I woke in terror and opened my eyes to green tubular objects floating toward me — string beans, or slow-motion bullets. I yelled, startling my husband. When I snapped out of it I reassured Dale, “It’s only what always happens.” Meaning: “It’s only because night terrors are my thing, not because I’m traveling to Juárez,” although that was precisely the problem. I closed my eyes and pictured my breasts exploding. I wondered what Dale would do if I were shot. It was too much to contemplate. I asked God to keep me safe, and fell back to sleep.

We took a bus to El Paso’s old-fashioned, brick-and-mortar downtown.

I woke a short time later to catch a flight to El Paso with my neighbor Mireya. Before I left the house, I removed my engagement ring. Mireya, who used to live in Juárez, said, “I’m glad you left your ring at home.” No point attracting robbers with a diamond, especially one with sentimental value. I still wore my wedding band, an instinct from younger days when traveling solo meant constant sexual harassment.

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Being open when we travel is like standing atop a cliff, enlivening but risky. One year ago tonight, friends and I celebrated my memoir with a release party. To mark that anniversary, I’m sharing with you a story that never made it into They Only Eat Their Husbands: A Memoir of Alaskan Love, World Travel, and the Power of Running Away…

THE LOWER 48
35 years old – near Rialto Beach, Washington

As I climbed the final steps to the promontory at Cape Flattery, the most northwest point in the Lower 48, a pair of hazel eyes looked into mine. The way he said “hi,” it was as if he’d been expecting me. “Hi!” I replied, smiling. We stared down at the noisy waves washing in and out of blue grottoes hundreds of feet below, and gazed out at the immeasurable expanse of water bearing down on the cape. The Pacific faced no obstacles from the horizon to this point, and its accumulated power was eating away at the green-draped cliffs atop which we stood.

We stared down at the noisy waves washing in and out of blue grottoes hundreds of feet below. (Dreamstime stock photo by Fallsview)

As comfortably as if we’d known each other for years, the stranger and I talked animatedly about the travels that brought us here. When I said I’d taken a swing-dancing lesson in Seattle, he said, “You’re kidding! You swing dance?” He grabbed my hand and swung me around atop the cliff, and my laughter entered the wind and waves. I felt the rock beneath us shuddering under the onslaught of surf.

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Did you know that during the Vietnam War, U.S. soldiers referred to life in America as “Back in the Real World”? I’m excited to announce that Vietnam veteran Ed Turner and I have co-written a novel by that name, which has just been released as an e-book. Back in the Real World explores the lasting effects of war and the healing power of human connection.

Back in the Real World explores the lasting effects of war and the healing power of human connection.

My co-author earned the Bronze Star as a door gunner on a Huey. Ed Turner is a member of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment Veterans of Vietnam and Cambodia. He has an accounting degree, but spent much of his career as an FBI agent and fraud investigator. He has read good novels on Vietnam, but has long yearned to see a story about the extraordinary effects of war on ordinary survivors. I’m proud to have helped him realize that vision.

Co-author Ed Turner has read good novels on Vietnam, but has long yearned to see a story about the extraordinary effects of war on ordinary survivors.

Here’s a synopsis: Michael Frost is a Vietnam vet who once made a mistake that cost men their lives. Decades later, his inability to forgive himself is tormenting him and tearing his family apart. Kimberly Mancini is a Vietnam War orphan, half-Vietnamese, half-African-American, whose mother gave her up as a baby. Decades later, her inability to shake a lifetime of abandonment, loss, and violence haunts her and threatens to destroy her family. In Back in The Real World, two survivors find themselves on a collision course with the past, which may be their only path to redemption.

Working on this book has taught me a lot about both war and peace, and I believe it hides unexpected gifts for readers. I encourage you to buy a copy. Here’s an excerpt:

BACK IN THE REAL WORLD

CHAPTER ONE
Richmond, Virginia
2005

Michael Frost rubbed his fingers against weary eyes until he saw small red and green explosions erupt against the lids. He stood up from the blurring lists of numbers, closed the ledger, and emerged from the cramped room at the back of the small homeless shelter. The mission building used to be a grocery store, and he could swear he still smelled the produce that once lined its aisles, but that was probably just the food from the kitchen.

