I was young when I was introduced to the life of a vagabond. Most of us were. You’ve seen us before. Dirty kids, clutching desperately to cardboard signs and pipe dreams. Of course, none of us were real vagabonds, because we did have a home to go back to, but it was far away, and we all had our sights set elsewhere.

The spring after my 21st birthday, I was hopelessly in love with a young man who wasn’t the safest option for me. Every move he made whispered of adventure and danger, and when he kissed me, it was always with a goodbye on his lips. He was not a person I should have been with, but he was fascinating.

One sleepy morning in May, he informed me that he would be leaving my side to venture across the country and see the opposite coastline with his friends. He left two days later. I was devastated, but hopeful that he would return and take me with him as he had promised. And he did. Sort of.

Two months after his initial departure, he came back full of stories about all of the places he had been. I was in awe and just as much in love. And this time, he was going to take me with him. The morning we were supposed to leave, however, his friend showed up with opiates, and they both took part in poisoning themselves. As he clambered into my car that evening, five hours after we should have taken off, he was sick, hungover, and in poor shape. I spent the night driving northeast without a single word from him, other than instructions to stop at rest stops along the way.

I was furious. I was livid. I had been dreaming of a beautiful adventure for years, and planning this particular one for months. I had a backpack and a tent. I had a change of clothes, and a toothbrush. And I had a vomiting lover as my companion, ruining this. We were supposed to go north, from Pennsylvania to Maine, and then down to Kentucky for the Rainbow Festival. But he was in no shape to travel, and he sensed my fury.

At the time, I had never known what “spanging” or “busking” meant. But I did find out that way. This lover of mine had mentioned that I was not to bring any money with me on this road trip. I was intrigued and a little nervous. I didn’t have much money, anyway. When I asked why, he said that it wasn’t an adventure until something went wrong, and the only way to travel is to just do it. I thought it was a stupid idea at first. I had always been very cautious about having enough money to last me through road trips. But our first morning on the road, he gave me my first lesson on how to travel with no money. Spanging is a mashup of the words “spare change” and it essentially means flying cardboard signs in public areas asking for spare change. I was uncomfortable with the idea. I didn’t like begging for money if I was able to earn it. So I switched to busking, which meant playing music in the streets for donations. With that, I made enough money to fill up my tank every few days, with some left over for food. My ex-lover and his junkie friend would spend some of this money on cigarettes and weed, which was frustrating, but we still had enough to survive if we were thrifty with everything else.
We made it as far as Ithaca, NY. We camped there for a few days in June. We hiked around the beautiful trails and waterfalls that upstate New York had to offer. The most beautiful of all being Watkins Glen. I walked along the stone paths, underneath waterfalls and through ferns. I had never seen any place like it. It felt like I had immediately left earth and traveled to a set of some far-off fantasy novel. The hike was not a long one, but it certainly was a glorious one. I walked barefoot over slippery stones to the very top of the mountain, and gazed upon miles and miles of greenery. I felt as though this could never end. But it did.

On the fourth day, my previous lover informed me that we no longer wanted to travel with me, and that we were to return home so that he could go to Kentucky with his friends.  He told me this in the parking lot of a supermarket, as the friend who had supplied him the drugs paced around the lot, making calls to unknown people.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as I climbed the steps to my front porch. An empty apology. He didn’t mean it.

I walked back into my empty house and screamed in frustration. Pacing my kitchen like a lunatic, I considered my options. I could stay home for the summer and let the dream of travel slip through my fingers. I could call him up and beg for him to take me to Kentucky with him, but probably be miserable the whole time. Or, I could set out without him, now knowing how to earn money while on the road. It was not the smartest option. It certainly wasn’t the safest option. But it was the best.

I called up a friend of mine that day. Her name was Julianna and she had stayed with me for two weeks while she was taking summer courses at college. I asked her if she had found a job yet, and if not, would she join me on a road trip. As crazy as the proposal had been, she agreed. We left the next morning for North Carolina, to visit the dusty roads and camp in the Great Smokey Mountains.

That is how my adventures began. With heartbreak-turned-fire. Determined to prove I was not helpless, and that I could lick my wounds and move on, I loaded up my trunk once again, and left. Without a plan. Without money. And with a heart full of hope.

What came after that was a world of wild adventure. It changed my life. It healed my heart. It restored my faith in humanity. And it will be documented here, in the blogs to come.