I used to love to cook. I was good at it. And it was truly source of pride for me that I was the head cook in my household. I was 12.

Back story: My mother had just taken a job as a dean at a small local college and this was her (very smart) way of keeping her latch-key kid busy. Pre-microwave, pre-packaged food, I arrived home at 3:00 and was to have a wholesome meal on the table by 5:30.

BACK-back story: This was back when parenting was more about making kids trustworthy than protecting them.

Feeding oneself in a healthy manner is an important skill. I am learning to be nomadic again and eating healthy has presented a problem.

I would much rather pop into the local pub, sit at the bar and order a cocktail followed by an appetizer, (another cocktail…) and perhaps a meal. The bartender needs to be chatty, the drinks and food need to be local and all three need to add color to my experience of that place.

This was not a problem when I wandered 30 years ago. But now, at 60, I am TRULY what I eat. It shows up in my cholesterol. And on my butt.

So here’s the problem: How does one eat healthy while traveling full time?

What fun is turning down an enormous homemade biscuit with strawberry rhubarb jam for un-buttered toast and a bowl of strawberries?

This was the month I was supposed to take back control over my diet. The place I am renting is owned by a woman who cooks. I mean really cooks. Every tool one could want is in the kitchen is here. Plus a spare.

AND there are multiple, wonderful farmer’s markets just moments away. There is NO EXCUSE for not cooking here.

Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator. Veggies and fruits straight into the bin. Sinful.

“Just make healthy choices, Sara”. I know. I know…

But after a day of hiking or urban exploration I get hungry. Really hungry. I like to find a small café, full of locals. A place where the café patrons provide entertainment, where the local culture is reflected in the menu. And when I find these places (and I always do), a tattooed woman will hand me a menu. And BOOM!

Brisket, IN MY FACE!

Chicken-friend bacon, IN MY FACE!

Local lager, hand crafted cocktails, ALL IN MY FACE!

I know I should be able to turn my back on local specialties, on happy hour deals, on pizza THE SIZE OF A DESK.

I should be thinking of health. And of salad. Of club soda with lime. Of lean cuts of sauce less meats and plainly steamed vegetables. I should say a firm “NO” to all potato based foods.

I should absolutely NOT be experimenting with BBQ pork and kimchi burgers or even looking at homemade ice cream sandwiches with freshly baked chocolate cookies and locally made fresh mint ice cream.

Right? RIGHT?!

Just tell me what to do, Dear Reader.

As a seasoned human, this is a true dilemma for me. I need your help. I know how to manage my health. I know how to cook. And I am choosing not to.

Yes, I am weak. Very weak. But I have some delicious stories to tell….

I belong to a Facebook group for international nomads. These are people who travel the world and have done so for many, many years.

Most are younger people with professions that allow them to work from anywhere, writers, IT or finance professionals. They call themselves location-independent. Few of them are seniors. And, amazingly, there are over 1600 of them in just this one FB Group.

Last week a woman posted this: How do you deal with loneliness? How do you find community when you are always moving? How do you achieve a sense of belonging?

She then posted a story about a holiday meal shared with a family that she had just met. “I felt like they pitied me”, she wrote. “It was a sad way to spend the holiday.”

While we have officially only been on the road for six weeks, this is our second time around. And we spent the last four of the past six months not-at-home. So, I get this question.

In addition, I spent over 15 years as a religious professional, working for two different Unitarian Universalist churches. I learned that when people initially come to church it is often to find a place to belong. A place where their opinions are welcomed by folks who share their values. A place where just showing up to be part of something bigger is what the church provides.

“Where is Bethany?” someone might ask on a Sunday morning. “She was at playgroup on Thursday and went home early with Laura. Another ear infection, I think”, someone else might offer.

Bethany is missed. And accounted for. Bethany is part of something bigger, beyond her small family.

Is it possible to achieve belonging on the road? What do friendships look like when they last only days? Is happy long term travel possible for people who need community?

[Insert answers here]

I don’t have the answers to these questions, and I’m not sure that I will anytime soon. There are greater minds that have grappled with the huge idea of belonging.

But I do know this: belonging is the basis of most communities. And belonging is right in the center of our human hierarchy of needs. Some of us seek it out. Others claim not to need it and instead cope without it.

Pull the belonging block out of the center of the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs pyramid, and the esteem and self-actualization blocks come toppling down.

Does the single person have stronger needs for community than the coupled person? Does the senior have less? Does the parent have more?

[Insert answers here]

So let’s suppose one of the roles of the nomad Facebook group is to create a sense of belonging for a group that shares values. Can’t we also support our need to belong through Skype, or by posting, blogging, texting, and calling? Is that enough?

