I knew I should be getting close. I was carrying a cardamom latte and a bag with a breakfast sammy in a cute Seattle neighborhood of older homes. I’d planned the morning just right so I could sleep in a little, get in a one-mile walk, and hit a coffee shop before leading the Saturday morning Audacious Pussycat writing meetup. (It’s free, you should come.)
I’d walked north and then east to get to the coffee shop so I walked south and then west to get back. I’d checked the maps as I left the coffee shop just to get a sense of how many blocks to go. I was looking for Ninth Street to turn and go south. I’d just passed 13th so 12 should be next.
The next block said 14th.
Damnit. I’d been walking so fast I’d gone too many blocks west and not enough blocks south. I checked my phone. It was after ten! I turned around, mapped it again and saw that yes, I’d been walking away instead of toward. I stepped up my pace even more, now talking to myself in a not nice fashion about paying closer attention. A talk I have to give myself often.
I walked in the door at 10:23. Two minutes to get on the wifi at the new house-sit, wipe the sweat from my brow, and greet the first writer.
I had to turn my camera off as my pale moonface made me unhappy.
I’m going to tell you the most shameful part now, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth since leaving my hotel room in Canada, 24 hours before.
Here’s how it went down and also why I’m kinda over this nomad thing right now:
I awoke early Thursday night/Friday morning at 2:30 a.m., for the fourth night in a row. Mayhap there was a logical reason, like the bars closed at 2:30 and I was awakened by revelers? Perhaps. I did know that I’d spent many hours doing different writing and research tasks the whole week at 2:fucking 30 a.m. Not this night. I’d win this time. I punched the pillow and turned over. And over, and over. Allowed a look at the clock, 3:46. Okay, so I wasn’t sleeping.
I got out my Mac and wrote something for The Pussycat Writing Collective, researched a Europe itinerary, and apartment-searched for when I might want to actually find an abode later this year. Then it was 5:30 and my body said we could sleep now.
So we did.
I arose at 10 to shower, pack, and made a dumb decision about breakfast, as I do. The choice was to walk somewhere nearby for breakfast, leaving the car in the free hotel parking garage or to drive to a different area. I chose to drive, thereby paying $11.23 to park for ONE HOUR. Really, Vancouver? That’s fairly damn greedy.
I did get to walk by a beach though, so there’s that.
We will not talk about the not great breakfast sammy and stale dry muffin. I got back in the car after the beach walk, and started the drive to Seattle.
On my way into Canada, the customs folks had not liked that I was a nomad without a home address, nor the fact that I had three suitcases, a gym bag, two backpacks, an antique hat box, one clothes basket of shoes, one clothes basket of coats, and four Amazon returns in the back of my car.
They were so damn nice about it though. At the first booth, the woman actually apologized that I would have to pull over so they could search the cornucopia of items strewn in the back of Subaru.
She handed me a yellow ticket to take inside the facility. There were eight agents, three were working with people. I stood quietly in the A line, wondering if A was good or bad. A young man called me over.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Vancouver.”
“Why?”
“Just for fun.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Four days,” I showed him my hotel itinerary on Expedia. He took my phone and looked at it, then handed it back.
“You live in Seattle?” he asked.
“I’m based out of Seattle but I’m a house sitter,” I said.
“A house sitter?”
“Yeah.”
“So you don’t have a home in Seattle?”
“No, I’m a nomad. I house sit when I’m in the U.S. and get Airbnbs when I’m out of the U.S.”
He was concerned. “Do you have anything else you can show me, appointments etc. that you have going on next week?”
I pulled up the Housesitters app and showed him my two upcoming house sits. He glanced at it but was not convinced I wasn’t going to stay in Canada. I didn’t blame him as I would like to stay in Canada.
He took my passport and went somewhere. I remembered I had a doctor’s appointment the next week and told him when he came back. I was babbling then, about The Audacious Pussycat Writing Collective and I showed him the website and somehow this tipped him into believing I was honest.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re good,” pushing my passport and paperwork back, then he asked, “How much money do you have available in credit cards and cash?”
“Uhhh,” I looked at him trying to do numbers in my head and shot low, “15,000?”
It was good enough. He nodded, “We just have to make sure people can take care of themselves on their visit.” He didn’t ask to see any credit cards or bank statements. I’m guessing I’m weird enough that they know it has to be honest.
I was nervous about coming through U.S. customs because, you know, the orange man and such. (Isn’t that so Stephen King-esque? We are truly living in some form of The Stand, aren’t we? And Fahrenheit 451, 1984…) The driver in front of me was having an extended conversation with the two customs people in the booth. One of them walked around and opened the back of his SUV and rummaged around a bit. They put an orange plastic thing on his hood, pointed to where he was to pull over, and then watched him. He was wearing a turban. I was scared for him. I waited until they looked my way to pull up. I had all the windows rolled down so they could see inside.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“I’m based out of Seattle,” I said.
