The next year, I signed up for the San Francisco Exchange.
Again.

This time I decided to be brave—or cheap—and signed up for housing with a local. I was placed with a very nice woman named April, who had generously opened her home to several dancers. Unfortunately, she had invited more dancers than she had square footage.

I ended up on a pull-out bed in the living room, sharing it with a man I didn’t know very well.
But as you might expect, I got to know him extremely well by the end.

The first morning, April asked if I wanted coffee.
I did.
She did not ask if I wanted rocket fuel.

I followed her around the kitchen asking questions, because I was still new to coffee and she was making hers in a way that looked less like breakfast and more like a chemistry final. A pour-over. She explained each step patiently while I asked a truly heroic number of stupid questions.

Apparently, most people use one to two scoops of grounds per cup.
April preferred ten.

Ten scoops is not coffee.
That’s a cry for help.

I added sugar. I added creamer. I tried. I really tried. But it was so strong I abandoned it halfway through the cup. After all her effort and patience, I rejected her toxic brew. And I may have been projecting, but I swear I could feel her disappointment. Almost as strong as the coffee.

Naturally, when I got home, I bought my own pour-over.
Because what I took away from that experience was confidence.

Later that year, Leah learned about an exchange hosted on a cruise ship. Maybe technically an “event.” It was called Cruisin’ for a Blusin’.

We booked the cheapest tickets, which meant four people per cabin: the two of us and two random dancers. The room was freakishly small. And the two women we didn’t know had absolutely no shame about their bodies. Good for them. Truly. But I was not prepared to turn around in a ten-foot square space and be confronted by that many naked breasts before breakfast.

We danced as the boat traveled from San Diego to Ensenada, Mexico. When we got there, we found a depressingly small, tourist-centric town, complete with souvenir shops and sad, dirty beggar children. We went ashore just to see it, ate lunch, bought nothing meaningful, and went back to the ship.

It is the only time I’ve been to Mexico.
It was… not festive.

Speaking of regret, I got a little frisky with a man I’d been crushing on for a long time. I thought I was safe because I was wearing a lot of protective underwear under my dress. What I did not know was that some styles of Spanx include a discreet little opening in the crotch.

Well.
That was a surprise.

It turns out dancing on a rocking ship is harder than expected—especially if you’ve been drinking. I decided I am not a cruise person. Between the claustrophobia and the seasickness, I was deeply relieved to crawl back onto dry land.

Leah, however, discovered she is a cruise person and has continued having adventures without me.
As she should.

That year I also went back to Denver.
And to Seattle.

In Seattle, I traveled with a new companion: Aric. He was a lovely dancer from Salt Lake who overlapped with my post-Mormon friend group. I rented a car and immediately became the designated driver, which would have been fine if the other two people hadn’t forgotten that we were there to dance—not to drink.

Every night I had to drag them out of restaurants and bars like a tired camp counselor.

One night we went out to dinner with other dancers. I ordered gumbo with alligator meat—something I’d always wanted to try. While we waited for the food, I excused myself to the restroom. I came back to find my meal had arrived and been picked over by the rest of the table, who apparently felt entitled to sample my dinner while I was gone.

I was in a terrible mood.
I still haven’t tried alligator meat.

That same night, Aric got so drunk he puked in the backseat of the rental car.

I was exhausted. I was furious. It was late. I went to bed.
He redeemed himself slightly by cleaning it up the next morning.
So I didn’t kill him.

The following year, I went to even more dances. Las Vegas, for example. The only thing I remember is forgetting to bring fancy shoes. I had street shoes and dance shoes—but no heels. So I went to an outlet mall and bought a pair that would serve as my “fancy shoes” for the next ten years, until the glue finally disintegrated and they fell apart mid–work party.

Worth it.

That year there was also a steampunk-themed house party in Salt Lake. I had no idea what steampunk was, so I googled it and immediately fell in love with a genre that combines Victorian fashion and science fiction—and which I have since spent far too much money embracing.

My friend Whitney took a photo of me there that is still my favorite picture of myself. It also includes Casey, a marvelous lead I had a massive crush on for years. He was gay, so I never had a chance—but honestly, dancing with him was enough.

That year I also went to Atomic Fusion in Albuquerque. Despite having lived there for six months, I remembered absolutely nothing about the city. I rented a car and was lost the entire time.

Truly.
Zero recollection.

I went to Portland too. I was trying to find Powell’s Books and boarded the rail system, asking strangers for directions—because that is how smart people travel.

One very friendly man laughed and said, “No, you don’t want to go there. You want to come with me to my church’s fish fry!”

No.
I did not want fish. Or religion. Or to follow a strange man anywhere.

He insisted on helping me anyway. We chatted. The ride felt long. Eventually the train stopped and the announcement said it was the end of the line. It was not my stop. Turns out he had decided I was going to the fish fry regardless.

I stayed on the train, found a nice couple, and finally got redirected.

When I reached Powell’s, I was already overwhelmed, so the four stories did not help. I power-walked through, grabbed a few books near the checkout without looking at them, and left.

One was The Handmaid’s Tale.
That worked out.

And I think I went back to Denver that year, too.
Honestly, I can’t remember.
It all kind of blurred together.