Pt 37 Tacos, Traffic and Voting
A summer return to Arizona, where the traffic is wild, the tacos are healing, and a daughter’s apartment feels like a spa for the soul.
You’d think after living full-time on the road, every new destination would feel like a breath of fresh air. And usually, it does—until even that freedom needs a vacation. That’s how I found myself flying back into the sizzling heart of Phoenix in August, where the air hits you like a hair dryer on high and the drivers seem to be auditioning for a crossover episode of Miami Vice and Fast & Furious. But waiting at the curb was my daughter Marteen, and what followed was a week of tacos, deep laughs, clean design, and a kind of soul reset that only comes from being with someone who sees all of you—and still invites you in for dinner.
Need to catch up?
Pt 36 Saved by a painted-mouth Starbucks Barista in the middle of an airport
Or, Start from the beginning
You’d think that living on the road and taking our home wherever we please would feel like a never-ending vacation. And honestly? It kind of is. I’ve become a bit of a spoiled brat. When my chi feels stagnant and frustration bubbles up, we simply move geographically and energetically. Instant reset. But even that can require a vacation from; spoiled, I know.
I had finally made it—no fully masked-up fear-mongers, no snorkel-gear enthusiasts, no one in homemade hazmat suits made from garbage bags and duct tape, and none of those bust-out-laughing masks with bedazzled mouths, cartoon teeth, or political slogans. Not a single soul looked like they were headed to a dystopian cosplay convention.
I stepped out of the highly air-conditioned Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, instantly slapped in the face by a wall of summer heat so thick I could butter toast with it. One deep inhale, and I was transported straight back to my brick-and-mortar life in Arizona complete with nosy neighbors, HOA tantrums, and the charm of suburban surveillance all included.
The airport curb was a traffic symphony of honking horns and confused drivers doing interpretive dance with their steering wheels. I jump from the overly obsessive horn honking by a red-faced guy, puffing like a kettle, shaking his fist, yelling at the car ahead of him; completely blocking all three lanes. The family had a staged a tearful, extended farewell complete with a dramatic hugs. Heartwarming on one end, however, completely Infuriating. I feel that guys rage. I will never understand why people just can not pull over to the curb. What is it about airports that people just go mad? Like it’s a free for all.
It makes Waymo the better choice. Have you heard of them? They are the emotionless, driverless Jaguars that glides in, pops its hatch, and firmly says, “Get out.” No tips, no small talk, no slow-motion hugs while cars pile up behind you. Just get out, get your luggage, close the hatch and it takes off like jet to its next passenger. Honestly? It might be onto something.
Despite the chaos, I actually love airports. I love the buzz, the energy, the emotional theater. I am surprised the airports do not sell popcorn and have theatre seats available. There is nothing more fascinating than watching families or loved ones reunite or part ways. It’s like a live-action novella, and I’m fully invested. There’s power in that energy—I feel it all. I could sit in an airport all day, sipping tea and people-watching like it’s my job.
A soft honk breaks my reverie. My daughter pulls up, radiant and beaming, and we exchange the kind of hug that does t block traffic but from the curb. Bags loaded (no chips, no Starbucks-I ditched those), sunglasses on, we head into the blinding Arizona sun. Just like that, I’m back. Ya, baby, I am back!
Everything is dusted in sandy pinks, muted greens, and desert browns. It’s tidy, orderly, and dry, a sharp contrast to Florida’s lush green chaos. Arizona has its own rhythm and vibe. Spring is magical, with cool mornings and wildflowers. But August? You tour the scenery through the icy filter of your car’s A/C, because 110°F at 9 a.m. is not for the faint of heart.
The traffic has changed since most of California moved in. It used to be disgruntled drivers in oversized pickup trucks riding your ass until you moved or the Mercedes driver who just has to cut you off, even if the road was wide open. Now it’s a mashup of Miami and L.A. styles. Miami drivers weave in and out of lanes like it’s a high-stakes video game, while the L.A. transplants aren’t necessarily aggressive, they just have places to be and needed to be there 20 minutes ago. Kisses. It’s not about ego; it’s city driving. Fast, frantic, and always one step ahead of the clock.
