What is it about the west that draws us near, beckons to us from all corners and curves, calls us to come as if we were returning home to a place that is still unknown to us? Why do we always want to go there? Out west. Why do we always want to go out west?

For me, this time, the reason was Caitlyn. We're college friends who, amidst all of the other genuine but lofty "we'll keep in touch!" promises from friends of yore, have maintained a very close relationship. We haven't lived in the same city for more than a few months in the past 7 years, but we talk regularly, making daily phone calls to consult about family and men and jobs and the future and why we sometimes get stuck turning our own heavily toothed gears. She's my homegirl. After a year and a half into a two year stint doing food education on a reservation in northern Arizona, we decided it was time for me to finally come visit her in the desert. Ticket booked, loose ends tied up, I hopped on a plane on a Saturday afternoon, utterly thrilled about my ensuing adventure.

Caitlyn picked me up in Phoenix and it was on. It was well after dinnertime, but we found ourselves at a posh little place called The Gladly. As if the clean decor and rocking playlist weren't satisfying enough, the late night food and drinks were to die for. 

We enjoyed the delightful company of bar manager Brian Goodwin, who gave us some tips about where to go if we headed to the beach, which we wanted to do, and politely told us to avoid going to Tijuana, which we thought we wanted to do. The other bartender, equally smoking and entertaining, showed off his wicked eagle vest. We were sufficiently charmed by the guys - and the feeling was mutual; Brian covered all of our drinks and sent us on our way with a tip about where to get the best bloody mary in San Diego. Swoon. LIke, double swoon.

So we were off to California! With a couple of hours of sleep in the car at a rest stop, fueled by the purity of friendship and spontaneity, we headed west on our sandy adventure. We watched the sun rise over the desert, and I felt as if my insides might drip through the bottoms of my feet. 

About 90 miles east of San Diego near Jacumba, CA we saw a little sign for Desert View Tower. Really, it was a very small, maybe even handmade sign. There was no question that we'd pull over, unsure of what was in store for us as we winded backwards on a lonely, dusty trail, replete with glorious, confusing kitchiness. 

This Desert Tower is a special place. We were greeted by about a dozen mangy, loving dogs and the most wonderful blue sky and fresh air. The gift shop is heaven for lovers of all things weird, retro, useful, useless, and unique. It has everything, including an owner who's been living there for 12 years, watching people come and go from the not too distant highway, climbing on animal boulders and standing on a rickety viewing deck, soaking in the vastness of a desert paradise. He apologized for his generation's mistakes and urged our generation to revolt. 

And so we revolted. All the way to the beach.

We rolled into San Diego just in time to get the deservedly recommended bloodies at The Green Flash, a cute restaurant that has maintained its family-owned appeal on Pacific Beach. After a little sustenance, we dipped our bodies in the ocean and the sand, slept in the sun, and reveled in the humility of being at the edge of the earth. We headed to Ocean Beach to meet an old friend of mine, just in time to drink gin and wheat grass as we watched the sun slip behind the watery horizon. 

Feeling the lighthearted achievement of having seen so much by Sunday night, I got in touch with a friend who recently moved to San Diego and we made our way to her apartment for the night. Exhausted and thankful for a small couch and blankets on the floor, we slept soundly, and I dreamt of water. After a hot shower, fresh smoothie, and catching up the next morning, Caitlyn and I stepped out into the 80 degree day and hit the road for Los Angeles. 

The first stop was East LA where Caitlyn's friend Ernesto Yerena and other artists have an amazing warehouse space. We got to see his collection of social work, including a special Red Bull label celebrating Latino culture, and watch him making some sweet block prints that were on their way to SF. He's incredibly talented with a wonderful spirit, and has impeccable taste in music. Plus I learned a new word: ganas. It means gumption, and seemed fitting.

My cousin, Adrian, a very recent transplant to LA from Gloucester, MA, met us at the studio. Ernesto took us to the best taco restaurant in town, the Boyle Heights Guisados, and I treated him to lunch in exchange for a glamorous print. We said goodbye to Ernesto and headed on our way through LA, the city that welcomed us with open arms, the city that felt right, the city that somehow seemed like home to all of us.

I was getting messages from a childhood friend who'd moved to Los Angeles in October. We were giddy with excitement about seeing each other. Tyler offered his place to stay for anybody who wanted it, and we all slowed down a little bit. Adrian and Caitlyn and I walked around in the sunshine, strategizing the evening, and stopped to watch a hummingbird die. We felt a sadness for the bird but couldn't deny our own sense of life. I stood on a sidewalk with two of the very few people who I can hang with every single day, and decided that spontaneously landing in LA for a couple of days would be perfect. 

