Returning to the WonderTruck

Adventuring rule #14: Call in reinforcements when needed.

     Normally my dad fixes everything automotive for me. He makes sure there is enough gas in the car, that we have directions, and that I get oil changes and my tires rotated. This is the abbreviated list. He does this on one hand because the WonderTruck belongs to him and also because its driver is his youngest child.  Either by his example or because he took care of it himself, I have never locked keys in a car.

     I think part of it is that life moves more slowly when I spend time with my parents. Words and responses are more carefully considered. There isn't a rush. As infuriating as this is when we're trying to get to a movie or I am on deadline, it offers a less messy view of life. Tasks get done and promises are kept. It's a great safety net but it can get me into bad habits. At a certain point I am so used to my dad taking care of me and all the loose ends of our lives that I don't do it for myself.

     This is precisely what happened last Thursday night. I picked up my  not so tall friend Allison and a bag of toffee brownies from her house and headed to M section, home of Justin, Jeremy and Nathan. We pulled into the driveway and I tore my keys out of the ignition, tossing it into my bag. Or at least I thought I did.

saving me from myself

Adventuring rule #13: Don't think about it too much. Just live. 

     There are some phrases that circle over and over in my mind.

     "You are not good enough," is the most common. The rest all stem from that idea of inadequacy. I am not prepared. I am not ready. I am not enough for this life. But here I am, in it anyway.

     They say God doesn't give you more than you can handle. But what if God wasn't paying attention? Or what if he doesn't exist and life just sucks?

At the Red House

Adventuring rule # 12: When offered alcohol, take the alcohol. 

     Deep breath. Exhale. It's time.

     The rumors have flown about for weeks. I, Sara Jane, attended a death metal concert.

     I was invited by a friend, who knew some guys who were playing one Friday in Walnut Creek. I've blocked out the name of the venue. And the band. And the name of my friend's boyfriend who came with us. I should say the boyfriend and his liberty spikes Mohawk. Together they took up the entire right side of the car for the ninety minute drive.

     What I do remember is this. We arrived and a man with piercings was selling discount tickets outside before the show began. There was a bar offering beer and snacks inside, which I should have partaken of. Really, the whole night would have been improved with a little alcohol. 

The best three units I've ever taken

Adventuring rule #11: Challenges lead to rewards.

     I drove up to the intersection and waited in the turn lane at a red light. A flurry of honking and yelling from behind my truck drew my attention. I turned to see a student waving at me with his car door open, a folder full of papers in his hands.

     "Sara! I forgot to turn in my portfolio!" The student leaped from his seat, leaving the car parked in the multiple lane road.  I reached the passenger side of the cab to hurriedly roll down my window, but the student had already opened the door. He tried to stuff his papers more securely into the folder while placing the whole mess in the box on my seat. I tore the portfolio from his hands and stared incredulously at his boldness.

     "Get back in your car! Just leave the folder. Go!" I hollered at him, laughing. He smiled really big, said thanks, and jumped back into his Honda without breaking a sweat.

Trying to keep up

Adventuring rule #10: Some moments cannot be captured in photos. Be present. 

          For the restless participants of parkour and freerunning, the world is a playground. The neighborhood playground is a gymnasium. The gym is a practice hall, cushioned to protect the bodies and muscles they push to the limit.

     Walls are not barriers but launch pads. Trees work equally well. Cars are oversized matchbox toys suited for jumping into, out of and over. Solid brick and cement are springy mattresses. An average sidewalk is likely made of lava since their feet avoid it at all cost.
  
     They are men and women of a range of ages and experiences, all looking to move from point A to point B as simply, efficiently and effectively as possible using human strength. The freerunners among them will never pass up the opportunity for a showy trick.

            What they require is simple: energy and a place to go. No gear, no pads, no armor. More often the uniform is a pair of track pants and some running shoes. The shirt is optional. No one cares how you’re dressed when you’re trying to plan your own escape route. Doorways are too pedestrian for these modern ninjas who chose flight over fight. 

The little email that could

Adventuring rule #9: Do not be afraid of perceived power.

      Professors are sassy. They have a kind of power, knowing they posses more degrees and years of education than you do, and some like to throw it around a little. So when you outsmart them, it feels so right.

