I'm wearing a long guatemalan fabric wrap skirt. The wind by the side of the road blows so much, I keep a hand on the skirt so it doesn't unwrap. I am hours from home on a sojourn, this time to one of my favorite towns in the northwest corner of Arkansas. The car has overheated. When I stop at the next exit, peopled with lush green canopies, and rocky outcrops, I ring the bell at a farmhouse. For a moment I wonder if this house lies in wait of hippie women driving old cars alone, but I ring anyway. Nobody answers.

Eventually an old couple stops, and I use their cell to call AAA. I wave them goodbye, assuring both that I'm happy to wait. And I am. It's beautiful. Quiet, and all this wind. Another older man stops, looks around at the engine, and says he knows what went wrong. My radiator has a leak, the fluid is low. I'm glad for the insight. He offers to follow me to the next town. I'm sure if I leave, I'll miss AAA, and I have always found them dependable, helpful in the past. I wait. When the rig arrives, the driver agree's with the advice I pass along from the older man. We fill the radiator, and he assures me I can make it back to the town I just visited.

So I am here again, back in the town I came to visit. Something so funny about this, I love it.