All of the communications above were not possible when Ron and I travelled the globe the first time. We wrote letters (!) sent postcards and called home for ten minutes once a month.

In those days, travelers became each other’s community quickly. If we were travelling west, we sought out the eastward traveler and picked her brain. If we met someone whose company we truly enjoyed and we were traveling in the same direction, we travelled together for a while. We shared stores (and meals, new adventures). But it was the stories that formed the basis for our communities.

“Oh my gawd, last month we hung out for a week or so with this American dude who grew up in Morocco. He was dark eyed, dark haired and spoke fluent Arabic. Blended right in. Super nice guy. And handy to have along in the medina!”

“We spent last week travelling with this couple from The Netherlands. Super fun. And the Dutch are fabulous travel partners, they all speak about four languages!”

“You stayed at [insert name of] hostel also? Did you meet Marco? He is the crazy-thriftiest traveler ever. Cooks his own food here in Thailand just to save forty cents.”

These were the stories that formed the basis for most of our new travel communities.

You did that? Oh-my-gawd, so did I! You felt that? Oh-my-gawd, so did I, (I’m not the only one.)

I’m not the only one… The basis for belonging. The basis for community.

Can we find community while traveling in 2015? Will we find it face to face or virtually? Do we need it?

We’ll keep you posted.

Colorado is known for having many recreational activities, hiking, skiing, biking. And now, weed.

In Breckenridge, the weed emblazed T shirt with the snarky saying is front and center in most shop windows. Rocky Mountain high is legal and back in style. The state is booming.

While known to dabble, weed is not my favorite inebriant of choice. I have some very strong Irish stock which moves me more in the direction of wine, whiskey, and scotch.

Last week I had my hair cut in Breckenridge by a young woman who, while making small talk, asked what I had done so far in Colorado. I talked of the awesome hiking, the delicious dining and the dispensaries.

“You went to the dispensaries?” she asked. “That’s so cute.”

Cute? Excuse me?! In 1973 I was living in dorm rooms that were a grey haze much of the time. Now I’m not saying that was (always) a good thing. But it was a typical thing to do.

Youth is a time for experimenting, sex, drugs (rock and roll) and, if managed, experimentation is an important part of growing up.

(Now, before you get all Nancy Reagan on me, YES, I know pot and drugs can be a problem. I have experienced it directly in my family. It can be a problem just like alcohol.)

And as a traveler I have tried kava in Tonga, mescal in the Yucatan and (Ron) betel nuts in Burma. So, weed in Colorado? Why not.

To me, the most fun thing about weed was shopping for it. Paranoia free purchasing.

We were greeted at the door by security. This person’s job is to make sure there are only as many people in the dispensary as there are Bud Masters. Bud Master? That’s the pot equivalent of a wine sommelier.

The Organix dispensary was busy, so we needed to wait for a few moments in the comfortable waiting area that, but for the ads for Orange-Chem and Grease-ball, reminded us of the orthodontist’s office where much of our time was spent years ago.

A small group left, the door to the dispensary was unlocked and we entered. The space was open and sparse. Virtually everything in the dispensary was behind glass cases and in cabinets on the walls behind the Bud Masters. Only the odd T-shirt and weed emblazoned socks were hanging on familiar display racks where customers could handle the merchandise. Everything else was not accessible without help.

Vape pens, pipes, papers, tincture, edibles, and good old fashioned smoke-able weed was all on locked display.

We were greeted by our young, twenty-something, tattooed Bud Master. “How can I help?” she asked.

The friends I was with had downloaded the Leafly app onto their phones and knew exactly what they wanted. One eighth of Dairy Queen. D0es Dairy Queen know their name is on a strain of weed? Probably not. But maybe so…

And isn’t is interesting they don’t mind? Munchies, anyone?

The place was immaculate. The staff professional, their dreads clean and colorful. Even the dispensary dog was clean and well behaved.

We left $80 lighter, $15 of which had gone to the State of Colorado, the City of Breckenridge, and the county of Summit.

According to an article in the Washington Post (February 2015), the weed business is a $700 million dollar industry according to the Post’s analysis of recently-released tax data from the Colorado Department of Revenue.

“In 2014, Colorado retailers sold $386 million of medical marijuana and $313 million for purely recreational purposes. The two segments of the market generated $63 million in tax revenue, with an additional $13 million collected in licenses and fees”, reported The Post.

The economic impact of the marijuana industry is actually even greater, as the figures above don’t include retail sales of related pot products, vapes, pipes, T shirts, nor do they account for increased tourist traffic.

One afternoon while we sat watching the Blue River roar past full of newly melted spring snow in a Breckenridge park, we were approached by an earnest young man.

Would we agree to participate in a short survey? Um, sure.

