A couple days into the tour, Rosa and I looked at each other with these bone-weary faces. We were tired. We had headaches. We felt a little irritable. When we opened the door of the Scamp after our maiden voyage, the cabinets were open, a stool had tipped, and an onion greeted us from the floor—thrown from one of the cabinets. I went on a long jag about traveling—about how when you first start out it’s exhausting and full of snags. I narrowed my eyes, and like a sage said, “We just haven’t hit rhythm yet.”
A few days later, at the campsite in Bend, Rosa’s sister, Alura, said to us, “You two drink decaf coffee?” We looked at her like she had just turned into a monster. “No!” She pointed at our coffee. “Then why are you drinking decaf?”
And like an epiphany filtering down through the head of a James Joyce character, we knew that the whole rhythm philosophy, while it sounded so damn good, was attributable wholly to caffeine withdrawal.
A bit later, Alura’s adorable daughter, Cira, was doing the “flick and swish” of a wand from Harry Potter. “So, is that your magic wand?” I asked her. “No. It’s a pencil.”