things done.

 

Although we didn't know how long we'd be apart (the Green Card process can take a very long time), we were both confident in our roles. Chris would be staying with his sister in Manchester, thus saving money for America. He had an interview for an accounting position at the airport. I had my phone interview with Mountain Market as soon as I got back to the States. Alaska wasn't entirely set in stone; it depended on me getting a job. The more research I did on Haines, the more apprehensive I became. With a year-round population 2,500, this was by far the smallest community I’d ever lived in. And the isolation was a bit staggering. Though there was a road in and out of Haines, the nearest sizable community was Whitehorse in the Yukon, a four-and-a-half-hour drive away. There was also Juneau, the capital of Alaska, but that was either a plane or ferry ride away. In fact, Skagway (population 900) is Haines' closest neighbor, 20 miles away as the crow flies. But to reach it by road, you have to head north through the Yukon and British Columbia, about a six-hour drive. This was all fascinating stuff I was finding out. All this had me nervous, but at the same time I found it thrilling. Wasn't this what I wanted—something completely different from the north of England? Well if it was different I wanted, Haines was the place for me.

 

All this was on my mind as we took the long flight from Bangkok to London. Flying Emirates, the time literally flew by. We made a short stop in Dubai, but this time we didn't leave the airport. As we took off, circling over the city, we finally saw all the sites we had failed to see on the ground while we were slogging through the streets. We saw the Burj Khalifa (the world's tallest building), poking into the sky like a steel icicle; we also saw the Palm Islands, the man-made archipelagos shaped like palm fronds. I can honestly say that Dubai is more impressive from the air than it is from ground-level.

 

Landing in Britain was significant. It was like coming home. After living in the UK for three years, I’d become accustomed to life there. I thought in pounds instead of dollars; I weighed produce in grams instead of ounces; zucchini had become courgettes and jelly was something you put in a trifle instead of on a sandwich. It had taken a long time, but British life had started making sense to me. And now I was leaving. This last roadtrip around the UK really helped me to realize the love-hate relationship (but mostly love) I have with this country.

 

Anniversary in Hounslow

 

Chris and I had always gone big for our wedding anniversary: first anniversary: Paris, second anniversary: Wales, and—get ready for this—for our third anniversary: Hounslow. You might hear of Hounslow if you're flying in or out of Heathrow Airport, as you might pass through it in a taxi or by bus or train. But Hounslow isn't really a place where you stop. Though Chris and I have passed through this slice of Britain countless times before, this was the first time we had actually made it a destination.

A great number of Heathrow workers live in Hounslow. According to Wikipedia, over 50% of residents were born outside of the UK; walking around, it's easy to believe that. This was amusing to us, after traveling through Asia, to find Hounslow so densely packed with culture. We felt we were the only white people on the street, heaving our bags past Indian takeaways and shops.

Our hostel for the night was located on the second floor of a pub. We were back in British-style brick buildings with dark decors, with a long, narrow hallways and series of doors. I've never understood the door-thing in Britain. Why so many friggin doors? I noticed this on my first visit to the UK. Every hotel we stayed in had doors on top of doors. Was it a fire code thing, or do Brits just like the feeling of being closed in? I've never received satisfying answers to these questions.

We were weary after our long flight, touching down in Heathrow around 7pm. After hauling our bags through the streets of Hounslow, we weren't up for a lot of celebrating. The pub, though British in design (with the characteristic dark paneling, worn carpet, elaborate row of taps, as well as Boddington's beer coasters on the tables), had an unmistakable Sikh flavor. I suppose the Bhangra videos playing across a giant screen helped with that effect. We ordered kebabs with chips—food we had not found in Southeast Asia—and tucked in while watching Sikh versions of the Backstreet Boys moving en troupe across the screen. These videos held our rapt attention; the women were astoundingly beautiful while the guys in turbans and pajama pants showed off their MC Hammer moves. Chris and I agreed that, ironically, this was the most cultural experience we’d had in awhile.

I was back in Rum-and-Coke country. There's something about dreary, rainy weather and a dark pub interior which makes this cocktail such a delight. Before Chris and I clinked drinks in celebration of our anniversary, I swirled the ice around in my glass with a tiny straw. My consternation turned to ebullience as I realized the water was safe to drink. This was a huge revelation. No more worrying about getting sick. No more sizing up a meal, wondering what bugs might be lingering. No more worrying about the haunting effects of certain meals on long bus journeys. We’d stepped over a threshold of comfort and security. We were truly home. In Hounslow, yes, but home just the same.

