The Long Road to Where You Are Going

Methana, Peloponnesian Peninsula, Greece

I was through with the suburbs, with familiar landscapes, with the mundane hammock into which I had been lulled by time and circumstance. Despite calling a sunny state with no income tax and more beachfront than necessary home, I felt the tug for something else, something different. And then I found it by accident in a little town in Greece.

And then I decided, that's it.

I am moving ABROAD.

I said goodbye to family and multi-generational opportunity for something I couldn't really describe except in grunts of wonder and hunger.

I was stirred from within, shaken from my regular framework, unable to avoid considering what it would be like if I just did it. Sold everything. Started fresh. What if?

I stood at the edge of Greek cliffs and watched as this big scoop of proverbial life hovered over my plate. Would I grab a fork and dig in? Or would I tentatively nibble and pass it along to someone else? Could a regular world take shape from an extraordinary vacation?

At 30 years old, with nothing but gumption, I stared into the crystal clear water and rode swells of hope, and the radical notion of having a truly beautiful life.

I hired a lawyer, found some property, and polished a small nest egg. I imagined myself broke and destitute, pictured mountains of immigration paperwork, and channeled the true pain of loneliness and disconnection. I stared directly into this vision with rationality and focus. Nothing could stand in my way!

Except, a global apocalyptic health crisis that grinds planet earth's regular humming to a screeching halt in a matter of hours. This I had yet to consider.

Alas I flew back to America, cozened with fresh baked sourdough and unhinged episodes of Tiger King, and rode it out like a true American. With boundless optimism, faith in public institutions, and a stocked refrigerator.

All while nursing a dream of crisp white wine, Greek salads and charred octopus...

The months dragged on, institutions and emotions flailing wildly, and my suburban ennui growing unbearable. The deep, stirred hunger was not satiated, the future uncertain, and images of serene bays and bobbing fishing boats were beginning to drift away.

And then I decided, that's it.

We are going out WEST.

In my F-150. Trading ancient cobblestone paths for the swaggering youth of these United States.

Engulfed in naivete, tent camping in the dead of winter was one way to meet the unpredictable, pioneer landscapes of the Great American West. This brazen path intersected with one of the largest and earliest winter storms on record, shocking hardened park rangers and locals alike.

Tails between my legs and the closest Motel-6 in the cross hairs, I sat back and watched as my story was written and rewritten in mysterious ways. Uncertainty, discovery, expansion, grief, confusion, and uncertainty, over and over again.

Ah, 2020.

I comb the small history of this homeless and jobless country-wide wander and wonder, did it all have to happen this way?

I look back upon the kaleidoscope image of my experiences and choose to believe it all unfolded just the way it needed to. I was meant to be shocked and distracted and sharpened by the world, to prepare for the big stuff, the real things, the decisions that will define me. This elusive future of mine.

Who knew a spooky invisible virus would tear us all open and force our hands and take us places we never would have gone otherwise?

I think back to Stanley, Idaho, after hours of driving, finding a bookshop and a wine bar full of people who immediately felt like family. The time spent on a communal farm in Northern California that tested me physically, mentally, and spiritually, showcasing the indisputable difficulty and value of cultivating one's own food. Falling in love with Grecian mountains and desert landscapes and finding calm in small, remote communities branded by the past but undeniably stepping into the future.

If you know the San Luis Valley, and you step into this new world even for a moment, you understand I didn't settle for less.

Del Norte, Colorado, United States of America

I crossed the border of Colorado with an open mind and I chose to stay with a full heart. It's been a year since hitting the road, eyes fixated on what I wanted to happen. And boy am I thankful for what actually did.

I set out determined to hone the gut and gall required to build a life on a new continent. Turns out I needed that same grit to build a business and a future in the largest and highest alpine valley in the world.

I am on a first name basis with ranchers and farmers and get to be friends with people who descend from pioneers and homesteaders. And my F-150 was a hell of a lot more comfortable than a covered wagon.

Colorado isn't a place I came to get a job or to get rich. It is a place I came to be challenged, to humble myself before hard work, to invest in community, and to build a life.

The San Luis Valley, and my chosen hamlet of Del Norte, is a delicate distillation of what makes me feel alive, lose time, and float into a childlike stupor. Humans, history, community, and raw natural beauty. A historic hotel, craft brewery, snowy mountain, trout infested river, fine dining, and craft cocktails don't hurt either.

I know this sense of alive-ness because I was hunting for it. Stalking, through tiny towns across America, carrying the impossible caricature of a seaside fishing village in my mind, searching for any place, anywhere, that could hold a candle to it.

Whenever the question is posed, "How did you end up here?"

I smile in the knowing that I just had to go everywhere else first.