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If you haven’t yet read my travel memoir, They Only Eat Their Husbands (Ghost Road Press, Nov 2010), please check out these compelling reasons from memoirist, blogger, and world traveler Susan Blumberg-Kason, who chose it as her: Book of the Week.

I felt honored and humbled to read her unsolicited review. And I was the most tickled by one basic phrase that seems to follow the book wherever it goes: “Lee’s utter and complete honesty.” I chuckle as I wonder if there are a few people for whom this idea is more like: “Lee’s utter and complete lack of shame.” Whatever the draw, my editor has told me that books from small presses get discovered over time. I’m grateful to see he’s right, and to share this find with you… in case you haven’t found it yet.

Whenever I write or read about travel, I focus on adventure, learning, beauty, maybe even making a difference. But whenever I talk about travel, whether with global trekkers or homebodies, at some point we end up giggling and gasping over the same subject: bathrooms. So, here’s the straight poop on three of my overseas toilet tales, which didn’t make the final cut of my travel memoir, They Only Eat Their Husbands. Please excuse the potty humor. It comes with the territory.

I wasn’t about to let a little killer diarrhea stop me from seeing the Taj Mahal.

IN THE TRENCHES
Kunming, China

For the night, I’ve checked into a large hostel, a dim, dank, dismal place that’s not enticing at all. When I grabbed my backpacking towel and walked down the hall to the showers, I took one look and decided not to perform any ablutions until I arrive in Lijiang tomorrow. The stench from the trench toilet was foul, and the showers were parked right next to it, with suspicious pools of yellowish-brown water on the floor. Unfortunately, my bowels could not wait.

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I recently answered a question on the Soul Pancake blog that hit at the heart of a subject I ponder often. The question was, “What question do you hate the most?”

“What are you?” I’ve answered this question a lot throughout my life.

In part, my answer was: “What are you?” I both love and hate this question. It often depends on the tone and the context. I have an ethnically-mixed background, and I’ve answered this question a lot throughout my life…

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“Endings are hard.” That’s what my friend Eileen once told me. She writes sitcoms, but I find that her quote applies to just about anything. When I got around to writing about the final week of my book tour for They Only Eat Their Husbands, I was already home and couldn’t bring myself to finish.

The road trip itself was difficult to finish. As on many treks, I was tired but not ready to stop.

The road trip itself was difficult to finish. As on many treks, I was tired but not ready to stop. As with many stories, I knew it had to end, but wasn’t sure what it all meant.

Let’s see, shall we?

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On every journey, I pick new things up and leave old things behind: belongings, attitudes, friendships. I love Alaska so much that it wasn’t until after my talk in Bellingham, Washington that I realized something had dislodged inside me on my last visit to the Last Frontier.

I had fun talking with the small but enthusiastic group at Village Books.

I had fun talking with the small but enthusiastic group at Village Books, yet my insides felt chaotic. I wondered why. Part of it was due to something I normally wouldn’t talk about here, but then, I suppose this is the perfect place to talk about it…

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If I were a visual artist, I’d draw my book tour for you in a series of sketches: half-finished lines and curves full of electric highs and exhausted lows, the faces of old friends softened by nostalgia, the faces of new friends clarified by discovery.

My friend Angie and I became rock ‘n roll groupies for Lukas Nelson & The Promise of the Real.

Thursday night in Seattle, my friend Angie and I became rock ‘n roll groupies for Lukas Nelson & The Promise of the Real. Off my itinerary, I was headbanging and swaying like a smitten teenager, as Lukas and his band tore up The Showbox.

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This story ends at the Seattle talk show New Day Northwest, where I appeared right after musician Lukas Nelson, son of Willie Nelson, and a unique talent in his own right. I’d never heard him before and I was impressed:

Lukas Nelson is the son of Willie Nelson, and a unique talent in his own right.

How did I get here?

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