Our Magical Mystery Tour

Notes from the campaign trail

Greetings from the road.

That’s my scarf, waving from its hook on the wall in this bathroom I’d never seen before last night. It’s part of my travel uniform: black, black and more black, with a pop of color. I was looking in the mirror when I noticed the scarf flapping behind me under the air vent, as if nudging me to get a move on. Almost time to go. Again.

I’ve been traveling more in the last few weeks, the result of combining schedules for my book tour and Sherrod’s Senate campaign. Both have deadlines. The book tour will thin out soon, with events spaced further apart. Sherrod’s Senate campaign will end on November 6, the day after the election. Until then, it’s full speed ahead with an occasional pitstop, commonly known as sleep. No whining on the yacht, we remind each other. Look what we get to do.

This morning we woke up in a hotel, in a different time zone. Sherrod still managed to bring me coffee in bed, and I’m wondering if anyone recognized him as he made his jaunt to the lobby wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and his pink and blue Beatles socks. What a sight.

I gave him a dozen pairs of these socks for his birthday last November. Each colorful pair pays tribute to a different Beatles song. Or is it an album? We have no idea because we are a mountain of worthlessness when it comes to deciphering these themes. He loves the Beatles, and he likes the socks, so yay for me because he is a man who will seldom name a single material want or need. I’m reading his ongoing joy over this goofy footwear as proof that he really needed them. (Don’t argue. Give me this.)

Hotels have a way of reminding us of all the people who make daily life possible, with little expectation of thanks. Last December, I shared this photo on social media.

This was the view from our hotel window, which overlooked the restaurant. Look closely and you will see the crescent moon hanging low in the lightening sky. Look closer, and you’ll see the hotel employee hard at work before sunrise. He was standing between a small Christmas tree on the table and a larger one aglow behind him. I was in my nightgown, fighting the urge to slide back into bed for a few more minutes of sleep.

This morning, the woman who brought the menus to our table was talkative and kind. It was barely past 6 a.m., and the hotel restaurant was empty except for two other employees and a man sitting five tables away. Maybe that’s why she felt free to make conversation. Sherrod asked what time she had to be at work. In her answer, we learned about her daily life and her dreams that reach far beyond its current boundaries.

Her boss had called her on Facetime at 6:01 a.m., she said, wondering where she was. “Why didn’t she call or text?” I asked.

She shook her head. “She wanted to make sure I was telling the truth about being a minute late. She wanted to see that I was getting off the bus.”

This was appalling to me, but she just shrugged. “At 4 a.m. I had thought about not coming in and lying that I was sick.” She smiled. “Karma is fast. Even a little lie is too much.”

Toward the end of our meal, we asked if she would get the full tip if we charged our meal to our room. This led to a conversation about how company policies have changed since Covid.

“Nobody asks us about the tips,” she said. I explained that I’ve been writing about tipping policies for two decades. She smiled and clasped her hands against her chest. “I want to be a writer.”

She was born and raised in Mexico but has lived in the U.S. for fifteen years. She reads books all the time, she said, and always in English to improve her skills. Her English is excellent, and when we told her this she looked to be on the verge of tears.

She doesn’t have a good idea for her novel yet, she said. “All I know is that I want to write a story about life. About love.”

I rattled off three stories from her life that she had already shared with us. “Start there,” I said. “Stories are bursting out all around you. Pick a story from real life and see where it takes you.”  We brainstormed a bit, and she settled on something that had happened earlier to her. That’s all I’ll say about it. This is her story to share, some day.

Will she become a writer? I don’t know, but maybe she’s an inch closer to believing she can. Cynics might call that false hope. This is the catchphrase for people who give up on dreams and want the rest of us to join them.  

Hard pass, as my students say.

I often joke that my writing career has been a series of opportunities to exceed the low expectations of others, usually men. I can make light of this now because it’s worked out for me, but I can easily imagine a scenario in which the opposition became too much, and I surrendered.

I was lucky to have a few good people early in my career who believed in me. A single harsh critic can bring us to our knees, but it’s also true that we don’t need a crowd to keep us upright. On the right day, one person’s words of encouragement can change another person’s life. I can immediately name three moments when that was true for me. I’ll be paying back those gifts of generosity for the rest of my life.

Well, I have to go. The schedule beckons. One of these days I’m going to learn how to tie that gauzy scarf in fancy ways. When it comes to scarves, there are two types of women, it seems: Those who glide into rooms wearing miles of fabric swirled just so around their necks, and women like me who look like we’re wrangling anacondas. Most of my arm muscle comes from wrestling scarves into submission. On windy days, I look like a walking clothesline.

That’s Sherrod ready for the day, in the photo above. This pair of Beatles socks is coral and blue. If you know which song they represent—or is it an album?—let me know in the comments, please. I will wow him with my newfound knowledge. A goal, always.