I left home with a mental rough draft of how the trip’s logistics might unfold.

The first stop was Las Vegas to see The Chicks in concert and to meet up with the Las Vegas Teacher of the Year, Jeremy Lawson. Then on to Phoenix and the Southwest. I’d stop three times while passing through Texas, then explore the Southeast until I reached Key West. After a couple of days there — one of my must-visit destinations — I’d make my way up the coast until I reached New York City.

My return would be across the Midwest and the northern USA to Seattle. Finally, I’d drive south on Interstates 101 and 5 to get back home to Moorpark (Southern California).

I allowed myself flexibility and made small detours (Utah instead of Montana), but I mostly stuck to the script.

My over/under for hotels was $100 a night. Other than Chicago, where I stayed four nights and wanted to treat myself, I mostly paid the under. Thanks Hotels.com.

For different reasons, I didn’t seriously consider suggested alternatives: buying and sleeping in a van, camping under the stars, staying in Airbnbs... I just wanted a place with comfortable bed, a warm shower, a working air conditioner, and a functioning television so I could watch the NBA Playoffs.

Typically, I’d get to the hotel around sunset and eat dinner in my room (lots of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches). When the playoffs weren’t on (Denver beat Miami four games to one in the finals), I’d watch The Office and Parks and Recreation.

I rarely stayed more than 12 hours anywhere, so I didn’t need luxury or even nice. Just decent and convenient. Functional.

Still, little stuff was important to me. What was the luggage cart like? How many trash cans were in the room? Did they have liners? Did the shower have at least minimal water pressure?

I appreciated having a soap dish. I didn’t stay in many places where they hung the fancier liquid soaps. Typically, there’d be a small bar, wrapped in paper or plastic.

Once unwrapped and used, if there wasn’t a soap dish, there was a dilemma. If I laid the wet bar on the counter, it would slide around, make a mess, and be tricky to pick up.

Sometimes, I’d place it on a clean wash cloth, but that seemed like an unnecessary use of the washcloth. When I tried using the wrapper as a soap dish, I’d have to unstick it.

Life is so hard.

So if a hotel provided any kind of soap dish to ease my burden, I was grateful.

I became a luggage cart geek. I studied their design. I liked the ones with plenty of places to hang my stuff.

When I’d get to a hotel, I’d check in, grab a cart, and load it with my duffel bag of clean clothes, my laundry basket of dirty ones, and a large plastic bin that I’d filled with food (peanut butter, jelly, honey, bread, bananas, berries, chips, cookies, and condiments), along Tupperware, a plastic plate and glass, utensils, and napkins.

All that took up the space on the cart’s base. Anything else — my backpack, gym bag, grocery sacks, and shoe bag — had to be hung from hooks. Often there weren’t any, so I’d have to precariously pile up everything. Too many luggage carts are poorly designed, without a tired traveler in mind. So an A+ cart, like this one, was a welcome convenience.

Unlike most hotel guests, I didn’t take advantage of any of the “free” (as if they’re not built into the room cost) hotel-provided breakfasts. The dining rooms were usually packed with families helping themselves to eggs, pancakes, waffles, cereal, and juice.

For two reasons, I didn’t partake.

First, I almost never eat breakfast. When I wake up, I work out. If I don’t, I feel yucky. Unless I vigorously move — run, swim, bike, hike, lift — my body feels sluggish and my mind grows restless. Second, it was too depressing to eat alone in a place where it seemed like everyone but me was traveling together, enjoying each other’s company. I know that wasn’t necessarily true, but that’s what it felt like.

So when I woke up, I’d work out. After showering, I’d drive until I’d find someplace interesting for brunch. After reading a lot of John Grisham, I’d always wanted to try a Waffle House. I did. Twice. Sometimes, I’d find an intriguing spot where eating alone didn’t hurt too bad. I especially enjoyed the ambience and service at The Collins Quarter at Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia.

