3,000 Miles
50 Driving Hours
13 States
23 Days
$1,100 Fuel
$50 Camping Fees

In March 2020 I was thrilled to be back in Savannah, Georgia, gearing up for the famous St. Patrick’s Day Parade, when the pandemic threw my plans and camping reservations into a tailspin. I rode out lockdown on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina for six weeks, where I decided to head back to Washington State for the foreseeable future. On May 4, I set out from Hilton Head to the Seattle area.

Being immunosuppressed because of the drugs I take for Crohn’s disease, I didn’t relish the thought of this journey. The specter of RV breakdowns and dealing with a potentially infected public in tow trucks, mechanic shops, restaurants and motels didn’t thrill me. But, I also knew some foolhardy reopening decisions were being made in the southern states, especially in very nearby Georgia, and a hotspot ain’t no place to be for a Chrohnnie like me.

May 4-5: Georgia

I had no choice but to stop at Camping World near Savannah to get the water pump replaced. It was leaking heavily, I was planning to boondock at most overnight stops, and I wasn’t about to use anyone else’s restroom. It was actually a good time to address RV repairs, as most motorhomes were not yet back on the road, and places like Camping World, usually packed in spring shoulder season, had open appointments.

I arrived to an unwelcome development. Look closely at the side of the rig – notice anything missing?

Oops! I phoned Newmar in Indiana to order a new exterior vented panel for the fridge that I somehow managed to lose in 45 miles, then paid three times the purchase price for next-day delivery to Camping World. Thankfully it wasn’t raining, because there is a Norcold aftermarket recall device in there that will shut the refrigerator down if it gets wet.

Walking into Camping World on May 4 was a very scary experience for me. Relying exclusively on delivery and curbside pickup, I had not been inside a building since March 16, when I last went grocery shopping in Savannah. Not to mention, in a place like Camping World, the customers are definitely not all local and could be from anywhere, increasing the risk of infection.

I girded myself for coronavirus battle, wearing an N95 mask and carrying my ‘Rona Ready Kit, a repurposed dog walking bag.

The deep zippered top pocket contains a travel-sized Lysol disinfectant, hand sanitizer, and a pen for signing purchase slips and pressing buttons on checkout keypads. The middle area houses a mask in case I’m outdoors where I didn’t think I’d need one, but I am closer to people than I thought I would be. The bottom pocket has a hole for poop bags, which now dispenses disposable gloves.

Camping World of Pooler, Georgia was doing some things right, and some things not so right. No one was masking but the occasional customer, and me. Large boxes of products were in front of the service desk to keep customers and staff at a respectable distance, but visitors were still leaning in and over the boxes to rest their arms on the counter.

As usual, nothing is a priority at Camping World (I have often referred to CW as the fifth circle of hell). I wanted to check in quickly and escape back to the air outside, but no one was in a hurry. Meanwhile, I was so nervous, my skin felt like it was on fire.

My savior came in the form of Victoria Barefoot, a young woman with certificates and accolades hung on the wall behind her station, and I quickly understood why.

She no doubt saw the fear and panic in my eyes, and typed furiously on the computer to check me in. She handed me a glove to sign the work order. She offered a pen but I had my own, so she dropped it back into its receptacle and sprayed copious amounts of aerosol disinfectant into the cup.

I called ahead to let them know I was immunosuppressed, and it was noted on the work order. I was relieved. I asked that I be allowed to drive the rig into the work bay, which was not surprisingly denied due to insurance and liability reasons. “I understand,” I said, “but in that case, YOU must understand, that RV out there is my home and my inner sanctum. I need whoever drives it back to be wearing a mask and gloves.”

I grabbed the animals and some snacks, left the keys in Nellie’s ignition, and relocated to the car, parked in front of the motorhome. Soon thereafter, a tall young man wearing gloves but no mask and carrying a clipboard walked toward me. I hastily rolled down the window with my left hand, grabbing my mask with my right, resting it over my mouth and nose, asking, “Are you here to drive the rig back for service?“

“Yes, but I couldn’t find a mask, so I just figured I’d do this,” he replied, pulling the neck of his sweatshirt up over his nose and mouth.

I was trembling with fear and rage. My voice grows eerily quiet when I’m in that headspace. “Let me be very clear with you. Turn around and go find a fucking mask, because in no uncertain terms, you are not allowed in my motorhome without it.”

