road trip Archives - Jared Kuvent

Showing Up: You Drove!?

Jared Kuvent — Sun, 26 Jul 2026 07:33:12 +0000

Showing Up: You Drove!?

All week at SIGGRAPH, the same conversation kept happening. Someone asks where I’m from. Maine. How long was the flight?

I drove.

You drove? From MAINE?

I did. It’s my eighth time crossing the country, and when people find out, they ask how I do it like I’m carrying secret knowledge. I’m writing this from the road home, so let me finally reveal the secret: I have almost run out of gas twice — once on my first crossing in 2015, and once on this one. My eighth. I forget sunscreen on day one of every single trip and rediscover my left arm at the hotel, medium-rare. I once lost two hours of my life in a laundromat because I didn’t check whether my hotel had laundry. Earlier this week I walked into my room, got comfortable, and realized I’d forgotten the ice. Again.

This is exactly why you should take my advice.

Everyone who is good at something got good the same way: by doing it badly, repeatedly, on purpose. That’s been the quiet argument of this whole series — the first dispatch was about asks that felt too small to matter, the second about walking up when it would be easier not to. Nobody involved was qualified at the start. The country looks uncrossable the same way the room looks unenterable, and it comes apart the same way: into small pieces, learned one mistake at a time.

So this dispatch is the manual — written by a man who has personally field-tested every error in it, so you don’t have to. Though you will anyway. That’s allowed.

The shape of a day

Six or seven hours of driving is my ceiling when I’m doing back-to-back days. Ten is my absolute maximum, and I don’t recommend it. I’ve done ten. I did ten this month. Somewhere around hour nine, your thoughts get replaced by a low hum, and the only remaining goal in your life is the next exit sign.

Stop at least every two hours. You’ll probably have to pee anyway.

Here is the single best stress-reduction technology I know on the road, and it costs nothing: pad your arrival estimate by an hour to an hour and a half. If you tell yourself you’ll arrive at six and hit traffic, every red brake light is a personal attack. If you told yourself seven-thirty, the same traffic is just scenery, and a longer-than-planned stop is just a nicer stop. It’s okay to relax. It’s part of the journey — arguably it is the journey, and the driving is what happens between relaxing.

A good stop has a bathroom, some shade, and a building cold enough to reset you. Since your trunk is fully stocked — we’re getting there — a stop is also lunch, whenever you decide it is.

As for planning: I map my legs a few days ahead, except when I don’t. On some crossings I haven’t known my next destination until I arrived at the last one. Both approaches work. Watch the weather for major storms along your route; I’m comfortable driving through bad weather, but if you’re not, re-routing or staying an extra day is not a failure. And if the interstate is boring you into a trance, pull off at the next exit and ask your GPS for a route that avoids highways for a while. It costs less time than you’d think, and the country you’ll see is the reason you didn’t fly.

The arrival ritual

Years of refinement have produced the following procedure, which I execute nightly with the precision of a launch sequence.

Get naked.
Put your clothes back on, because you forgot to get ice.
Now get naked.
Turn the thermostat to your preferred temperature. I prefer icicles forming on the windowsill.
Enjoy an ice-cold, hydrating drink. Something with electrolytes, preferably.
Do something that relaxes you. Give yourself at least an hour before dinner if you can.
Take a long shower and get the road gunk off of you.
Find a good, hot meal. I like local pubs and diners where I can sit at the bar and talk with the staff and locals.

I’ll spare you the photos of this section.

Step 2 is not a joke. Step 2 is the most consistently executed step of my travel career. Eight crossings, and the ice machine has never once been remembered on the first pass. At this point I consider the second trip down the hallway a form of light cardio.

Step 8 gets its own section later, because step 8 has gotten me into some of the best nights of my life.

The refrigerator in your trunk

The best two hundred dollars I’ve spent on any of these trips was a cooler. Not a cute picnic cooler — a fishing cooler, the kind that looks like it should have a marlin in it. You don’t need the six-hundred-dollar Yeti. But spend close to two hundred, and here’s what you get: a working refrigerator in your car. It fits in a trunk, takes about three bags of ice, and holds its cold for three to four days. It has a drain spout, which matters more than it sounds — you drain the meltwater and pour fresh ice on top without ever unpacking your food.

If that’s not in the budget, get the biggest cooler you can and plan on daily ice. The system still works; it just asks more of you.

Then add a small second cooler — an insulated lunchbox is perfect. Three or four cans and a scoop of ice from the big one. It rides up front, so cold hydration is always within arm’s reach and never requires pulling over. The big cooler is the warehouse. The little one is the storefront.

