We weren’t always gypsies. In fact that was the source of the largest schism in our marriage. I wanted to see the world. She wanted to stay in Alaska. There’s a bit more to it than that, but that was the crux.
Alaska was comfort – friends and family, holidays and traditions, jobs and status, rotating between a couple of takeout options on the weekend, burning through television shows on DVD (pre-streaming), a mortgage, car loans, a small trip here and there when we could align our vacation days, and tomorrow largely the same as today. There was nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with that. For me, though, I started to hate it.
It bore me to tears. It felt stifling to know exactly what my day would look like a year from now, two years from now, five years from now. All I had to do was look around and see my future in the faces around me, around us, around Alaska. I never saw myself as a person that stayed put. So I started shopping for a new job. At least the same job, but in a new place.
Rachelle needed some convincing.
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We flew down to Portland, Oregon. We rented a car, wandered the city, decided whether we were Team Voodoo or Team Blue Star, and then made our way north. We stopped at wineries and drank too much and joined a wine club that promised they could ship to Alaska. We made it to Seattle and wandered some more. We drank coffee and wine and hit the tourist spots.
For me, I knew I could get a job either in Portland or Seattle. Seattle was the safer bet and we timed our trip for me to attend a job interview. Being a kid and teen in the 90s, living in Seattle felt like a dream. Grunge and coolness dripped from every dive bar and coffee shop. Even the TV show Frasier gave Seattle a sophisticated ambiance full of sherry and wit. I couldn’t imagine a better place to live and I knew I nailed my job interview.
For her, she needed to see and feel and touch and smell the city. Growing up in Alaska, a “real” city like Seattle or even Portland (much less New York or Los Angeles) felt intimidating. What about the traffic? Would we be jammed in an over-priced shoebox of an apartment? Where would we walk our dogs? So we booked this trip to “sell” Rachelle on the idea of either city. From the outside, we had a good time creating memories and exploring the Pacific Northwest. From the outside, it looked a success. This was a mirage.
We were like two people going through the motions with fake smiles and forced conversations while we drank too much and danced around the edges of “real talk.” We both knew we stood on the edge of some life changing decision. Separation? Divorce? People get married all the time. Life happens. They grow apart. There was no dishonor in admitting defeat. We’d wish each other well and hope the other found someone better or at least someone that fit their lifestyle better. No harm. No foul.
Sitting in a hotel room in Seattle, we looked at how a divorce would work. We didn’t have kids. That part was easy. We had a house in Anchorage that we had to sell anyway. We’d split it 50/50. We talked about a few other assets, but largely we wanted an amicable split if it came down to her staying in Alaska and me going to Seattle. Even as we talked it out, laid out the logistics and created a plan, it didn’t sit right with us. It didn’t feel real.
Our trip ended and we flew back to Anchorage. I told her I would accept the Seattle job if they offered it to me. She understood.
Our toes curled over the abyss of a major decision.
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Spoiler alert: We didn’t get divorced.
We sold our house, packed our stuff, and started our first trip through the Alaska-Canada (ALCAN) highway. Our wounds still oozed and hurt and threatened to reopen. As our CRV bumped over gravel highways and slid by herds of bison and parked at desolate motels/hotels/lodges, we started bonding. There’s something about cutting yourself off from others and depending on one other person to start learning about yourself and them.
Throughout Canada, we talked about our future and grew excited about Seattle and the Pacific Northwest. We woke early each morning to find a gym, get a workout in, and then pray for at least drinkable lattes in one coffee shop or another (not Tim Hortons). With each stop, with each mile, we distanced ourselves from our pasts and grew aware of the vastness of both the world and our futures.
We crossed back into the U.S. with Seattle on the horizon. I remember driving across the West Seattle Bridge – Mt. Rainier visible to our left and the Seattle skyline to our right – before being enveloped by greenery and landmarks and diners and shops all foreign to us and waiting to be explored. The weight of living outside of Alaska hit me. Or maybe the weight of living in Alaska lifted. Either way, we’d survived our first major road trip together and our future seemed limitless.
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We lived in Seattle for a couple of years and enjoyed our time together. The venue, the event, the particulars didn’t matter. We could be at an all-day music festival or a cider tasting or a football game, yet all that mattered was creating memories together. Maybe this is what we lacked in Alaska – opportunities to get off the couch, out of the house, and to shake up our routines. A chance to expand our comfort zones and experience all that life had to offer.
