"Do not go to Roswell."

I was going to Roswell, N.M. That was the plan, anyway. There were a lot of plans that didn't happen and so maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise when any one thing doesn't. But I was definitely planning on going to Roswell. 

You know. To look for the aliens.

Conspiracy stuff aside, I wanted to go because I figured it would be a weird, kitschy, maybe surreal kind of scene. Is the whole town really into the UFO thing? Are there lots of conspiracy theorists? A general weird vibe? Do people watch for aliens at night? Maybe just some strange street signs and business names?

If you're playing catch-up, the story goes that an alien spacecraft crashed there in late 40s and the military recovered and hid the craft in a secret installation called Area 51. (Not so secret, as the military last year confirmed the existence of Area 51 -- although, sadly, not also the aliens). So, thus, the town of Roswell is indelibly linked to UFO lore.

So I figured, anyway. But while getting my hair cut in Austin, Texas, this woman told me not to go.

"Do not go to Roswell. Definitely not worth it."

You have to understand, no one says "don't go" to anywhere. Everyone says, "Have you been to ... " or "You HAVE to go to ..." And you know what? It's an enormous country and I had to kind of accept a while  back that I'd almost never been to the place they were talking about.

It really did turn out to be a huge country. There's just too much stuff, too many places to see and go. So when this woman (wielding a pair of scissors, it must be said, so maybe she was more persuasive than usual) told me NOT to go to Roswell ... I listened.

"Don't go. I went on a roadtrip during the summer with my boyfriend. We stopped in for the exact reason you're talking about."

"And ... nothing?"

"Not really, no. If you need to see for yourself, then go. But I didn't think it was worth a detour."

And so I didn't go. And as I get closer and closer back to Washington, I find myself wondering: What if she was just in on the coverup?

'You've got to do it before ... '

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When I talk to people I meet about this trip, there is one phrase they repeat: "You've got to do it before ... "

The before WHAT changes. And I wonder if the "what" part tells you anything about how people view life, expectations and goals.

"... before you settle down."

"... before you get old."

"... before you kick the bucket."

"... before you grow up."

"... before you have kids."

I've heard all of these more than once.  But only once did I simply get: "You've got to do it" without a "before," a qualifier, an indication of what comes next -- the idea that SOMETHING comes next.

"Yeah, you've got to do it," he said. It sounded like an unfinished thought.

The Unfriendliest Motel ...

Since taking off on this trip, I've stayed in a lot of random places. Some nice, and some not as nice. Some really friendly places, and others just a place to briefly crash. But this is an amazing amount of uninviting, unfriendly signage for one completely-average motel. It's not in a bad neighborhood, it's fairly clean and everything else seems normal.

The Breakfast Fine/Stop sign is my favorite. Although that laundry fee seems a tad excessive.

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Valentines Day

When the waitress delivered my eggs, there was a small chocolate heart on the plate. I'd been camped on the beach, but non-stop rains had forced me to find breakfast in Orick, Calif., a town of about 350 people.

Next to me, an old man in a black cowboy hat sat down.

"Janice said I could order breakfast, Ma."

"Biscuits with gravy," the waitress shouted back.

"Two?" asked the cook.

"He can eat three."

"I know he can."

"Thanks, Ma."

His plate also arrived with a chocolate heart.

"What's this?"

"It's a heart. For Valentines Day."

"Didn't know it was."

"Liar."

"That's the truth, Ma. I've never celebrated it."

"Everyone knows when Valentines Day is."

"I don't."

"What day is Christmas?"

"December 25. Everyone knows that."

"So how come you don't know Valentines Day?"

"I never have."

"I don't believe you."

"It's the truth, Ma."

Lost Coast ...

I'd never heard of California's Lost Coast before someone mentioned it over brunch. "You have to go. There's nothing there."

Route 1 runs along much of the California coast but turns inland just south of Whitehorn, leaving a  coastal region with only a few roads in and out, and small communities like Petrolia and Honeydew secluded. The extreme hills and complex geology have made much development impossible, which is probably fine by the locals. The region is home to some of California's marijuana growing operations, and the twisty roads are lined with "Keep Out" signs, high fences and greenhouses.

"You have to go. There's nothing there."

When you've got no place to be, just having a destination helps. So I coaxed the minivan up and down crazy hills, across one-lane bridges along winding roads. The loop back to the highway is maybe 50 miles, but it takes hours.

A side road is marked "beach access," and though it's not completely paved I cautiously took it to Matolle Beach, a part of the BLM's King Range Conservation Area. Miles of deserted, wilderness, black-pebble beach. It was s a cloudy day but the water still seemed clear.

There really was nothing there. I'm glad I saw it.

Off-season ...

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I spotted the basset hound first, followed by an older man walking past my campsite. He saw me and said hello; I asked how he was.

"Just trying to get away from some of these crowds," he said, waving his arms facetiously at the vacant campsites. February in the redwoods of Northern California; there were not a lot of campers.

I didn't plan this trip around the seasons, but it's worked out well. Except for extreme weather in a few spots -- torrential rains in the Southeast, an ice storm in Texas, a few 12-degree nights in the Southwest -- things have been almost perfect. And in most places I've visited, campgrounds have been empty.

"I try to never travel when there are crowds," Jacob told me. "Can you imagine these campgrounds, all of the sites filled, kids running around? You'd never get any peace."

Jacob has been on a three week trip up the west coast. He lives in Long Beach with the hound, Bee. He's an amateur photographer, retired. They camp in a modern-looking van. “It's got a thermostat. When it gets below 65 degrees … WHOOSH!”

Oh, van envy. I tell him that I have to turn my heater on manually. He looks suspiciously at Rosy the Minivan, as though unsure I'm telling the truth.

He's right, though, off- or shoulder-season travel is where it's at. Only twice have I run into crowds on this trip: Once in the Grand Canyon, where the spectacle is such that even temperatures around 0 can't dissuade tourists from around the world. And then in a campground near Malibu Beach, where the weather is so nice there is no off-season.

We then spent 30 minutes trying to fix journalism. I have this conversation a lot, whenever people ask me where I'm from and what I did. “I don't care about the opinion pieces, about the columns and the celebrity crap,” Jacob said. “I worry about corruption in my city hall. Who is covering that?”

Long Beach corruption? I haven't thought too much about city hall since taking off on this trip. See, you really can't get away.

'Perhaps another time,' they lied ...

“You two look like you're ready to have a good time.”

It was one of those weird sentences that makes you think, What does this person want?

I was sitting at the bar in Gallup, New Mexico, motel. Watching football, listening to the couple next to me. From Massachusetts, they were just passing through and asked the bartender for restaurant recommendations.

Nearby, two couples shared a table. And one of the women stood up, walked over to the couple from Massachusetts, and that was the first thing she said. “You two look like you're ready to have a good time.”

Massachusetts' defenses went up. They bristled, almost physically. Wary. I could sense their caution, it emanated from every sentence. They danced around questions, gave short responses. They were not accustomed to …

… being invited by strangers to go out dancing.

Eventually they left to go have dinner. They politely declined the offer. “Perhaps another time,” they lied.