Don’t skimp on lunch

Road food wants you to fail. The default options out there are bad fast food and gas station sandwiches — expensive, gross, and somehow both at once. The cooler is how you opt out of the whole economy.

My lunch is ham, brie, and arugula with preserves on a fresh bakery roll. Yes, I stop at a grocery store every three days specifically to buy fresh bread. I spend eight hours a day in a car; lunch is allowed to be the good part. Make yours something you actually look forward to. This is not the place to economize on joy.

The rest of the inventory, refined over eight crossings: diced cheese, eaten by the Solo-cup handful. Hard-boiled eggs — great pre-made protein, with the caveat that they’ll turn on you fast if the cooler warms up. Cold diced melon, which on a hot desert afternoon is roughly a religious experience. Yogurt cups, granola to go with them, trail mix (the classic kind with the M&Ms — I don’t make the rules), a favorite salty thing, a favorite sweet thing, apples, energy bars. Nothing that melts. You will only make that mistake once, and it will be a chocolate-based mistake, and you’ll think about it every time you see the stain.

Drinks: I basically want a convenience store in my trunk. Milk, for lunch and for coffee. Gatorade or some electrolyte drink — sugar-free versions exist if you want them. Cold seltzer, which is somehow ten times more satisfying than the warm water bottle rolling around your footwell. Soda if you must, but know that regular soda is quietly dehydrating you while pretending to help — drink water alongside it. Simply Orange makes little four-pack juices that feel like a hotel breakfast you didn’t have to attend.

And coffee. If you’re a coffee snob, most big grocery stores stock at least one acceptable bottled cold brew. If you’re a serious coffee snob, we need to talk about mason jars. Take two half-gallon jars. Grind a pound of coffee medium-coarse, split it between them, fill with water. Steep 24 hours for nice, 48 for serious — past 48, keep it cold. Filter through cheesecloth into clean jars. You now have better coffee in your trunk than most of the towns you’re driving through, and you made it in a parking lot. Insulated mugs elevate the whole operation.

The part I hope you never need

I’m going to set the jokes down for a minute.

Just east of Indio, California, on one of my crossings, the car in front of me hit an embankment. It flipped. A tire came off and flew. There was no warning — one second of ordinary highway, then a car in the air. I was driving defensively, with real following distance, and that’s the only reason I wasn’t part of it. The driver, remarkably, was okay. Traffic stopped. I put on my hazards, pulled to the side, and checked on him.

I had no emergency gear with me that day. Flares could have diverted traffic around the scene. A first aid kit would have mattered if he’d been hurt. A fire extinguisher — cars that flip sometimes burn. I carry all of it now, and here’s the part I want you to hold onto: emergency gear is not just for you. It’s for whoever’s accident you happen to be standing next to, because things happen even to good drivers.

What rides with me now: a first aid kit. Road flares or LED flares. A car fire extinguisher. A safety hammer for breaking glass, kept within arm’s reach in a holster — because in the moment you need it, it cannot be somewhere in the back seat, and an unholstered hammer in a crash becomes a projectile. And water: four gallons minimum, more with passengers. If you break down in 120-degree heat, that water is the whole game. I’ve also handed it out the window to stranded drivers who needed it more than I did.

One absolute never: never carry gasoline inside your car. The fumes can cause an explosion. There’s no trip where that’s worth it.

The two mistakes I see first-timers make are the two this section and the next exist to prevent: not enough water, and running out of gas.

Gas

About that.

My first crossing, I watched the range readout count down — thirty miles, twenty, ten — while the world offered nothing but horizon. When a gas station finally appeared, it was on the other side of the highway, and the U-turn I took to reach it was not, in the strictest legal sense, a turn that exists. I rolled up to the pump showing zero. Not “low.” Zero.

You’d think that lesson would hold. This month — crossing number eight, the one where I’m the guy writing the manual — I did it again. Not the U-turn; I’ve grown. But the zero. It is so much easier to do than you think.

So, the rules I mostly follow: always fill the tank completely. In populated areas, start looking for your next station at thirty miles of range. On long, desolate stretches — and there are interstate stretches where stations simply stop existing — start planning eighty to a hundred miles before empty. The gauge is not a dare.

On price: gas costs what it costs where you are. I look for something reasonable, but I pick reputable stations first, and they usually have the best prices anyway. The big travel stops are your friends. Love’s is a great trucker stop with genuinely clean showers — remember that detail; it matters in the camping section. Pilot and QuickTrip are solid. Bigger stations mean cleaner bathrooms, friendlier staff, real parking, and knowing what you’re walking into. But when the options thin out, don’t fret: a crappy, tiny gas station will get you everything you need, as long as it has a bathroom.

