This Elf, man, she’s a real tester. The elf knows that I have set no expectations for this trip. She knows one of my greatest intentions was to let go and let the universe lead us. Whenever a deadline, a map route, a destination point creeps into the journey, she coughs. I laugh. And then we stop. All of my plans, ideas, larger meta-manifestations of the journey ahead vanish. And I have to be present, truly in the moment. The elf is a true teacher.

A measure of one’s character is how they handle adversity. What shines through in those difficult moments make up a part of their emotional constitution. If you want to see who your future partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, family member etc., really is, then put them in a 1978 manual vehicle that hasn’t been driven in years and you have them drive it across the country. Things start leaking. Noises happen. And most times, you have to delay any movement. In this breakdown, do they laugh? Cry? Scream? All of the above? The greatest lesson is to not take it so seriously. As my friend Stevie Lloyd would say, “Take it easy, but take it.”

In this way, the elf has been and will be a great teacher on this trip. In the two days we have driven the elf more than 300 miles, we have had to call AAA. They come diagnose the problem; we talk about it, and make decisions. To tow or not to tow, that is the question. I learn about brakes, oil, radiators, grease and heat. I am just starting to really get to know her. And she, me.

Here is a map of our mechanical ELF journey so far:

Pre-trip.
In order to prepare for the journey ahead, I need to take the newly purchased 1978 TOYOTA ELF RV into the mechanic. My neighbor, a godfather figure in the neighborhood, offers to take it to his house to have “his guy look at it. And they do (for a friends and family discount).

They look that RV up and down, in and through. The systems on the interior are fixed. The engine is scanned, tinkered with, and tested. He changes the water pump, the thermometer, and the fan clutch. “You need an alignment but everything else is fine.” The engine sounds smoother. She is purring rather than cackling now.

I bring her into another friend’s mechanic to get an alignment. I am told the head gasket most likely needs to be replaced. And if this is the case, then we might as well overhaul the whole engine. I am overwhelmed but consider this option. Another friends and family price of $1000 seems more than reasonable.

I arrive the next day and hear the engine overhaul price of $2500 and the week of work it will delay our journey, and it prompts me to get a second opinion. I drive her through the streets of Venice, CA to the next suggested mechanic. He pops the hood. He opens the cap. He doesn’t see coolant in the oil. He shows me where to look and what to look for. There is no “milky-ness” is the oil. He says, “It’s not the head gasket. I think you should be fine.” So I drive the ELF home.

The godfather of the neighborhood so lovingly takes the ELF back and brings it to his radiator shop in Van Nuys. They run compression tests and clear out the radiator. They also say the head casket is fine and send me on my merry way.

Day 1 on the road
After packing the ELF full, and setting up our beds, packing the fridge and the coolers, Pamela, Miles and I set out for Big Sur for a five day Big Sur party with the Topanga/Big Sur family. We are giddy. We pet the ELF on the dash every time she makes it up a big hill. I look in the rear view mirror at Miles, my sweet 14-year old dog, on the back bed.

He is overwhelmed. He is stressed. He is anxious. He pants hard, harder than normal. His eyes go wide. I begin to fear this journey will be too hard on him. Miles has been on the road with me many times before. This would be his 7th time making it across the country. He knows the road. He’s a gypsy like me. And yet, this time, I can hear, feel and see that this journey might kill him. He does not like the ELF at all. It doesn’t feel safe to him. He needs a smaller space, to nest and nestle in. And ironically, I bought the ELF so he would feel more comfortable and come with me to New York. Pamela goes and sits with him and we count blessings as we make our way into Cambria.

I feel something dripping on my leg. —oil?, brake fluid? It doesn’t smell like oil and I don’t know what brake fluid smells like. I call my friend, Steven in Big Sur to explain the situation and get some feedback. He says to pull over and make sure it’s not the breaks or the heater coil. I call one of the three mechanics and he suggests it could be the master cylinder on the brakes. I pull over into a gas station and call AAA. I let Miles out of the RV while we wait and he bounds out of it as quickly as his old doglegs can. He calms down a bit and drinks a bowl of water.

