I drove up US Highway 101 from San Francisco yesterday. The previous three times I'd ferried myself between here and there, I took Interstate 5's swift grey expanse. That trip sets me back nine hours, including the two five-minute petrol stops. Eight hours if I get a ticket. But yesterday, 101 carried me home. It took me twelve and a half hours, including both fuel-ups. And I'll never drive I-5 again.

The little red coup first hits wine country. Sonoma County, then Mendocino County. Admirable restraint kept me from a stop at Dry Creek's vineyard, as their '99 cabernet's tasty. But there were miles to go before I slept, so I zigged on. Next thing I knew I was in redwood groves, for which the same adjective applies. Majesty in arboreal form, then in coastline. Downshift to fourth, accelerate through the turns, and focus on not becoming part of the scenery. There's much thinking in my life these days, and that was my biggest enemy. Company helped. My hitchhiker and I fed two emus by a gas station. In a comedic replay of events in Ubud's monkey forest, wildlife nearly seized my camera. Now three species claim scratches on its face. We slowed once more - a Harley met a Buick head on around a hairpin. Emergency personnel'd just shown up, but it didn't look good for the biker. Blood from the ears. That quieted Dan and I up for the first time in the six hours he rode with me. He had his trail-mix to keep him trucking, and I had the world's second best snack pack. There's no such thing as "dusk" on the west coast. It's more like a darkening of the celestial painter's palate. With the sunset, the hitchhiker wisely decided to stop and set up camp. Perhaps as karmic payback for the paperbacks I bestowed on several of my rides in New Zealand, he handed me his last book as I turned him loose. But I myself still owe. That's only one ride I've given, and I thumbed 122 lifts in New Zealand.

Some other data from the international legs of the journey:

• Countries: 9
• Months abroad: 6
• Places slept: 88 (incl. one bus stop)
• Haircuts: 5
• Base pack weight: 23 pounds
• Base pack size: 2800 cubic inches
• Items lost: 5
• Items broken: 1 (a Canon S230 camera)
• Usable items purchased: 21
• Movies seen: 36
• Books read: 23
• Online journal posts (total): 75
• Personal journal entries: 150
• Diseases contracted: 0
• Land animal species eaten: 10
• Rides hitched: 123
• Job offers: 3
• National television appearances: 3
• Pictures taken: about 11,000 (17 gigabytes)
• Total cost: about $11,000 (USD)

This is the last post I plan for this journal. A new one will likely be at this address soon, but I'm no longer dodging foreigners, poorly or otherwise. My meandering's done, for now. From Beer Changs with spastic Brits on Khaosan Road to the arms of a beautiful girl at Lake Tahoe, I claim no regrets. In a small and temporary way, I've bucked the assembly line American life-by-numbers. Television high-school college job job job retire golf die. My current career search may land me in a cubicle from which I emerge only for the occasional canned corporate cruise. I don't want to stop, but if I do, I know that for at least a short while I continued the trend my folks started when they moved their young family to Egypt for eight years.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for your support now and for becoming expats in 1984. And for that I owe another just as much. My last grandparent died the day before I returned to the States. Edward Garrett is my namesake and my inspiration. He moved his young family to Panama, Guatemala, Thailand, Egypt, and even Mississippi. A geologist and award-winning photographer, his slideshows of 1950's Afghanistan proved to me that the noble 20th century explorer exists. His sundry artifacts cinched that fact. One photograph of his sticks in my mind - that of his three girls climbing the ruins of Angkor in Northwestern Cambodia. War closed that country to visitors for the next decades, only to recently open and allow me to bicycle to those same temples - the highlight of my six months abroad. Granddad's gone, but his legacy's real. Two of those girls bookended my trip - Aunt Bobbee on Oahu and Aunt Toni in Berkeley; inspirations and adventurers in their own rights. And the third still tries to cook my breakfast now that I'm back in her basement. My family said "go" from the very beginning. And not because they didn't like me.