If I wanted to be alone, all I’d have to do was visit the hotel workout room. Most of them were rudimentary and empty. I’ll never understand how they can build even no-frills hotels (that still cost millions) without spending a few thousand to equip a small gym. Even so, free mediocre food is always going to be way more popular with the public than free mediocre workout spaces.

__________

I drove a 2023 Hyundai Tucson. During the 16,332 miles I covered, I averaged 31.4 miles per gallon. I had one flat tire in South Carolina (caused, I’m pretty sure, by a cobblestone street in Savannah). I ran out of gas in Michigan (distracted by a phone call home to my wife and daughter).

Triple-A came in less than an hour and charged me $10 for one gallon of gas, but I would have paid them whatever they wanted. In Wyoming, I almost ran out of gas again. No excuse this time. I was daydreaming.

I snapped out of it when the fuel gage flashed that the tank would be empty in eight miles. The problem was the next gas station was 17 miles west. Sliding into the right lane on I-80, slowing to 50 miles per hour, and coasting as much as I could worked. I love that Flying J Travel Center in Laramie!

When I had my oil changed in Denver, a technician messed up. He had done something that caused a leak. By the time I got to Boulder, I was out of oil. Thank God I found a genius auto mechanic who somehow fixed the leak and refilled my oil. What could have been a major ordeal ended up being only a minor snag.

Besides the cost of oil, mechanic Frank only wanted to charge me twenty dollars! I insisted he accept fifty, but that still didn’t seem like enough.

I was pulled over twice, but both times I got off with a warning. In western Illinois, a young sheriff stopped me. I’m pretty sure it was because of my California plates. After he inexplicably ordered me to sit in his vehicle, he asked me what I was doing in his part of the world.

“I’m driving around the country asking great teachers what the most vital lesson we need to teach kids is,” I said. “Actually, would you be willing to share what you think the most vital lesson is?”

He shared a lengthy personal story about why it’s important to learn about money and finance, but he wouldn’t let me film him saying it. I drove off thinking the connection we built was the reason I wasn’t ticketed.

In the hotel room that night, when I looked over the warning, I changed my mind. I had assumed I must have topped 80 on his radar, but no! I had been going 75 — five measly miles over the limit.

It probably wasn’t our bonding that got me off. More likely he felt bad about citing anyone — even a Californian — for such a minor infraction.

I was stopped again late one night in Salt Lake City. A pleasant and friendly highway patrol officer informed me that I’d been driving without my headlights on. This officer didn’t even bother with a written warning. “Be safe,” he said, and sent me on my way.

Other than my California plates (maybe), I didn’t experience any kind of prejudice, discrimination, or even rude behavior anywhere. Part of it might be that I’m a nice guy, but most of it was because I’m a white male.

At certain times and places in my life — public basketball courts when I was in my teens and twenties, for example— being white wasn’t an advantage. The white boy was often passed over when picking teams.

But I’m aware that the consequences of being pulled over for driving five miles over the speed limit or not switching on the lights when dusk transitions to dark are often harsher when you don’t look like me.

__________

Each region of the US has its own, distinct vibe, and I love that. Some things, though, are everywhere. Here are three:

Orange and white barrels.

They were annoying, but I couldn’t get too mad at them. Infrastructure repair and improvement is ultimately good. It’s just that construction takes so long now! Did you know that they built the entire Golden Gate Bridge, one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World, in less than four and a half years? And get this: They did it from 1933 to 1937, the height of the Great Depression!

2. Personal injury lawyers.

It seemed like every other billboard I saw advertised them. Lots of times, there was a huge photo of the man (almost always a man) who, if I was in an accident, would make me rich. Local television advertisements were the same. Whatever state I was in, there were 60-second spots paid for by personal injury lawyers.

Personal injury law is a multibillion-dollar industry in the U.S. In fact, according to the National Center for State Courts, about 60% of all civil trials involve personal injury claims (car accidents, medical malpractice, product liability, etc.). Suing is a huge business.

3. Parking issues.

It seemed that no matter where I was, parking was a hassle. Even in small, rural places, free and easy parking wasn’t a given. Finding a spot wasn’t the challenge, it was dealing with the exasperating parking meters and apps.