And Los Angeles was just that for me. Perfect. Caitlyn skipped out to spend the night with another friend from college while Adrian and I went to El Segundo to see the place where he's staying and have sushi with his roommates. Jaws played on the restaurant television and we chuckled at the irony. Tyler got off of work around 11 and we headed to Silver Lake to meet at his adorable house. We had a reunion of childish proportions, full of squeals and old jokes and so many hugs. He and his girlfriend Sarah took us to a cool spot for some drinks and we stayed up until 5 doing all the things that old and new friends like to do together. Tyler and Adrian drew pictures and I wrote poems on them and we all cuddled with the best dog in the world and life felt gloriously possible.

I woke up feeling fresh and in love with Hollywood, especially because I was seeing the Hollywood that Hollywood doesn't show you. Tuesday morning was dedicated to a leisurely and delectable Caribbean breakfast at Cha Cha Cha, followed by the laziest of lovely days at Venice Beach. Caitlyn saw another friend while Adrian and I drove to Long Beach for mouth watering crepes with Dana, a friend I used to know in Philly. Honestly, every little city within LA has such a cool flavor. I'm glad I saw what I saw, and I want to see more. The day was warm and overcast and the beach was empty and there was music on the boardwalk and Santa Monica seemed like heaven and it was one of those days that made me wonder how people get to where they are, how they find the things that are good, how I was so lucky to be there.

Waking up on Wednesday was bittersweet. Adrian was already back in El Segundo and I knew that saying goodbye to Tyler would be equally as painful. Caitlyn and I had aspirations of Joshua Tree, but instead we agreed that Griffith Park would be better, if only because it would allow us more time with Tyler and Sarah. So we hiked to the top of Los Angeles and looked at the city below like angels ourselves. We soaked it in like poor twenty-somethings with a choking thirst for love and adventure and a false sense of power, for lasting connections with people we've known and crave to know more. We soaked it in like angels.

My last full day on the west was spent driving from LA to Vegas via the Mojave. A big part of my motivation to visit Caitlyn was that I'd experienced many climates in my life, but never the desert. I wanted to go somewhere big and open and old and empty and dense and bright and dry and warm. The desert was that place. When we pulled off of the highway and tucked in among the bushes and sand, I took deep breaths, full of the clear air and peaceful longing that can only be felt in a place much bigger than oneself. The sun beat down behind us while the moon sneaked above, and I couldn't help feeling that it was all coming together. Whatever it was, it all felt together.

We rolled into Las Vegas after dark, marveling in fascination and terror at everything the city had to offer. We got a great deal on a hotel on the strip and had just enough time to drop our things and change our clothes before heading the New York, New York casino to see a Cirque du Soleil show for which my buddy back home scored us free tickets. Zumanity is meant to entice the senses, and it did just that. As if the acrobatics and dancing weren't sensual enough, every move was designed to mimic sex. Sex in a fish bowl between two girls, sex in a bathtub, sex alone from tall ropes, it was all sex. And it was good. Like, really good. I don't know what the rest of their shows are like, but I am a Cirque du Soleil believer. Just be prepared to get uncomfortably turned on.

We left the casino feeling tired and out of it, succumbing to the call of our hotel beds. Luckily for us, we were stopped on the street by a number of Vegas kids who offered and delivered a good time. Riding in a limo, scaling fences, a large man on ecstacy in a cold water bath, propositions to go into the bathroom of the Venetian, it was all there. We saw Vegas the way it should be seen, with sore feet and eyes half open. I lost $40 playing black jack and sank into the luxury of blackout curtains and feather pillows. 

It rained on Thursday, my last day. Rain in the desert is good luck. I don't know if I was giving it or getting it, but goodness abounded as Cailtyn and I traveled through the rocks and mountains and blooming cacti of Nevada and Arizona. We listened to Phantogram, John Maus, and Grimes. The music echoed through the gray vastness of the never ending landscape, a week of adventures and memories and the oozing pangs of newness written in the lines of my hands.

We arrived in Flagstaff with enough time to get huge cups of chai and visit Caitlyn's friend Alma for one last glass of wine. Alma is an amazing artist who let me try on an amazingly beautiful native necklace. It was gorgeous and felt grounding, something I probably needed before taking flight. I dumped some postcards into a mailbox and got yummy Thai takeout on my way to a shuttle that would take me to the Phoenix airport. Caitlyn and I hugged, thankful for the rushed goodbye. Lingering would have made it harder, and the end of the trip didn't need to be any less forward moving than the rest of it. 

