While my thoughts are on Alaska, I am reminded of an American couple I met on one of the public ferries that transports goods and passengers from town to town.

They were engaged in a serious game of cribbage and I couldn’t resist taking part in a pastime of my youth. I presented no challenge with my skills or lack thereof but they didn’t seem to mind the company.

They had met a few years before, both appeared in their forties, and after a date or two the man suggested that they sell their homes and embark on a trip throughout the country. Understandably the woman was hesitant to engage in such a drastic change of lifestyle with someone she barely knew.

But here it was a few years hence. Each had children from their previous marriages who were living independently. And they could continue their careers while on the road. Inevitably there were still many things to consider, but now they were both ready. So they sold virtually everything they owned and bought two motorcycles, taking all they might need, with savings to spare. The couple took great pleasure, with no callousness intended or inferred, in calling themselves “homeless.”

I do not recall if they had a route in mind or were just letting each day unfold, but I do remember they were just beginning their journey and I wished them well.

It was a glimpse into the choices one may make and the many ways there are to live one’s life.

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Alaska, rightly known for its expansive and breathtaking wilderness, still conjures images of stampeding prospectors during the rush for gold. The hordes have eased but people seeking the land of opportunity continue to arrive. Many nationals and foreigners find employment during the tourist season and will then move on. Unlike most migrant workers, their skills are not agricultural and their lifestyle is largely one of choice.

It has been many four years since I visited Alaska, but I remain intrigued by these scores of people who called no place “home.” Most were young; perhaps now they have settled somewhere or continue to seek surroundings with the seasons, like the nomads they are.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement

During college, I had the good fortune to spend a semester in Urbino, Italy; the spring break afforded me time to travel. Hitchhiking or “autostop” was the only viable option and traveling alone was still a few months ahead of me. A classmate expressed a similar interest in Sicily and we decided to travel there together, pooling our limited funds.

Elizabeth came from upstate NY and her appearance defied that of her sister’s, the winner of a national beauty pageant. Her face was pretty but marred by bad teeth, a result of neglect and a regimen of cola, cookies, and cigarettes. She owned a comb but there was little evidence of her using it. She possessed a beautiful figure but kept it shielded with men’s oversized shirts and trousers. She had an abrasive personality, contradicting her kind nature, but a great sense of humor. She was a lesbian, but rarely spoke of her love life. Elizabeth was extremely intelligent but generally appeared disinterested in what you were saying, unless you were her friend, and while we traveled for a month around Italy, we became friends and she was great company.

One of the advantages of hitchhiking in Sicily was the generosity of the drivers, who without exception were men. They would ask us if we would like something to drink or eat and Elizabeth would invariably use this occasion to stock up on her cigarettes, cookies and cola, while I would sheepishly accept a cold drink. Her enthusiastic and unabashed acceptance of their munificence initially made me feel awkward and somewhat ashamed but as the days progressed my principles began to dissipate. Our coordinated efforts to hitch around meal times with the brazen expectation of a free lunch or dinner was evidence of our moral decline; we were rarely disappointed and never suffered from regret. Once, when we must have seemed too assured, the driver demanded that we pay our share. The men apparently enjoyed spending time with two young Americans who could offer them a glimpse of travels they never knew.

Sometimes we were invited to sleep in the homes of people we met. This often meant waking up to an entire family gazing at us with boundless curiosity and starting our day with a tiny shot of espresso prepared with the traditional three teaspoons of sugar. The bitter coffee blending with the excessive sweetness was not an unpleasant jolt to the morning.

Sicily was magical and ancient. The memory of Ragusa and Siracusa ripe with a myriad of untold stories, withstanding millennia of a blazing sun’s rays, remains. It was a land of donkey-driven carts heaping with apricots, coastlines and landscapes rivaling the most poetic descriptions and an experience that left me ravenous for unexplored terrain.

Elizabeth and I managed to cover each end of this island and considerable miles in between. With browned skin and the sublime satisfaction of unparalleled freedom, we made our way back to the familiar roads of the university town.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Welcome to the tales of a woman solo traveler and thoughts to make today the start of something new. I hope you find information and inspiration in the text and images and join me in my quest for growth, wonderment and self-improvement