Pandemic Road Trip: Thanksgiving 2020 "It's a good day to have a good day" - The Beginning

I stay busy with my art, with my photography, with my part-time job, but that occupies me for only so long.  I am restless, unfulfilled, and depressed to a certain degree.  These feelings come often and with a strength that leaves me wanting.  

I look at my reflection in the mirror and I am dissatisfied.  It goes beyond my physical appearance, that is superficial.  What I feel is internal.  Something deep that I can’t quite grasp, can’t quite understand.  It is an ache, in my body and in my mind.  It is an urge, but an urgency for what?

Wanderlust.

I don’t need an excuse to travel, but it is nice when there is a reason.  My friend has invited me for Thanksgiving in Denver, so of course a road trip is in order.  Unfortunately, after I started planning my trip, tighter COVID restrictions caused us concern, so we err on the side of caution.  Although I won’t be traveling to Colorado to visit my friend, doesn’t mean I won’t travel. 

The apartment is sparkling clean as is my truck.  Two of my prerequisites before traveling.  

My camera gear is in the backseat next to the ice chest full of water, tea, and snacks.  With the addition of a new camera and converter, I realize I will need to buy a bigger case.  For now, my equipment is divided between two backpacks.  

My big, purple suitcase is crammed with clothes for every season because I can never be too prepared.  Besides, the weather will vary as I travel across several states and elevations.  There is a box of camping supplies next to my luggage.  Again, I can never be too prepared.  My co-pilot, Gee, hangs out on the dash and keeps me company.

I am ready for adventure.

I live the wanderer’s dream the first night in a two-star hotel in Holbrook, Arizona, 587-miles from home.  I awake tired with muscles still tense from the previous days driving, but I eagerly get behind the wheel again.  I am not going far.  My first scheduled stop on this road trip is just 30-miles from my room at the Days Inn.   

It’s a good day to have a good day and I drive towards Petrified Forest National Park with a purpose.  That purpose is to let nature soothe my soul, calm my restless spirit, and help me forget my monotonous life back in San Diego.  And, of course, do some photography.

Petrified Forest was originally a National Monument established in 1906 by one of my favorite conservationalists, but who most people know as the 26^th President, Theodore Roosevelt.  It became a National Park in 1962 and in 2004, during President George W. Bush's presidency, expanded to over 218,500 acres.  

Petrified Forest is known for its fossils, especially from fallen trees that lived about 225 million years ago, but there are also more than 1200 archeological sites within the park boundary. 

It is 45-degrees and sunny when I flash my National Parks Pass at the entrance gate.  The ranger hands me a map and I tell her it is my first time to the park.  She welcomes me with an enthusiastic smile and compliments the fleece I'm wearing.  I am enthusiastic too.  There are no other cars in front or behind me.  It is definitely a good day and I can’t wait to explore.

Eventually comes more people and more cars, but there is absolutely no competition for parking.  Unlike at the national parks in Utah I visited during October's road trip, here, there is enough space for everyone.   Enough breathing room between us so we don’t worry about wearing our mandatory masks. 

People snap their pictures and rush to the next scenic location noted on their park maps, but I linger.  At many of the viewpoints, I am left alone with only the wind and birds for company.  This is what I crave.  This is what I need and it is beautiful.

The park protects one of the largest concentrations of petrified wood in the world, but when I stop at the Painted Desert Inn I am more interested in the building.  It was designed in the Pueblo Revival style and built in the late 1930s by National Park Service architect Lyle E. Bennett.  In 1987, it was declared a National Historic Landmark. 

Unfortunately, it is closed because of COVID-19 restrictions.  A few people are busy in the parking lot taking pictures, so I wander down a trail to a viewpoint behind the inn.   No one is here.  It is quiet, the air is crisp and fresh, and I can see for miles. 

At Newspaper Rock there are over 650 petroglyphs and pictograph carvings from over 2,000 years ago.  However, I am unable to get close.  I am on a landing about 50 yards up a hill.  

