Victoria

We arrived in Victoria to a snowstorm, which is always amusing on the Island. From Portland to the Coho Ferry the storm challenged my driving skills, but driving in Montreal trained me for the conditions, and gave me many skills in dealing with the circumstances. I feel surviving a storm in Montreal should be mandatory to get your drivers license, but then I wouldn't get such entertainment from this city, which closes down after an inch of snow.

1. Drive slow. Then when you skid you are still in control

2. Park at an angle in case snowfall buries you, you can rock your way out of it

3. The rocking technique allows you to dig your way out using your car's natural abilities and weight

4. Staggering in a checkerboard pattern on the roads guards you from other idiots who don't know these things

5. Pump your brakes slowly to slow gradually to a stop. This also allows you to understand the limitations of the slipperiness you're dealing with before you slide into the intersection

This city itself paralyses me. My dog as well stiffens up, but for different reasons. We'd both rather be in the sun and heat, but work required we return prematurely.

I'm trying to craft a new relationship with this place. It was surprising to get such a warm and roaring welcome from so many dear friends.

Brick by brick I am rebuilding a creative space, a creative team, and a healthy lifestyle. My office here is finally furnished, and loose ends are finally being cleaned up.

While the next few weeks will be full of travel, I also get to return to some of the film community events that started me on my professional path. When I first arrived in Victoria, it was the Film Festival that brought me into my own community of filmmakers, which drove me to achieve measurable feats.

We are not the product of our pasts, we are the potential of our futures. We are our dreams.

The Hobo Highway

Expediting us home takes us up the I5. It’s estimated that it saves us three hours, but those hours would be well spent on the Pacific Highway. The #1 is a WAY nicer drive, as most of the I5 is like the desert drive = nothing. Civilization is a significant detour from the highway so all you really have left are gas stations and rest areas. My back and shoulders object. My co-pilot does not.

Without a selection of music of my own I have grown tired of the Spanish lessons and the one disc I purchased in Oakland. The radio stations offer and interesting evolution of local news perspectives, and the same playlist. It’s a bad accompaniment to being alone with my thoughts, since lyrics usually sing to heart’s sorrow, or relate to past happinesses. Ekhart Tolle expressed that unhappiness is the result of thoughts, and I have been experiencing this during my three hour stretches of highway driving. It helps to tune in to the Spanish stations which are much happier, but lose signal faster. It also help to try to sing along to those tunes extolling the same heartaches but in a jovial tone, and without understanding half of the words.

It's also occurring more and more to me that it's a very strange thing that our happiness is gauged by how well our relationships are going. No doubt if I could let myself be devoted to another person I could dwell in those feelings instead, and forget what it is I want, and why it is that I'm single and alone. Love songs easily distract from a bigger picture of the world; one that I want to expand on and on reflection this is the freedom I have been enjoying.

The main challenge is obviously that I’m driving in the wrong direction.

Tips from the hobo road:

Don’t wear make-up. It’s just stupid and screws with logistics of minimizing the needs of the hobo. Not wearing make-up also deters advances from strangers.

Starbucks is your best friend for free wifi, and although the priceless GPS guides us well and often (and without requiring a cell signal or roaming fees), businesses change more often than it's updated. Usually it’s right about where the Starbucks are, and from there google will tell you whatever you’re missing. A handy feature in google maps once you have your location is “search nearby” and “directions” which will help you find almost anything you need as well as help you plan your itinerary and route.

Gas station cuisine will actually do a person more harm than good. It’s better to just avoid eating until you can make a real restaurant stop. I do, however, usually snack on gummy bears though it's inadvisable if you have problem skin.

All Oregon gas stations are full service, and will check your fluids for you without a fee (I think a tip is expected) This is always a good idea.

I have also learned to carry a full jerry can of gas at all times, but that’s because my fuel gauge is bust... which has been exciting on a couple of occasions. This is not something a lone woman, or anyone really, should deal with at night.

Pumps in California will not often take Canadian debit (bank cards don’t work in Cuba either btw, anywhere, but that’s another chapter), and Canadian credit cards don’t work at the pump. I’ve taken to overpaying with cash and getting refunded the balance.

Man my shoulders hurt, which is a surprise, and would be solved if my co-pilot could drive.

San Diego

It's funny that when I start to think about San Diego all of my descriptions seem to fail me.