He returned with a mask and drove Nellie back, around the same time that Clinton and Susin arrived to wish me bon voyage. We were traveling companions with big spring and summer plans when this whole thing happened. When I hunkered down on Hilton Head they moved to an RV park in nearby Hardeeville, South Carolina. This day we sat six feet apart in chairs we brought ourselves, visiting under a big shade tree at Camping World. I felt pangs of grief and sadness and disappointment, thinking of all we would miss this year.

They headed out when the rig was returned, and I set about spraying and disinfecting the cockpit. Thankfully all the rig work had been done outside, and there were no other interior surfaces to worry about. I spent the night basking in the glow of blue neon.

The exterior fridge access door arrived around noon the following day. Victoria arranged for a tech to come out to assess the situation, instead of me going into the building to explain what needed to be done. The work was completed where the coach sat in the parking lot to eliminate the need of another invasive driver. The door’s frame had to be replaced, which meant caulking, and that must set, so it was to be another night at the CW Hotel. The glaring white replacement door reminded me of a ugly keloid scar, reflecting my jagged mood.

May 6: South Carolina & North Carolina

The 4.5 hour drive from Savannah to Asheville, North Carolina was pretty uneventful, except for a bird strike on the windshield (poor baby). I saw about five RVs on the road, at a time of year when they would normally be swarming the blacktop like locusts.

I made my first fuel stop, and it was weird, to say the least; I hadn’t bought fuel for months. I was also concerned about truck stops and the spread of infection. In Stephen King’s “The Stand,“ a worker narrowly escapes a military bio lab during emergency containment, and where does he go? A fucking truck stop. The plague then easily spreads throughout the country.

I employed a technique that works well for me, which I continue to use: Mask on, gloved right hand for keypad and nozzle, ungloved left for sliding the debit card and opening the door, removal of mask, followed by immediate handwashing.

In early May, the country was still a hodgepodge of executive orders and varying states of lockdown. All federal parks were closed and many state parks were, as were some private parks. I decided the best course for me, both to avoid people and to find a safe place for the night, was to stay at Eagles Aeries and Elks Lodges, as I am a member of both. I didn’t call ahead; I doubted anyone would answer the phone anyway, and if someone approached me I would show them my membership card and make a contribution to the general fund if it was requested.

There was no one at the Asheville Elks Club on the edge of downtown when we arrived, and it broke my heart not to go exploring and reacquaint myself with one of my favorite towns. I was last there in 2016.

As soon as I parked and deployed the slides, the skies opened up in a deluge, so any thought of taking a long walk with the dogs was dashed. When the clouds parted I heard the sound of engines outside the coach, and I looked out the bathroom window to find Elks socializing from a safe distance.

They invited me to join them, but understood when I explained I was immunosuppressed. They offered me a beer, but I declined.

May 7-8: Tennessee & Kentucky

We traversed the Appalachian Mountains and saw only five other RVs all day. The six-hour drive wore on me, perhaps because I couldn’t safely stop anywhere, especially when I hit Interstate 64 – The Bourbon Trail – passing several shuttered distilleries.

The ladies of the Louisville Elks were out enjoying the sunshine and adult beverages from coolers when we pulled in; it was the first time they’d seen each other since late February.

They praised Governor Beshear’s leadership and cool head, even though Elks are known to be a pretty conservative lot, and Governor Beshear is a Democrat.

The following day the forecast called for lots of rain both in Louisville and where we were headed to Springfield, Illinois, so we hunkered down.

None of the online delivery companies service Trader Joe’s, and TJ’s does not offer delivery or curbside, so I decided to go to the Louisville TJ’s old folks/sick folks hour from 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. I surprised myself at this notion, because a week before that, you would have never convinced me to go inside a store. Being out in the world, even in the limited way I was doing it, helped me to shed some fear and realize there were ways that even an immunocompromised person like me could be, at least a little bit, a citizen of humanity again.

I was so impressed. All employees and customers wore masks. An employee out front staggered customers’ entries while she wiped each cart handle with sanitizing wipes.

Controlling the number of customers inside made a Trader Joe’s feel spacious for the first time ever. Usually you’re shoulder to shoulder and cart to cart in there! Staff gave gentle reminders for people to space apart. A complete disinfection of the cashier station was performed between customers, and no cloth bags were allowed.

By the time I left at 9:00 there was a line down the sidewalk, people standing a respectable six feet apart.

Glory hallelujah for the state of Kentucky, because Trader Joe’s had a huge separate entry liquor store, complete with lots of Kentucky bourbon, some made specifically for Trader Joe’s. I bought too much. When would I pass this way again?