We joined way too many wine clubs. We created routines of coffee shops and small road trips. We explored the various neighborhoods in Seattle and found our favorite brunch spots. We wore Seahawks and Mariners and Sonics gear. Seattle felt right. Seattle felt like home. Yet fate and the road called to us again.
I stumbled into a promotion. The promotion led me to conferences. Conferences opened up networking. Networking sent me a job offer in Atlanta. We knew nothing about Atlanta. Google informed us it had a good airport. Or at least one that offered a lot of ways to leave. I’m not sure if that’s the best sales pitch. I applied to the job expecting not to get it, but crossing my fingers nonetheless. It would be a competitive process. One where I was an outsider looking in. It was worth a shot and probably would lead to nothing more than interview practice.
The first words out of my mouth every morning were, “Atlanta job.” I dashed to my phone and checked my emails. No news – good or bad. This occurred for two months until just before Christmas. Like some holiday gift, I received word. If you’re following this blog, it’s likely you know what happened because you know I once lived in Atlanta. I got the job.
It wasn’t that simple, though. We loved Seattle. We loved our life in Seattle. We loved each other more in Seattle than ever before. We talked it over. We almost passed on it. Thanks, but no thanks with a million “what if” scenarios running through my head. In the end, we figured we could just pick up the life we built in Seattle and move it to Atlanta. Nothing much would change. There’d be wine clubs there and concerts and sporting teams and…
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We were set to leave in the spring. My starting date in Atlanta was early June. Cutting diagonal through the Midwest, we’d head straight from Seattle to Atlanta. We estimated a week of driving and we’d be in Georgia and starting our new lives. It felt like weeks and weeks away, which it was. Maybe 3-4 months before it was time say “goodbye” to the Pacific Northwest.
I remember Rachelle was working on the weekend. I was watching movies and dreaming of our move. I forget the movie, but the message lingered around “seizing the day” (and it wasn’t Dead Poets Society). A wild idea popped into my head. I grabbed a calendar. I started punching in places into my phone. I sketched out a meandering road trip heading due south on Highway 1 and down to Sedona. Then up diagonally through Colorado and straight across into Chicago. We’d head south again and land in Atlanta. We’d see the Pacific Coast Highway, the Grand Canyon, Four Corners, the Rockies, and the Great Lakes. We’d spend time in Portland, Seaside, Santa Barbara, Sedona, Durango, Colorado Springs, Omaha, Milwaukee, Chicago, Nashville, and then finally Atlanta. We’d linger at some places and only stop for a night at others. We could camp in our CRV, soak in life on the road, and most importantly take our time.
If we did the math right, spending almost a month on the road, we could still fit in a three week European trip – London, Berlin, Munich, Venice, and Rome. All before settling into our new lives.
I did some quick math for our finances. It was doable if we saved our next few paychecks and banked on PTO being paid out. The catch? Convincing Rachelle.
I sent a text. I warned her it was a crazy idea. I explained it would be logistically and financially a little tight. As in, things would have to go mostly right for it to work. I sent the text and kept watching the movie.
A few minutes later my iPhone buzzed.
“Sounds good.”
I texted back. “You read my whole text?”
“Yes. Obviously we need to discuss this more when I get home, but let’s do it.”
And so we spent nearly two months “homeless” and traveling the US and Europe.
This was our second major road trip.
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From Seattle down along the Pacific Coast Highway, we slept in our car, wandered beaches, stopped along the side of the road to watch the waves splashing on various rock formations, met sea lions and seals, and avoided Los Angeles traffic. We crossed into the Arizona desert, met some javelinas, stopped for a picture at Four Corners, and into Colorado. We got snowed into Durango and spent a couple of nights in an empty motel. We crossed the Rockies and drove straight through the flatness of the Midwest.
Somewhere along the way Prince died. We locked ourselves in our room at a greasy motel and listened to two meth heads singing Prince songs in the hallways until they got shuffled along by local police. We made it to Chicago and wandered Ferris Bueller’s path including catching part of a Cubs game. We shot fireworks with our AirBNB hosts and kicked around a soccer ball with their kids. We caught glimpses of a Great Lake, but had to keep going.
We headed south and spent a night in Nashville. We were too tired to Honky or Tonk, so we kept on moving. We made it to Atlanta and hurried to find a place to unpack.
A week later, it was off to Europe.