     In searching for proper sources to complete my senior project articles, I was directed again and again to a certain English professor. Originally she didn't seem to have time for me. Her office hours conflicted with my class schedule and weeks went by without a response to my request for to make another appointment.
Because professors are like the dentist. You have to ask for a special time to experience the privilege of them scraping your teeth with little metal hooks. Or maybe that pain is in my head. I avoid office hours.

     The point? When I sent her a followup email, asking again to interview her, I got this:

Hi, SUPER POLITE STUDENT--
I responded to you quite awhile ago, when you first wrote to me, and at that time I invited you to come and talk with me.  Now, I'm afraid, I won't be back on campus until after Spring break, but you would be welcome to come and see me then.  My office hours are Mondays from *** to *** and Tuesdays from *** to ***...and by appointment.  O.K.?!
With all best--
SUPER SECRET IDENTITY

One short day

Adventuring rule #8: Go for the fullest experience.

     On the evening of April 5, my feet were filthy. Nearly black with dirt. I was worried I'd leave a trail on the carpet of my apartment. My feet were tired and they hurt, and I think a tiny rock was jammed between my toes.

     I had gone the whole day without any shoes. From riding my bike to campus to walking across the pebbled quad between classes, my bare feet felt every step.  My soles were alternately burning on pavement or icy on indoor tiles. One professor asked for an impromptu presentation, while a friend asked if I had forgotten something while looking distastefully at my dirty, exposed toes.

     It wasn't much fun. People looked at me funny. I avoided public restrooms and taking out the garbage for fear of germs. I have about a dozen pairs of shoes in my closet, so why hadn't I worn them to protect and comfort my feet?

Save Ethnic Studies

Adventuring Rule #7: Pay attention to the things that make you uncomfortable. 

      I am continually surprised by this country, and the things that happen here. Just as a reminder, it's 2011, in America. The land of opportunity and Horatio Alger.

     So there's these cops in Arizona who, as part of their job description, drive around looking for people who look illegal (read: Hispanic).They pull over, interrupting these people and their lives, to ask for ID to determine their legal status. If they can't pull out the ID, they get arrested. If they can, then they simply feel harassed.

     I don't think the internet has a database of how often people are arrested compared to those who are harassed, but I do want to know. I find this ridiculous. It leans a bit too heavily toward Cold War fears of Communism and Nazi era fears of pretty much everything other than white, Christian and able-bodied. It's a law in that state, and it's wrong. But it doesn't end there.

Desperation is the stepmother of stubborness

Adventuring rule #6: Know your tools. 

     Inspired. Yes. Let's call it that. I was inspired to purchase a bottle of tasty Chardonnay and the fixings for homemade pizza after Friday's adventures, the ones that would fall quite neatly into the "not enjoyable" category. Everything I experienced from noon until 7 p.m. that day was highly educational and mind-opening. It was also stressful, emotionally draining and tense.

     Additionally, because these adventures sucked up my Friday afternoon like a dry sponge ingests the wine I was likely to spill in a matter of hours, I had a stack of articles following me around and begging for edits. It was raining, dark out, and I couldn't slow my mind enough to concentrate on anything.

     So I made a simple and logical decision: I called the boy.

Internship or Eurotrip? One and the same

Adventuring rule #5: Go here.

     Calendars are kicking my ass this month. I think someone is trimming off days while my back is turned. Unfortunately, I can't prove anything.

     What I do know for certain is that yesterday was January, with the whole semester stretched out in front of me for miles, and today is mid March, with nearly half the semester behind me. I'm not sure how it happened, but it means I have about three months to put together a six week trip to Austria.

     Turns out that planning an international excursion is an adventure in itself. I'm making my lodging arrangements with my mother's step-brother, who runs an international law school called the Center for International Legal Studies out of offices in Salzburg. I'll be working with him and his adult son and daughter to create an article on the freedom of information in Europe, update book introductions, creating ads for a program coming up in November, and proofreading anything that comes up.

     This all sounds amazing, but I have to get there first.

Growing up is delicious

Adventuring Rule #4:  If you don't bring refreshments, you need to find some.

     "Hi. We're new and have no idea what we're doing."

     This is how my good friend Allison and I greeted a kind and knowledgeable man named Jimmie at the Kendall-Jackson Tasting Room in Healdsburg. He gave us a calculating glance, then dove into a lengthy speech that turned out to be our introductory lesson into the world of wine. 