The viewing scope glass is cloudy and with my poor eyesight, I cannot see the petroglyphs clearly, but I am hesitant to push my face against it to get a better view.  Too many germs from too many faces.  Instead, I use the zoom on my camera.  

The artwork is fascinating and I wish I could get closer to do some macro photography. However, it is probably best for the carvings that tourists are kept away.  

It is along the Blue Mesa trail, however, where I finally see what I came for: petrified wood.   

A handful of people are enjoying the trail, but most of them are young and in shape.  They quickly complete the easy one-mile loop, but I am slower.  I take my time, not on purpose, but because I am fat and need to stop often to catch my breath.  

I don’t mind going slow, though.  It gives me time to take pictures and to take in my surroundings.  I trace my fingertips lightly over the hardened wood, hold it in my hands, and imagine what the tree might have looked like in which it came.  

The chunk of petrified wood I am holding is heavier than it looks.  It's not really wood at all, but a fossil made up of different minerals.  The last science class I took was quite a few years ago in high school, so I have no idea what minerals it is composed of.  I only know that it's pretty cool.

The Crystal Forest trail is much more crowded, with families and even a few dogs, but it is an easier trail and where I can see up-close the crystals in the large pieces of petrified wood.  I study the formations, noticing patterns and colors.  Each one is different with varying degrees of beauty.  The looping trail is a mere .75-miles, but it takes me almost an hour to walk it because again, I take my time absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells of the earth.

I have reached the other end of the park.  I am tempted to turn around and travel back through, but I have many more miles to go before stopping for the night.  After consulting my map, I realize the route I will take into New Mexico runs through Pie Town so I make an impromptu stop.

This is the third time I've attempted to stop in Pie Town to get a piece of pie, but the timing was never right.  Until now.  It's almost 3pm.  I stop at the first place I see, The Gathering Place, and surprisingly, it is open.  

I push through the door and am greeted by the most wonderful smells and by a black dog who insists on licking my hand.  There are several tables covered with fresh-out-of-the-oven pies and my stomach rumbles with anticipation.  I eyeball each pie, looking for the perfect one, but the clerk informs me those pies are for a 200 pie order they just received.  

Instead, she shows me four smaller pies in a case that have obviously been sitting there for most of the day.  She says that those are all they have left.   I pick the least pathetic looking one.  It's apricot.  Not my favorite.  I 'd prefer apple or even peach, but it will have to do.   $11 later, I have pie in hand, but it doesn't feel as exciting as I imagined.  But at least now I can say I've had pie in Pie Town.

So far for this trip I have made accommodation reservations.  That's something I usually don't do because I like having the flexibility to deviate from my itinerary.   However, after my most recent and  disastrous road trip of being unable to find a hotel room, I have decided reservations are a must.  

I have two nights booked at the Super 8 in Socorro, still an hour and a half away, but just twenty miles from the main reason for this trip - Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge.  I toss the pie in the ice chest to be devoured later, wash the dog saliva from my hand, and get back on the road.   

    …to be continued.

To see more pictures from this and other road trips, visit my Facebook Page and Instagram.

Petrified wood along Crystal Forest trail

My view: I can see for miles

Road trip: Utah, me and a million other tourists

 

When time is of essence, a single minute feels like eternity and at the moment, it feels like a million eternities. 

I should have been gone by now.  I wasn’t necessarily in a hurry, but I had a plan and that plan included me being on the road five hours ago.  I should have been on the outskirts of Las Vegas instead of pacing my living room while awaiting the UPS guy to deliver my camera lens.

I have had this lens, actually a Canon 1.4x extender, on my Amazon wish list for over a year.  When I realized I could get over $100 off if I used my credit card points, I hastily ordered it.  

It wasn’t until two days later that I realized the scheduled delivery date was on the day I was leaving for Utah.  And that is why I am still at home.  As a side note, UPS attempted delivery the day before, but I was out running errands and a signature is required (sigh).

Finally! 