My international vector's been around longer than I have, and that made this sort of dalliance easy. But the truth is that there's nothing hard about it. Live beneath your means and save some money. Then quit your job and get out of town. Go far away. Become a vagabond. There's a fortuitous imbalance in travel - the cheaper a destination is to explore, the better you'll find it. Frugality has nothing to do with it. Your eyes will open wider. You learn more. You will meet people different than you could possibly imagine while sitting in a bedecked western apartment. You will like them. And if you've opened your mind enough, they'll like you too.

Even if you don't go far, or for long, take 101 instead of I-5. Chances are I'll see you there.

Hostel kitchens permanently changed my life. For those who haven't experienced them: imagine a semi-industrial kitchen that's 50% too small for the number of users. Many backpackers don't drive while traveling, and perhaps build up negative energy that would otherwise be released by road-rage. This nasty stuff stays pent up until the hours of 5-7pm, when normally mild mannered meanderers body-check competitors for counter space. I took up cooking at four in the afternoon. Still, I rarely had the kitchen to myself. And so I adapted to food prep under duress. Chopping happens quickly. Someone else needs that saucepan, so as soon as the penne's unloaded on my plate, it's washed, dried, and in the hands of a Swede. Basically the good habits I developed make me a faster, less waffling cook. I'm a machine. Call me Mr. Cuisinart.

An aside: Italian girls are the best to cook with, because glorious things called 'lasagna' and 'tiramisu' happen.

Maw, Paw and I trucked on down to the Bagdad theater pub over in the Hawthorne district. We ignored the Democratic presidential candidate hopeful (Dennis Kucinich) who was canvassing the line. (I prefer watching him on Bill Maher, not between me and my $3 admission ticket.) We ordered a pizza and lugged a pitcher of ruby ale into a theater of trans-euphratic majesty. Want to see the mid-east in its glory? Turn off Fox News and hang out at Bagdad.

Who says insomnia's counterproductive? I crunched panoramas of Milford Sound together instead of sleeping last night. I also found out that an old pal's improv buddy shares a camportal with a friend of an artist who co-authors Penny Arcade with the husband of a friend of a lovely girl who's dating an even older pal of mine. I've heard tell of software that makes these connections for you, but meh. I can do it myself, without automation. Luddites of the web unite.

Easter. The American holiday that most retains its original religious significance. For the last seven years, I've celebrated it by receiving a care package of plastic grass and various formulations of cocoa and glucose. A waffling agnostic I may be, but candy is candy. This year proved different. I discovered a leftover stocking from Christmas, in addition to the springtime loot. The sheer quantity of sweets overfloweth the basket. Made it tough to keep up with the shorter kids as they scoured the yard for eggs. Got some colorful pictures, but I still feel woozy.

The Easter bunny also brought me a boomerang. Australia must've done me good - it comes back to my hand flawlessly each time I throw it. Never mind that short people act as couriers. Usually they just run the straight line between me and the resting place of the 'rang, but a tree ate it yesterday, a la Charlie Brown's kite. I bemoaned its loss, forgot about it, then Trace somehow acquired it and ran it up to me this afternoon. I assume the aborigines experienced the littlebrotherang phenomenon as well, and applied it to the swatting of wallabies.

Tax time's here, and you know what that means. Once I'm through the call queue for my broker and talking with them about reinvesting Roth IRA mutual fund dividends, two things happen nigh simultaneously. (1) Mom hollers downstairs for me to come up and join the other children for a snack, and (2) one of the other children picks up another cordless and immediately speed-dials a friend.

