From the archives

The persistent smog above Providence pinches apart to reveal pure morning sky.  The crisp light of the moon and a few stars contrasts with the smothering pink of the clouds.  I think I could get up this early every morning to breathe the air and feel slight breezes on my face.  Morning is the one time I feel I could become one with the atmosphere and float peacefully. 

This summer I am a nomad.  My family has always been nomadic, but this summer it strikes me more deeply.  In May, I crammed my dorm room into a storage unit, three College storage boxes, and the trunk of my Katryn-sized Chevy metro.  Any one else would feel crowded getting into my car.  There isn't enough leg room in the front or back seat, and the ceiling is far too low for anyone above 5'5" to extend to their full height.  But for me, this car is perfect, my baby.  Emaleen, as my sister dubbed her early on, is not much to look at but she gets me places and with good gas mileage.  At 5'4¾", I fit perfectly into the driver's seat, my feet extending luxuriously to reach the pedals.  

After a month and a half of living in my car, it no longer feels luxurious.  I have perched, squeezed and crammed myself into countless vehicles for countless hours.  

In the nomadic lifestyle, the locations don't count.  The long stretches of mountainous driving, the strange and familiar airports, the highway rest areas become your entire life.  You never unpack and you are always prepared with cell phone and water bottle.  The people that you meet and know for 4 days, a week or even a month become annoying interruptions to the periods of wear solitary wandering.  You figure out how to make cramped cars and public spaces your home.  You know which fast food restaurants or coffee shops have WiFi and how late each stays open.  You build forts in abandon airport seating with a blanket and your backpack for a pillow.  You nap in the driver's seat of your car outside Chick-fil-A.  You try not to nap on warm afternoons with only two hours left of driving.  At all costs, you plan ahead to make sure you get coffee in the morning.  The orange tumbler you got free from the bank becomes an eternal source of coffee or water as the case may be.  You can't remember the last time you ate a home cooked meal or saw a face you knew before this summer.  

And so, the quiet solitude of the Rhode Island freeway at 4 o'clock in the morning is comforting. The window is rolled down to give me joy and the frappacino in the cup holder is to keep me awake.  As the latest acquaintances slide peacefully from my memory, I pull quietly into the parking garage of the Providence airport.  As I wait in the security line, I begin to feel at home because all airports are home to me.