Who Am I?
It’s been five months since I first spoke the words: Africa 2027.
So I thought it was a good time to re-introduce myself to my readers. I’m Tracy. I’ve spent the last twenty years working in higher education finance. I’ve been divorced for the last twelve years and was the primary caregiver to three kids. I have a ten-year old mini-golden doodle that I mildly resent – cue people calling me a dog hater. I’m not. I just want to be finished taking care of anything besides myself. And let’s not forget, my elderly tuxedo cat, Shadow.
Four years ago, to the day, I left for a three week, mostly solo trip. I made my way through Iceland, Copenhagen, Norway, and met up with a group in Ireland. I had no idea at the time that my life would be irreversibly changed. Since that trip, I’ve been to thirty-five countries. Throughout Africa, Europe, South and Central America, and SE Asia.
After all that, I finally decided that the work titles, the salary, all the roles that I filled were no longer enough. The harder truth is that I no longer know who I am within these roles. And I am even less certain who I am without them. So I made the decision to leave them all behind.
At the end of this year, I’ll write my way across Africa. Fifteen countries. Some adventure: gorilla trekking, Mt Kilimanjaro. Self-driving my way across Southern Africa. Some fun: Vodun Festival and Carnival. Some volunteering. A lot of R&R — rest and relaxation, reading and researching. And then writing. And maybe I’ll come back with a better answer to the question of who I am.
I hope you’ll follow along as I share my planning process. Less logistics. More the reckoning.
Photo: Iceland, 2022 at Gullfoss Waterfalls
Apt 1002-15
I went to my daughter’s graduation two weekends ago.
Her grandfather posted on FB about it. It was as if I wasn’t there. Walking down the hallway after I got back from seeing the kids the following weekend, I realized I didn’t need to be tagged in a FB post to show that I was a loving, involved mom.
I can feel the gap widening.
I rented a storage unit when I left for DC last summer.
In it, I packed the Christmas tree and ornaments. Baby blankets and toddler toys. Pictures that the kids made at daycare. A mop and an empty suitcase. Things I wanted to keep but I didn’t need to take across the country with me.
But now I’m back in Chicago. The kitchen dishes are in the cupboards, and the bathroom supplies are unpacked. But my clothes, the paintings that I’ve picked up over the last four years, my favorite books, the diploma that the kids had framed for me all need to fit into that same 5x5 unit while I’m gone. These are the things I use to claim a space as my own.
Now as I’m preparing to leave, I’m wondering does the difference between what I stored then and what I’m storing now even matter?
Apt 1002-14
It was pouring rain when we got to the pet park.
Oliver refused to go outside.
Test run
I’m headed to Iceland at the end of the month.
I rented a car and will camp my way around the outer ring of the country. I’ll sleep in the tent that I paid way too much for. I’ll try to prepare my food rather than paying someone to prepare it for me. Public showers and restrooms. Leaving the comforts of life that I have become so accustomed to behind for a while.
It’s preparation for Africa 2027 and the two-month self-driving trip between Namibia and Botswana I booked. Having too much time between booking and the actual trip means I have too much time for thinking. So I need to make sure I can make it through one week first.
Apt 1002-13
Shadow needs medication every day.
Jonathan watches her while I am gone. He sends videos—her purring on his lap, content. I see her dark black hair collecting on the pillow. When I get home, she is waiting by the front door. Right next to Oliver.
MIA
It’s been a while. Three weeks actually. I’ve been gone.
I want to blame it on being busy moving and sure, there is some truth to that. I finally left DC and made it back to Chicago. But I haven’t been moving every day, every night. Maybe I can say work has been busy. It’s the end of the fiscal year and we are trying to get our budget set up. Possibly but work ends at 5 if I’m doing it right. So maybe I’ve just been lost, and I need some time to find myself.
I haven’t found myself but writing this note the other day is one of the first times I have actually felt like writing one of these notes. I’ll hold onto that feeling for a bit as I go look for camping gear for Africa 2027.