“Do you have a home there?”
“No, I’m a house sitter.”
“You’re a house sitter.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have a home in Seattle.”
“No. I house-sit in Seattle and then get Airbnbs when I travel.”
She looked confused and cranky so I said, “Does that make sense?”
“No,” she snapped. From the booth she glanced in the back of the Subaru, then handed me my passport and waved me in.
I arrived in Seattle at 3 p.m., a few hours before I was to go to my house-sit so I found a parking spot a few blocks from my daughter’s apartment. I hung out with her cats and did some work online. The new house-sit people were showing me where stuff was in the house at 6:30, going to an event at 7, then leaving for the airport in the early morning hours. I’d never slept at a house sit while the owners were there but they’d put Friday’s date on the house-sitting app and I didn’t want to ask my daughters to host me yet again. I do bother them if I have to but this sounded like it wouldn’t be too awkward. I was ever so wrong.
I did not want to leave her cozy apartment but I like being on time, so at 6:15 I walked out in the cold dark rain, drove to the sit, and walked up to see the man of the house sitting in front of a table with food. My heart sank. It did not look like he was leaving anytime soon. The woman of the house answered the door. She had overalls on and said sheepishly she didn’t think they were going to their event, that they weren’t finished packing. I looked at the cozy living room right by the small dining room where the man sat. They were obviously mid-dinner.
There was nowhere to be for the next four hours that wouldn’t be under their feet upstairs, but I hoped the room I was sleeping in would be a place to hide. She showed me the cat food, cat waterer, extra towels, etc. and then took me to the mostly unfinished basement to show me the litter and my bedroom. She mumbled something about finding the Fire stick for the tv. My heart sank. I pictured myself huddling in the room for the next 12 hours. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t sit down there like a weirdo while they were packing upstairs. Everything in me was exhausted, on edge, and wanted peace and quiet, not weirdness. I’d have to go back to Savannah’s place.
I told her I was going to hang out with my daughter more, a lie as Savann was at work. She said cool. Perhaps she didn’t realize how awful it was for me to come in expecting to be alone in the house and not only finding out they’d be there but there was nowhere to hide. I do know my hatred of basements is not a normal thing. The feeling of being underground gives me the willies.
There’d been no point at all to me leaving the warm apartment, walking in the cold rain in the dark, losing my good parking space. She could have simply texted and said they weren’t going to their event and that I could come later. I’d have come in right before bed. I’m sure they had a lot on their mind but that seemed a pretty simple thing to think of. Also, they are house sitters themselves so I would have thought they’d realize it. Alas, no.
I drove back, hoping my parking spot I’d left a half hour before might still be there. It was not. I drove several blocks over and found one in some mud and a sort of ditch, a very dark spot that felt a bit creepy but I took it. I stayed at Savann’s until almost 10:30 so they’d for sure be asleep. I walked back to the Subaru in the pitch dark wet, and drove back to the house-sit.
Then I was nervous, realizing I would have to walk through their house while they were asleep. I was trying to remember exactly where the basement door was. It was dark, no lights on. Great. I blinked, walked down the hall, saw I was heading for their bedroom, took a hard right into the kitchen, then saw the basement door. Sagging with relief I took the stairs, setting down my small bag and backpack. That morning I’d chosen to put my toothbrush in the suitcase rather than the small bag, not knowing I’d be creeping into a house with the hosts sleeping rather than having hours to settle in alone. No way in hell was I walking back up the stairs, through the house with sleeping strangers, outside to the car and then back. Furry teeth it was.
I turned to see one of the cats sitting by the bed and said hello. He hissed. I put my hand out slowly to sniff. He hissed more and swiped a paw at me. Wonderful. He actually creeped me out. I shooshed him out, shutting the door behind him, changed into my pjs and went out to go to the toilet they had in the basement. He was sitting in front of the closed door and hissed again. Okayyyy, I’d hold it.
I was exhausted from the drive, the jump scare of the hissing cat, the frustration of the evening and the entire week of 2:30 awakenings. I climbed in bed with a rumbling empty stomach, a full bladder, and unbrushed teeth.
Maybe the nomad life is not for me anymore.
Thus the next morning I went to the coffee shop, got lost, and rolled into my Saturday morning writing group with the same furry teeth.
There’s some research that says doing different things helps your brain but there’s other research about the effects of stress on your brain. I’m not sure where I sit between those. Over the last 15 months I’ve slept in 55 beds, at my best count. Perhaps a few more.
I may be growing some brain cells from all the learning that takes place but I think it is all leaking out from the stress, kinda like trying to build a snowman in the sun.
By this time next year I’ll either make it into MENSA or still be wandering the streets, blocks away from where I thought I was, checking my damn cellphone to see where the house was that I just left a half hour before.
Thanks for reading or listening! A like or share is a shot of encouragement. I’ll still write, but I’ll be happier knowing you liked it.
Love, Kim