One week later I read an article about the alarming infection rate among grocery store workers nationwide, and the Louisville Trader Joe’s was mentioned. In April, an employee was terminated for posting on social media and demanding more safeguards and testing. Had I known this at the time, I would not have shopped there, in solidarity. Then again, the welcoming and reassuring store I encountered on May 8 was probably, at least in part, a direct result of what transpired, and the remaining employees need a job. It’s so hard to know the right thing to do in times like these.

May 9-10: Indiana & Illinois

It was another six-hour day, driving mostly through Indiana, which was a snooze fest, especially with so little traffic. I saw a total of three RVs. Those purple/pink trees were pretty though; Facebook friends tell me they are red bud trees.

The Elks Lodge in Springfield, Illinois sits right on Lake Springfield – such a pretty location.

There were a couple of cars in the parking lot, so I donned a mask and knocked on the lodge door in case anyone was inside.

An elderly gentleman, squarely within the demographic that is being hit hardest by coronavirus, opened the door. “What? Are you going to rob us?“ He asked jokingly. “Yeah, no,” I said, “Maybe you haven’t heard, but there’s a virus going around.” He didn’t respond.

“Come on in,” he said, moving away from the threshold while still holding the door open so I could pass. “I appreciate it, but I am immunosuppressed, and I don’t want to come into the building.” He seemed perturbed. “Well, the Exalted Ruler is in there right now.” “Oh, good, would you send him out?” He exhaled loudly and went back inside.

Very soon there after, another older gentleman walked outside. He took one look at me and pointed toward the mask saying, “You know, I think this thing isn’t any worse than the flu.” (By May 9, C-19 had already caused more deaths in the United States in three months than an entire average flu season.) No so much as a hello or how are you before this illuminating opinion? That angered me, and it was reflected in my tone. I replied, “Well, not that I don’t care what you think, because to be clear, I don’t, but more importantly, the virus doesn’t care what you think either.” He stood there silently and rather awkwardly. “Well, I’m just saying that I went to a funeral recently and we couldn’t even hug one another.” I said, “People dying of COVID-19 aren’t getting funerals. What do I owe you for staying here for two days?” “Nothing at all.” “Great. Thanks.” I walked away. In retrospect, I wish I had expressed condolences for his loss.

The forecast called for wind the following day, so I stayed put. In the morning I had just finished showering when I could get no water from the kitchen faucet for the dogs’ bowl. I thought perhaps the freshwater tank was leaking, as I should have had plenty of water remaining. I went to check levels on the electronic monitor, but it was dead too!

It took some sleuthing, Internet research, and texts and telephone calls with a few friends smarter than me when it comes to mechanical stuff, but I finally figured out the new, beefier water pump was blowing its 12-volt fuse, and the monitor was on the same fuse. I wasn’t thrilled that the fix required a 15-amp fuse, which I didn’t have, which meant a trip to Auto Zone, which in my mind might as well have been called COVID Zone.

A handwritten sign at Auto Zone declared no entry without a mask, which gave me comfort. Merchandise was stacked in front of the counters to separate clerks from customers. No one was in the store except the masked clerk. He reached for the dead fuse in my hand as we walked back to the fuses display, but I refused, and he swiftly pulled his hand back in sudden realization of the “no touch” new world order. A kit of various fuses secured, I followed my fueling method for payment, gloving one hand, swiping the card with the other, using my own pen, returning to the car, removing my mask, and dousing my hands with hand sanitizer. Crisis handled. Fuse fixed.

I have long wished to visit Springfield and tick a state capital off the list, see another home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, and tour the Lincoln sites. It felt odd to be sightseeing in the middle of a pandemic, but it also felt good to be partially out in the world again. There was hardly anyone on the streets, but I wore the mask to let passing cars know I was taking it seriously.

Lincoln lived in Springfield from 1844 to 1861, before he served as president. Here is his law office,

and the federal courthouse where he practiced.

Much like the site in Vermont for Calvin Coolidge, and in Iowa for Herbert Hoover, Lincoln’s home in Springfield has been preserved along with his entire neighborhood.

The area was not fenced or cordoned off in any way, and I walked the tree-lined streets, reading the interpretive signs without running into another living soul.

Here is the train depot where Lincoln departed for Washington.

Here is his final resting place. I saw four other people there, all wearing masks.