We hugged, I gathered my things, headed for the shuttle, and gave one last wave to my friend, my travel partner, my fellow heroine. Our story as friends and individuals is still being written and I am honored to be on the same pages as Caitlyn. Next We made plans for next time, because we know that there will always more and more and more. Next time we'll meet in LA, next time we'll spend more time at the beach, next time we'll see the friends who we didn't have time to see. 

Next time we'll revel in the strange, comfortable beauty of knowing even less about the world. 

Disaster Sisters are proud to post their first guest post! And it just happens to be by a Disaster Sister sister...certainly a Disaster Sister in her own right. Meredith is a social worker in Texas and has something to tell y'all. Please to enjoy!

I'm McLovin the new blog and thought I could suggest a topic that my sisters would appreciate. They quickly told me to do it myself, so here goes:  

I’m not a mom...yet. I’m an aunt and proud of it!  I’m obsessed with those kids: the chubby cheeks, arms, dimpled little fingers, but I digress. I want to be a mom, and soon. 

I went to a one-year-old’s birthday party last week. There was a lot of finagling to get my introverted husband to go. I pointed out that his name was on the invitation, wrote the event on the calendar, and promised he didn't have to do anything for the rest of the weekend. The remainder of his weekend involved quiet time, guitar, samurai sword, adding to his medical pack, and of course, alone time. 

I’m not sure how many people were invited to the baby birthday party, but 50 showed up. I don’t think I knew 50 people when I was one. If I don’t count my Facebook friends and co-workers, I don’t think I even know 50 people now. I mean, I have lots of friends, I promise. I swear I’m not weird...like my samurai sword wielding husband. But when did birthday parties for one-year-olds become such a big deal? We were present at our friends' wedding, the baby shower, the birth, and the birthday. We have to be present at this?  Baby-milestone events are a cottage industry. Buy stocks in Toys” R” Us, people! 

The party was clearly more about something other than the adorable birthday boy. It was about the mom and impressing other moms.  It was over the top. (As a side note, I luuurve the parents.  They’re really solid, good people who just want everything for their son.)

Half of the people there had children and a few of them would let said children run around unsupervised. I sat on the floor, criss-cross-apple- sauce style to play with the kids. No other adults were around and one kid knocked another kid on the floor! Didn't a grown adult need to watch them? Or perhaps a young adult? At least a teenager? That got me thinking. Someone was going to ask when it was my turn to have babies. These loving parents’ lives are so consumed with child care, they jet as soon as another capable adult enters the room. They want you to share in that joy with them.

Here's the raw story: people want to know your intimate business.  INTIMATE. “When are you having babies?” “Are you thinking of having kids?” “So when are you two having children?” “Are you actively trying?” “Are you on birth control?” “Do you have sex when you’re ovulating?”  Okay, that last statement didn't happen, but it could have! Salt N’ Pepa, you feel me with your “None of Your Business” bravado, right?

Best friends, disaster sisters, other sisters, cousins, and peeps I have confided in have a right to ask this BECAUSE I HAVE GIVEN THEM PERMISSION TO ASK. My husband, who didn't want to go in the first place, was asked, "When are you going to have kids?" four times. I was asked the same question nine times! Nine! There is so much added pressure women feel when it comes to parenthood.

Having children is an amazing thing for all people who want it, but it isn't the only fulfilling thing for a woman. Or a man.

The unsolicited baby question is so nosy and uncomfortable. After the party a few of us discussed responses to that question. One fellow non-mom said she tells people they tried, but had a miscarriage (true). Then she stares into their soul. I say we're casually trying. Not trying, but not not trying.

The thing is I see my friends having gorgeous children and I want that.  I’m working towards that, but what if my husband doesn't have swimmers? What if I have an uninhabitable womb? What if we can’t afford it? What if, what if, what if? We want to have the joy of children and we want you to share that with us. But please let us choose how we share it with you.

I've been told that a person should only wear jewelry with sentimental value. I break that rule every once in awhile when I find a cheap something or other, but for the most part I know the story behind the jewelry I wear. 

There's the blue beaded necklace that Amy gave me because it suited me so well when I tried it on, even though I originally think that she intended to keep it for herself. I have the Navajo earrings that Caitlyn brought back from Arizona, which I'm still gleefully incorporating into my wardrobe. Of course there's the textured copper crescent necklace with asymmetrical beads on the chain made by my incredibly talented jeweler friend, Draya. One of my most standout accessories is the unicorn rainbow pin that my friend Joe gave me for my birthday shortly before moving far away. I also love the orange chunky necklace my mom gave me and went to great lengths to replace when I broke it, the feather earrings I got from a street artist, the divinely smooth wooden pendant necklace that Jamie gave me for Mother's Day, the delicate silver bracelet that Jamie gave me for my birthday, basically any piece that Jamie gave me, and on and on and on. These are the staples. I put them on and take them off regularly, rely on their weight against my body, let their vibrant colors bring my face to life, build an entire wardrobe around them. 