The driver is here and hands me my package.  I’m ready to sign for it, but he punches a few buttons on his scanner do-hickey and says he doesn’t need a signature.  A quick thank you and off I go!

It’s 6pm when I reach Sin City.   Twilight, but the gaudy lights that usually transform Las Vegas from grunge to glitz have yet to come on.  Mandala Bay, Luxor, and Excalibur Hotel and Casino, among others, sit dark.  Once called the “Entertainment capital of the world,” Las Vegas doesn’t seem so entertaining and I wonder how much of that is due to the pandemic.

Mulberry Inn

This isn’t my final destination and I’ve never really liked Vegas anyway, so I’m not too concerned about their tourism woes.  I’m just passing through, like I’ve done many times over the years.  The last being a little over a year ago.  

I was different then with a fragile mind and heart.  A sentimental and emotional mess.  Although I am driving the same truck, traveling the same road, and probably wearing the same shirt, I am definitely not the same person. 

The me of then and now are in stark contrast.   I remember the past the same as I did last year, but this time it is with a smile and gratitude for a good life shared.   Not a single tear is shed.

It’s 8:45pm when I reach the Mulberry Inn in St. George, Utah.  Somewhere along the way there was a time change making me even later than I already am.  

The Sherlock Room

My friend, Christy, meets me at the curb.  She helps me carry my luggage and camera gear to my room, but she is in her pajamas, so our greeting is brief. 

Edwin Woolley, a prominent judge and merchant, built the house in 1873.  It was one of the largest and finest structures in the city at the time.  Originally known as the Woolley-Foster home, it became Seven Wives Inn in 1981 becoming southern Utah’s first bed and breakfast inn. 

The Mulberry Inn, which it's now called, has only been in existence for less than a year and is still being renovated.  It has about 7 rooms and all are named after characters in literature.  

I am in the attic, which is called the Sherlock Room, named after Sherlock Holmes of course.  It is spacious with two beds, a desk, and a private bathroom with a claw-foot tub.  

Legend has it that the attic was used as a hiding place for polygamists when US Marshals came to town.  The house was also at one time a rest home and even a dormitory for Dixie State College. 

Playing cornhole with
Christy and her Dad

The inn is old and creaky and I am certain it is haunted.

The next morning, I meet Christy and her parent’s downstairs for breakfast.   I make a point of asking the proprietor about any hauntings.  She tells me a story about finding the light outside my door turned off when she knows she left it on.  Long story short, it was her husband turning off the light and not a ghost.  

I am disappointed yet relieved at the same time, however, she never answers my questions about ghosts with a definitive yes or no, so I am left to speculate and wonder.

I spend the next two days relaxing at the inn and driving around St. George with Christy and her parents.  They are interested in moving to St. George, so we look at houses, which also gives me the opportunity to check out different neighborhoods. 

California is too expensive and I do not agree with her liberal politics.  I have lived in San Diego my entire life and I am looking for a change.  I want somewhere more conservative and with a lower cost of living.   I can afford to stay in California, but can’t afford to live in California.  I’d rather spend my pension on plane tickets and not rent. 

Being close to nature is just one of the criteria for my finding a new city to live and St. George clearly meets that requirement.  

Utah has five national parks, with Zion, being less than an hour’s drive from St. George.  However, the city has a desert climate and I am looking for more of a mountainous area with pine trees and perhaps snow. 

Although I’ve crossed St. George off my list of prospective cities to live in, Utah is still one of my favorite states and I intend to enjoy her beauty while I am here.  

When our time is up in St. George, Christy and I say our goodbyes.  She heads for Colorado and I head towards Zion, Utah's first National Park, but instead of the tranquility I’d hoped for, I am met with traffic and crowds.

The Mt. Carmel tunnel in Zion is a little over a mile long and a highlight of the park.  It was built in 1927 and the reason for the congestion.  

It is a very narrow tunnel so park rangers are allowing only one direction of traffic to go through at a time.  It is a time-consuming process as the line of cars and RVs stretching in each direction seems endless.