Under $120 a night

I try to book hotels in advance. The road has other ideas — see above about not knowing tomorrow’s destination until today. Fortunately, booking along the way is usually easy, as long as you don’t expect to sleep in a major metro.

My target is under $120 a night. The brands that have earned my loyalty: Holiday Inn Express, Fairfield, Courtyard, La Quinta. Best Western is hit and miss. I stopped staying at Days Inn the night I met a cockroach the size of my hand in the bathroom. We did not exchange information.

If you’re staying somewhere more than a night, check whether the hotel has laundry before you book. I did not do this recently, which is how I came to spend two hours of my Los Angeles trip watching my clothes go in circles when I could have been doing literally anything else in Los Angeles.

Three packing rules that keep the nightly stops sane:

One trip in, one trip out. You’re at this hotel for twelve to fifteen hours. One bag, one suitcase, optional backpack. Before going up, grab a few cold drinks and snacks from the trunk so you’re not going back down. If travel makes you feel disorganized, this rule is the cure.

Compartmentalize everything. A dopp kit you can toss onto the bathroom counter and be done. Soap in a ziploc if you bring your own. Clothes in the suitcase, essentials in the laptop bag, snacks in their own bag, cups and silverware in another — and a dedicated trash bag for dirty clothes, so the worn things never mingle with the clean ones. Future-you, packing at 7 a.m., will be grateful.

Prepare your cockpit. You’re spending six-plus hours in one seat, so decide what belongs within reach — for me: the small cooler, the snack bag, the iced coffee, the sunscreen — and figure out before you’re driving how you’ll grab each thing safely.

The road

Rules of conduct, learned the long way.

Let it go. People out there are, let’s say, jerks sometimes. You’ll meet them across all three thousand miles, and engaging makes every one of them worse. The goal isn’t to win. Nobody wins the interstate.

Don’t speed. You won’t arrive meaningfully sooner, you’re driving dangerously, and eventually the math catches you — no app, map, or radar detector changes that. If you want a spirited drive, that’s what backroads are for, and they’re more fun than the interstate anyway.

Use cruise control; your foot has done nothing wrong and deserves the break. Watch your tire pressure. Keep the washer fluid full — it’s trivial right up until the moment a truck baptizes your windshield and it’s the most important fluid you own.

Sunscreen. Every trip, day one, I forget it. Every trip, day one evening, I meet my left arm: medium-rare. You would think eight crossings would fix this. The evidence says no. Learn from me anyway: cover everything that catches light, including your legs, which you will forget about because they feel like they’re indoors. Polarized sunglasses. And aloe at night and in the morning — even without a burn, you’re getting more sun than you think, and your skin deserves the apology.

My car is a Mazda CX-30 Turbo, and it has some of what makes long crossings easier. The full wishlist, for anyone choosing a road-trip car: radar-assisted cruise control (dramatically less tiring), lane-keep assist (same), heated seats and steering wheel (a luxury that stops being one the first cold morning), and a moonroof. The moonroof is technically optional. Morale-wise, it is not.

The people along the way

When I plan a route, I think about who I know along it and pin those places as stops. Usually that’s lunch with a friend. If I’m in their town for the night, it becomes dinner, or an arcade, or drinks. Sometimes people reach out when they see I’m passing through; sometimes I’m the one reaching out of the blue. And sometimes a friend hosts the whole night — on this leg, MK Haley is graciously putting me up in Austin.

But the people layer isn’t limited to people you already know. One crossing, I stopped for dinner at a small-town pub — at the bar, per the ritual. The only people in the place were the wait staff and the bartender. By the end of the meal I knew everyone by name. By the end of the night, we had all gone out together to the bar-arcade down the street, and I’d been briefed on the town gossip like a visiting official. It remains one of the best nights I’ve had on any road.

If you read the last dispatch, you’ll recognize the move. Walk up, say something true, want nothing. It works at a conference of fourteen thousand people, and it works at a pub with a staff of four. The country is full of people who will talk to you. Most travelers never find out.

What it costs

Real numbers, because everyone asks and nobody publishes them. My round trip — Maine to LA and back — cost about $2,000: gas, maintenance, and hotels. Food isn’t in that number, because food is the cost that balloons fastest if you let it, which is why the cooler got its own section.

For comparison: flying to LA in summer and renting a car there would have run me over $1,500. So the drive cost roughly $500 more. That $500 bought me the country twice, a week of thinking time, every person in the section above, and a trunk full of brie. Driving is way more fun.