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After leaving Seattle, I decided to quit soccer. I’d play since I was 4 of 5 years old. I’m not sure I would call myself “good,” but I wasn’t bad. Mostly because I obsessed over it the way I obsess over anything that I do in life. I played on way too many teams in Alaska and then in Seattle. Yet I knew (and Rachelle knew) I needed something to fill that void. At 35, I was tired of getting tackled to the ground and nursing strained ankles and cleated toes.
I thought of martial arts. I imagined Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris and the plethora of 80s action stars sweating and straining as they took out an endless supply of bad guys (Cobra Kai, Soviets, Nazis, Xenomorphs, miscellaneous scowling dudes). I also looked in the mirror. At 140-something pounds, I wasn’t going to be hunting any Predators or taking down fleets of goons. Also, this isn’t an action movie. But I liked the idea of some sort of self-defense. It would, at minimum, give me something to obsess over. You know, fill that void left behind from soccer.
When we landed in Atlanta, I tried a bunch of schools and styles. Kung Fu, Muay Thai (which along with boxing I had done for a few years in college), Jeet Kune Do, Wing Chun, Kali, and (of course) Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Again, if you’re reading this, you can guess which one stuck.
Stupidly, I signed up for three schools. All offering Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. There were pros and cons of each place – ability to cross train in other arts, community or vibe, pedigree/lineage, class times, etc. Yet for all, I imagined dedicating myself and becoming a black belt in something. Anything. A goal that my stepdad spent a large chunk of his life pursuing (and not achieving, unfortunately; more on this in the future).
Then off to Europe we flew. Three weeks of not training (it wasn’t part of my daily routine anyway), yet I obsessed anyhow. The roots of the void being filled by something new. We even sold our Arsenal tickets because, frankly, I didn’t care about soccer as much anymore. My YouTube algorithm evolved and changed with each day as I learned about the Gracie family and the early UFCs. I checked and rechecked the schedule of the three places I had joined, trying to maximize my class attendance (across all arts) and fully dive into my martial arts learning.
Early one morning in Florence, I woke up realizing how stupid I was being. I had taken maybe a handful of classes at these places before spending three weeks in Europe. There was no way I could spend that much money and time to make it worth my while. So I had a gut check. Which one felt right? Which one felt most like “home”?
I’d eat the cancellation fees for two places and only keep my membership at Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu. The expense stung a bit, but was cheaper in the long-term. The decision felt “right.” A huge weight lifting off my shoulders and a clearer vision of my schedule coming into view.
Now here’s the thing. We all know a million white belts that come and go. The vast, vast majority disappear and never get their black belts. For those two schools, I was exactly one of those white belts. I came in for a week or so. Signed up. Then backed out.
I like the idea that, to them, I’m just another nameless white belt in a sea of white belts that disappear. A blip and not even a footnote in the history of their schools. I’ve thought about returning to those schools, just to show that I did get my black belt. Yet I really like the idea that maybe there are two or three people there that use me as one of their favorite stories about white belts that come in pretty regularly before disappearing entirely. “Remember that one guy…”
For one, I remember rolling with a fairly technical blue belt lady. She played very defensively – which I now understand why – when rolling against (probably) feral white belts (i.e. me). She saw me win an IBJJF Atlanta Open gold medal when I was a blue belt. I could hear her in one of my matches saying, “Didn’t that guy used to train with us?”
For another, a talented purple belt used to play with me like a cat plays with a mouse. In fact, he was a reason I started enjoying jiu-jitsu. Being around my size, he moved so fluidly. Translating that into effective control and submissions against feral white belts like me. I could respect that and him as a result. As a brown belt, I noticed he was competing on the mat across from mine at an IBJJF Atlanta Open. I thought it weird that we’d both be brown belts. He lost his match. I won mine. Granted we were in different divisions. A few minutes later we were both in line to get our medals and podium pictures. I reintroduced myself. He had no idea who I was. Or at least not even a glimmer of recognition. That was fine, but I thanked him for tooling me up when I was a white belt and he was a purple. Now here we were, both browns. Him with a bronze and me with a gold. Such is life in jiu-jitsu.
Finally, after getting my second stripe on my white belt, I had a work trip (the first of many for that job). To this day I’m still not sure why, but Sam (my first instructor) texted me through Facebook messenger to make sure I was doing alright. “Haven’t seen you in class this week. You okay?” To this day, I think about what could’ve been between those three schools and I know I made the right decision.
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And that is where my journey in jiu-jitsu officially begins. In Atlanta after two major road trips.