All I've ever really seen of this city on the two other occasions I've found myself here is the area known as Point Loma because it is near the airport, the cruise ship terminal, and the marinas. Shelter Island is well populated by residential vehicles who relocate to the streets after 10:30pm.

These happy people enjoy beaches and utilities that make for a nice day of BBQ and banter. I learn that they manage internet and showers by acquiring the secret codes from friends in the know. Judy tells me I can get info about sailing if I talk to Mary-Jo at West Marine. Then they tell me of an RV mecca nearby to where I just was in Arizona. Quartzsite a city of RVs on public land "drycamping" for free. This is the second time I've heard this place described as the motor-hobo paradise that brings child-like joy to their faces.

There was only one place I could have dinner. The Pearl is a pearl. Funky collector retro touches create an ambience to match the menu. Creative cocktails, locally sourced, fresh food, craft brews line the taps. They also run an online radio station that is always awesome no matter when you tune in. The staff here always impress me with how good they are at their job and how extra personable they manage to be- obviously truly enjoying themselves. When you ask anyone in San Diego where a traveller should go to explore after dark, everyone replies, "OB."

Ocean Beach. Just over the hill. It's a small strip that hasn't been overrun despite it's supreme oceanfront location. Just a few blocks radius, it's dozen or so bars are buzzing with surfer types and other local lefties. The parking lots here are free and only closed between 2am and 4am. The beach has a public washroom and a very cold shower. I am not the only one with the idea of how comfortable it can be to live out of a vehicle. In fact, this place has everything we need, but we don't have the vermin effect that could easily happen under these circumstance.

Sable isn't allowed in parks or on beaches before 4pm, but the enforcement that told me this was able to point me at the dog beach. You can probably imagine how wonderful a place that is. It instantly becomes part of our daily routine and the smile that paints my face the entire time I'm there and for hours following feels amazing and beautiful. The secret to happiness can be found on a dog beach.

It takes us days to explore this small place. I learn so much about the culture here, how things work, why it is the way it is. Everyone I talk to smiles in a very sweet way as I extoll the virtues. "Yes you belong here. Of course you'll be back. Of course you want to live here. Of course you don't want to leave."

The Hobo Producer in Las Vegas aka Alice in Wonderland

It wasn't the plan, but the last dusk of 2011 was witnessed by my best friend and I in Sin City.

We arrived without expectation. At least it can be assumed Sable had no expectations either, since she didn't voice any to me :)

The thing about travelling alone is that social behaviour has to be cautious for the sake of safety. On the road we avoid friendships or discussions about where we're going and how unaccompanied we are. Bars and nightclubs would be a mistake. Acknowledging vulnerability to oneself first any never to anyone else seems to be sensible. This does, however, make for a pretty tame New Year, even in Vegas.

They say like attracts like, so it's fitting that I watched the fireworks with my new friend Mike, another Happy Hobo. He continually tugs at his tangled beard exclaiming how hard it was for him to cultivate this image, and how much time he's invested in it. 18 years ago he was tempted home from the road with news of his mother being ill. "She's 93 and still a bucking horse!" Yet something has kept him from returning to the road. His sweetheart pitbull Franky happily rides atop the trailer he tows with his bicycle nimbly through the rowdy crowds to everyone's amusement. Mike's determined not to lose me in the crowd and he says to me sternly, "I came here to find you. You may not believe me but I did."

I know he did, and I'm so happy to have him as an escort since together we avert any potential for problems amidst the moronic youth that surround us and have yet to learn how to drink without looking stupid. He's my guardian angel tonight. Or Frankie is.

We talk about how we resent money, how we feel it takes away from our integrity. His eyes glow with every revelation we share. I adore how much I have in common with this man. The one thing we debate is his calm pond. "I do nothing, that way there's no ripples in the pond."

Nice excuse, but I have to challenge him. In fact he doesn't do nothing, he makes macrame. Knots. But refuses to make money at it. We can all claim reasons for our failures and justify them 10 ways from Sunday, but in the end it's only ourselves we answer to, and he himself is happy doing nothing and that's all the reason he needs. I envy this contentment he's achieved.