My experience sightseeing in Springfield really brought it home that, for me, getting off the road, for the time being, is the right choice. So much of how I voraciously devour and absorb a new place is tied up in museum exhibits, historical home tours, enjoying bars and restaurants, and communing with locals. My Springfield experience, while novel, left a lot to be desired. I don’t plan to spend a lot of time and money getting to a new place when all I can do is stay home or take pictures of the facades of buildings. Springfield also impressed upon me, as if I didn’t know already, my need for public restrooms! They were all closed, and I would not have wanted to use one anyway. I rushed back to the rig twice while sightseeing, and thankfully the Elks wasn’t far away.

May 11: Wisconsin

It was a relatively short driving day to our first stop in Wisconsin, at just under four hours, and I saw two RVs all day. The Janesville, Wisconsin Elks Lodge sits on a lovely golf course, and there were a few golfers out and about, but no one was at the lodge. After two days of no hook ups, it felt luxurious to have a 50 amp plug-in.

May 12-18: Eau Claire, Wisconsin

I saw only one RV on the drive to Eau Claire, and it was one of those Cruise America rentals; I didn’t even realize they were open yet. It wasn’t that surprising, though. RV sales are up in the United States in the era of C-19. I personally know two people who have bought motorhomes since the pandemic began, because they feel it is a safer way to travel right now. I must say I agree with them.

We encamped at Camp Calais, the home of Rick and Christian. Rick and I met when he reached out to me after reading an article about my plans at retrorenovation.com. When he and Christian built their new home in 2018, they put in full RV hook ups!

For the next six days I decompressed, made repairs, did laundry, ordered groceries and supplies, and watched the weather in the remaining mountain passes to decide when it was safe to make the rest of the trip. General wisdom is that you do not attempt the passes in a motorhome before Memorial Day. The point was well-made the day after I passed through Asheville, North Carolina, when this was the situation northeast of town.

Some of you might be wondering why I didn’t just stay at Rick and Christian’s, and I did think about it. My health insurance covers me only in Washington. I perished the thought of contracting coronavirus on the road and dealing with the insurance nightmare, the coach, and care of the animals. And, given my medical condition, it was too hard to be so close to them, yet so far away. Christian is a physician. Rick operates a restaurant. I simply could not risk being in close proximity to them. Parked at the shop/garage on the property, I watched through the windshield as they drove a classic car out for Friday night fish fry takeout, and on Saturday to the lake house to take the boat out on Lake Wissota. It sucked not being able to go with them!

One night we were able to hang out a little bit in the back yard around a campfire, six feet apart.

Yes, that’s me under there!

Remember that new, stark white access door on Nellie? Rick matched the coach paint and painted the door himself.

I can’t tell you what that means to me. That door was a constant reminder of my stupidity for not checking it before I got underway, but you can bet it is part of the checklist now.

Rick also buffed out tree limb scratches, touched up a flaking air conditioner cover,

repaired the secondary braking system for Toad, aired Toad’s tires, and cleaned the headlights on both vehicles.

I love him to pieces and am so thankful for both of them.

On May 13, Wisconsin’s Supreme Court struck down the state’s stay-at-home order during the pandemic as unlawful, invalid, and unenforceable after finding that the state’s health secretary exceeded her authority. A day later, the Eau Claire City-County Health Department issued a coronavirus prevention and control order that immediately let all businesses, facilities, playgrounds, campgrounds and churches open, provided they followEd public health guidelines. People flooded bars and restaurants, and I knew it was time to go. But first, there was an appointment at Freightliner.

May 18-19: Eau Claire, Still

We broke camp at Rick’s and headed to the local Freightliner, who worked on Nellie’s dash air last July. They weren’t able to fix the problem quickly back then because another part – the AC condenser cooling fan – was needed. I have been doing without dash air-conditioning since then, using the coach air running on generator power if necessary.

It made sense to finish the job when I returned, so before I arrived I had the part shipped to Rick’s house.

I naively thought they’d fix it in a couple of hours. Not … quite. Wary of the drivers’ lounge, the animals and I waited over six hours in the car, only to get the news at 5:00 p.m. that another compressor was needed. Three times I put on my ‘Rona armor and ran into the building to use the women’s room and back out again. Luckily in an industry full of men in front of and behind the counter, I shared the women’s bathroom with only one other person.

The staff and mechanics took my immunosuppressed condition very seriously. I didn’t have to ask twice for them to be in masks and gloves when they were in the rig or around me. We transacted all our business outside.