I am frustrated.  It is difficult to find parking and I bypass many of the viewpoints because they are already full.  For the most part, my camera sits untouched on the passenger’s seat. I exit the park with perhaps a handful of photos taken on my cell phone pointed out the window.

View out the Mt. Carmel tunnel

Highway 89 leads to Bryce Canyon National Park.  

Originally a national monument, Bryce Canyon was re-designated a National Park in 1928 by Congress and it is my next planned stop.  The park supposedly receives fewer visitors than Zion, but the line of cars waiting to enter is long and it makes me wonder.  However, I am still happy to be here.  

It was December 2007 when I last visited Bryce Canyon.  The park was covered in snow with only one viewpoint open, but it was incredibly beautiful!  However, this time….

Park rangers have closed the first several viewpoints as the parking lots are packed.   That should have been my first clue, but instead, I remained optimistic.  Had I consulted a map, I would have known that the road through Bryce was in and out, not a thoroughfare like at Zion.  However, I didn’t so when traffic came to a standstill, I was momentarily excited.

Were we stopped for deer?  Elk?  Maybe a bear?!  My camera was at the ready, but when traffic inched along with no wildlife in sight, I finally glanced at my map.  The road ended at a visitor’s center.  It circled through the parking lot and that is why we were gridlocked.  A thousand more cars than spaces. 

I never made it to the end.  I lost patience and flipped an illegal U-turn in the middle of the road. I bypassed everything and headed straight for the exit, which was also congested with traffic.  Too many cars and not enough national park.  The entrance was closed and visitors were being turned away.  

A disappointing day to say the least. 

Bryce Canyon NP

If only I knew then what I know now, I would have come straight home, but a small part of me was still hopeful and I stuck with my original plan.  And that was to continue to Pando Aspen Grove via scenic Hwy 12. 

With nature, one can never accurately predict the changing of color in the fall, but I was confident I would see some along this stretch of highway.  I was encouraged by the groves of trees near Grover with their leaves of varying shades of orange and red and my earlier irritation was replaced with delight.

It took me longer than anticipated to drive Hwy 12 and it was nearly dark by the time I reached the turnoff to Pando.  The campground was still 30 minutes away with no guarantee it was even open because of Covid-19 restrictions.  Change of plans.  Drive to Richfield and return the following day. 

However, in Richfield, I couldn’t find a hotel room, at least not one within my budget.  Another change of plan.  Skip Pando and perhaps head into Nevada.  Maybe Mesa Verde National Park was open.  I was tired and agitated because of the unavailability of hotel rooms, but looked upon this as a learning experience in both patience and adaptability.

I drove another hour to Beaver and stopped at the first hotel I saw, but they too had no available rooms.  I called another five or six hotels but all were booked.  What was happening?  Where did all these people come from?  Were we not in the middle of a pandemic?  Shouldn’t people be staying at home? 

Exhausted, hungry and on the verge of tears, I got back on Hwy 15 and headed south.  By the time I reached Cedar City, it was 9:45pm.  I’d been on the road for 12 hours!  

My normally frugal self didn’t care about price.   All I wanted was a hot shower and a comfortable bed.  After making numerous calls to different hotels, I finally found a room at Best Western.  Lucky for me there had been a last-minute cancellation. 

The next morning, I looked at a map thinking of how I could salvage this road trip.  However, when I realized I had driven over 415 miles in one day only to end up a mere 52 miles north of where I had started, all motivation was lost.  

I drove home instead and enjoyed a hot shower in my own apartment.

 Total mileage: 1424 miles.

Road Trip: Yosemite and a drive down the California coast

It was like any other morning, waking up too early and too grumpy, but this time I found myself in a strange bed wrapped in strange sheets that smelled like bleach.  A quickening of my pulse and a flash of panic before realizing I was merely tangled in the sheets and not tied up by some psycho.  Oh yeah, and  I was on vacation.

