Farewell my love... hello mystery maven!

Welcome to Ruby Van Dykes, our indelible travel blog detailing our crossing of the USA in our beloved RV, Ruby Van Dyke. Yes, she's very Dutch...

In 3 days, we embark on an indefinite journey; we're unsure of the route, the destinations, the length of travel, or how this adventure will transform us, but we are sure that on Saturday, January 11th, 2020, we are heading south towards Quartzite, AZ for a huge gathering in the desert of vehicle dwellers.

It's exciting. It's frightening. It's maddening.

Add to this mayhem a molasses-moving construction project on our new home in Winston-Salem, NC, finding a contractor for our California home, after the one we hired disappeared on the day he was scheduled to start, locating a set of tenants for our furnished home and another pair for our converted garage in California and the modifications and general equipping of our RV with everything we might need for a year of travel, packing and shipping our belongings, doing a Marie Kondo dance of discard-donate-ship of our stuff, feeding our kids who were home for the holidays (as if we will never feed them again, well, most likely not in this home again) and saying good-bye to our closest friends, most of whom we haven't seen in months...(see below) and you've got me kvetching about my first world issues.

But let's start with how we got here.

It's been a while since I've written, between my ADD-acquired, addled and unfocued brain, and capitalism breathing down my neck to do,do,do, it's been a challenge to just sit and write. My intention on this journey is to get my brain back; to do what I love, to write and photograph; to let go of the chores, tasks, shoulds and incessant obsession with my phone and see what happens. I guarantee, you will read about addiction and withdrawal...I invite to come with us on this magical, mystery ride and who knows, maybe you'll get inspired to go for your dreams, towards your fears, welcoming what you were meant to do on this planet.
I could tell you in reverse what has transpired in the last 6 years, but let's start with the present. I was sitting in Ruby Van Dyke, our beloved, though sometimes flabbergasting, RV, watching the bluish, fog-poked San Francisco skyline, the arid Point Isabel Dog Park meadow dotted with yellow mustard. My heart ached for all that has happened, and has not, in my last 25 years here and pondered my decision to leave.

This is the land that has captivated me since 1982, when my then friend, Pam, who later became my partner and later mother to our child, had decided to inhabit. California, so reminiscent of my childhood home in Haifa, Israel, grounded me, held me in her tapestry of sunlight and fog, assured me abundance with her citrus trees laden and seemingly relaxed, bohemian vibes. California was the rock on which I stood as I changed from my wild, unapologetic self, looking for love in all the wrong places, to a calmer individual who was whack-tose intolerant. California was my stage as I became a steadfast homemaker; from my addled, addict-infused dramas to the no-matter-what graced gift of sobriety and abstinence; from my fear of having closeness with children due to my #metoo past to becoming a parent, twice. California was a witness to my successes and shortcomings as I became the more aware parent that I had hoped to be, a journey that catapulted me through my own limitations and blocks.

California continues to break my heart daily. Her beauty marred by apathy, capitalism, greed and privilege. Her highways lined with lush Popsicle orange poppies waving white tampon wrappers, flagging for help. It's the sunset-shimmering bay winking, slinking, offering tainted, plastic-full- bellied fish to fisher folk. It's the endless Tesla and Prius armies brimming the highways, sightless, passing exponentially-growing homeless encampments, filth and trash oozing into the bay. It's the denial of her clogged traffic arteries, a gluttony of excess, a heaving, imminent heart attack.

Northern California's East Bay topography has always captivativated me. The sometimes green hills overlooking the Bay, Richmond/San Rafael and Golden Gate Bridges; Mid-Century, Mission-style, Victorian and Craftsman architecture sidle to a profusion of fusion cuisines, every shade of human can enjoy, as long as you can afford it. It's easy for some to forget the fires, the masks, the shelter-in-place days and nights, the billions lost in earthquakes, mudslides, health issues. Those who drank the Kool-aid profess there is no better place on earth, as they crash on their sofas unable to engage with their communities, their neighbors, too exhausted from the multiple jobs and three-hour commute they endure in order to afford their home.

There is a mass exodus by those too tired, too poor, too overwhelmed to fight. There is also an influx of employees, fresh recruits by behemoth companies, funneling money to build more and more housing on an already overcrowded land.

The nay-sayers would argue that this is still the best place on Earth. It might be for some. I know for me, I need a slower pace. I, like many, have relied on my phone and computer for connection and closeness. They don't hug too well.

My dream is to live with people in a tiny house village on permaculture land, somewhere where the effects of global climate crisis might be less devastating; where I will never again have to ask "where is everyone?"; a place where service, community and kindness are paramount, where resources are shared, where art and music, dance and play are woven into daily practice.

Sounds nice but impossible? Tell Don Quitoxe. I've seen places built and I've seen people thrive. I know that if we build it, they will come. These days, many of us have 1000+ friends on Facebook, but none in our home. We long for physical friendships and relationships. My intention is to build such a community. After much research, we decided to date Winston-Salem, North Carolina, our final destination and see if this was the place for building such a place.

Many of you looked at me askew when I mentioned moving to the South. Why in the world would a Jewish, lesbian, immigrant head to that bastion of inter-breeding, racist, homophobic, small-minded, rebel-flag waving, Republican, conservative hell hole? I admit, that was my perspective as well...

I was the ignorant, judgemental one. When we visited, I was struck by the friendliness, the helpfulness, the kindness of strangers. Folks who never met us in person inviting us to stay with them until we got settled. Folks whom we did meet in person offering food, mowing our grass, helping in whatever way was needed, opening their hearts and homes. Wait, these values remind me of another place, my country, the Middle-Eastern value of welcoming guests. I was dumbfounded.

I feel like one of Joseph Campbell's The Hero of a Thousand Faces protagonist. Joe says that every culture has a story of a hero having to leave their village in order to transform into someone who will help the village survive upon their return. Maybe my village is Earth. I'm not sure.

I only know that I need to see this country, to learn about its cultures, to listen closely to what the Universe has in store for us and then to bring that knowledge and experience to help create something.

So, with mixed feelings of trepidation, sadness, excitement and longing, I present to you the story of our travels.