And if $2,000 is out of reach, you can delete the biggest line item entirely.

Without hotels

Camping removes lodging — the single largest cost of the trip. If your budget is limited and your deadline is soft, this is the way. Your daily costs drop to gas and groceries.

The gear: tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, camping pillow if you’re fancy, a small camping stove, a pot, something to scrub the pot, a spatula, LED lanterns with spare batteries, a headlamp. Extra water beyond your normal supply — you’ll be washing dishes and yourself. Consider a five-gallon water jug with a spout, the kind REI or L.L. Bean sells: fill it with tap water, stand it in your trunk, and the back of your car becomes a mini sink. I’ve showered out of mine.

Better still: a camping shower. This is a black bag with a spout. You fill it with water and leave it in the sun, and the material warms the water all day. Hang it from a tree branch, and tomorrow morning there’s a warm shower waiting for you in the middle of nowhere. Civilization, it turns out, is negotiable.

Where to camp free: west of the Mississippi, the land opens up, and a lot of it is public. The reading list is short — Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Forest Service, State Forests, Wildlife Management Areas. These unlock free, primitive campsites. Primitive means primitive: open land, no plots, no toilets, no entrance. Sometimes reaching your spot means driving across grass or through trees — which comes with its own rule: do not push your car through terrain it can’t reasonably handle. Stuck on a backroad with no cell service is not the kind of adventure this essay endorses. And know that not even all BLM land is free to use — some is leased out for forestry or agriculture — so check the maps before you commit.

Primitive camping is some of the most beautiful camping there is. I prefer it to organized campsites. East of the Mississippi the land gets dense and open country gets scarce; look for backroad tent sites there, and skip anything advertising RV camping — RV camping and tent camping are different worlds, and you want the quiet one.

Two honest warnings. First: camping makes you kinda gross, pretty quickly, and you’ll need a real shower sooner than you think. Don’t punish your skin by skipping it — those clean Love’s showers exist for exactly this, and diaper wipes are a great freshen-up in a pinch. Second: don’t camp on private land. You don’t know the owner, and the best-case outcome of being found is an extremely awkward conversation, with police as the runner-up. I can add this to my list of field-tested errors: I did it exactly once, in a pinch, at dusk, when there was nothing else. I set the tent up close to the car, woke at six, packed, and was gone before the coffee. No stove, no shower, no lingering. It’s not worth the sleep you won’t get.

Home

I’m about a week out from Maine now. The big cooler needs more ice — assuming I remember to buy the ice, which history suggests is a coin flip.

Eight crossings in, I still get something wrong every time. This trip it was the gas again, and the sunscreen again, and the laundromat. Next trip it’ll be something new; I look forward to finding out what. That’s the actual manual, underneath all the tips about coolers and flares and brie: you do not have to be good at this to do it. You just have to leave — and be willing to be bad at it in a moving vehicle until, seven crossings later, people at conferences start asking you how.

One dispatch left. It comes from Maine, once the photographs are delivered and the miles have had a chance to settle.

Tonight, somewhere ahead of me, there’s a hotel room with a thermostat waiting to be set to icicle. The ritual will run again. Step one: get naked.

Step two — you already know step two.

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Driving Toward New Horizons: Ideas On The Road To Maine

Jared Kuvent — Sun, 08 Dec 2024 12:09:55 +0000

Driving Toward New Horizons: Ideas On The Road To Maine

Today was a long journey—seven hours from New Jersey to Virginia—but it was anything but dull. The miles stretched out before me, and with them, the space to dream and reflect. The drive was beautiful in its winter simplicity. Stark, leafless trees lined the roads, their branches reaching up against a calm, overcast sky. The daylight hours passed quickly as I drove, making the most of the sun’s brief presence during these short New England days. As the wheels turned, so did my thoughts, sparking fresh ideas and new possibilities for both Microweb LLC and Maine Tech Coffees.

This trip isn’t just about the physical journey; it’s about creating something new, both personally and professionally. With each passing mile, I find myself imagining what Maine can become for me—and what I can create for Maine.

Expanding the Vision of Microweb LLC

Microweb LLC has been an evolving dream, and the long hours on the road gave me time to reflect deeply on its future. I’ve been grappling with questions that feel both exciting and daunting: What exactly will Microweb LLC offer? How will it bring value to the community? How do I communicate its mission and vision?

At its core, Microweb LLC is about empowering communities and fostering creativity through technology. This idea isn’t new to me—it’s been the thread running through my career for years. My work on the Digital Archive at Nickelodeon taught me the power of innovative tools to streamline workflows and support massive teams. The Discovery project at the University of Melbourne showed me how technology could help preserve cultural knowledge and connect communities. These experiences are my foundation, but Maine offers a fresh canvas to expand upon them.

