I stopped driving the Tortoise in late 1989, and Jules and I made plans to move from San Francisco to Seattle. I had grown to really like the city during my frequent visits driving the Tortoise, as it reminded me of the best aspects of both the East Coast and West Coast. I had brought Jules up to see it and she agreed to move there too.
In April of 1990 I made my last trips: a pair of north–south runs so that I could load our possessions on top of the bus in San Francisco to move them to our new home in Seattle. Unloading our boxes at our new apartment in Seattle and waving the bus off that last time was a deeply melancholy feeling for me. I knew I was done with something that I had thoroughly enjoyed, but was ready to leave behind.
I might have been done with the Tortoise, but I still couldn't give up the dream of traveling. I had spent too many years drinking in the pleasures of the road to let it go right away.
One sunny morning in the early summer of 1990 I was enjoying the day in Seattle.
I was sitting alone at my dining room table enjoying a cup of tea and looking out the window. It was the kind of day that made me want to head back out on the road: perfect blue sky, warm sun and a gentle breeze coming through the open window. As I sat staring out the window I dreamed about what I always dreamt about at that time — what I'd be doing if I were still driving The Green Tortoise. I thought of myself behind the wheel of a classic motor coach full of international travelers ... I imagined us rolling through the beautiful countryside ... I imagined us stopping for a meal ... I imagined all the work that was involved ... I imagined the way I used to feel when I was out on the road: tired, haggard, and rootless ... I remembered the many odd moments that I used to look up from whatever beautiful place I was visiting and dream ... I would dream of a room ... a room with a door that closed ... a mug of tea and some peace and quiet ... a bed that didn't move ... waking up right where I went to sleep ... faces that didn't change every two weeks...
... it suddenly dawned on me that the very thing that I used to wish for out on the road was right where I was at that moment.
From that day onward I stopped dreaming about traveling so much. I had always known that I would not travel forever. I had lived my time on the road. I had done exactly what I had set out to do. I had learned what I needed to learn. Now it was time to settle down.
This saying from my days in Portsmouth now made perfect sense. I didn't actually find anything out there on the road. There's a lot of empty space. There are other people moving from one place to another. There are many choices and many destinations. Somewhere in that empty space you come to a new understanding of yourself. As Dorothy discovered in The Wizard of Oz, everything I needed was with me all along, but I had to learn to distinguish what was inside me from what was outside me. Even if someone could have told me it was there — and they did — hearing about it and experiencing it firsthand are two different things. I was certainly different for having spent time traveling, but it was time to move on.
Looking Back at Life on the Road
Looking back on it now, I am amazed to think that I used to sleep in the back of a bus; that I used to wake up and have to figure out not only which bus I was in but also which state; that I used to drive and cook for 40 people and not think that was strange. From my current existence my life on the road seems like another life altogether.
I sometimes drive past certain spots in Seattle where I used to park the bus and say to myself, "I used to sleep in a bus right there".
It doesn't seem real — but it was great.
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