     Jimmie was patient with our amateur enthusiasm. At the sight of the $15 reserve list tasting fee, Allison and I weren't certain we wanted to stay, but Jimmie offered a solution: share the glass, split the fee, and take in all the knowledge he had to offer. We couldn't say no, so we settled in and started tasting.

Becoming one of those people

Adventuring rule #3: The hardest part is convincing yourself to go. 

     Take note, for I am about to sound like an idiot. Running is hard. No, no, hear me out. It's really hard to do.
     Each step taken to prepare is simple enough. Wake up, roll out of bed, find a t-shirt and shorts and your shoes. Stuff your keys down your bra or tie them to your shoe, and go outside, iPod and cellphone optional. Done. Got that. 

     But then you have to move, and keep moving, until the heart pounds and the breathing comes quickly. Keep moving while a stitch forms somewhere around your appendix and your legs ache with the effort. Don't stop or take a break or even slow down, because that makes starting up again even harder. 

     Keep an even pace, not too fast or you'll tire out, even though you feel like dying and the only thing keeping you upright is the distant hope that someday you'll reach home again and be allowed to collapse.

Ratfink!

Adventuring Rule #2: Adventures benefit from guest stars.

     When I was small, I was an animal lover. I wanted to be a veterinarian. Of course, it was through applying to a veterinarian learning program for teens that I found out I wanted to be a writer,  but that's neither here nor there. As I've grown older, pets seemed to get dirtier and smellier. They made messes and were noisy and I just wasn't interested. Creatures are fine, but I don't want the responsibility of caring for them or dealing with their less enjoyable habits. I just was not interested. 

     But one day, I was invited to a friend's home in my apartment complex to share some cookies she had made for her blog. When I knocked on the door, she and her roommate were discussing their plans for the weekend, concerned that they had found no one to care for their pets in their absence. They turned to me and asked if I was available. Before I could respond, the two of them towed me into another room and pulled two small rats out of a cage by the window. One gray rat named Lizzie was thrust into my hands. She looked around, sniffed my thumb and curled up in my palms without a care. That was it. My aversion was overcome, and I was in love. 

     My responsibilities were to check on the rats twice a day for three days, ensuring they had enough food and water. The interesting part was to give the creatures their medicine. Apparently rodents can catch a version of the cold virus, so these little girls were sneezing several times an hour. While it was cute, it meant they were sick. Dispensing the medicine was a two person job. On the first try, I prepared the tiny droppers while my helpful boyfriend wrangled Lizzie into the crook of his arm. He tried to hold the rat's head still while I poked the dropper into the side of Lizzie's mouth, but she was having none of it. We got some medicine on her face and some on my sleeve before we set Lizzie down to give Jane a shot. She was even more wiggly and nearly slipped out of my grasp. Luckily, I was able to get her under control and the medicine went down her little throat without a hitch. Lizzie had run off most of her fidgety energy by then, so she calmly accepted the rest of her dose. 

     Duties done, my boyfriend and I stuck around to play with the rats for a bit, allowing them to run up and down our arms before tunneling through a pile of blankets. One rat was poking around in the pocket of my sweatshirt while the other became very interested in my hair. It was so much fun, I didn't want to leave them. Somehow my aversion to animals faded when I was faced with these adorable rats who lived happily in a cage, as opposed to a dog or cat that can take over the whole house. 

     My friend returned home a few days later and I had to sadly return her house keys, knowing it was unlikely that I would see the cuddly rats in the near future. I asked my own roommate about getting a rat for our apartment, but she shot it down rather quickly. I think that's unfair, because she has fish (that keep dying) but I'll hold in my rat love for now. It won't be too long before I'll have my own place and can love all the tiny caged animals I want. Even better news, my friend is heading out of town again, so I'l get to see my new friends this weekend. I can't wait. 

The WonderTruck earns its name

Adventuring Rule #1: Adventures are not always fun.

     I was running errands around my hometown in my dad's Chevy Silverado, singing along to country music. It's a rule in the WonderTruck. Despite the enthusiastic singing with the windows down, I am a cautious driver. The speed limit is a limit, seat belts are not negotiable, and I brake on yellow lights. It may take twice as long to get somewhere, but I can promise to get there safe. Except for this one time.

