A 600-mile road trip is not as crazy as it may sound. Ten years ago, I took a 5,000-mile road trip from Victoria, British Columbia to St. John’s, Newfoundland — from mile zero to mile zero on the Trans-Canada Highway.

That road trip, of course, took twelve days and included performances in 17 different cities across Canada. During the day, we would drive, in the evenings we would perform, and at night we would party, and occasionally sleep. I was surrounded by 12 people and two dogs that I cared for very much, and the trip was more of a two-week adventure than simply a drive across the country.

This morning, perhaps as you’re reading this post, I’m in the middle of a ten-hour, 600-mile drive from Washington DC to Toronto. Driving alone, in an SUV full of kitchen appliances, clothes, books and furniture, across the border and back to my parents’ apartment.

By the time you read this, I have already given back the keys to my apartment, picked up a cup of coffee, and started the long move back to Canada.

There are many things I’ll miss about the metro DC area: my apartment with its lovely fireplace, balcony, and granite countertops; the Tidal Basin in the early morning when the birds are ruffling through the trees and nobody is blocking my view of the Jefferson Monument; the playground in the square near the fountain where I’d always hear the laughter of children; the walk to and from Boccato Gelato; lazy afternoons by the Georgetown Waterfront; free concerts at the Kennedy Center; the cavernous but still beautiful Metro stations; playing hide-and-seek in the Air & Space Museum; flying kites on the National Mall; reading in the sun on a hot and humid afternoon in the middle of the Botanic Gardens; the handmade cufflinks in the antique market at the Eastern Market; and of course, all the amazing and wonderful people that have made my time here so special.

This morning, I’m driving back to Toronto on my own, leaving all these fantastic things behind. Not because I’m tired of them, or because I need a change of scenery, or because I’m unhappy here.

Then why?

Because when you’re in one place and your heart is 600 miles away, the only thing that can cure it is a solo road trip back home.

(Photo by Stuck in Customs)

I’m going to be performing a short spoken word piece at 20x2 tonight. If you’re in Austin, I’d love it if you could come out to the Ghost Room — it has been a long time since I last performed any poetry on stage in front of a large audience, and could use the support.

This year, the 20x2 question is “Who loves ya, baby” and my response to the question isn’t a direct answer, but instead a story that talks about a sense of belonging, a sense of place, and the need to have both of those to feel loved. It’s a little abstract, but I hope it will be well-received.

I’m including the text of the piece below, and I’ll be sure to embed video as soon as I can after I perform tonight.

UPDATE: Here’s an audio clip of a practice run that I did before my performance. Actual audio of the performance still isn’t available.

Fanfare.

I.
The man who played the trumpet at the piano bar
looked a lot like Miles Davis.

At the end of every one of my long days
I would come in to the piano bar to watch him play,
And every time I came by he would look up my way
Put down his trumpet, with a smile he would say,
“Mister Vasta, who loves you baby?”

And then, he would pick up his instrument
place it gently against his lips and begin to sway.
And play.

II.
My trumpeter? He was like me:
A transplant in a new city from across the sea,
Who came searching for opportunity.

But felt disconnected.

Away from the people he loved,
And the people that loved him,
Caught in a cycle of odd jobs,
and even odder homes,
Never being able to call this place,
this city his own.

Until he found his place at the piano bar,
Where he would play his trumpet,
Where he could be a star.

And when I escaped my office as the day grew dark
I would meet him there, buy him a drink,
And watch him take his trumpet to his lips.
And play.

III.
Then, one day
I met him in the mid-afternoon at a cafe.
No smile on his face.
No music to play.

Instead, a cup of coffee shaking in his hand,
Solitude and sorrow pouring out his eyes,
Without his smile that he wore as a disguise,
A look so forlorn I almost didn’t recognize him.

I looked at him, and with smile,
I cheekily did say,
“Hey Mister Miles Davis, who loves ya baby?”

I expected him to reciprocate my smile.

Instead, he sat down next to me, and spoke quietly;
Whispered, almost:

“Today, the piano bar found a new trumpeter.

When you ask me, who loves me baby,
I look around me here and easily see…
Who loves me? Not them, not he, not she.
Sometimes, I think, not even me.”

With that he got up, and walked away.
I never again did get to hear him play.

And me?
I decided to move back home,
To a place I was loved,
That day.

(Photo by Igor Gusarov.)

On the morning of my 18th birthday, I woke up to find four strangers sleeping on the floor of my room.

My other roommates were unperturbed by the sleeping strangers, but I was perplexed. What was going on?

A few minutes after I had awoken, one of the strangers stirred and saw that I was staring at him with a puzzled look. He hurriedly got off the floor, woke up the rest of the room, and headed down the hall. He returned a minute later with seven friends of mine, each one wiping the sleep from their eyes. They joined the six sleepy people in my room (three roommates, three strangers) in a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” before they all told me to go back to sleep so that they could get some more rest.

That’s when I noticed it was only 6am.

The strangers were easily explained: they were alumni who had graduated last year and had come to visit. When they heard that it was my birthday, they thought it would be fun to surprise me when I woke up. Of course, they didn’t expect to wake up so early.

Classes were canceled that day because of a previously-scheduled series of workshops for all students that ran for half the day. After the workshops, I spent some time in my kayak out on the Juan de Fuca Strait. The rest of the day was spent celebrating and partying — and then, as I later learned was customary, by being thrown into Pedder Bay (in clothes, unexpectedly) at midnight.

I went to sleep that night feeling cold and wet, but incredibly loved.

Last week, I celebrated my 28th birthday. There were no strangers in my apartment when I woke up, no rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” at 6am. Work was not canceled, and I did not spend the afternoon in a kayak on the Pacific Ocean. I went home relatively early after going out with some friends (there was no partying into the night), and I was not thrown into the ocean at any time.

Despite all that, I went to sleep that night last week feeling incredibly loved.

Thank you. Thank you to everyone that made me feel incredibly loved through emails, tweets, Facebook messages, phone calls, text messages, letters, cards, office parties and hugs.

And thank you, as always, to T, whose birthday emails every year I look forward to most. From her email this year:

Happy Birthday
To someone I love and respect
To someone I think has enormous potential
To someone I am so glad that I count as a friend
To someone that has made a contribution beyond what he realizes.

Last Tuesday may not have been as epic as my 18th birthday, but I’ve realized, a decade later, that the best way to celebrate a birthday is knowing that there are people out there that love and care for you.

And that it’s not really fun to go to bed while cold and wet.

(Photo by Angélica.)