The Free Way. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Freedom.* Who doesn’t like things that are free? Really? ‘Cause I sure do!

* Here’s an interesting and little-known factlet (not quite big enough to be a full-blown, grown-up fact): Whenever I type the word “freedom”, I add an “e” to the end. I just did it again, there.

Actually, though, what I’m talking about is the freeway. BECAUSE I DROVE IT YESTERDAY. TWICE. All by myself. Yeah huh. Me. Bay. Baysie. The princess. Her royal highness. I didn’t get lost or anything, either. Turns out it’s not as terrifying as I thought. I mean, sure—I miss my exit and boom: I’m enroute to Mexico, but you know what? I could use a little sun. And heck, I’ve been wanting to revisit SoCal anyway. I’m half tempted to “miss” my exit tonight on my way back to Van and take the I5 south by “accident”.

I mean, fuck it, right? What would Frodo have done? Bilbo? THEY WOULD’VE GONE SOUTH. Granted, they would also have been accompanied by dwarves, elves and a wizard.  As well as some huge dudes who were highly skilled in the ways of dispatching wrong-doers, which would surely be of great use, if not just great comfort, should I get lost on the tough streets of Compton. Or Astoria. You never know. Remember the Goonies? There could be robbers and pirate ships (I hope there are robbers and pirate ships, otherwise this Grand Adventure is a lot like a road trip).

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, on the interstate. Gripping the steering wheel like I was trying to strangle a salmon. I was a little worried about all the exits, since in the US, I’ve noticed that they like to sign the exits about 30 metres past them. How exciting. I was changing lanes like a pro, mostly because I was terrified of accidentally finding myself in an exit to Abu Dhabi (who knows where those express tubes go?). I was very Canadian about it, waving at everyone, ducking my head and saying, “Sorry, sorry: I’m Canadian,” with a very sheepish smile. As we Canucks are wont to do, eh?

You would not want to learn to drive a standard in Seattle. The streets are really steep. I mean it, guys. You want to have a magic touch with your clutch. You also want there to not be a Porsche behind you. To help you understand, I’ve created this graphic so you can see what I’m talking about:

This genuine photograph is 100% accurate.

And the street parking? Well. What can I say about it? They’re just car seats, right? You can get them detailed and that nervous-urine smell can be cleaned right out.

You can’t tell, but you’re parallel parking between an Escalade and a Maserati.

So, in closing, I will say I’m very proud of myself. I’m an all-star. I didn’t pee in fear once (I made sure to go before I left the restaurant, because I was nervous and figured if I got lost, the need to pee would only make my predicament more frazzled). Yay for not losing bladder control!

Lastly, I’m in the same Starbucks as last time I posted from here. And you know what? Chatty Keith is here again! And so is the beardy guy who’s intently taking over the world (or playing Mario Kart). They must be regulars. And for me to recognize that, I guess that means I am, too. YAY I’M PART OF THE TEAM. WE ARE A TEAM!

Sort of.

P.S. I didn’t lose my shit yet this weekend. Amazing. And relieving.