You know how some things just aren’t your thing, yet, people try and convince you out of it, educate you otherwise, get you to see the error in your ways and become downright evangelical about it, not realizing it’s their thing, not yours?

That is how I feel about cooking, and coffee, and lakes. Let’s start with cooking. It’s not that I don’t know how—anyone can do it, I think. I just don’t want to. It’s a chore; which is strange because I really appreciate eating, and good food, and will go out of my way to find the best sushi, or Thai, or barbeque. Yet, when I cook, it has to be simple and fast. And that is why, of the 80-plus days I was camping, I had around 60 quesadillas for dinner; no exaggeration. A proper quesadilla, with spinach, refried beans and salsa, tackles about three or four food groups, is easy to make, and tastes good. I did an inventory of my food supplies halfway through my trip and laughed at how ambitious I was in my culinary planning—I had wild rice, cous cous, pesto and myriad other unopened items (I did, however, spend a good 10 minutes in a hardware store debating the pros and cons of campfire marshmallow-roasting forks.) So, no—I have not had a come-to-Jesus moment about cooking, as my mother had hoped.

As for coffee, I simply don’t like it, and that’s about all I can say on the subject. Well-meaning people have tried to serve me mocha, coffee ice cream, “The Best Costa Rican,” and on and on. I don’t like it, and probably never will, so can we just leave it at that?

Lastly, lakes. I have family and friends who live on lakes, adore lakes, and would be lost without them. So, forgive me in advance, but I don’t get it. Sure, they’re pretty, some are even gorgeous, but they don’t do anything. They just sit there (making Lake Placid the most aptly-named lake in my esteem). I’ve been to my fair share of lakes, from the Great Lakes in the Midwest to Lake Geneva, and they are still just bodies of water that are inert. Oceans pound, rivers run, waterfalls cascade and brooks babble. They are constantly on the move and offering up something new, which appeals to me in some way.

I’m not sure if I have a point in all of this, but I guess it’s to say that I like restaurants, Red Bull and oceans. Those are my things. But, I won’t try and dissuade anyone of theirs.

While my re-entry into civilization was softened by a brief stay at my friends’ house on the West Coast, my logistical re-entry onto the East Coast was anything but easy. After unpacking the van, boxing up items to be shipped (including my bike), packing up the rest in my suitcase and buying Willy one of those chic dog carriers that usually schlep cute purebreds, not scruffy mutts, we were ready to roll. I had booked us a red-eye flight on the advice of my friend and I agreed that nighttime would be a fine time to fly with a dog. On the day of my flight, which departed at 10 p.m., I realized I had forgotten to let the van rental company know that I would be dropping off the beloved Shroom, but after hours, and that posed the first problem in my journey. After sending pictures to assure them that I would be returning the van in fine condition, they agreed to my after-hours procedure and sent me the combination to their lot. When I arrived, I realized that the combo they gave me was to a massive gate leading to their parking area (I was assuming it would just be a simple drop box scenario). I managed to wrangle it open, park The Shroom, get my bags and Willy out of the van and to the sidewalk when I realized I was on an access road a few miles from LAX, with no signs of life except cars shooting by, thumping with music. I toyed with the idea of flagging one down and offering them $20 to get us those few miles, but thought better of it and slogged down the sidewalk and found a Comfort Inn (how great would it have been if it were a Motel 6?!). I marched in and inquired when the next shuttle to the airport was, as if I were a guest instead of a dirty camper from down the road, and he said I had just missed it, so I asked him to call me a cab.