Apt 1002-12
I live in a small studio.
Gray moving containers are stacked high against the walls. My daughter and her cousin visited for spring break. They slept in my bed. I slept on a blow-up mattress. The cat jumped on the desk and pranced by. Oliver waited for me to deflate it in the morning. After they left, I put the room back in order. Oliver didn’t notice. He had his chair back.
Apt 1002-11
The dog barked.
Loudly. I stood on my tiptoes and looked out through the peep hole. A naked man was standing at the fire door. Two police officers offered him a blanket. He ran by them. I turned off the hall light and unpaused my show.
Apt 1002-10
The back wheel of the 150-pound motorcycle pressed against the door of the elevator.
Oliver and I squeezed past it and the woman wearing a beaded headdress. We got off at the 10th floor. Walking down the hallway, I noticed the plaster on the carpet and the dark brown door covered in scratches. I didn’t look back. I already knew which apartment was hers.
Apt 1002-09
Her name is Emma.
I know her name. I’m sure she doesn’t know mine. She knows Oliver’s name. I met her in the dog park just a few weeks after moving in. My feeble attempts at talking to her was always met with silence. Today was no different. We walked back down the 2nd floor hallway. Oliver and I following behind. When we reached the elevator, she said, “goodbye Ollie.” I replied, “see ya later.” She walked on.
Apt 1002-08
My biceps burned.
My shoulder ached—the bad one. A gallon of milk, two boxes of cereal, a three-pound bag of chicken. I was still figuring out how to shop for just one. I keep saying I’ll buy one of those wagons. It’s too late. I’m moving in two months.
Towels, binoculars, note pad, oh my!
The purple tote is filling with things that aren’t clothes.
Towels and washcloths. A blanket and pillow. Binoculars. Plug converters. Notebooks and pens.
I keep wondering whether these are Western conveniences—or staples.
Apt 1002-07
His name is Allen.
It was early when I asked for my package. He sat looking at me until he pushed the chair back, smacked his lips, hefted his pants, and slowly walked toward the mail room. He came back with empty hands. I went back thirty minutes later and asked a different clerk for it. She found it. I smiled at her and left.
Apt 1002-06
I stood on the scale, glaring at the numbers.
Later when I took Oliver out, the number from the scale in my head, instead of turning right towards the elevator, I go left. Out the fire door into the stairwell. Oliver looked back at me, went down a few steps, stopped, looked back. I caught up to him. We started down again. That was easy. Coming back inside, I walk towards the stairs. Ten floors down hadn’t been so bad. Let’s try ten up. 2nd floor, I gulped air. 3rd floor, my chest was pounding. 4th floor, my calves burned. 5th floor, I opened the fire door. When I got inside, I hid the scale.
Totes and boxes were everywhere.
I’m moving back to Chicago in a month.
I’ve been obsessing over the 10 ft moving truck I reserved, calculating every square inch to determine how many of those totes and boxes I could fit. 31.
Fifty-three years can fit into 31 boxes and totes.
Apt 1002-04
It was 6:00 pm and I was late.
Oliver pulled at the leash as we ran down the hallway. At the elevator, he did his dance. We raced to the park. He made it, squatting in the rock bed. But that’s when I realized I was the one doing the dance.
It had a Crack.
I've been listing my belongings on Marketplace.
A bike that was a gift from an ex-boyfriend years ago. Dollars I never spent. An Apple HomePod, bought with gift cards that had no other use.
But yesterday it was a chair and cushion. Brand new. My money.
For the first time, I wondered: Did I give up on DC too quickly?
Apt 1002-05
Smoke from bacon crept to the ceiling.
The smoke alarm blared. I scrambled—fan on, window open, step ladder out—reaching to turn it off. From somewhere below, a dog barked. Oliver barked back. Later, out in the hallway, I avoided eye contact with the guy from 1001.