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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Time to Say Goodbye:
By Arlo Agogo
A Month of Fun on the Open Road.
The desert sun dips low, casting a warm glow over the RV park, where your rig has been parked for a few days. The air hums with the quiet anticipation of the open road, that unspoken pulse of freedom that every RVer knows.
Your dune buggy sits ready for adventure, and you’re settling into the rhythm of this temporary home when she pulls in. Her RV kicks up a cloud of dust as she maneuvers into the spot next to yours with the ease of a seasoned nomad.
She steps out, a spark in her eye, a laugh that dances on the evening breeze. Her name’s Clara, and she’s staying for a month, just like you.
But: she’s headed north, you’re bound south.
What unfolds over the next few weeks is a fleeting, beautiful chapter, one that resonates with the bittersweet melody of Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli’s Time to Say Goodbye.
That first night, you exchange nods over a sunset.
Clara’s a wanderer, like you—a lone soul chasing horizons, her rig a testament to miles traveled and stories collected. She shares a tale of a starry night in Montana, where the Milky Way felt close enough to touch.
You counter with a story of outrunning a sandstorm in Nevada, your dune buggy barely making it through. There’s an ease to the conversation, a familiarity that feels older than the desert itself.
The RV park, with its eclectic mix of travelers, is a room so full of light, yet all the light is missing until you start to see her, really see her, in the quiet moments of the sunrise.
The days roll on, each one stitching you closer together. You share meals—her spicy chili, simmered in a cast-iron pot, paired with your grilled fish tacos, served under a canopy of stars.
You take the dune buggy out, tearing across the dunes, her laughter louder than the engine’s roar. She holds on tight as you navigate the sandy trails, her eyes bright with the thrill. You go sightseeing, exploring slot canyons where the walls glow red in the afternoon light, or hidden springs where the water is cool and clear.
Her hand brushes yours as you point out a hawk circling above, and you feel a spark, a warmth that lingers. Close up the windows, bring the sun to my room / Through the door you’ve opened. Clara’s not just bringing sunlight into your days; she’s bringing something brighter, something that feels like it could burn forever.
RV life has its own rhythm, its own unspoken rules.
You’re both lone wolves, not looking for forever but open to the now. The spark between you catches, flares into something romantic—a connection born of shared sunsets and open roads. It’s not about possession or promises; it’s about sharing this moment, this place, this adventure.
Then I know that you are here with me / Building bridges over land and sea. You’re building something together, even if it’s just a bridge to carry you through this month. The connection is real, a blinding light for you and me, but there’s an undeniable truth beneath it all: Horizons are forever. Would I have to find them alone?
As RVers, you both know this dance.
You’ve said hellos and goodbyes before, shared pieces of your soul, then waved as the road called you onward. It’s not about hurting each other; it’s about honoring the journey.
Over coffee one morning, the map spread out between you, you talk about what’s next. Clara’s got her heart set on the Pacific Northwest—cool forests, coastal cliffs, the scent of pine and salt. You’re drawn to the southern deserts, the heat and vastness of the borderlands, where the sky feels endless.
Your paths will diverge, and that’s okay. It’s the life you’ve both chosen, the ships overseas that carry you to new horizons. The road is your true love, and Clara understands that as well as you do.The month unfolds, each moment sharper, more precious as the end nears.
You take one last dune buggy ride, her hair whipping in the wind, her smile brighter than the midday sun. You share a quiet dinner, her hand resting on yours, the weight of the inevitable goodbye settling in. There’s no drama, no tears—just a shared understanding.
Time to say goodbye.
You talk late into the night, reminiscing about the dunes, the canyons, the way the stars looked that first night you met. You both know the road is calling, and neither of you would ask the other to stay. That’s not what this is. The RV life is about freedom, about chasing your own light, even if it means letting go of someone who’s lit up your world.
The final morning arrives, and you help her pack up her rig. You exchange numbers, promising to text, to call when the signal’s good. You’ll check in, share a laugh about a new adventure, but you both know the distance will grow.
There’s a certain sadness in it, sure, but there’s also joy—joy in the individual adventurism that defines you both. You’re not breaking each other’s hearts; you’re setting them free to chase the next horizon. Clara’s helped you remember why you love this life—the freedom, the unpredictability, the way every mile tells a story.
And you’ve done the same for her. As her RV pulls out, dust trailing behind, you stand by your rig, the desert stretching out before you. Horizons are never far. Maybe your paths will cross again—seasons change, routes shift, and the road has a way of surprising you.
Maybe you’ll find yourself going north one day, and she’ll be coming south, and you’ll meet at some dusty crossroads, sharing a grin and a memory. Or maybe this is it, a perfect chapter closed, a story that doesn’t need a sequel.
Either way, you carry her with you—not as a weight, but as a light, a reminder of what’s possible when two wanderers meet.You climb into your rig, the dune buggy hitched behind, and point it south. The open road stretches out, full of possibility, full of light.
You’re not alone, not really—Clara’s laughter, her spark, travels with you, tucked into your heart like a favorite song. The RV lifestyle isn’t about holding on; it’s about carrying forward, about finding joy in the journey,
--even when it’s time to say goodbye.
You turn up the radio, let the desert wind rush through the window, and drive toward the next adventure, knowing that the
--road will always lead you somewhere new.
Groove Is in the Heart - Arlo
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