     Maybe I began to slow down too early, nearly a block away from the red stoplight. Maybe the man driving the Chevy Lumina behind me was following just a touch too close when he changed his radio station. Either way, I couldn't control my screams when I felt the impact of his front end slamming into my bumper.   Somehow both vehicles came to a stop. A woman in a dark sweatshirt and her two teenage children braved two lanes of traffic to come to my aid. She pulled open my door and stared at me with concern. "My name's Sharon, and you look young and scared. Is there someone we can call for you?"

     Between sobs I choked out my parent's names and phone number. The woman's daughter made the call on her cell phone while the son phoned the police, then whipped out a digital camera to take photos of the scene. Another man walked over from a nearby parking lot and introduced himself as an off-duty paramedic. I didn't catch his name, but I was grateful to latch on to his questions and directions while I regained my senses. He checked over the driver of the Lumina and guided us both out of the roadway and onto the sidewalk. The tears started again when I saw the way the smaller car had crunched and curled under the WonderTruck's rear bumper. The other driver approached me, apologizing over and over, insisting he only looked down at his radio for a second. "Why were you going so slow? Why were you stopped in the middle of the road?" he demanded. It seemed rude to insist that the light was red and I was obeying conventional traffic laws, so instead I tried to calm myself, saying only that I wanted to wait for the police and my dad to show up.

     Lodi's finest arrived within minutes. A short, uniformed man with a gleaming badge that read Lt. Ruiz asked me if I was able to move my vehicle. Part of me wanted to stay frozen on the concrete leaning against a telephone pole for support until my dad appeared to take charge. But I knew that as an adult, this was my responsibility. Back in the WonderTruck, I disarmed the hazard lights, put it in gear and slowly pressed the accelerator. Nothing happened. It felt as though my emergency brake was engaged. I gave it a bit more gas and felt nauseous at the sound of the bumper separating from the Lumina's ruined hood.

     That was my breaking point. I needed my dad and I needed him now. The timing was perfect: just as I turned toward the closest side street, he pulled up, leaped out and guided me to a spot by the curb with airplane-landing-style gestures. I wasn't out of the driver's seat before he was right there with a hug and a flannel-covered shoulder. The rest of the day was a blur of questions and insurance and an achy head and back that I refused to admit until the pain forced me to the emergency room later that night.

    Congratulations, Chevy Lumina driver. With one small change in your choice of radio station, you have wrecked your car, caused surface damage to the WonderTruck, given me whiplash and a concussion, and forced me to miss two shifts at the library as well as a weekend of work on the school newspaper. I hope you really hated that song you were listening to.

beginnings of ventures

satisfaction may be safe, but it kills the spirit.

      Life can be static. Those who live it can become comfortable, feeling safe that the path they are on and the choices they have made so far are the right ones. This is a good place to be. Arriving at this destination is an accomplishment for many, a signal to themselves and the world that they have followed their hearts and their dreams and gotten somewhere. Well done, I say. I'm nearly there myself. I am mere months away from having my first college degree in hand. Soon after, I'll hopefully have a job and tasks and responsibilities. And that scares me. It's not that my youth is slipping away from me. Age is only a number, after all. My true concern lies in the fact that with comfort comes dissatisfaction.


     Humans come alive in struggle, in working against some kind of opposition. Winning or losing is mostly irrelevant, unless lives are on the line, such as in the case of a political revolution or the effort to single-handedly provide for one's family. For most cases, human worth is defined by the effort he or she puts in to the struggle. Shortly after hitting that comfy sweet spot in a life, once the endorphins wear off, boredom sets in. There's nothing to work for. Nothing to win. Nothing to struggle and lose, nothing worth rising up from the ashes of that loss to prevail.


     My fear is that I  will reach a place without anything for which to fight. A place in which I will be satisfied with life as is. I never want to reach this destination. Ideally, some aspects of my life will reach this stage and I can relax in the knowledge that I am going to be safe and healthy for the duration of the knowable future. But if my whole mind and spirit rests in that comfort, the core of me will rot like so much compost.

     I want adventures. I want to find myself situations that make me nervous and uncomfortable and sweaty. I want to be at a loss for words, to be frustrated, to wonder how in the world I ended up here and how the hell I am going to get out. 

     Because life is not about a destination. Those are nice, but in the end, it is only a place.