It was a twenty question survey. The first ten were about basic tourist services. The last ten were about how much legalized weed influenced our decision to come to Breckenridge. Clearly, marketers want to know.

Now with an entire year of data behind them, Colorado has a clearer picture of the impact of the marijuana market. Total marijuana tax revenues are expected to climb to $94 million by 2016. This means a $1 billion dollar retail weed market. That’s not chump change.

And, few of the dire consequences some feared have occurred.

According to The Post, “Fatal car accidents in the state are flat, and well below the past-decade average (not terribly surprising, considering stoned drivers are considerably safer than drunk ones). Crime is down in Denver and the surrounding area.”

In the good old, USA, capitalism rules. And with money like that on the table you can bet your Dairy Queen that other states are paying close attention.

The first thing you should know about this blog is that sometimes it will be just plain wrong.  Straight up bad advice. That’s the beauty here, you never really know.  Isn’t this fun? YOU get to become a part of the experiment in wandering.

For example, last week I explained that getting medications delivered through a virtual post box was our plan for dealing with long term medications.  Pfft! Easy as pie.

Um, no.  A fellow Seasoned Wanderer set me straight on that with this email:

“Sara! Are you freakin’ nuts!?! We are wanted in the both the United States AND Mexico due to our attempt to get meds in this way!”

This traveler, let’s call her Pat, ordered her medications through her on-line pharmacy and had them delivered to her virtual post box. She then had the medications along with two months’ worth of mail sent to her in Monzanillo, Mexico.

Well she TRIED to have them sent.  Alas, the package was stopped at Mexican customs and refused entry. Ack! Drugs!

Pat was told by “A Very Kind Man” that he could take care of everything (“mui simple, Senora”) for a small fee (“una pequena kindess…”). Our term for this in English is bribe.

Now, Pat is a very law abiding woman and this did not sit well with her. She refused and so Mexican customs sent the package back to the U.S.

But alas, the package was stopped at U. S. customs and refused entry. Ack! Drugs!

Sadly, Pat’s migraine medications became the pharmaceutical equivalent of Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

Pat had to petition customs for their release, and her U.S. doctor had to fill out a small mountain of forms. Then the drugs, along with the forms, went to the FDA. This agency was charged with making certain that these drugs were exactly what they said they were.

They also opened the unopened prescription bottles to make absolutely certain that they were unopened.

In the meantime, of course, Pat ran out of her medications and had to get new prescriptions from a Mexican doctor.

THIS turns out this was the best method.  At least in Mexico.

Lesson learned. We’ll let you know what other lessons we learn.  Maybe.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

This is one of the most common questions we got on our first 300 day trip. And a question we heard even more frequently before last year’s four month trip to Mexico.

Let me tell you about a Belgian couple we had breakfast with in Campeche, Mexico last winter. We were staying at the wonderful Hotel Castelmar.  A pasta tiled, colonial building with the rooms surrounding an open, flower filled courtyard. Here in this gorgeous courtyard is where breakfast is served at communal tables.

I was on my third cup of coffee when The Belgian Couple asked if they could join us. As always at communal tables, conversation came easily (after three cups of coffee). The Belgians were travelling all over Mexico, escaping the harsh winter back home. He spoke some Spanish and English (…Italian, Dutch, German.). She spoke only French.

Tattooed, hip, she about 30, he in his 40s. We talked about travel, of course. First Belgium. Ron had been to Brugges and Brussels, I have not been… yet.  Then we talked about travel in Mexico and other places – Europe, Asia, North Africa. They were clearly seasoned travelers.

“What about the United States?, I asked. “Any plans to visit there?”

He looked a bit stricken. Seeing this, she pressed him for a translation. Then she also took on an embarrassed look.

“No”, he replied. “No plans.”

“Oh really. We’ve traveled all over the States. There are some amazing places to see, New Orleans, New York, the Badlands…”, I replied, eager to share stories of my country.

He looked embarrassed as she shook her head back and forth. “We are too afraid”, he said. “Too many deaths, too many guns. We have no plans to travel in the U.S.”

It was one of those times where I had been excited to talk about the extreme beauty found in my birth country. The friendliness of the people, the music, the culture. But nope. Not gonna happen.

They were right. The U.S. is a violent place. We are a gun toting, pry it from my cold, dead hands, Second Amendment touting culture. Shootings happen with enough regularity that some have become immune to it.

Today’s sad example, the shootings in South Carolina.

And these stories, occurring several times each year, and not limited to any particular places – cities, suburbs, small towns, the countryside –  these are the stories that make the foreign press. We are well known for our gun culture. And the random deaths it brings.

