Later that afternoon, I arrived in San Francisco. I got my rental car, a 2011 Nissan Versa — a 2011 so it was sure to have an auxiliary port, a Nissan so it’s trunk was accessible only by key; a Versa because it’s in the Tiny Line, the cheapest ones. The guy at the counter was very nice.

I stopped at a grocery store and picked up a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a bag of clementines, and a bottle of mango juice. This is essentially what I ate for the next six days.

Finally, I was on my way! It was already pushing 5 o’clock, which felt like 7 to a midlander.

I found my way to Route 1. The dream began.

It was so beautiful! And so twisty. I hadn’t expected the roads to be so windy. As the sun dropped in early January timing, I navigated these crazy roads for a while in the dark. I had hoped to get to Fort Bragg that first night. But it was more than a hundred miles away, and I was inching along. Agh. I was getting so tired. And I had wanted to set my rhythm to the sun so that I’d be driving in daylight as much as possible.

I had a few decisions to make. One was if I’d try to camp. Two, how much farther would I go, and how would that affect the next two days?

If I didn’t get near Fort Bragg, that would add hours to already long driving days. I’d never get to Seattle at this rate. But if I didn’t stop soon, I might just pass out on the windy road and slip away into the ocean unnoticed. I was mad that I felt guilty for wanting to stop early — it was against the whole nature of my trip. It’s a journey, not a destination. It’s flexible. I can do what I need and want to do.

It was time to stop. I stopped at one campground and looked around. A few RV trailers had stopped there and set up camp on the beach. I got out of the car. It was freezing! I decided that I needed to sleep really well and that getting a hotel for the night was worth it. I’d try to sleep like 12 hours. I could still be up at sunrise.

With that relief, I looked up. The sky was clear and filled with stars. “Billie Jean” drifted out my window as I smiled up at the sky and twisted my feet in sand.

Slightly refreshed from remembering how lucky I was to be on this trip and from the cool air, I got back in the car.

Awhile later, I pulled off at one lodge, decided it would be way too expensive, and drove off before I even went in.

Finally, I entered the tiny town of Gualala, a pathetic 115 miles from San Francisco. I saw a small inn and pulled in, almost instinctually. I took a nervous breath. It would be expensive. If it was too much, I’d ask about a cheaper place.

I entered the office and found a pleasant woman in her 40s. I asked how much a room for one would be. $140 for one on the first floor; $160 for the top floor.

“Hmm. Do you know of anywhere that’s just real cheap within an hour north?”

“Let me see here. I think I can make a call.” She moved to a desk and pulled out a phone book.

“Thanks,” I said warmly, though my eyelids felt thick and my face felt sluggish. I must have looked as exhausted as I felt.

She offered me a room for $110. “It’s the cheapest I can do.”

I hesitated only a moment. “I’ll take it. I’m so tired.”

“Good. It’s a good price, since we’re on the coast. And I feel much better with you staying here. It’s safer than this other place.”

She got me out a key — a real key, not a card — and started telling me how to turn on the fireplace. “It is a bit cold, but you could crack open your patio door and listen to the ocean as you sit by the fire.”

Best money I ever spent.

There were mints on the pillows. There was a complimentary bottle of sparkling cider in the fridge. There were a jacuzzi and bath robes for two. Fireplace. Balcony overlooking the ocean. A giant king-size bed.

I think I cried.

I can’t really remember. I was a zombie fumbling around. I turned the fireplace on and cracked the door. I went outside for a second — too cold, came back in. I walked around, trying to make sense of my packing, trying to find my toothbrush, trying to find my pajamas. I gave up on the pajamas and stripped down to the t-shirt and underwear I was already wearing. I turned the fireplace off. I shut the door. I collapsed into bed and found sleep as I rolled in the ocean waves that filled my ears, even with the door shut.

I didn’t set an alarm. I knew I’d wake up. Sometime.

It was the crack of dawn. This schedule was awesome. I rolled out of bed and found pants and the camera my dear friend let me borrow. I went out on the balcony. It was lovely. The sun was stretching shadows over the shoreline. I might have cried again.

This is the greatest way a person can ever start the day. Sunrise on the ocean, a camera, a cup of coffee, a journal. A realization that ten more days of vacation sit before you and that, when you return home, your life will be completely unlike it’s ever been, and you are free to decide what will become of it.