One of the things I compromised on when I became nomadic was my car.  I used to have an older sports coupe, my darling gas drinker, my Supra.  I loved that car, I rebuilt the engine with my own two hands (and a bunch of tools).  I loved driving that car thru the mountains, hearing the turbo spool up and feeling the thrust from those six cylinders.  I spend time under the hood, finetuning.  I spend more time than I should have under the car, fixing!  She was a finicky bitch.  Money in parts, in gas, time spend in a garage, with all my parts supply close, my network of simply knowledge I had built up.

I loved that deep red beast.

I sold it.  I sold it for less than I felt it was worth, because I needed to get rid of it.  I couldn’t afford to keep it up, to feed it parts and gas.  I used the money to build the bus, my new home.  I kept my old truck, the one with power nothing and rust holes everywhere.  That ran, and ran simply.  Sadly, my truck was not suitable for the summer heat.  Good thing I spent the summer on a bus.

Winter passed, and my truck did me proud.  Summer came, and I needed something to get me around town in the heat, when I was away from the bus.  I began to peruse kijiji.  There are many cheap cars on that used site, but you really are rolling the dice, even with some mechanical knowledge.  I bought an 89 Civic for about the amount of one month’s payment on a nice new car.

Yesterday, I decided that I had taken the game little car for granted long enough.  I had barely even looked on the underside, and that ominous clunking was getting louder.  I can only stick my head in the sand so long.  Besides, the 300 000 km mark was coming up, and I wanted to give my car a present.  And keep it running.

When I got the car, it had scratchy fabric seat covers over the original vinyl.  Dog got sick in my car while I was in a store last week, and the seat covers took the brunt of her misfortune.  I figured it was a sign.  I threw out the old ones and sat on cracked and ripped hot vinyl for a week.  I clearly needed new seat covers before my upcoming 2 400 km trip.  Too bad I needed to be thrifty, like a mother of six thrifty, in this aftermath of the Burn.

I found myself in Princess Auto, home of cheap tools and surplus.  They had two choices for seat covers.  Old man “velvet feel” for the wrong sized seat, or Taz for almost the right sized seat.

Then, I spied it.  There, for bucket  seats with detached head rests, just what I had.  It bragged of a snug fit for “custom look”.  It was cheap.  $20 per seat cover.  I debated getting just one.  Then I noticed it came with a graphic on the front.  Surely not…

Oh yes.  A panther.  And some words.  How could I resist?  There might even have been flames in the panthers mouth.

I carried two seat covers up to the register, and received the kind of surprise nomads thrive on, and seem to happen right when I need them to.  Both covers cost $20.  they had been half off, but not really well marked.  I plunked down a ragged $20 and some change for tax, and proudly carried out my score.

They sat in my car for another day before I went to Justin’s shop to work on the frightening suspension noise.  I decided to go all out, and vacuum the car even.  There might be a noise grinding out from the driver’s front wheel over every bump, but those seat covers just begged to be installed.  They demanded.  I had no choice but to obey.

Once I cleaned out my car, and vacuumed up the debris left from the previous owner (maybe a little from me as well) I couldn’t wait to peel those “lush” covers out of their protective plastic box.  I pulled the first one over the drivers seat, unrolling the graphic as I went.  Bit by bit, it was revealed in all it’s glory.  Oh yes, there was a panther.  And what’s this?  There is a banner at his feet, proclaiming his badassed-ness.  There are flames.  Not coming out of his mouth, but all around him. This panther was rampant on a field of flames.  I strapped the flimsy elastic straps around the bottom of the seat, and stood back to admire my work.

The panther reached one mighty paw out, baring his teeth in a display sure to frighten away any would-be thieves.  The banner proudly rolled below him, setting off the flames.  A skull peeked out, just to leave no doubt.  I looked at the new seat covers and I thought “that panther sure does have a defined ass.”

Sure, there might be a towel under the new cover to help cushion the cracked vinyl.  There might even be worn spots on the carpet, the steering wheel, the dash… pretty much everywhere, really.  But damn, those seats look sharp.

Anyone who doesn’t think so can have some panther.  To their face. Flaming claws, watch out!

After a description like that, I know you want a picture.  And I will oblige.  If only to capture the awesomeness before the cheap print bleaches right off.

Flaming Claws, yo. Fear me!

I did make it around to investigating the noise.  I had to replace the upper ball joint on the drivers side.  It was about as loose as I have ever seen a ball joint be and not break.  Whoops.  Also, I did the brakes.  They were used up, but not dangerous.  Riders, You’re Welcome.