The question now is how to translate these ideas into a tangible presence in Maine. Maine’s tech and creative industries are growing, but there’s room to bring something new to the table. Microweb LLC could serve as a bridge between these sectors, offering services like digital asset management systems, immersive storytelling tools, and community-driven projects. Whether it’s working with local museums to design interactive exhibits or helping organizations streamline their digital infrastructure, the possibilities are endless.

I also want Microweb LLC to be more than just a business; I want it to embody values that resonate with the community. Collaboration, innovation, and inclusivity will be at its core. The drive today gave me a chance to think about how these values can shape not just the work we do but the relationships we build.

Brewing Community: The Potential of Maine Tech Coffees

While Microweb LLC takes shape, another idea is brewing—literally. Maine Tech Coffees is something I’m passionate about bringing to life. Inspired by the Tech Coffees I’ve attended in San Diego, this project is all about creating a space for people to come together, share ideas, and support one another.

In San Diego, Tech Coffees are a weekly ritual. Entrepreneurs, tech enthusiasts, creatives, and job seekers gather at local coffee shops to chat, network, and brainstorm. The format is simple and welcoming: open-door, come-and-go-as-you-please, no pressure, just connection. I’ve seen firsthand how these gatherings spark innovation and build relationships, and I’m excited to bring that energy to Maine.

The concept translates well to Maine’s close-knit, community-oriented culture. I imagine Maine Tech Coffees as a space where people can explore what the state’s tech and creative scenes have to offer. From solving technical challenges to building new collaborations, these gatherings could become a launchpad for fresh ideas.

Inclusivity will be a cornerstone. Everyone will be welcome, from seasoned professionals to curious newcomers. To foster this environment, there will be simple “house rules” to keep the space welcoming and collaborative. For example, no hard pitches—this isn’t a sales event. It’s a space for dialogue and creativity.

I’m also thinking about ways to expand the concept. Imagine offshoots like LGBTQ Tech Coffee, a monthly Tech Beer event for evenings, or a Youth Tech Coffee for students. The goal is to make Tech Coffees a dynamic, flexible model that can adapt to the needs of Maine’s diverse community.

The Challenge of Finding the Right Space

One of the more logistical challenges I’ve been considering is the venue. In San Diego, coffee shops are large and well-suited for group gatherings. Maine, however, is different. While the local coffee shops are cozy and inviting, they tend to be smaller. Finding a consistent venue with enough seating and a welcoming atmosphere will be key.

I’d like to establish a regular meeting place—somewhere that people can rely on as a consistent hub. In the summer, outdoor spaces could work beautifully, but the Maine winters will demand a warm, indoor spot. I want this to feel like a community home base, where attendees feel comfortable and inspired. For offshoot events like Tech Beer, exploring different venues each month might add variety and excitement.

Connections Along the Way

As I drove, I thought about the connections I’m rekindling and building along this journey. In North Carolina, I’ll be meeting three long-time friends from the Wildercraft community—Tolcum, Smoothie, and Redbau. For years, we’ve shared countless online conversations, collaborations, and laughs, but this will be our first time meeting in person. It’s incredible how friendships can grow in virtual spaces, and I can’t wait to bring those relationships into the real world.

In Austin, I’ll visit MK, a dear friend from my SIGGRAPH days. MK is a powerhouse of energy and creativity, with a career spanning Disney Imagineering and ABC. Her innovative spirit has always been inspiring, and I’m eager to catch up and exchange ideas.

Finally, Phoenix will bring me to Jamal, a close family friend who has been like a second mother to me. Jamal’s warmth and generosity are unmatched, and I’m looking forward to experiencing her incredible cooking and hospitality once again.

Staying Grounded and Optimistic

Throughout this trip, I’ve been mindful of the emotional and logistical challenges of such a significant transition. Leaving behind San Diego’s friendly atmosphere, vibrant LGBTQ community, and creative energy isn’t easy. But I’m taking those experiences with me and channeling them into my new chapter in Maine.

Blogging has been an anchor during this time, helping me process the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The road itself is therapeutic—hours of driving offer a rare chance to reflect, plan, and dream. I’ve also leaned on my friends and family, staying connected through daily check-ins. Their support has been a constant source of strength.

The Road Ahead

The road continues to stretch before me, filled with opportunities yet to unfold. This drive isn’t just about moving from one place to another; it’s a metaphor for everything in my life right now—a journey of transition, growth, and discovery. Maine Tech Coffees, Microweb LLC, and the connections I’m building along the way all feel like pieces of a larger puzzle, coming together one mile at a time.

