Like, not a bike flat that I can deal with. A CAR flat tire.

I chose the Kia Rio because it was black and sexy looking. Jill laughed when I said this to the guy at the car rental place. We drove the strip at night, windows down. We bombed out to Death Valley, Hello Desert. Sun. Dry eyes and frizzy hair. Hikes and talking and talking and talking.

I worked. Bike routes, old hikes, new times with the hotel. Change of horse stable. Can the Ranch work for dinner? Can we get rid of their crappy salad?

The flat tire. Some helpful guys to take us to Stovepipe wells. Jill the amazing tire changer. Stupid Donut tire. I love real life Donuts, Donut tires are dumb. The garage in the Valley changes my tire and show me the inside of the shredded old one. Lucky they say, you could have had a Really Bad Accident.


I threw my hands in the air yesterday, jubilant. Afternoon, carrot and sweet potato chips and PBJ devoured. Overlooking the strip our window. LET'S GO! I said to Jill and we proceeded to have a night only Las Vegas can produce. Entertainment, sushi and laughter, washed down with Champagne and Campari. A mistake, not because of the alcohol but champagne and campari makes a poor substitute for an actual Spritz.

Today the car place said This is A Mistake you Need to Fill Out an Incident Report. I already called your 1-800 line I told them, not blinking. Doesn't matter they were nice but I had to do the report anyway. I rushed. I gave myself SO MUCH TIME. I have learned. Five years of so much travel give yourself SO MUCH TIME.

I arrive at the AC desk the woman unblinking. You missed it. Two minutes to late. I think she's delighting in this. I try to be patient. My bag can come anytime it doesn't matter I say. Please. Get me Home. I think of Calgary, then Victoria. Hillary, then Jon. Please, I say to her. I need to get home.

She clicks her tounge and tells me I am without luck. She points me to the baggage claim taxi area. You've failed, her voice implies. I cry at the counter, my dry eyes burning with the tears that start coming. I want to go home. Stop crying, she says.

You'll go home, tomorrow, she snarls.

Sometimes I hate yoga in these moments. What should I be practicing: patience, kindness, compassion, empathy. There is a reason for everything, my inner voice chimes.

I want to break my inner voice's nose.

I sit in Maccarran, crying in the corner, my small stack of orange luggage to my left. I will go back to Jill and the hotel. I think of all the people who would say I am lucky, one more day!  One more day in brilliant Vegas! I want my own bed. I want to have clean clothes. I want to swim in a lane pool. I want to be with Jon. I really, really, really. I want to go home.

Stupid flat tire.