I must say, the civic is a damn sight easier to work on than the supra.  I still love you supra, I’m just not in love with you any more.

When I tell people I travel more often than the average person, they usually express envy and astonishment on my idyllic life.  They recline with $5 cup of coffee in their hand, keys to their shiny leased or bought new car on the table, and house waiting for them at home.

“I wish I could have your life.  I would give anything to do what you do, live how you live!” sometimes they gush, after I relate the latest breathtaking adventure.

Would you?  Would you give anything?  More to the point, would you give everything?  Cuz that is what it takes.  Anyone can live like this.  Few have the peculiar brand of crazy that makes it possible.  Most people like stability, things they can count on.  Hell, so do I, just in little doses.  Why do you think I have so many settled friends?  Not just because they let me use the washing machine, but that is part of it.  For a little stability in this part of my life, this time of wandering.

So yeah, you can do it.  But enjoy what you have.  Everyone ends up where they want to be, and it your life looks a certain way, there are parts of you that want it just how it is.  Stability, in one form or another, is key to human thriving.

So, can I come over and use your washing machine?

Time has passed in a whirl.  Faster than I expected, though some drives did drag on.  THe festivals have flown by, too close and too quickly to properly mention them.  And now this one.

Once again, Burning Man looms on the horizon.  More accurate to say it has come to the forefront.  For most of the festival season, it has been in my sight, on just the edge.  I have gone through some festivals thinking “I can’t wait for the Burn.”  Perhaps I have become a touch jaded by the hubris of these other festivals.  Not even the small ones.  No, I like the small festivals best of all.  Freezer Burn is like a warm hug from an old friend.  Motion Notion is only really smaller when compared to Shambhala, and I really prefer MoNo.  Some of that is music that characterizes the event, and some of that is the various nitpicking manners Shambhala has devolved into.  Anyways.

These last two weeks have been packed.  After a leisurely week in BC, holing up in cabins and driving the winding roads, my arrival back in Edmonton heralded a time of busy.  With all my sewing attention previously on my business, I found my costume wardrobe rather neglected.  So I rushed out, bought fabric, sewed, bought new hardware, built, and then ran back to five stores for that one little thing I had forgotten.  Then I did it again.

Now, on the eve of our departure, I find myself at loose ends.  Sure, there is packing still to do, and yes, I do have to run to the bank, but otherwise I am at rest.

Hmm, there was that one little project did want to do, but figured I wouldn’t have time…

Part of bus living as you travel to a certain event (read: have to get your lazy hippy ass to a certain place by a certain time, so you are busting balls to get all your stuff done and make it) is like deploying the troops.

Dan pulled the Comet into a parking lot between two small strip malls.  Dan grew up in Abbotsford, so he knows all the cool places.  There is a delightful wrap place here, and we also need blocks of ice.  Some gas stations sell blocks, in addition to cubes, but Safeway usually carries blocks and cubes in abundance.  If you are gonna live in a bus, and you decide not to spring for the fridge, cuz you are silly, you will want blocks for your cooler.  They last longer.

Dan makes his way to the wraps of Awesomeness, and I head into Safeway.  I have my little reusable bag in my hand, and I know exactly what I want.  How often does that happen, I ask you?  I scan the front wall of the store for the sometimes locked freezer invariably proclaiming ICE in a snow covered decal.  Not obviously about, but they don’t get far, now do they?  I strode confidently up to a bored looking cashier, smiling.

“Can I get two blocks of ice?”  I asked her, making eye contact politely.  She stared at me for a moment like I had just asked how much for a night with her sister.  One hand reached for the phone next to her till.

“I will call someone for you.”  she drawled.  I furrowed my brows, and then I remembered all in a rush that Safeway keeps its ice in the freezer aisle, so you can toss them in your cart in the middle of your shopping spree, giving the slacking teenage clean up crew some water droplets to follow.  Or to lure you in, I’m not sure which.

“Oh, I forgot.  I can…” I lift one hand to forestall her.  I am actually capable of getting my own ice.  But it is too late.

“Carry out to till three”  The disembodied voice crackles over the store speakers.

I try again.  “I can go get it, I remember now it’s in the freezer aisle…”

She waves me off, just as a burly woman in a safety vest walks up, and gives me an appraising look.  I stand there, holding one hand forestalled and useless in the air.  The burly woman raises an eyebrow.  I can feel the blush on my cheeks.

