I told a friend I'm planning a road trip to Oregon and back in September.
"By yourself?" she said.
"Of course," I replied. "Why not?"
"It's not safe, a woman travelling by herself, across the country," she replied.
"In the last ten years, I've driven 100,000 miles by myself, at all hours of the day and night, 200 miles at a time," I reply. "What's the difference? This trip will be like stringing all those short trips together."
"Be sure to lock your doors," she says. All of this from a woman who travels to Spain and Mexico by herself.
"Where are you going to sleep?" she asks.
"By the side of the road on my blanket!" By now I am incensed by her questions. "I know how to plan trips and I know how to make hotel reservations. You forget I have travelled with my elderly mother for the last fifteen years -- and with no incident, I might add."
Now she's put out with me, for my "I can take care of myself" attitude, my fierce independence, and my decision to make this trip. "I am cautious," I remind her. "I try not to do anything stupid, but I refuse to let fear keep me at home."
"It's obvious nothing I say will make a difference," she says.
"Look," I say. "My mother died a few weeks ago, just twelve days short of her 100th birthday. As I sat with her during her last days, watching her slip away into her own journey, I decided we needed to go on one last road trip. So, I'm driving her (actually her ashes) from North Carolina to her burial spot in Salem, Oregon, next to my father. It feels like the ultimate closure for both me and her."
"Really!" my friend says.
"Really. I promised her one last trip and we are going."
