The countdown had begun. We packed up the two PODS like Tetris champions, we became expert level sellers on Facebook Marketplace, and the local Goodwill had surely reported unusual earnings during the last few months. We were scheduled to leave California five days before we were needed in Maine to sign and close on our home. And, fingers were crossed that our caravan would make it without a hitch. (Side note: if ever you find yourself in the same scenario, I recommend giving yourself more time to travel. People should slowly ween into full on trucker status.)
We had been ‘camping’ in our own home leading up to our departure date: one air mattress, three sleeping bags and one oversize orthopedic dog bed. It was a definitely a whole vibe. By the time it came for us to leave, we were all so ready to get on the road (after months of preparation) and sleep in real beds (if you can call hotel beds “real beds”) that I don’t think we fully understood that we were leaving a place we had called home our entire lives. As we drove away, I felt every emotion.
I could bore you with all of the details of our cross-country trip like almost losing a bike from a broken bike rack on top of our car, getting stuck in an unmanned toll lane late at night and backing out just to t-bone the trailer and dent my bumper, sneaking our Great Dane past the front desk of a pre-booked hotel that said it was pet friendly but really wasn’t, our daughter’s car not starting the last day, and losing our minds from the monotony of wake, pack, get on the road, check in, unpack sleep, wake…but, I won’t do that to you.
Three thousand, three hundred, and three miles later, we crossed the state line into Maine and were greeted by this sign:
There were three drivers on the freeway that day with tears in their eyes. We were home.