The previous day, I took a leisurely 400-mile drive up US-395 from San Diego, along the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.  Passing the historic gold-mining town of Randsburg, I thought briefly of stopping, but the 95-degree heat convinced me otherwise.  Onward I drove through Lone Pine and then a brief stop in Bishop to eat my peanut butter sandwich and then finally rolling into Mammoth Lakes on a beautiful Monday afternoon.  

This road trip was all about getting back to nature and pulling myself out of the funk I’d fallen into.  I needed to hear the chirping of birds and the gurgling of a stream; I needed to breath in the scent of a pine tree and fresh mountain air; I needed to gaze upon the expanse of a meadow full of deer, but what I needed most was simply to get away from the familiarity of an inadequate life. 

Six months after my return from Russia, the world went into quarantine because of a virus called COVID-19, sometimes referred to as corona virus or the China Virus (if you are President Trump).  The virus originated in China, because someone ate a rancid bat at a street market, or some weird thing like that.  It swept across the world infecting millions of people, and killing hundreds of thousands.  Some thought it was a conspiracy, something designed by politicians to influence elections, a ‘super flu’ if you will, while others barricaded themselves in their homes, hoarding toilet paper and thinking it was the end of the world.  At the beginning it did have all the makings of a zombie apocalypse and we were all afraid.

The country went on lockdown, no one could leave their homes except for necessary travel, such as to medical appointments or to Wal-Mart.  People were told not to go to work unless they were considered ‘essential’.  

I work part-time at Amazon filling online grocery orders, which were off the hook because no one wanted to leave their homes.  I was considered essential, but even then, I only worked the 12-hours necessary to stay on payroll for the month.  

Everything was shut down – county, state, and national parks, restaurants, hair and nail salons, gyms, beaches, you name it.  We couldn’t go anywhere or do anything and when we did venture outside, we were required to wear a mask and keep a 6-foot distance from anyone.  Borders closed and travel ceased.  The world was at a standstill.

I was stuck in my 670-square foot, fly ridden, shithole apartment and I was depressed.  Information changed daily.  Places opened, but closed days later.  The experts knew nothing, changed their opinions, and took away our freedoms all in the name of “flattening the curve” to stop the spread of this unknown virus that no one knew anything about. 

Months after the initial lockdown, places slowly began reopening. There is still no vaccine and masks are required, but at least we can go outside without fear of being arrested.  Nothing is as before.  The overused term the media spouts every 3.5 seconds during their nightly broadcasts is, “the new normal.”  Life continues whether we are forced to remain indoors or not, but there is nothing normal about what is happening.  

I was lonely, depressed, and exhausted from life at that point, so when I heard Yosemite National Park was partially open, I wasted no time in securing an entry pass.  However, the soonest I could visit the park was a month away, but it gave me something to look forward to.

It was in Mammoth Lakes where I could find the only affordable accommodations, but it meant at least a ½ hour drive to the park.  Because of the corona virus, the campgrounds in Yosemite were running at only 50% capacity, which was great, less people, but also less availability.  Of course, when planning my trip, the campgrounds were already full and I couldn’t find an open campground outside the park. 

Since there was so much driving involved, I planned to spend most of each day in the park.  I had my photography equipment, my art supplies, food, a book listing some easy hikes I had every intention of using, and even an air mattress for napping in the back of my truck (which I used).

I entered along Hwy 120 through Tioga Pass at an elevation of 9,943 ft.  Tioga Pass is the highest highway pass in California and serves as the eastern entry point for Yosemite.  The views are incredible, but certain areas along the pass are subject to landslides, one of which I almost got caught in. 

During Day 3 of my travels, I exited the park the same as I’d done the day before, but as I came around a curve a thick cloud obscured the road.  Rocks tumbled down the hillside to my left and I couldn’t see if they were falling into the road or not.  For a split second I thought of slamming on my brakes, but I estimated I would stop directly under the falling rocks.  Or, I would lose control of my truck and end up flipping off the side of the road into the unknown.   So, I did the next thing that popped into my mind.  I stomped on the gas and hoped for the best. 