We make it to Marteen’s apartment and, after the high-speed Miami Vice-style drive, it’s a treat for the eyes and nerves. Her place feels like a resort retreat on the third-floor, private entrance, palms brushing the windows like an intentional design feature. Sunlight pours in, filtered through green fronds and dancing across cheerful yellow-and-white pots housing a lively population of healthy green houseplants. Jazz hums in the background. She lights a white candle releasing the rich aroma of a barista’s dream. It’s like stepping into a page of House Beautiful. I briefly consider hiring her as my personal lifestyle coach. She’s an artist on film. I’m an artist—organized in the mind, chaotic in reality. That’s my story.
Just as I thought I could get comfortable and catch up on some emails, we are off. We hit up Natural Grocers and Sprouts, grabbing everything we need to cook and reconnect. There’s something deeply satisfying about shopping for food you know you’ll enjoy making and sharing. As we chop, stir, and sauté, I’m struck by how much I admire this human I once birthed. She’s witty, grounded, fierce in her opinions, and utterly herself. I’m no longer “Mum MOM, ‘Mumsy’, Mamma or Mother(!) when embarrassed,” but more like a coach, a sounding board, and a trusted confidant. I like that.
We decide on tacos. I cook up some chicken in a pan and season alittle Southwest flair, a dash of cumin, chili pepper, and paprika, while Marteen mashes avocado until it’s silky smooth, shreds crisp cabbage, dices up ripe tomatoes, and warms organic corn tortillas in the pan. She whips up a quick salsa with fresh tomato, onion, a hint (and I do mean a hint) of chili pepper, and just the right zing from lime and apple cider vinegar.
We pile everything high and eat like queens, catching up on film shoots, travel stories, and whatever else spills into conversation. With our hearts full and bellies happier, we clean up the kitchen and call it a night. My body is still running on Eastern time, and it’s finally demanding what it’s been hinting at since I landed: sleep.
The week kicks off with a string of meetings. A couple of companies reached out, wanting to integrate health and wellness for their employees. These are my favorite gigs, watching workplaces recognize that a healthy staff is a happy, productive staff. Some companies go all out: yoga, nap rooms, feng shui lounges, even mental health days. Others treat it like a checkbox for tax incentives, squeezing in the bare minimum. I do my best to pack those sessions with as much wellness gold as possible, but the heart-led smaller businesses? That’s where the magic happens. They are just more on board. Sad to say.
Between meetings, I meet friends for coffee, mask half-on-half-off, doing the pandemic shuffle. This was supposed to be the year I met all my online friends in real life. Thanks to a conjured pandemic, for changing that plan.
Something else made this trip special. Voting! My daughter and I became U.S. citizens just before hitting the road, but this was the first time we could actually cast our votes in Arizona. The ballots were long and confusing, kind of like like assembling IKEA furniture without the pictures. But we did it! “I Voted” stickers on, we celebrated with gluten-free muffins and iced tea.
And if you’re wondering how full-time travelers vote? You request a mail-in ballot. Doesn’t matter if you’re in another state or sailing through the Mediterranean sipping cocktails; if you’re registered, you can vote.
Speaking of sailing… there are cruise ships offering four-year voyages to “ride out” whoever wins the election. Politically neutral, they say—but seriously, that’s marketing genius. I’d do it in a heartbeat. Trade wheels for waves, lounge in Egyptian cotton, watch dolphins leap while sipping fresh-pressed juice, and vote from port. If my candidate doesn’t win? Book another four-year tour. Voilà. That’s democracy on deck.
But I digress. No ocean breeze for me this year, I’m proudly participating in the Arizona primaries, helping shape the ticket for the November general elections. And learning as I go.
Next up? Dinner with the rest of the crew my two bonus kids, Cooper and Amanda. Cooper is a financial wizard winning top honors, while Amanda spends her days saving animals in surgery and giving me vet advice for my own fur babies. I may have only given birth once, but I hit the jackpot with three beautiful souls. Dinner is a whirlwind of stories, laughter, plans, and heart-swelling mum moments. I soak in who they are becoming—each so distinct, so full of purpose. I want to cry in such fulled joy. I choke it back.
Week two is gearing up to be an adventure. Marteen and I have a very specific itinerary, but that’s a tale for next week.
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Need to catch up?
Pt 36 Saved by a painted-mouth Starbucks Barista in the middle of an airport
Or, start from the beginning
Thank you for tuning in and reading this. I super appreciate you.
~Karen
“Heat so thick you can butter toast with” 😂 People watching is always so entertaining! What a blessing to spend time with your kids! 💜