Vegas locals struggle with an interesting dynamic: lack of women. We wouldn't assume this of Vegas, but Nevada has the lowest ratio of women to men than any other state aside from Alaska. They're very confused and concerned about me traversing the streets alone, and it's quite unusual. Even hookers wouldn't find themselves alone in the streets. Considering the commodity women are here, it is quite unsettling to not be one of the ones capitalizing on it. The female tourists are even engaging in the strange role, probably assuming it's expected of them. Perhaps though, this is the way so many people want to behave and how they wish they could treat each other, and that's a very sad state of affairs.

The locals are easy to befriend though, and I've encountered an incredible collection of wonderful people who each have their own exciting stories of how they ended up here, despite the coastal options right at the doorstep. If my heater had been working I would have joined my oyster shucking friends on a snowboarding adventure, but Vegas is cold and the best call was to head back into the sun. It's a city I look forward to returning to with friends and money. I'd say it was a successful scouting mission. All around me I could hear the usual conflicts enjoyed by travelling partners and teams and I am reminded how lucky I am that my co-pilot doesn't speak English and seldom complains. In fact, Sable loved Vegas and her wild eyed gleeful grinning face is all I need in life.

Grand Canyon via Joshua Tree

We are making an accidental habit out of arriving at dusk. Joshua Tree at this time of year with sunny, hot weather is not a unique idea, and there was no official refuge for us to be found. Luckily, the Hobomobile can park anywhere, and we did. The side of the road worked as well as any site, and inspired an early start to the day ahead of the dawn.

Of all of the campsites we examined, most recommend would be Jumbo Rocks; massive, smooth rock formations to climb and admire. Camping is something most enjoyable with a collective, so there was no need to linger.

What lay ahead was miles and miles of immaculate highway that is without interference of neither turns nor services nor habitation. Desert. This is the beginning of a growing feeling of loneliness and a longing for company that overwhelms in waves. It's interesting that the one-way conversations with my beloved canine friend seem to satisfy this feeling, and the irony that most friendships are self-serving monologues is not lost on me, though there is no friendship like that of this animal.

Tempted from the highway by the peculiar signs pointing to London Bridge, we happened upon Lake Havasu: a comfortable oasis from which to base several hours of editing labour from. Pulling up lakeside, swinging open the doors, we epitomized the Hobo Producer persona, while working on the December tan. Productivity at it's best.

London Bridge, for the record, is a poor imitation, but you probably guessed that.

Carrying on, we delayed our arrival to Grand Canyon National Park until almost midnight. Rolling in in the dark to the snow dusted tourist village again left us little option for legitimate parking residence. Finding ourselves at the end of the dark lookout, all we could know of the canyon next to us was the incredible sound of the wind howling through it. Not until morning would it's majesty be revealed.

The last dawn of the year broke the canyon crest with that glowing beam of life and light that inspires artists of all mediums. However, unless you're travelling with your family there is little more to do here than meditate on the awesomeness of creation, buy some kitsch, a postcard or two, and move on.

The dusk/dawn itinerary happily means avoiding park fees, which is an added, and lovely bonus.

Los Angeles

As we roll off the PCH into Santa Monica’s prominade there is only one thought on the Hobo’s mind: shower. 2 days is the limit I’ve found. I guess I don’t make a very good hobo in actuality. Especially when you consider the homeless in Venice. The gather en masse, in masses along Venice Beach after hours. It’s impressive the order they seem to govern themselves with when you absorb the sheer numbers of people sleeping there. I’m sure it’s an interesting place to spend time.

The form the human body takes when it is driving and also when working on the computer is quite restricting. Add stress to those activities and there is potential for a load of damage. In my case it screws with my temperament. My skin, the blessed curse of it’s hyperactivity, is a beautiful indicator that I have reached my limit of gas station food and angry thoughts.

What better way to return to SM than with a hot yoga class, followed by an epic shower. The yoga doesn’t stop there. It’s all I want to do here, followed by eating super foods and cooking meals that just can’t be bought.

It’s easy to resent Los Angeles. Everyone loves to profile it as a place of shallow, judgmental people ruining the world with bad movies. It’s actually a cop-out to leave it at that, and I find it’s a viewpoint that’s more a reflection of ourselves than of the city.

For me it has become a haven of sorts. Gradually I find myself gaining strength here. My cravings and urges are healthy and productive. My

work ethic is constructive and my lifestyle filled with more and more joy. It helps that I don’t have the social environment Vancouver stews with, or the history Victoria is stained with. It also helps that the dating world here is not even worth bothering with. Without anyone to distract me unless requested to, I am the architect of a new life here.