Rocks and earth continued sliding downward on my left and dust obscured my view, but luckily, the brief stretch of road was straight and I sailed blindly through.  I pulled over a safe distance away and watched in awe as the hill slide away.  A moat of sorts was built to catch tumbling rocks, apparently this wasn’t the first rockslide in the history of rockslides in this area, and the moat did exactly as it was meant to do.  Not one rock ever touched the road. 

The following day, I couldn’t find any sign that a rockslide had occurred, not even one tiny pebble in the street.   My initial assumption that I was going to die, now seemed like a bit of an overreaction, but it made for a good story on Facebook.

Although that was the most adrenaline-fueled event to take place during my trip, it wasn’t the only highlight.  

Every day, I saw at least a dozen deer.  At one of my daily stops, a herd was feeding in the meadow.  Quietly, with camera and tripod, I approached, but kept a safe distance.  The deer saw me, but did not perceive me as a threat.  Two of them came nearer and nearer as they fed on the brush.  I was incredibly happy with my photos that day. 

I spent my time in Yosemite meditating, drawing, and of course taking photos.  Twice I thought about hiking.  Once at Tuolumne Meadows, but it was already in the upper 80s and again in Yosemite Valley.  But it was 95-degrees! 

My original plan was to spend the entire 7-days that my pass allowed in Yosemite, but the excessive heat, it was over 90-degrees every day, and the 40-minute drive to and from the park was tiresome.  On Day 4, I checked out of the Motel 6 and drove through Yosemite, visiting my favorite spots one last time.

After Yosemite, I was going to find a hotel in Fresno and visit Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks.  However, it was 100-degrees when I reached Fresno and by then all I wanted was to get somewhere cool.  So, I headed west and to the first coastal city that came to mind.

By the time I arrived in Monterey, California, it was a good 30-degrees cooler than Fresno.  So much cooler in fact, that I had to put a sweater on at dinner.  Thanks to COVID restrictions, restaurants could only remain open if they provided outdoor dining.  

Therefore, most restaurants had tables set up in their parking lot and Denny’s in Monterey was no exception.  Although my view was that of a gas station and busy intersection, a nice ocean breeze kept away the exhaust fumes. 

Unfortunately, the aquarium in Monterey that I have always wanted to visit was closed, thanks again to COVID, but it was a nice two days wandering the city.  

At Fisherman’s Wharf I bought lunch of fried seafood and then found a shady spot along the walkaway to eat.  The harbor is full of seals, so when I saw two little heads bobbing in the water, I didn’t take much notice, but then I did.  They weren’t seals, but sea otters!  I’d never seen a sea otter in the wild before. 

Of course, I left my long lens in the car because it was too heavy to carry (I walked almost 7 miles!), so I didn’t get any pictures, however, they were amazing to see.  They fed on crustaceans attached on the pier pilings.  They’d dive underwater, emerge with something in their little paws and float on their backs while they ate.  I watched them for about 15 minutes and then they disappeared as kayakers and paddle boarders became more abundant. 

Another highlight to an already great trip!

After Monterey I headed south on coastal Hwy 1. 

Near San Simeon I stopped at elephant seal vista point to watch elephant seals. Most were basking in the sun on the beach, but several of the males were sparring along the shoreline.  With gapping mouths, they were quite vocal as they rammed each other with their chests.  There was a lot of loud thumping as they bumped one another, and lots of “ohs” and “ahs” from the attentive crowd, but no casualties were suffered. 

A male Northern Elephant Seal can weigh up to 5,500-pounds, but these were much smaller.  They can also hold their breath for more than 100 minutes, longer than any other aquatic mammal.  They were quite remarkable to watch and I watched for almost an hour.

Further south I stopped for lunch in Morro Bay, but the coast was socked in with fog, so I decided not to stop at Morro Rock.  Instead, I ordered some McDonalds to go and sat in the parking lot throwing French fries at the seagulls surrounding my truck.  

