No Fixed Abode

Born and Raised - Ireland

Working Years - Southern California

Early Autumn - No Fixed Abode

​

Fran is a Dublin man but I came from beyond the pale. We met not long after I started college and were an unlikely couple from the start. He was the black sheep of his family while I was the girl who never had to be told to do her homework. I knew it was serious when he donned a shirt to meet my parents and I learned to lean into corners from the back of his motorbike.

​

In 1986, with one suitcase each, we landed in Southern California. We got jobs, joined the commuters on the Los Angeles freeways and learned to leave certain expressions behind. With endless sun, skinny palms and oh so beautiful people, it was everything the movies said it was. One Friday night we drove the straight desert road to Las Vegas and came home on Sunday with a $16 wedding ring and a Clark County marriage certificate. Time went by and apart from mild digressions like a five-year great American road trip in our 18-wheeler, a visit to Greenland because Fran liked the look of it from the plane and camel riding in Mongolia, we generally acted like responsible people. Contrary to what the relatives believed, we did not lie by the pool every day so something had to give to relieve the humdrum of an eight-to-five existence.

​

For Christmas 2001 we took Emily to Baja in Mexico. She was Fran’s great love on two wheels, a BMW R80. With no warm clothes and even less experience we drove to La Paz. We didn’t die and we didn’t get robbed like everyone predicted and when it came time to go home, north felt like the wrong direction. It was then that we promised ourselves a long bike trip someday, one with lots of border crossings and great unknowns on the other side.

​

It took sixteen years. With a breaking heart Fran sold Emily but he cheered-up considerably after buying the Ural with sidecar. His Mum was carried around Dublin in a similar vehicle as a baby, but only with the day's shopping, never with the kitchen sink. We always knew he was a throwback to his seafaring grandfather. In September 2017 we packed-up 31 years of California living and announced we were driving to Ushuaia, on the southern tip of Argentina. There’d be a few detours along the way but with no timetable and no plan, we thought we’d just ride south till south runs out. I’m still leaning in, albeit from my sidecar, Fran continues to think he’s a class act when wearing a shirt and no matter what flag we’re parked under, I always do my homework. Some things just never change.

​

​