The coach’s dash AC is operational again, and it took two days and wasn’t cheap. I’m smarting a bit, so ask me about the cost benefit analysis in July when I’m driving and the sun is beating through the windshield, creating a greenhouse effect that the coach air conditioners can’t mitigate.

We got some nice time in at the dog park on the second day while we waited. There was plenty of room to keep a distance from other people, and the dogs hadn’t run free in over two weeks.

May 20: Minnesota

We left Eau Claire bright and early after a propane fill at the Holiday station across the road. Seeing a total of six RVs, we finally hit I-90, and I played “Go West” by the Village People for a little drive/dancing celebration. I-90 terminates smack dab in the middle of Seattle, so I just needed to follow the Yellow Brick Road the rest of the way home.

We overnighted at the Elks in downtown Worthington, Minnesota, where Nobles County had a four percent infection rate, and the pork plant was shut down for two weeks due to the number of infected.

Needless to say, we kept an ultra-low profile. N95 masked, I walked the dogs around a ghost town, where the few people on the streets, largely non-native English speakers, were also masked and taking wide berths. The bars and restaurants were closed, even for takeout. This is how it’s done when coronavirus rages in your community.

A masked elderly couple passed me on the bike and pedestrian path by the lake.

She asked if the dogs should be wearing masks. Yeah, people were scared there. I slept fitfully and couldn’t wait to leave.

May 22: South Dakota

I saw 16 RVs on the drive through South Dakota, the state that never closed. On the way to our overnight location we passed through Sioux Falls, hit hard with coronavirus in the Smithfield pork plant.

Wall Drug wasn’t taking any chances and was fully closed. I don’t know why this closure made me particularly sad; perhaps it’s because you see its signs for so many hundreds of miles, making otherwise rather boring terrain bearable.

The highlight of my day was passing a semi. Soon after, the same truck began to overtake me, but maintained speed in the passing lane, prompting me to look left. Two young men in hoodies waved and smiled, holding up their phones to show me they had accessed the blog’s website. I smiled and waved and blew them kisses as they slowed down and got behind me again.

The Rapid City Elks Lodge sits on a golf course. The weather was sunny and in the 70s. In my mask I was stared at curiously by clustered, unmasked golfers buying beer while I registered the RV at the pro shop. The parking lot was filling up for (indoor) happy hour as I arrived.

There were 100 known cases of coronavirus in Pennington County, where Rapid City sits. It’s as if coronavirus never really happened there at all. The nearby federal parks like Mount Rushmore, Badlands, Wind Cave, and Devil’s Tower in Wyoming were just beginning to reopen, not yet fully, but the infection of a quick stop clerk outside Mount Rushmore didn’t seem to worry the golfing Elks one bit.

May 23-24: Wyoming & Montana

Who left the gate open? I counted 102 RVs. It’s not all that surprising given the wide-open spaces of the West, and a three-day weekend following two months of lockdown. I’m not sure where they all camped; state and federal parks were beginning to open, but camping in Wyoming state parks, for example, was still residents only, reservations required.

Yellowstone had opened partially, and for day trips only.

Montana’s 14-day self-quarantine order for anyone entering the state was still in effect until June 1. That no doubt impacted the RV park we passed with four RVs in it for Memorial Day weekend.

After two days of driving for six plus hours each day, I was ready for a day off. We were good citizens and sat out the rain for a day at the Billings Elks.

I’ve never been to Billings before, but it was not the time for sightseeing. Besides, some cursory research on the Internet told me there wasn’t much to see anyway. (Sorry, Billings.)

I took advantage of the downtime and ordered a grocery delivery. I absolutely love Instacart, which I used as I made my way across America. In the delivery instructions I wrote, “Deliver to motorhome in parking lot.” It worked out swimmingly. But, can I grouse for one tiny minute? It’s a real first world problem.

Expired foods. I’m not usually picky about end dates, but certain things really aren’t good after their “Best By” date.

At Trader Joe’s in Louisville, I felt pretty well-protected from the virus, but that didn’t mean I wanted to camp there. At TJ’s especially, when it comes to bagged salad and dairy products, I move the products at the front until I find the one with the longest life left. Well, not so in the era of C-19! I just grabbed and went. I didn’t want to tarry and didn’t want to touch things and put them back, which would surely have gotten me drawn and quartered.

The hard-boiled eggs I brought home were expired. And you could tell.

I ordered some more hard-boiled eggs in Billings on May 24. Their ”Use By” date was 5/11.

I told you it was a first world problem. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Complaint over.