Now that I think about it, a foggy coastline would have made for some good photography and it would have been much better than that soggy burger and aggressive gulls.

In Santa Barbara, I cruised past the beach and Stearns Wharf where I had visited in January.  The weather was beautiful and I thought of hanging out for a bit before finding a hotel for the night.  This time I had my big lens with me and wanted to do some bird photography.  Maybe the Black Skimmers were still around and I could get some better pictures, but it was 3pm on a Sunday.  People everywhere.

I kept driving, still with the thought of stopping, but before I knew it, I was home.

It was a short trip mileage wise in comparison to some of my other trips. I drove about 1,800 miles in 7 days, but it was the journey and experiences that mattered, not the distance. 

And it was exactly what I needed.

Another glimpse into my time in Russia

The writing of my story about my time in Russia is still a work in progress.  It's been slow going as I've taken on other projects and started college classes, but I write when I can.  Here is another installment.  They are posted in no particular order.  In this segment, my friend and I have just arrived in St. Petersburg from Moscow.  It is our first day in the city.

“As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind.  To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again.  To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.” – Henry David Thoreau

It’s early afternoon when we arrive at Moskovsky Rail Station in St. Petersburg.

Based on a design by architect Konstantin Thon and built in the late 1840’s, Moskovsky station was originally called Nicholaevsky after Nicholas I as he was the reigning monarch at that time.  It was not given its present name until 1930. 

Since both stations were designed by Thon, Moskovsky station physically mirrors its counterpart in Moscow, but there are subtle differences in the atmosphere.  People bustle about in the same way and it’s no less crowded, but their energy is different.  It is brighter, calmer, and more congenial than that at Leningradsky railway station.

St. Petersburg has always been my end destination.  It is here where I have wanted to be for the past six months, so maybe it is only my energy that is in contrast.  Maybe St. Petersburg is like Moscow, tired and indifferent, and everything remains the same.  Perhaps it only looks different to me because I am seeing it through a pair of cliché rose-colored glasses. 

Christy doesn’t realize how much of an impact the simple act of disembarking the train has on me.  I have told her very little about my internal struggles.  She knows, of course, about my separation from my husband and the ensuing depression, but not the depth of it or of the self-deprecating way of thinking that has followed.  I have downplayed my reasons for this trip, told her I simply needed a breather and some space to get my head on straight. 

Transitioning from having a cop’s mentality to that of a civilian has been difficult.  I am in a constant state of observation and situational awareness.  I’m always watching and profiling every person I see.  Always playing the “what-if” game in my mind.  What if the man in front of me pulls out a gun?  What if the bank gets robbed while I’m standing in line?  What if? What if?  A million scenarios run through my brain so I can be prepared at any given moment.  Traits that helped me be a good Deputy, helped keep me and my partners safe, but a way of thinking that has taken a toll on my psyche. 

That mind play didn’t simply stop when my uniform came off.  It’s ingrained in me and I hate it.  People who don’t work in law-enforcement don’t get it, don’t understand how it messes with your mind.  However, after spending a good portion of her adult life in law-enforcement, Christy understands.  She doesn’t ask many questions and allows me the time and space I need to get myself back to a good place again.

My first step off the train is the beginning to the end of my transformation, or so I think at the time.  There is much more to my journey that extends well beyond St. Petersburg, but I don’t realize it just yet.  It is in this beautiful city where I feel the biggest phase of my change will occur.  Already it is happening.  I am content and that in and of itself is huge.

In our itinerary packet, we received strict instructions to wait on the train platform for our greeter, so we wait.  I am looking for a man, someone young like the other two guides who assisted us in Moscow, but Mira is definitely neither.  She is perhaps in her early 40’s, incredibly beautiful, with dark hair and eyes.  Standing next to her, I feel fat and ordinary, but she is friendly and immediately makes us feel at ease. 

During the 20-minute drive to our hotel, conversation with her is easy.  She asks about our time in Moscow, what we liked best, and like our previous guides, gives us a brief history lesson of the city.  

