A Room of One's Own

I just returned from visiting a breeding farm a few hours north of here. After trying out a few of the breeder's horses as possible matches for students of mine, I was treated with the luxury to overnight in her darling guest cottage. As far as accommodations go, this self-contained little place was paradise. I awoke the following morning well-rested and comfortable, which isn't always the case when one stays at strangers' homes as often as I do.

Over the last few years, I have averaged five to six nights per month away from home sleeping in other people's guest rooms, couches, R.V.s, and anything else available. Such is the lifestyle of a traveling horse trainer. Succeeding at this nomadic life relies on going with the flow, to borrow from Zen adages. I've immersed myself in all kinds of family dynamics, unplanned events, and sleeping arrangements. I've shared beds with barn cats and shedding dogs, taken showers without hot water, sat uncomfortably through marital spats over dinner, stayed at homes without electricity. When relying on others' generosity and hospitality in its various forms, I've learned to let go of being persnickety.

Equestrians occupy all walks of life and financial hierarchy, a love of fine steeds being the glue that joins us all in the same social category. Staying in their homes allows me to experience the vast differences among this eclectic group, which -- as I stated above-- means I never know what I'm in for.

One time while giving a clinic in Nevada, I stayed in a home so enormous and sprawling that, after dropping my bags in a designated bedroom, I could not find my way back to the center of the house. Eventually, I discovered a hallway intercom and pressed a series of buttons until a human voice told me the directions through various hallways, chambers, and staircases down to a kitchen the size of a basketball court. It took me close to an hour to arrive there, given my need to stare shamelessly at the collections of artwork along the way. I stood in front of an original Picasso, my mouth gaping in awe, realizing I might never be in front of an original Picasso again in my life. This awe was swiftly overturned, though, by a nearby stone horse head dating to the Han Dynasty.

A few weeks later, while training in Portugal, I fantasized about that luxurious home and my bed with sheets whose thread counts I'll likely never again experience except at 5--star resorts. In a drafty three-room cottage in the Portuguese countryside, I was trying to recover from a cold shower (the home's heater fritzed a week earlier) and the damp drizzle outside by curling up on the only uncluttered surface available, a tattered love seat with a bird cage tottering on one end and an unruly cockatoo shrieking at me. Teeth chattering, I pulled my limbs into my chest and sneezed for the next few minutes. I watched the slow moving hands of a wall clock, praying I could speed them forward to morning.

Another time in New England, I awoke so fully covered in dog hair that two showers were required to make me presentable to teach that day. Then there was a morning in northern California that I awoke with a swollen tongue and spinning head after conceding to drink my hostess' homemade wine. It took me two days to recover and rivalled the time I awoke to the bad news that my hostess kept a coffee-free house. What? No coffee? It ranks as one my grumpier and least productive teaching days.

No matter the disparities in amenities, the experience of staying in my students' and colleagues' homes with them allows us to know each other on a more personal level than simply one horse woman to another. I've pitched in during family emergencies, helped catch herds of loose cattle, been present for proms and graduations and weddings. In many cases, I've become a quasi-family member who shows up every several weeks and stays for a few days. And despite the fact that my students' husbands have to suffer the fact that their homes with be filled with nothing but horse chatter for those few days, I tell myself that no easier house guest exists than me.

For the hosts with whom I stay every few weeks through the busy summer horse show and clinic months, I am easy-going, pleasant, and entertaining addition to their homes. Or at least I tell myself this to abate the real truth that I probably wore out my welcome last year. The fact is that I'm actually pretty advanced on the high maintenance scale. Take into account that I am a vegan, a health fiend, and an occasional wine snob, and you've got a pain in the butt. As much as I prefer to believe otherwise, there is nothing easy about hosting a vegan.

I've watched my hosts developing stress disorders right in front of me trying to figure out what kind of non-meat sustenance to feed someone who runs around with horses all day. Doesn't she need more protein?, they ask each other. How can she work with horses all day and not need to eat meat, even just a little? Sometimes when they get very panicky looking about their lack of animal-free products in the kitchen, I'll tell them not to worry because I generally have my own food with me. Which is a polite way of saying I have a granola bar and a seed packet in the dark recesses of my car's glove box.

Neither of these will sustain a grown adult enough to teach all day in the heat, wind, or rain. The result: a crabby, wilted instructor blathering commands of little sense by day's end. Hence, my hostess' stress-riddled interest in feeding me. I watch them pace in circles chanting "protein, protein" to themselves, making sure they'll feed me something to keep me from crashing and burning mid lesson. Meanwhile, I sit nearby sipping a fine coffee or wine, reflecting on what an easy house guest I make (if only I weren't vegan) and casting an investigative glance down the hallway for my next possible Picasso sighting. Or kindergarten finger painting.