A man on a yellow crotch rocket motorcycle looks over at us from another pump. His brown eyes and tan skin remind me of a past boyfriend from years ago. He is handsome. “You break down or something?” he asks and

I look at Pamela and she grins. “Yea, well, something is leaking on my foot from inside the dash. Do you know anything about cars?”

He smiles and follows me to the driver side door. He beds down and stretches to get a good look inside and under the dashboard. He smells the brown substance and looks for the source. “I don’t think its oil. Or brake fluid. I don’t know what it is but I think you will be fine.”

“If it’s the brakes, then I don’t want to travel into Big Sur without them. Those roads are crazy windy.”

Pamela starts to talk to him and he offers her a special cookie. She happily takes it. And he speeds off on his journey up to San Francisco.

AAA arrives and a young, scruffy, man with wire rimmed gasses steps out of the tow truck. Pamela smiles again. We laugh and she says under her breath, “The elf seems to attract cute men.” He checks the substance to see if it is brake fluid. His assessment is quick and he says it is grease from the speedometer. “Old cars that have been sitting for a while, they heat up. And grease starts to drip. You will be fine.”

It’s late. 9pm. I try to get Miles back in the RV and he will not. He refuses. I have to physically carry him up the stairs. He starts another panic attack.

We make our way up to Big Sur but stop overnight in a grocery store parking lot in Cambria. Navigating the coastline through Big Sur late at night exhausted and delirious feels too troubling. It’s also a waste of the incredible views. Miles and I cuddle on the bed. I feel his heart trembling. I know I can’t do this to my old dog.

I park the elf on the driveway of our beautiful rented Big Sur home. She rests for four days so we can enjoy our Big Sur family of friends, merriment and plenty of laughter. There’s another blog post coming about that beautiful circus.

Day 2 on the road
I say goodbye to our beautiful friends. And Miles. My sweet dog Miles. I try to put him back in the elf, I force him inside with all of my weight. And he begins to panic. His whole body starts to terribly shake. He pants, His heart is beating far too fast. I stop in the driveway. I realize this journey will be too hard on him. And it kills me inside. I run up the hill back towards the house with tears in my eyes and a frog in my throat. My body shakes and I find Steven asleep in his bed. I wake him up, probably too early, and he looks at me with his kind and generous heart. He says, “I’ll take him. He will be just fine.” And I know that with Steven, Miles will be happy. He will be taken care of. He will be loved. I also know it is the best thing for Miles. When the elf jostles through road waves, my 14-year old dog freaks out. I know Miles well enough now to know he won’t make it through the journey this time and home with Steven is where he should be. My friends are family. And Miles sure does love his Uncle Steve.

The elf runs smoothly, we climb out of the mountains and into Santa Cruz. We stop for food and decide to head north to Muir Woods, where we will meet up with Pamela’s friend Steven. We cut through off of Route 1 to CA17 because it will be quicker. And here is where expectation sets in. We set a destination, a time stamp, and a desire to get somewhere to pick someone up. And the elf scoffs.

On a steep decline, I move into a lower gear, and tap the brakes. There is no pressure and the pedal hits the floor. I see brake lights on and off ahead of me, on and off. It’s bumper to bumper and we are coming towards an even steeper decline. I can tell its narrow and I fear there won’t be any turn offs. I pump the brakes and pressure comes back, but spotty pressure, the kind of pressure you know you can’t trust. Adrenaline kicks in but my intuition says stop. We call AAA (again).

We are towed to Campbell, CA. And find a hotel in a quaint spot. I call the mechanic in the am. It is the master cylinder. It’s going to be a while, maybe a day for them to find the part.

Each time something goes wrong with the Elf, I look up online how to fix it. I am learning a new language. Part of this journey is about getting to know the elf intimately.

Most of this journey is about presence and patience. It’s about the day to day. It’s about trust and gratitude. It’s about having the courage to sit in the unknown and keep laughing. That’s what opens and releases our consciousness. The beauty is being about to laugh about the unknown, to love it, to hold it closely and then to let it all go.

So that’s where we are. Here. Today. In Campbell, CA. Poolside. PRESENT. Laughing.