Our beds for the night were adequate. Perhaps we could have gotten better accommodations for our anniversary, but London is the most expensive place on earth to spend a night. We had our own bunk bed in a room shared with others, but the beds were comfy and we were exhausted. There is something so good about British beds, with their fluffy white duvets and pillow-like mattresses. You just sink in and there's instant comfort. The cold, rainy weather is always ideal for sleeping, and you just slip into the soft folds and get whisked away to the land of slumber. Who cares if you're woken in the middle of night by drunk wankers? It's all so terribly British.

Road Trip

In our brief time together, Chris and I have explored a lot of Britain through road trips. As everything is so close and historically significant, there is a lot to see on this island without covering a lot of ground. For our last road trip, we decided to stick to the south, doing a loop through Hampshire, Dorset, Devon, Cornwall, and Wiltshire before catching a bus up to Manchester.

After hiring a car (hiring—even after all this time I'm slipping back into Brit-speak), we headed west into the countryside. It was good to have the hum of the road under us. It felt like freedom, to see what we wanted to see and to have control over the speed of our journey. There was also a sense of privacy that we hadn't had in our travels, singing along to the radio and loudly poking fun at one another. It was reminiscent of our very first road trip together through Britain. Incidentally, our first road trip had been similar to our goodbye trip, the sites being just slightly different (Stonehenge and Bath the first time around; The New Forest and Dorchester the second). But we were revisiting a few places too, namely Cornwall and Plymouth. The images of these places are seared into my brain where good memories lie. It was on the road where I had fallen deeply in love with Chris. Yes, I had been attracted to him before, maybe even more than attracted. But it was on that first British road trip where Chris had opened up and thoroughly charmed me with his wit and intelligence. Funnily enough, his grand epiphany happened on this first road trip as well, as he had touched my arm on the highway outside of Stonehenge while I slept. That was when he realized he really loved me (isn't that a lovely story?). That trip cemented in our minds that we were meant to be together. So revisiting this journey, or some aspects of this journey, was significant as well as bittersweet, for the Atlantic was going to be separating us once again.

On the first day of driving, we passed through the New Forest, a sparsely populated area in Hampshire. It's the only place in Britain I know that is covered in large swaths of forest. Most forestland had been transformed to moors through the ages as residents chopped down trees for firewood and construction. This seems to happen on islands more often than not. Anyway, there is something incredibly romantic about a British forest. You get the sense of Robin Hood and noble ladies on horseback. The trees seem to whisper secrets of the past. Yes, there is something particularly magical about the New Forest. The light is magical, as well as the wild ponies that freely roam through the forest. And there's a quiet feel to it all, away from the rest of southern England.

Chris and I had spent a few days exploring the New Forest villages a few years back, while visiting the Salisbury area. Okay, I'm getting giddy with history, remembering these places. Sometimes I really wonder why I left England for Alaska. Alaska has the beauty on a grand scale, but pockets of Britain are so utterly charming it makes you kind of delirious. Anyway, the villages of the New Forest—they are like places out of a storybook. Of course, the tourist industry capitalizes on that. For instance, the town of Burley is known for its witchcraft; shops and pubs are all witch-themed. This can be seen as cutesy, but it's also taken seriously, as many Brits have identified with the old pagan ways. Towns like Burley would probably not go over well in America, but they are well suited for rural England.

It was raining pretty hard so Chris and I didn't linger long in the New Forest. We did stop at Lyndhurst where we went for a walk to stretch our legs. We ended up at an old church where we happened across the grave of Alice Hargreaves, the real-life Alice from Lewis Carroll's novel. This is what I mean about Britain—you literally stumble upon history; it's simply everywhere. Shops and cafes in Lyndhurst are geared towards Alice in Wonderland, with names like "The Mad Hatter Tea Room." This may nauseate some, but after Southeast Asia, it seemed charming all over again, like seeing Britain through a fresh set of eyes. To get out of the rain, Chris and I popped into a cafe and ordered a pot of tea between us. To sit and sip tea and look out at the rain is an essential British moment. Tea and rain go together perfectly. I can't tell you how many times I've hurried through the rain, on my way home from work in Northern England, craving a nice cup of tea. I suppose I still do this to some extent, though the charm isn't quite the same in America.

Pulling out of the New Forest, heading towards Dorset, we stopped at a Tesco supermarket. Reintroduced to the abundance of the Western world, we were the proverbial kids in the candy store. Everything was recognizable to us! Things we had been craving on the road were now at our disposal. We loaded up on cheese and wine and continued to our hotel in Bournemouth where we dined in style on our soft fluffy bed while watching British TV. I ask you—does life get any better?