May 25 & 26: Missoula, Montana

It was another six-hour day, but I was within spitting distance of Washington at the end of it! After 100 RVs I kept losing count, so I stopped counting.

We pulled in to the Eagles on a warm and sunny Sunday afternoon. I donned my N95 mask to go inside to register. A group of bikers sitting at an outside picnic table near the door waved hello, one of them saying, “You don’t need that here,” gesturing to my mask. It was said in a good-natured way, so I good-naturedly replied, “Well, I take medication to suppress my immune system, so actually I do.” The group smiled, then asked questions about the motorhome, the blog, where I was from – typical stuff. The same biker interjected, “You know that mask isn’t doing anything, right? I bet if I farted you’d be able to smell it.” A few chuckles made their way around the table. Again, he was jovial, so I retorted, “I think that says more about what must’ve crawled up your ass and died than it says about my mask.”

“Oooh, burn!” Another biker said, and the group erupted in laughter as I made my departure.

The bar was packed. It was dark. The ceilings were low. Not a single person was wearing a mask. Heads swiveled and there was lots of burning eyeball and side eye as I felt palpable disdain for the mask on my face. I flashed my membership card, threw a $10 bill on the bar for the general fund, and got the hell out of there, but not for the reason you might think; I will pick a fight with an attitude, but not with a virus.

On a dog walk later that evening, I noticed a small puddle of liquid under the rear of the coach. We had just crossed the Continental Divide in the Rockies, so I assumed it was condensation from the cooler mountain temperatures. By the next morning it was much bigger. And pink. And sweet.

I unscrewed the radiator cap and stuck my fingers inside but could feel no fluid. I honestly didn’t know how much coolant I had left. It was Memorial Day, and nothing was open. I had no choice but to wait.

I attended law school in Spokane, Washington, 200 miles away, and I visited Missoula a few times back then. I like the town a lot, and I drove around photographing some of the town’s most famous sites.

I also took the dogs to an off-leash dog park with plenty of room to roam, for them and me.

There were a few people in masks along the pedestrian and bike paths by the river, but most were not wearing them. Missoula is a college town and the rate of infection has been low.

On May 27, the puddle even larger, the wisest choice was a tow for the seven-mile journey to the mechanic (thanks, AAA RV!).

I was so relieved that a simple hose was the culprit, and they had one in stock. However, I was not amused by the $155 charge for putting the drive train back in. The rig has been towed several times, and I know tow truck drivers must remove the drive train but are not allowed to replace it; that is the mechanic‘s job. But, this is the first time I have been charged for it. Harumph.

We left Missoula in the mid afternoon, stopping for the night at the Elks in Moses Lake, Washington. Home state! Home stretch! The lodge was locked up tight, but there were RV spots. The water wasn’t turned on, but we luxuriated with 30 amp power.

May 27: Idaho & Port Orchard, Washington

Arrival! Forgive the photos through the bug-splattered windshield. We made great time, hit no traffic in Seattle, and set up camp at the Eagles Aerie in Port Orchard, Washington, on the Kitsap Peninsula, across the Sound and about an hour’s ferry ride from Seattle.

We will be here for two weeks or so while some electrical work is done at Rhonda and Ken’s house to put in 50 amp for the coach. I am quarantining for 14 days, and then Rhonda, Ken and I will “Quaranteam.” They both work from home and are taking similar precautions as me for their own health reasons. I am so looking forward to being closer than six feet to someone without wearing a mask! It’s been over ten weeks. Who needs a hug? This girl!

Six days have gone by since I walked into any building out of necessity, and I’m feeling healthy. While it’s best to quarantine for 14 days, and I will, I am comforted by the fact that most people are pretty sick by day five or six after they are exposed.

Did I narrowly escape infection, or have I simply never been anywhere near coronavirus? Hard to say. It’s pretty virulent, and I feel confident, given my immunosuppressed condition, that I would not be an asymptomatic carrier. I took the best precautions I could given the circumstances, but now that I’m home and settled I won’t be venturing out as much as was necessary on this trip.

Similar to the upheaval of my life five years ago (time flies!), this trip home forced me to face my fears, thrust me out into the world where I discovered that things aren’t as bad as they seem on a computer, and proved that I can handle whatever life cannonballs my way.

What now? Among other things, it’s time to write a book. But first, I ordered a pizza – the first meal not prepared by me since March 13.

Fuck. It gave me heartburn. Ain’t that just like life sometimes?