My impression of St. Petersburg is it is very clean.  Beautiful is what I think.  It is the opposite of Moscow, however in its vibrancy.  I felt it at the train station, but now I am seeing it as we drive to our hotel.  There are kids playing in a park, a couple strolling along the street with their dog, two teenagers sitting on a park bench acting like young lovers do.  I see vitality.  I see life.

I was born and raised in San Diego, California.  It is where I have always lived, where my family lives, yet there is a disconnect between me and the city.  It is home, but it doesn’t feel like home.  It doesn’t give me comfort.  All my memories are there, but I only associate the city with the bad ones because as of late, that’s all there's been. 

Less than an hour after arriving in St. Petersburg, however, I already feel a connection to this foreign city.  I know I am blinded by my emotions and I am only seeing what I want to see, but it feels authentic.  It’s cathartic, and I hate using that overused word, but it is an accurate description to what is happening to me.

Our hotel is up ahead, but the roads surrounding it are blocked off.  Our driver pulls over and speaks with someone standing at the blockade.  I listen to their conversation, but can understand none of it, although I get the impression our driver is trying to convince the man to let us through.  

Mira explains the roads are closed for security because there is a group of foreign dignitaries staying at our hotel.  We will have to walk the rest of the way.  Our driver dumps us off about a block from our hotel and wishes us luck as Mira leads us to the hotel.   

The Angleterre Hotel opened in 1991 and was built to replicate the original hotel, Napoleon’s, that stood on the property in 1840.  However, when it opened in 1991, it was nameless, becoming part of the neighboring Hotel Astoria instead.  With a change of management in 1999, the hotel’s name was restored to Angleterre Hotel.  Although it is still connected to the Astoria, the 4-star Angleterre is now its own entity and known mostly for being the place where famous Russian poet, Sergei Yesenin, hanged himself in 1925. 

Our room is not as spacious as the one at Hotel Savoy in Moscow, but our view is better as we actually have a view this time.  From our room in Moscow, we looked out upon another building and its roof with crisscrossing cables and wires. 

View from our hotel window

Once, while Christy and I were getting ready to go out, we watched a young 20-something year old man and woman climb out a window of one building and onto the roof of another.  The woman promptly dropped her pants, squatted, and took a pee.  Our window and drapes were open and we made noise so they would know we were there, but apparently the woman had to go the bathroom really bad as she didn’t seem to care that we could see her. 

No chance of seeing anyone peeing from our window at the Angleterre, unless they do it on the street below.  Our windows open wide with a small sitting area where I can look upon St. Isaac’s Cathedral and a tree covered park.  The row of parking spots along the street is full of identical black SUVs, which will eventually carry away the group which has caused the road closures. 

It is now 4pm and I’m famished! 

Petrov-Vodkin on Admiralteyskiy Avenue is a quick 5-minute walk from our hotel.  The restaurant isn’t crowded and we easily get a table.  Our waiter speaks English, but not very well, although it is much better than my Russian.  I pull out my cellphone to use my translation app to help communicate with him, however, when I access it, the last word I translated pops up: шлюха (shluha), which means whore.  

The waiter makes a sound of surprise and I immediately cover my phone.  I am beyond embarrassed! 

After I apologize profusely and recover from my little faux pas, we follow him to a case full of deliciously looking tapas.  I’m seeing with my hungry tummy and want to eat everything, but I order just one, a beet-herring tapa.  And then we splurge on a caviar tasting plate.  Black, yellow, and red caviar along with bread, onions, chives, and sour cream.  Black is the more expensive caviar, but I prefer red. 

For dinner, I order a sterlett filet with a poached egg over smoked potato puree surrounded by (surprise!) red caviar.  Of course it is good, but my only complaint is there is not enough of it!  After dinner, we detour through the park near our hotel.  It is chilly and I am tired, but feeling good.  

St. Petersburg is already working her magic. 

St. Isaac's Cathedral at night