There's one piece of jewelry, however, that I have never removed and often overlook as being an extension of my body. It's a simple, tattered ankle bracelet. While I've long outgrown my hemp choker and woven bracelet phase, I adore this stringy, knotted, beaded anklet. It's not just a piece of jewelry with a story behind it. It is the story itself, a souvenir of some great time and place. For about six summers in a row through my adolescence I traveled with friends and groups and sometimes strangers to Nicaragua with a non-profit called Bridges to Community. The organization was in its infancy on my first trip at the age of 15. I ventured south of the border, my first international trip without one of my parents, alongside my childhood best friend Leanne and her father Dave to build houses with families left homeless after various hurricanes and revolutions. Two week stints were spent polishing my Spanish, dancing, mixing cement, laughing, bartering, carrying bags of sand, playing futbol, building rebar and laying blocks, swimming in shark infested fresh water lake Nicaragua, hiking volcanoes, eating rice and beans, and generally expanding my love of the world and its rich, diverse cultures. 

It was on this first trip that we were introduced to a group of orphans who lived like the lost boys in what I remember to be tree houses by the lake. They ranged in age and learned early on to take care of themselves. One of the ways they did this was by making and selling bracelets. I'm sure it cost me about two dollars to buy the bracelet that I tied around my ankle, and I remember choosing the one that was the most beautiful, and the boys agreeing that it was perfect for me. I didn't have a plan for my ownership of the jewelry but it turned out that I never, ever wanted to remove it. It feels just right on my ankle, falling across the top of my foot, always reminding me of my years of service in Central America. No matter how annoying it is to have to remove my right sock carefully enough to avoid ripping the anklet, no matter how many weird puddles it leaves on sheets after I shower, no matter how old or ratty or out of fashion it might become, it is a symbol of my travels and friends, of my fortune having two living parents, and of the presence in my mind of people not being served by their government or peers or universe or whoever is supposed to make sure that kids don't get malaria and moms don't get asthma cooking tortillas all day. 

You can imagine my surprise when I discovered last week it was missing.

For 15 years I feared what would happen if I ever lost my ankle bracelet. I assumed it would be due to nothing less tragic than severing my foot from my leg or being victimized by grabby trolls while crossing a bridge. I stood in my closet, eyes wide open, staring at my naked ankle. Friends were waiting downstairs so I didn't want to take the time to search my house obsessively. Being winter, I hoped that it couldn't be much farther than tangled an inside-out sock or tight pair of pants, but I didn't know what to do and realized that it could actually be anywhere. I picked up my drink and remained calm, completely shocked at my lack of hysterical bawling. My favorite piece of jewelry, my bastion of worldly adventure was gone. What would I do?

Like any good disaster sister, I ate and drank enough to be distracted and explained the situation in passing as if it didn't bother me. I was almost bothered by how much it didn't bother me. Having recently experienced some serious bouts of missing a few faraway friends, I only assumed that I was being taught to let go. Maybe the anklet was never mine in the first place. Maybe I shouldn't be so attached to personal belongings. Maybe we had a good run and it's simply time to move on. Crappy, but sensible. I began the process of letting go.

What happened next in the saga sparks everything within me that makes me want to watch romantic comedies and listen to pop music and roll around in grassy fields with chubby bunnies and berries. I found it! I took a heaping pile of clothing into the laundry room and rather mindlessly shoved handfuls of articles into the washer until I uncovered a very familiar trinket. Still tied in what is proved to be the world's greatest knot, my anklet lay in waiting on top of my dirty jeans. It was never lost, and it slipped right back onto my foot like it had never been anywhere else.

As someone who very intently searches for lost objects and almost always succeeds in finding them, I find it interesting that I didn't drop everything to search frantically for what went missing. Maybe deep down I knew that I would find it. Or maybe I actually loved the ankle bracelet enough to let it go, fortified by our many years together to continue on with my life. Maybe I was feeling centered enough to shift my expectations from "this is how my life is and will be" to "now this is how my life will be, and it's different than I thought." I don't always love change. I'm open to the stuff I can manifest, but, c'mon, please don't go rearranging my shelves without asking me first! I think I learned that even though it can be sad to lose something, it's not productive to add the fear of being without something on top of the devastation of losing it. 

Most importantly, though, I understand all of those "if you love something, set it free" cliches more than ever. So if your bracelet or your dog or your car or your lover isn't where you thought it might be, find gratitude for the moments when you could anticipate its whereabouts, and if you ever find yourself wearing it again, never take for granted the way it feels on your skin.