It’s at these times that I get patriotic, wanting to both defend and trumpet my country. But I’m left with nothing to say. Left only sad and embarrassed.

Let me ask you. Last time you traveled to some amazing spot in the U.S., like Breckenridge, The Grand Canyon, the coast of Maine, how many Europeans did you run into there? Not too many. Certainly not equal to the number of Americans that travel to Europe.

No, I’m not afraid in Merida. Nor was I afraid in Malaysia, London or Morocco. Ron always tells people that he’s not afraid because he was raised in Elizabeth, New Jersey outside of New York. His first watch was found on the ground after a street fight. And back then, the gangs were mostly using knives. The ease of obtaining a gun is a relatively new thing.

I will not be the only person who blogs today about the need to make some serious changes to our gun culture and our mental health system. There will be a lot of better written, more widely read comments over the next week or so.

But then, as always, it will recede back into the background, along with the quiet sobs of a new widow or childless mother.

“I want to be in America. I want a gun in my hand”, the man on the radio sings as I write this morning.

Not so much, friends. Not so much…

I may have mentioned that I need My Own Time.  There are a few things that make getting My Own Time really hard.  Having small children in your care is high up there.  And a close second is travel.

After a massive move and two weeks of constant togetherness in Breckenridge it was time.

Now please understand that Ron gets this about me. I’m an early riser and he sleeps in most mornings allegedly to give me at least a couple of glorious hours to myself.  I usually spend this time writing and reading. But every once in awhile I need a whole day, an afternoon and sometimes a weekend to myself.

After a few choice verbal exchanges, it was clear to both of us, the time had come.  Off to the hiking trail.

Hiking in the mountains in the closest I have ever come to a truly spiritual experience.  I adore it. I need it. But it’s early in the season here in Breck and many of the high trails are closed or mud pits.  But there are plenty of trails in town and at lower altitudes to keep us busy while the higher trails dry out.

We had already walked along one of the low trails along the Blue River just outside of town. This was where we met some fire fighters practicing water rescue. One guy, poor soul, got to be the victim. His job was to throw himself into water that had been snow or ice about 20 minutes earlier. The others practiced throwing him a bright yellow tethered buoy, in just the right spot where he would be carried up to it by the (ridiculously) fast water. If the throw was too short, he would be carried right past it.  Too long and he might have to bump through several rocks to get to it.

They managed to save him two times out of three as we watched. Practice makes perfect.

So this afternoon, My Own Time, I decided to follow the Blue River further south, as it wanders through the town of Breckenridge.  First I followed the path behind the Main Street shops. I was rewarded immediately by a fox sighting.

Apparently, this fox, or a relative of this fox, has occupied a home right on Main Street for years.  There’s a painting of her hanging on the wall in our rental that was done in 2001. She returns to raise her kits under this abandoned house and is seemingly oblivious to the spring and summer crowds that swarm down the street.  Fenced off in a yard next to her home, the crowds are kept at bay while this Foxy Lady comes and goes in stealth to hunt and feed her kits.  Later in the week we saw her two blocks away up on Ridge Street carrying a treat home to her kits.

On this afternoon, I looked at her, she looked at me, I said “hey” and she twitched her ear.  “Hey back”, in fox.

Connection made, off I went through the alley that parallels Main Street.  Here I met The Real People of Breckenridge.  The wait staff heading to work, or catching a smoke. Aproned, name-tagged, friendly.

Further down I found a wild flower garden not quite in bloom. Just a few Butter Cups and Johnny Jump Ups inching their way out of the dirt toward the sun.

Then I rounded the corner and saw a boat. A big boat. Seriously? Yep, this is the Gold Dredger..

According to the Town of Breckenridge website, in the late 1800s dredge boats began working the river, literally chewing up the riverbed looking for that illusive gold. These two-story pontoon boats used great lines of buckets to dredge up to 70 feet deep. They took everything. All vegetation, all bedrock, even the buildings along the river. Few historic building survived along Main Street thanks to these dredge happy boats.

And now this one, is a restaurant (of course). And apparently closed for the off-season. Looking pretty creepy and kitschy, I might add.

Further down the path I saw some huge, clear, inflated balls bobbing on a pond at the south side of town.  What? They were all set up to take passengers who would enter the balls and … whatever. But not today. Tables were set up to take each customer’s Waiver of Liability.  And cash. But now, the balls were empty. Too bad. I would have loved to see the flailing and falling that would surely take place inside them.  Another time…

As I made my way back home I passed the gondola. It had been closed for the two weeks that we’ve been in town. But today it was going!  Opening day, said one of the employees. I looked over at the cars and most were empty. The door opened and slowly slid by. A nice young man offered me his hand to enter a car.  A whole car all to myself.

Why not?