“Can you get this girl a couple of ice blocks?” the cashier asks with a certain malicious gleam in her eye.

“Blocks?” Burly Woman asks, looking at me once more.  Maybe if I was lucky, she would assume I was injured, and couldn’t lift my own damn ice.  Maybe she would just assume I was mentally sideswiped by the challenge of navigating the supermarket aisles.

“Yes.”  I replied meekly.  Burly Woman strode off, while the cashier turned back to her till in time to see another customer approaching.

“Why don’t you go up to Customer Service to pay.”  She shooed me off as a more profitable and less needy person started unloading her purchases onto the conveyer belt.

I slunk up to Customer Service, quietly waiting for my ice to be delivered to me.  This cashier was chatting on the phone, and I was just as glad to be ignored.  I idly looked at the lighter section, and pondered the nearly magical fact I hadn’t lost the one I carry in my party belt to lend to scattered festival goers who have misplaced theirs.

“…..just hang on a minute.” I heard.  And then a little louder: “Can I help you?”

I turned to see the Customer Service cashier leaning over, one hand cupped over the phone.

“Oh, I’m just waiting for my ice..” I stammered.

She spoke over the last bit of my sentence.

“Do you need me to call, or have you paid yet?”  Her hand was already hovering over the call button.

“No no!”  I nearly yelped. “I have already been helped, I was just told to come pay…”  I waved my hand weakly in the direction of the first cashier, and trailed off.

“Ok, well you need to wait until the ice gets here to pay.”  She stated, and turned buck to her phone call with a smile.  “Look honey, I have some customers now… why don’t you do that?  OK, see you later.”  Another customer came up to the desk, and I stood aside, wringing my eco-responsible cloth bag.

Burly Woman arrived, in a short time, all considered.  She put one block of ice in my bag, and then held the other one up for Customer Service Cashier to scan.  I meekly accepted this block, and Burly Woman smiled at me as she walked off, possibly resisting the urge to pat me on the head.  Perhaps she assumed my keeper was just outside of the store, seeing if I could carry out simple tasks in a day to day life.  Maybe one day I could live among ordinary people again!

Customer Service Cashier swiped my card for me, and held the slip of paper down for me to sign.  I got my ice and my reciept, and I got the heck out of there.

Remember, Safeway carries their ice in the big freezers.

It has been an interesting time here, in this city from whence I came. I feel comfortable, yet not at home. When I drive around Calgary, I know about where I am going, can see the nearby roads in my head. I know many stores here, and where to get what I want, and even the closest store selling what I desire. There is a sort of luxury in that, knowing where to go. There is a certain lack of adventure as well, the thrill of the hunt left toothless. I recall Ashland vividly, the walking about, seeking the bits and bobs I wanted. Every day was an adventure, where something new was seen. In contrast, being here is a bit like settling into an old chair. I am comfortable, but my days hold few new discoveries.
I have been enjoying the company of old friends. In the same way new friends challenge you to explain yourself, your stance on an issue, old friends know what sort of person you are, and much can safely be assumed, motives glossed over. With new friends, I find I must re-examine some of my base assumptions, and this leads me to redefine my own story, what makes me who I am. Growth is always good, but can certainly get tiring. There is a certain decadent pleasure in simply relaxing into discourse with friends who have been there for the heartaches and trails that have shaped who you are.

And now, I ready my wings for flight once more. The west coast calls to us, and the road sings sweetly. I must answer.

The days before departure can be numbered on the fingers of one hand.  My belongings have been wrangled back into bins and suitcases.  This spring, the pack up was not nearly as trying as last year.  I did not accumulate very much stuff over the winter, so the winnowing of possessions was easy.  My books are packed up, and safely stored in the basement of a friend.  My costumes are packed in their various places.  Yes, various.  I finally had to bow to the inevitable, and split my giant costume box into three.  The giant box is still full, but only with seldom used costumes, and intricate costumes.  That box is already strapped to the top of the bus.  I picked up two old battered suitcases at a rummage sale, and my more used costumes are in one.  Most of my stilt costumes are in the other, and my stilts defy packaging, still.

I ruthlessly culled my fabric pile, scrambling to at least cut out half a dozen projects.  The left over fabrics have been reduced to one small bin, heavy with possibility.  There still remains several pieces to finish before departure.  I race the clock.

Amidst all this, I still find time to relax a bit, read a bit of book, and have last visits with friends both old and new.

The summer awaits, the possibilities endless.