On a related topic, I broke down and purchased a cell phone. For years I've fought the good fight with an ever diminishing number of fellow phone-free friends, but the time came to break ranks. I humbly crawl to the wireless side of the fence. Hi everyone. Thanks for letting me borrow your phones while at bars over past years. I won't mooch off you any more. And hey, if you're within 33 feet and want to play a wireless bluetooth game of VRally 2, lemme know. This itsy phone slices, dices, and hums the cockatiel to sleep. Most of all, my Thundercats theme and Castlevania ringtones bring me happiness and joy. And I can even talk to other humans with it. That's why I'm proud to be an American. Yes, everyone in, let's say, New Zealand has a mobile phone. And getting a call's free. But if a kiwi were to call his mate's mobile, it costs him somewhere between two and twenty times the amount of money that it would take him to ring, say, Oregon. Consequently, you have a nation of people with mobile phones who use them exclusively to text-message friends at 10 cents a pop. Pardon the engineering economics, but on an inflation-adjusted dollar per character basis, that's the most expensive form of communication since the short-lived pony express.

L8r.

My family inherited a cockatiel named Tiny. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in prodigious parrot propaganda. Tiny's a guy. And Tiny is only happy if there's a girl in the room. It whistles songs and calls itself a pretty bird. Cheerful. Unfortunately, my family is 83% not girl. So when Mom's not around, Tiny digs its beak into any male fingers that venture too close. And, what's worse, it chirps enough to cause partial hearing loss.

The solution? Put Cleo in the room. Tiny doesn't care what species it's wooing, as long as the object of its affection's female. Even if the target is Siamese and wants to eat it.

I woke up yesterday to the gentle sounds of Morning Edition's political punditry, grabbed my brown sack lunch, put it in my backpack, and boarded the bus to elementary school. Field trip to Fort Vancouver! I lost a baby tooth at lunchtime. It'd come out of Bryce's mouth, and he agreed to be my bestest friend if I'd hold it for him. Fortunately I'd just placed it in a different pocket, so I found it again. Bryce and I buddied up all day, and Mr. Lau treated me nice too. In fact, I think he was trolling for someone with editing experience to help with his wedding video side-business. Can you spell c-h-a-p-a-r-o-n-e?

Went dancing. Yes, Mark bought DDR pads. That culminated a long day of Portland-style exercise - basketball and trampolining. Thank goodness for shooting hoops a few times with Maria in Berkeley. It prevented the little brothers being overly unimpressed with my game. Should stick with basketball. In the midst of a failed front flip on the tramp, I realized I really need to remember that I don't have health insurance.

Spent time at REI, my trusty outdoor store. That cinched the homecoming... walking the same industrial carpet over which I picked out all my gear. Well, rather, where Maria and my mom picked out all the gear. I would have just stuck a bunch of lollypops in a duffel and called good if I'd been in charge. As it stands, I have a membership dividend to use there. And it's substantial.

Y'know what I miss from the trip? The Hallmark Channel. Because of that blessed network, you can get four heaping episodes of M*A*S*H every weekday. Better than any social life. Hawkeye, I need your sardonic charm late at night. And Radar... aw. It's too much.

If you're envying my ongoing task of sorting seven months of snail mail, don't.

Ah, the elusive yet accommodating folks' basement. It's been eight months since I've had four walls to call my own, so I'll settle for three and a partition now. I had fun orbiting in California before crashing here, though.

From other parents' basements across the world, nerds turned up for Robolympics, an ode to Battlebots. Actually, it was the same but with more plexiglass, flames, and the occasional nonviolent AI humanoid breakdancing match. An acquaintance competed (victoriously) in the middleweight competition, so admission and workshop access flowed like light machine oil. Despite vigorously betting with Bryan on matches all Saturday, I left the carnage with exactly the number of quarters I started with. Those coins were the only metal not battered to hell when that evening's fog rolled in over Alcatraz.

My aunt, Ms. Garrett, is close with one of the recent gubernatorial candidates, Garrett, and that connection brought me, Garrett, to a shindig. Garrett rented a little fish-themed place for his wife's birthday party. Namely, the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Yeah, the same joint that puts Baltimore's dinky National Aquarium in its proper corner of the tank. Its jellyfish walk won 'Best Exhibit in North America' when it debuted last year, thwomping every other aquarium, zoo, or art show on the continent. An Outer Bay tank dwarfed the banquet. The 300-pound tunas regularly passed four feet from me. That reinforced my decision to eat the salmon instead. Garrett and all his cronies do the scuba, so conversation flowed when jaws weren't actively dropped by a pre-dessert magic show. Maria doesn't dive, but the sea turtles almost convinced her to jump right in. And I don't normally dance, but Maria convinced me to, well, jump right in.

