The time I woke up at 5:30 and drove for 2 hours to the high desert for coffee

OK. It wasn't just for coffee.

But that certainly sounds better than "I drove 2 hours to the high desert to give an assembly on climate change."

But, in typical Jess fashion, I researched a local coffeeshop before I left LA, and drove through the rain, up the mountain to this tiny little coffeeshop with blue couches and surprisingly delicious coffee, arriving 3 hours before my appointed time.

The drive to the high desert is striking. I've seen it in broad daylight, with clear skies and high winds. But this morning, I drove through a rain storm. There is only one road that goes through the mountains, and it's framed by foothills that rise out of nowhere, creating drastic valleys and canyons of light pink rock. The fog was heavy, and while the mountains loomed not far at all on the horizon, they were hidden through the thick shroud until I drove around a corner or down into a canyon and suddenly they would appear, massive and grey and endless. They seemed to be visual echoes of one another, dark blue, then paler and paler in the distance, until you only see a faded outline, thousands of feet in the sky.

For some reason, the scenery reminded me of the small village I visited outside of Naples 5 years ago, around this time. Perhaps it was the drama of the foothills. I spent the majority of my drive reflecting on the courage that was elicited while traveling alone for so long. It's interesting, the layers of ourselves that come out unexpectedly-- rising so quietly that you don't even realize who you're becoming until you're already there, or maybe (in my case) you're already past it, and you look back and realize how brave you actually were. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.

Back at the coffeeshop, I overhear a conversation between three mothers, talking about their children going off to college. One of them tells a story about creating a fake instagram account, posing as a hot blonde from San Diego, to keep tabs on her son while he's away. Genius. and Hilarious.  I'm so glad these things didn't exist while I was in school.  Kids beware.

Across from me sits a young man, and he's twirling his pen like I used to imagine all my favorite writers would before writing a novel or a poem. I wonder what it must be like, growing up in a town like this. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up, actually, except maybe more depressed. It could just be the rain though. And the lack of trees.

(UPDATE: He was writing a poem.)