It helps to also have enough friendships that I can find myself with the odd place to recharge the 3 things a Hobo Producer really needs: Shower, Power, and Wifi (not necessarily in that order) I also managed to accidentally get invited to a couple of amazing Hollywood parties where I got to be the exotic Canadian not-on-the-hustle who entertains with a silly accent that makes people giggle. The best of all worlds.

As I’ve almost come to the end of my current list of pressing needs, it’s time to carry on. The plan unfolds in many directions at once and I hope my choices are sound.

PCH

The Hobo Producer Pacific Coast chapter begins in San Francisco. Of course. San Fran is an interesting place to drive a van that may have engine failure or run out of gas at any time (the fuel gauge doesn’t work). The lanes also rarely connect in a parallel way. Amazingly, it didn’t prove to be a problem.

So where else to go but Haight Street for a night of Twoonie Brewskies and billiards with gay men. Waking up at a parking lot on a roaring beach, hungover in a camper van: so cliche.

The Pacific Highway is absolutely breathtaking. The ocean roars the entire way over the roar of the Hobomobile (yet to be named) directly alongside the highway. It’s hard to go too far when in a state of amaze like that. A wee little town between the expensive state parks offered a quaint little haven by the name of Moss Landing. The RV park there not only beat the price of the campgrounds, but also had wifi and power and showers. In other words, heaven.

There was just enough time in the day for the brief wander to the beach to witness sunset. In its glory the whole trip sinks in.

Freedom. Possibly a word or feeling previously unknown. This is that. And as the sun reflected in the amazing shore a colour scape that included emerald green, there was a moment easy to experience. To describe it is futile. This sunset had some other magic that can only been experienced while alone.

It will be hard to travel with anyone ever again. Driving Big Sur is probably screamingly gorgeous in the daylight, but with no one on the road to protest the speed I preferred to maneuver the 360 degree turns at, it was a happy accident that we traversed under nightfall.

Cambria was on the other end of that windy wildness. It’s a sweet town like any other in this district; historical and quaint. I would live in any of them. The people are so so sweet and are so happy where they are. Most important, they don’t mind a van parked next to their stretches of glorious beaches. Waking up there, pouring out of the car with my dog, greasy and unkempt, the ocean sang us a welcome that plants the thought that things couldn’t have gone more right that night.

To Oakland

Leaving the country is obviously a complicated thing. For this trip it was mostly emotionally complicated. Although three days delayed, it turned out that we hit the road at the exact perfect time. Of course.

As it also turns out I would also spend the next two days driving alone, in silence. I’ve now located the face plate to my stereo but it’s an amazing thing that I lost it in the first place. The silence left me alone with my thoughts.

I continually observed myself cycling through the hate, hurt and anger towards this person I blame for my woes. All of the expressions of this ugliness that I could think of would have done more harm to me than to them.

Suddenly, just before the California border, I started writing it into my script. It has become a pivotal part of the film and opened my eyes to the true strength of the entire story. After a few hours of refining things in my head as I drove, the tears stopped. The anger stopped. Maybe the hatred stopped but I’ve thought that before so the jury is still out on that one.

These feelings are part of the artist’s burden. Pain, sadness, anger, and love all feed our expressive selves. Not always, of course, but sometimes, in my observation, art is the way to release them. I was afraid that this shuddering sadness I had been carrying would dilute the opportunities ahead of me and cloud the instinct that I rely on so much as a filmmaker.

I arrived in Oakland with exactly enough time to settle in. Arriving where I am supposed to be has a certain certainty. I can gradually feel my feet again on the ground, and the excitement of what’s to come overflows from my fingertips.

Great minds talk about not identifying with emotions but rather letting them flow through you. Not resenting them but accepting them in order to move beyond them. I’m starting to feel that accepting them is the best way to truly let them go and eliminate their remnants. The creative force possibly exists for that purpose.

I hope this understanding can stick around, and perhaps even evolve further.

So my first day in Oakland created this

Rockie Mountain Roads

After the dead red path of Pine
Blazened by the beetle's wrath

5000ft above the peculiar heat at sea level

Majestic peaks painted in ice
sheer and steep
Feed our radiant jade river

It thrashes along with us
braided with road and traintrack
carved through epic rock and furry forest

hours of delicate glaciers watch over our journey
and we breathe their crispness
breath after breath, mile after mile