Many meters required parallel parking (which I still kind of suck at), then I’d have figure out how the meters work. There are so many different kinds!

I had a supply of nickels, dimes, and quarters, but most modern meters don’t accept coins. So I’d have to follow the steps (always different!) and insert my credit card into a meter so it could charge me something like $2 dollars. I didn’t have my card number stolen, but I was concerned about that happening.

And those maddening apps! In so many states, I’d have to download a new one — ParkMobile, ParkWhiz, ProPark, Parking.com… — then take the time to, over and over, upload personal info.

In downtown San Antonio, I forgot to enter my license plate number. Realizing that could lead to a ticket, I called customer service. I was surprised when they told me it wasn’t possible for them to simply add my plate number. That I’d have to start over, enter all my info again, including the plate number, and then write an email requesting a refund for the first $18 dollars charged to my credit card.

Despite a bunch of emails, I still haven’t seen my $18. Of course, it’s not about the money. It’s the time and the bother. These apps are making tons of money for the app companies and whoever owns the parking lot real estate. They don’t have to hire an attendant or even put up a gate. Just post a sign with a QR code.

It makes it easier and more profitable for them but hugely inconvenient us. Those with money get richer, not just by collecting our cash, but wasting our time.

4. Unhoused people hanging out on freeway exits.

It was more common in cities than small towns, but sadly homelessness is every area’s issue.

I saw many, but only encountered one unhoused person. In Atlanta, I gave a middle-aged man five dollars. I asked if I could photograph him, thinking I’d share it as an example of the ubiquity of homelessness. But I’ve changed my mind about posting his picture. It doesn’t feel right.

Other than the first nine months I lived in California—when I mostly slept in my girlfriend’s (now wife’s) dorm room—I’ve always been housed. I don’t take it for granted.

Having a home with running water, electricity, comfortable furniture, a stocked pantry and refrigerator, and access to the world through the internet is a privilege. I think about that almost every time I see someone who doesn’t have those basics. In Key West, I handed twenty dollars to a woman who instead of thanking me, took the bill and said, “Oh, so you must be a rich guy.”

It was the first time I didn’t feel good giving money to someone who needed it more than I did, but she wasn’t wrong.

I am rich.

Financially rich is relative, of course, but if I had big money, I would have given her (and many others) a lot more than twenty dollars! Still, even though it sounds corny and cliché, I’m rich in all the ways that matter most. I’m generally healthy. I have a bunch of things that interest me. I’m loved.

__________

In the days and weeks after Kihei died, many of the things I hadn’t thought much about when she was alive were the things I missed most.

I missed having her at the foot of my bed when I woke up each morning. I missed wiping her dirty feet after a long walk. I missed brushing her thick fur. I missed cooking her chicken and rice. I missed taking her out for one last pee, then brushing her teeth and putting her to bed each night.

At the time, I considered some of that a bother. Stuff I’d rather not do. A waste of my time. Minutiae.

Before my trip, I thought of minutiae as insignificant. But now I don’t. It’s cool. It’s the essence of life. When I remember my mom, I picture her peeling potatoes. When I remember my dad, I see him pushing a lawn mower around our yard on summer Saturdays.

When I left for my trip on May 1st, 2023, I hoped to make huge discoveries about the world, and there was some of that — the source, tributaries, and mouth of the Mississippi, for example.

I wanted to have deep conversations with wise teachers and special students, and there were plenty of those.

But a lot of the trip was minutiae. Driving. Planning the next stop. Checking into and out of hotels. Paying half attention to old TV shows. Morning workouts. Getting gas. Buying a Coke, Dots Pretzels and peanut butter M&Ms to ward off drowsiness.

I wouldn’t have thought that I’d remember those kinds of details. But I do because minutiae matters. My life isn’t just about its monumental moments... All those small, in-between rituals that fill my days, when they’re gone, when I can’t do them anymore, I’ll miss.

Chapter 20: Is There a Soap Dish? (And Other Memorable Minutiae)

Chapter 19: Fortifying My Fragile Faith