As I settle into this new rhythm, I’m reminded that life is a collection of moments, each one building on the next. The conversations, the ideas, and the relationships I’m nurturing now will ripple into the future, shaping the communities I’m part of and the work I’ll do. This isn’t just a road trip—it’s the start of something much bigger. And while I can’t see all the turns ahead, I’m ready to embrace them, knowing that the best journeys are the ones that lead to places—and people—that feel like home.

Have you ever taken a leap to start something new—like a business or a move—and how did you manage the emotions and uncertainty of the journey?

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Driving Toward a New Chapter: The Start of a Long Goodbye

Jared Kuvent — Thu, 05 Dec 2024 11:45:15 +0000

Driving Toward a New Chapter: The Start of a Long Goodbye

Every road has its story. This one, stretching between Maine and San Diego, carries the weight of transition, the spark of new beginnings, and the threads of connection woven across thousands of miles. Leaving Maine, I’m not just heading westward; I’m bridging the gap between my past, present, and future. This isn’t merely a journey of relocation—it’s a passage through memories, reflections, and the endless potential of what’s to come.

A Farewell Breakfast That Echoes Home

Before I left Maine, there was one last indulgence to be had: breakfast at the Bayside American Cafe in Portland. Situated in a historic building, the restaurant captures the charm and character of New England. Its creaky wooden staircase and intricate moldings exude a sense of history, while its menu offers a modern twist on hearty classics.

For my final meal in Maine, I couldn’t resist the Maine Crabcake Benedict. Perfectly seasoned crab atop toasted English muffins, all smothered in velvety hollandaise—it was everything I hoped it would be. As I sat in the warm, welcoming space, I reflected on how this trip had reignited my connection to my roots. This wasn’t just breakfast; it was a symbolic send-off, a nod to the memories I’ve made and the exciting road ahead.

The Journey South: Connections That Ground Us

As I head south toward San Diego, the journey is as much about the people I’ll meet as the miles I’ll drive. This trip is a chance to deepen relationships, share moments of joy, and build memories with those who’ve shaped my life in unique ways.

One of the highlights will be meeting three friends from Wildercraft—Tolcum, Smoothie, and Redbau—in North Carolina. For years, our shared creativity and camaraderie have lived in the digital realm, but now, we’ll finally connect in person. This meeting feels like a celebration of the community we’ve built online, brought to life in the tangible world. I can already imagine the laughter and stories we’ll exchange, adding another layer to our bond.

In Atlanta, I’ll reunite with my cousin Lauren. From childhood games of hide-and-seek to shared professional paths, our connection has always been strong. Visiting her brings back memories of our grandparents’ home and the warmth of family gatherings. Seeing Lauren reminds me of the foundation family provides, even as life takes us in different directions.

Austin will bring a chance to reconnect with MK, a mentor who has profoundly influenced my career. MK’s groundbreaking work with Disney Imagineering and ABC has always inspired me, but it’s her generosity and energy that stand out the most. Our conversations are always a spark for new ideas, and I’m looking forward to catching up with her and sharing the excitement of this transitional chapter.

In Phoenix, I’ll stay with Jamal, my mom’s best friend and someone who’s been like a second family to me. Her home, filled with the aroma of her incredible Lebanese cooking, is a sanctuary of warmth and hospitality. Jamal has always been a steadfast supporter of my journey, and this visit feels like a homecoming of its own.

These connections, from lifelong family ties to friendships forged through shared experiences, are the heartbeat of this trip. They remind me that no matter where I go, I carry a piece of each person with me.

Reflections on San Diego: Lessons to Carry Forward

San Diego has been more than a city to me; it’s been a place of growth, connection, and discovery. Its sunny beaches and welcoming community have shaped who I am today. I’ll miss the vibrant LGBTQ+ scene, which is as diverse as it is supportive, and the low-key yet dynamic atmosphere that makes San Diego so unique.

But I’m not leaving these experiences behind. Instead, I’m bringing them with me to Maine, where I hope to foster similar communities. Maine’s culture may be rooted in sarcasm and practicality, but its tight-knit spirit is the perfect foundation for building something new. From Tech Coffees to creative collaborations, I envision Maine as a hub for innovation and connection, blending the best of what I’ve learned in San Diego with the richness of New England’s traditions.

Finding Grounding in Transition

Change is exhilarating, but it’s also emotional. One of the most valuable pieces of advice I’ve received came from a mentor at AJS, who reminded me to be mindful of the emotions that come with big transitions. It’s advice I’ve taken to heart, especially on this journey, where each day brings a mix of excitement, nostalgia, and anticipation.