And it all worked! I got to the airport, boarded our flight and settled in for our midnight run, and that’s when the baby started crying in the row in front of me, the mother’s seat half in my lap and the lights overhead blaring during service. After about an hour of this, everything finally quieted down, the lights were turned off and the soft sounds of snoring could be heard up and down the aisles. After assuring myself that Willy was OK after his first take-off (I think) I, too, tried for sleep, which I have very rarely ever attained in flight—and this time would be no different, so I resigned myself to listening to my audiobook. And that’s when the mother in front of me turned on her iPad light and started to flash it under her seat, looking for something, but also meaning that she was pointing it straight at Willy. I let her have it, I’m afraid, and it was not one of my prouder moments. In my defense; a) I had been charged $150 for the dog and she not a penny for her child; b) this was in first class and her seat was obviously broken and listing precariously back into me; and c) this was my first flight with a dog in the cabin and I was a little on edge. It all ended well, I’m happy to report, as she and I apologized to each other upon landing in Philadelphia.

From there, it would just be a short hop to Hartford, but I purposefully built in enough time to run Willy outside for a pee break. That accomplished, we went back through security and they asked me to get him to go through the device on his own, instead of my carrying him through as I had done in LAX. I warned them it might not work and pushed his little butt through ahead of me, and then watched him take off around the TSA area, security guards trying to catch him.

Two hours later, we landed in Hartford, retrieved our bags, stepped outside to find my boyfriend waiting with my other dog, and we were home, a little worse for the wear and dog-tired, but home nonetheless.

I was reminded today that, sometimes, it’s the stuff in between that can be the most important; the silent note, the unspoken word. Let me be more clear: I was once explaining to my friend Occa about my gardens (and I’m not a terribly good gardener, but not bad, either) that it’s the spaces in-between that make a good garden—yes, you can pile on beautiful patch after beautiful patch, but it’s the respite between the two that makes all the difference. And I think that is what I am doing right now. I have traveled for 86 days and have seen some amazing sights and, here I am, stuck in my house because of rain. There’s no Rand-McNally dictating my next move, no National Park just around the bend, there is just a pile of laundry that needs tending to. And that’s OK. It stands in contrast to everything I’ve just been witness to, but perhaps a much-needed contrast. It (this ridiculous pile of laundry) makes everything that I have seen and done all the more special. So, with that, I am going to pour in my detergent and spend the afternoon folding because tomorrow, who knows, though I dearly hope it will involve dragons.

I have not posted in two weeks because I am now home, the Whatever Journey on a brief hold. I cut my trip short by a week in order to tend to my feline friend left home alone and, more selfishly, to catch my breath. Van life is, at once, exciting, amazing, unpredictable and exhausting—and has left me a bit breathless. All along, my plan was to journey down through Arizona, New Mexico, then to Joshua Tree and back to the Los Angeles area. Storms through Arizona forced me to travel faster than I would have liked, but offered up some dramatic backdrops as I drove through Monument Park surrounded by fork lightning, eerily grey/green skies and low clouds that draped themselves over the enormous red rock buttes and towers. (To underscore just how scary this portion of travel was, I pulled over at one point and called my friend Donna to find out whether being in my van was a good thing or bad thing when it came to lightning.) From there, Willy and I made our way to Joshua Tree National Park, which in many ways, was the perfect exclamation point on our journey. It’s hard to describe this magical place, which is a meeting of two deserts—the Colorado and the Mojave—the former below 3,000 feet and the latter above. Each has a distinct eco-system, which translated into two very different looks and feels. In order to take it all in, we stayed five days, two on the Colorado side and three on the Mojave side, exploring volcanic rock formations, ancient plants, oases, and the myriad lizards, tarantulas and similar creepy crawlies. Oh, but the nights—they were the main attraction. The skies were teeming with constellations and shooting stars, and the grounds with coyotes, which circled the campgrounds every night. Willy, my self-assigned protector, didn’t quite know what to do with them as they ran by our van yipping and howling. He would offer up a perfunctory bark and growl, but quickly resigned himself to the fact that he was better off in the van. Coyote sounds are other-worldly, and rather intimidating, scaring our bladders into inactivity until daylight.

From Joshua Tree, we made the short trip back to where it all started, in Thousand Oaks, Calif., with my nutty West Coast family. These are my friends who, three months prior, taught me the ropes on van camping, themselves avid campers armed with a Eurovan and Minnie Winnie. Nine thousand miles and 86 days later, I had come full circle.