Yesterday I returned to my second skoolie home for a third visit because I can’t pass up it’s awesome hippie vibe. I have the same spot nestled into trees and was still able to see the full moon. To help me sleep, I got, shall we say, very happy around the campfire with a light show. Full moons fuel my wild woman crazy idea generator, so looking back, the goddess was saving me from doing all sorts of things I might (or might not) regret by landing me in a black hole where I had no connect with the world outside my bus. Today I got the password. Maybe my phone will get a bar or two.

I am here a day early because there is rain in the forecast and my wipers aren’t working. There are angels here who, in the coming days, will try to make sense of the colorful spaghetti in the control box. I longed to stay at the beach. After my last post when Julian assessed the problem, I sat outside with my boondocking neighbors and drank a half a bottle of wine while watching the moon light up the night. I had the most wonderful night’s sleep. I want to credit the sound of the waves, but the wine might also have had something to do with it. 

I stopped to visit one more beach Saturday morning for an hour or so before heading inland. There I found several houses overdressed for Christmas, which I still associate New England winters – not butterflies and 84-degree weather. It’s not a problem because it’s Yule I celebrate, and the return of the sun happens no matter where you are. 

It took until I was just below a quarter tank before I found diesel for $3.4599 a gallon instead of the more common $3.5999. The independent restaurant with a large enough parking lot I finally stopped at did not have great food. During one break, I stepped off the bus for a few minutes without closing the doors behind me. I freaked out when I realized it and couldn’t find Pye in or around the bus. When I stood on the stairs and shook the treat jar, he crawled out from under the seat behind me, and I was flooded with gratitude. Another part of the adventure was trying to mail some cards and following signs to a tiny post office in a tiny town where I went in the exit and out the entrance. Along the way I decided Florida’s highest elevations are its bridges, that Vermont Heights was neither, and learned Hastings is Florida’s potato capitol … which probably accounts for a road sign that said only “Spuds.” Oh, and Putnam was “outdoor friendly,” whatever that means. 

It was 84 degrees in the early afternoon and hotter on the bus. I did my best to rig up fans, but they giggled out of place and needed adjusting every few minutes, which was not possible.

It feels like I’ve done a lot of driving and very little cooking. Both are about to change. Pye will miss the counters that are totally clear when we travel every day.