Blogging has become a lifeline, helping me process the flood of thoughts and feelings that accompany this move. Driving offers a quiet space for reflection and planning, while staying connected with friends and family keeps me grounded. I’ve learned to take each day as it comes, focusing on small steps while keeping an eye on the bigger picture.

The Road Ahead: San Diego and Beyond

This trip is more than just a return to San Diego; it’s a chance to close one chapter and prepare for the next. Once I arrive, there’s much to do—packing, revisiting connections, and preparing for my move to Maine. I’m looking forward to spending time with friends and colleagues, sharing ideas, and laying the groundwork for future collaborations.

One idea that’s already taking shape is Maine Tech Coffees, inspired by the vibrant gatherings I attended in San Diego. These weekly meetups foster community, accountability, and innovation, and I’m excited to bring that energy to Maine. It’s a small step toward building the kind of collaborative, creative environment that I believe will thrive in my new home.

A Journey Unfinished

This journey isn’t just about getting from point A to point B—it’s about the people, places, and ideas that shape us along the way. Each stop, each conversation, each moment of reflection is a thread in the larger story I’m weaving. And while this chapter is nearing its end, the story is far from over.

As I head west, my heart is full of gratitude for the past and excitement for the future. I’m reminded that life’s greatest adventures often come from embracing change, connecting with others, and staying open to possibility. This road trip is just the beginning of something much larger—a journey of growth, connection, and endless potential. Stay tuned, because the best is yet to come.

Who are the people or communities that inspire you the most, and how do you keep those connections alive no matter where life takes you?

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Small Town Breakfasts And Big Reflections: A Day In The Life

Jared Kuvent — Thu, 07 Nov 2024 17:12:03 +0000

Small Town Breakfasts And Big Reflections: A Day In The Life

After a full 12 hours of sleep, I allowed myself a slower start to the day. It’s rare for me not to jump right into a packed schedule first thing in the morning, so I enjoyed every minute. Waking up fully recharged, I kicked off my day by editing footage, writing up the blog, and catching up on the previous day’s work. My room became a mini creative studio as I got into the rhythm of piecing together the journey and reflecting on how far I’d come. This blogging journey is as much about sharing my trip as it is about reliving it, and it’s brought a new energy to the experience.

After wrapping up my morning routine, I joined my AJS networking group from the hotel room. Even on the road, the group’s encouragement has been a steady source of motivation, reminding me why I’m doing this in the first place. Each person’s insight, feedback, and stories about their own journeys inspire me to keep pushing forward with my work, and it felt good to catch up with everyone virtually.

With my morning commitments handled, it was finally time to hit the road. My first stop was a small family-run diner, tucked away about an hour outside of South Bend, Indiana. There’s something about diners that brings out the best of any small town – a sense of community that you can taste in every bite and feel in every “Good morning!” My waitress was a gem, full of personality, and she laughed as I shared stories from my road trip. Between sips of coffee and bites of fluffy pancakes, I told her about my destination, Maine, and my goal to make it a cross-country adventure worth remembering. Diners just have this way of making you feel connected to a place, even if you’re just passing through.

Long Roads and City Lights

Once I was back on the road, I knew it was going to be a long haul. With a later start than usual, plus a few planned stops, I anticipated pulling into my destination pretty late. The skies were overcast and the air cool – perfect conditions for a reflective drive. These Midwest roads have a rhythm of their own, and I enjoyed the quiet as I made my way toward Cleveland, Ohio. When I finally approached the city, I was welcomed by the soft glow of city lights against the evening sky. There’s a certain beauty to cityscapes at dusk, especially when you’re just passing through, catching only a glimpse of all the life happening within. Cleveland felt like a quiet rush of energy, a nice contrast to the rural stops I’d been making.

A Call with Red: Community in Focus

Along the way, I touched base with Redbau, Wildercraft’s owner and a good friend of mine. We talked about the upcoming plans for Wildercraft and its role as a virtual refuge. Wildercraft has grown into a truly empathetic, welcoming place where people from all backgrounds can come together, build, and just escape from the real world. It’s a world that, for many, feels like a needed safe haven. Red mentioned how the recent election had sparked some concerns among players, and we reflected on the role Wildercraft plays in providing a supportive online community. The server is intentionally politics-free, but knowing we can be that place of understanding and fun means a lot. We tossed around ideas on how we could foster even more positivity, maybe by hosting some light-hearted events or offering a space where people can feel a bit of joy amidst all the outside noise.