What's a rock-n-roll lifestyler to do when your two favorite bands sold out years ago? How about wait until the best members of both get antsy, join forces and hold a jam session in a small San Francisco club. Throw in a little no-smoking legislation, hog the front of the crowd with the best looking girl in the Bay Area, sauté, and enjoy.

Santa Cruz: Beach - check. Ferris wheel pictures - check.

Now, you know I'm a liberal fella. But I don't go around arbitrarily designating mid-sized municipalities "nuclear-free zones" and boycotting (?) country clubs because they don't let every hobo meander through at will. Please don't think I'm judging you, Berkeley. The last thing I need is hemp-garmented picketers between me and my backyard grass-mowing chores. No, no - not that type of grass. Sheesh. I still like you, though. I'll come down and celebrate Indigenous Peoples' Day when it rolls around.

I'm writing off the Corvallis detour as an unemployment expense. I borrowed Eric's copy of Cool Careers for Dummies, see.

'Writing off.' That reminds me. Taxes. Heh. Those'll be easy this year.

I've spent the first hours of my 25th birthday in my birth-town as a lithe night-elf rogue called 'Asthma'. Yes, Eric's been gifted by the gods with a spot in the World of Warcraft beta. I'm at his apartment in Corvallis (second in the definitive 1992 'Best Small Towns in America' list), about ten seconds by foot from the store where I bought my Petra tape. As Christian metal bands go, the twelve-year-old me gave them two adolescent thumbs up. Didn't mean to make a sabbatical here for the quarter-century anniversary of my birth down the street, but the promises of Woodstocks pizza and late night geeking-out forced the detour.

Thusly proven, stateside existence refosters my inner dork. And he likes Button Men, particularly the delicious online manifestation. I face off against accountants and Poindexters the world over. If you too harbor a strange interest in dice games, sign up and challenge me (my uninspired username: Downen) or just email me after you have an account and I'll take care of the dirty work. Devil take us, it is a game of chance, but it doesn't cost any dollars. And it's open to all of us proletariat, not just those on the Blizzard Friends List.

More words about California soon.

Still traveling. With this much inertia, it's hard to stop. Yes, I have de facto ownership of a trendy Berkeley Hills apartment and the sport coup outside, but I still find myself at the same museums and wilderness preserves so frequently visited in Parts Unknown. Explore the nearby. It's just as fun, especially if you hail from the Bay Area, and the Legion of Honor hosts an art deco exhibit.

Instead of cleaning hostel bathrooms in exchange for a bed, I walk dogs and wrestle faulty wireless networks. WWOOFing, suburb style. My trip couldn't be bookended with two finer aunts. Nor could those same relatives choose finer real estate. I yammered about Bobbee's digs in August. Now it's Mom's other sister's turn. The pool room boasts views of the Golden Gate bridge, the Trans-America Building, and nighttime Oakland. Even the latter's gorgeous, at distances out of small-arms range. I only need leave the property for sustenance, which local bakeries dish up with upapologeticly organic zeal.

The March San Fransisco weather beats anything I've seen all summer. New Zealand, you should be ashamed of yourself. My bad luck aside... For those of you planning extensive trips: I can't rave about the southern hemisphere's December climate patterns enough. The only thing stopping me from purchasing tickets to Nepal in September are poverty and Nepal's northern hemisphere coordinates.

I wrote me a resumé. I hope employers like puns. Starting from scratch greased the wheels. Compared to the old monstrosity, the wordcount's down by a factor of lots. It's a toss up. The old mention of my 8th grade science fair sweep might've cinched that dive instructor position.