Part 2: The Wallet

Chapters

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A drive from Oregon to Florida, to experience music and living across the USA, and ultimately join a jazz cruise. AKA, a listening practice, unfolding in real time—written on the road, in the spaces between cities and notes.

Day One (On the Road)

Newberg, OR to Redding, CA

I'm getting a screaming deal on gas—$2.49 a gallon, nearly half of what it costs back home—and I suddenly have no way to pay for it. An irony, considering how carefully everything else has been planned.

I'm leaving for at least six weeks. I get out the door by 8:00 a.m.—on the road by 8:03 a.m. A small victory.

This trip has been designed with intention: easy travel days, pet-friendly hotels, space for bike rides with Max (my 3-year-old tri-colored King Charles Cavalier), nights in jazz listening rooms instead of loud bars. Nothing rushed. Nothing accidental. All of it an opening act for a destination I've been holding quietly in mind—a long arc of listening that eventually leads me to the ocean, and to music.

The morning feels cooperative. I'm making good time when I pull into Brooks Food Market, drawn in by the price of regular gasoline on the sign. I fill the tank, go to pay, and realize my wallet isn't where it always is.

Instead of panicking—or driving off with the pump still attached, which briefly crosses my mind—I leave the pump, park, and stop. This is new for me. I pause. I breathe in deeply, hold it, then exhale slowly, counting to four.

I look under the seat. Between the seats. Nothing. My heart speeds up. My mind starts racing. Ugh.

The night before: a recording session, a cash stop around 10:00 p.m. I know I had my wallet then. After that—packing the car, cleaning the house, checking reservations, maps, mileage. By the time I went to bed, it was after 2:00 a.m.

I stop the story again. Rest. Breathe. This inhale is longer. The exhale shorter, but deliberate. I remind myself: I've done an extraordinary job preparing for this trip. One missing object doesn't erase that. Still, the wallet is missing.

I unpack slowly. Charts. Laptop. Charger. Nothing. My travel purse: receipts, lip oil, lotion, a lone throat-lozenge wrapper. Then I push the seat back and look again. A single plastic debit card. Hope.

I imagine the worst-case scenario—another habit I'm loosening. If it's gone, I go home. I regroup. I push the trip back a day. The arc stays intact. The listening still happens. The point isn't perfection. The point is staying in motion without panic.

I say a small prayer—not for the wallet, but for calm.

Max looks at me like, "What are we doing?"

"Mom's just doing her thing," I tell him.

Then I see it—wedged between the passenger seat and the console. Everything spilled out. License. Insurance card. Everything I need to continue.

I pull back onto the road and let the miles stack.

Later, merging onto I-5 south, a semi-truck fills the lane beside me, close enough that the air shifts. My hand moves toward my phone—the reflex to document rising automatically. I stop. The phone goes away. Hands steady. Eyes forward. Breath returns. The truck moves on. The noise fades. The road opens—wide, forward, unobstructed.

This is what the trip is really about: attention. Choosing presence over urgency. Letting the road teach me how to listen—so that by the time I step into the music waiting ahead, I'm already tuned.

Miles ahead.

To Be Continued / See Chapter List At Top