Late-Night Work and Familiar Routines

Arriving at my hotel in the late evening, I was tired but knew I had more to do. The reality of life on the road as a digital nomad is that the work doesn’t stop just because you’re traveling – if anything, it becomes a little more challenging and definitely more rewarding. As soon as I dropped my bags, I set up my workspace in the hotel room, ready to tackle the night’s tasks. It felt familiar, like my college days pulling all-nighters for creative projects. Back then, I’d brew pot after pot of coffee (thanks to a job at Starbucks) and even bring a coffee machine to share with fellow students during those late hours.

Then there was my time at Nickelodeon, teaching myself FileMaker Pro at night and during weekends. It’s funny how these memories of working late became a comforting part of the journey. Now, as I pieced together videos, edited footage, and added final touches to the blog post, I found myself settling into the familiar rhythm of late-night work. Working long hours comes naturally, and being on the road hasn’t changed that one bit. It’s all worth it to capture each piece of this journey for everyone following along.

Roadside Reflections and Next Steps

This leg of the trip has reminded me that this journey is more than just miles on the odometer. It’s about the conversations that happen along the way, the unplanned stops, and the quiet moments where you reflect on what you’re doing and why. As I pack up each night, I realize more and more that every mile is part of the story I want to share, whether it’s through words, images, or video.

I’m looking forward to waking up refreshed and ready to tackle the next stretch of the journey. Each day on the road feels like a small chapter in this larger journey, and I’m excited to keep moving forward, one drive at a time.

Have you ever felt a place’s “pulse” just by visiting a local spot, like a cafe or diner? What was your experience?

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Early Start, Good Breakfast, And Great Company

Jared Kuvent — Thu, 07 Nov 2024 06:11:46 +0000

Early Start, Good Breakfast, And Great Company

Today started bright and early with a 4 a.m. wake-up call. I wanted to get ahead of the Chicago traffic, so I hit the road before sunrise. The drive began peacefully, with the rain coming down steadily, and it reminded me of those cool, drizzly mornings back in Maine. Somehow, that type of weather has a way of waking me up—keeps things feeling fresh and calm all at once.

Not long into my drive, I found a little local diner an hour outside of Des Moines. I could tell it was the kind of place that draws in regulars, with its down-to-earth vibe and no-frills breakfast menu. The waitress was exactly what you’d hope for: friendly, quick with a laugh, and curious about my journey. As we swapped stories, I told her about the road trip to Maine and all the stops along the way. She was as much a part of the experience as the pancakes I ordered, which were, by the way, everything diner pancakes should be—thick, fluffy, and perfectly syrup-soaked. There’s nothing quite like starting the day with a plate of pancakes and coffee in a place where strangers feel like old friends.

With my laptop out, I spent some time catching up on the blog, piecing together the memories from yesterday. I’ve realized that writing about my travels adds a whole new layer to the journey. It’s not just about driving from point A to point B; it’s become a way to sit back, take stock, and really absorb each moment. The road has its own rhythm, but documenting it keeps me grounded in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

AJS Check-In and Rest Stop Recharges

As the morning went on, I was in full travel mode, heading east. The rain kept up, making for a peaceful drive—just me and the road. When it was time for my networking group’s check-in, I pulled off at a rest stop. I love these moments; they’re little pauses in the day that feel like a reset. The weather was brisk, the leaves were scattered on the ground, and the whole setup was oddly perfect for an outdoor call. I set up my laptop, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and dialed in, ready to catch up with AJS.

The group has been a huge source of encouragement during this trip. A few of them are following the blog now, and their feedback has helped me find a better balance between sharing the personal side of this journey and the professional goals I’m working toward. There’s something about hearing everyone’s updates that gives me a renewed sense of motivation—it’s nice to feel connected even while I’m out here on my own.

Hitting the Road and South Bend Arrival

Back on the road, I was on the final stretch to South Bend, Indiana. The drive stretched on longer than I’d anticipated, and by the time I got to the hotel, I was beyond ready to unwind. It’s funny, but there’s a kind of comfort in finally reaching the place you’ll be calling “home” for the night after a long day on the road. I went through my usual routine: setting up my laptop, offloading the day’s dashcam footage, and preparing for tomorrow’s post. But tonight, I knew that sleep was priority number one.

There’s something about the simple comfort of a good hotel bed—soft pillows, a warm comforter—that hits differently after a full day of travel. Within minutes, I was out, and I slept for a solid 12 hours. Waking up feeling recharged reminded me why I love the rhythm of travel. Each day brings a new experience, a new chance to reflect, and sometimes, just a good, long night’s sleep.

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