Sliding through predawn darkness, my car fishtailed toward a snowbank along the canyon’s edge as a semi listed sideways, bearing down in my askew rearview mirror—the oncoming lanes choked by a pileup.
Amid my brain’s cacophonous, contradictory flight-and-fight mental directives, I attempted to maintain some semblance of composure—feeling a momentary sense of relief that I’d remembered to tell my parents where JoJo was being boarded. She might not appreciate Alabama’s humidity, but she’d enjoy my parents’ cozy fireplace—quickly forgetting that curly-haired man who’d so selfishly taken time for himself, and subsequently hurtled down a mountainous gorge.
But before my car’s back bumper skated into the snowbank and over the side, I regained control and slid further along the obscured canyon pass turned bobsled chute. Decelerating, I put “Heroes” on a loop, straightened my mirror, and refused to exceed 10 mph until the road revealed itself beneath the thickening layer of ice and snow. Behind me, the semi pulled off, leaving me and a rust-speckled Tercel shuddering down the corridor alone.
Eyes trained on a strip of blue sky bursting through the snowy veil, and knuckles clenched over the steering wheel, I cautiously reached for my nearly cooled coffee as my salt- and snow-caked rental sedan’s wheels finally reunited with hole-pocked asphalt.
Sun glanced across the snow-smeared windshield. And as I watched the behemoth monuments rising from the landscape—their jagged, brownish-red formations stark against the snow—I took a long, deep pull on the lukewarm dark roast and melted into the music.
“We can be heroes just for one day.”
Image description: taken from far away, the shot features an expansive blue sky with a few white clouds. A few brownish-red peaks are visible above the snowfall on the ground; the bases of the peaks are covered in snow and sage brush.
***
Naivety bookends travel, and travel infantalizes us: everything is new, awe-inspiring; we’re jellyfish floating in an expansive sensorial sea, drifting into and longing to experience its deepest depths.
Two days before my foray into the canyon, I locked my apartment and felt a mantle of anxiety lift from my shoulders. I had a very schematic outline of what I intended to see and do over the ensuing 3,200 mile road trip, but left most of it open to chance. As my windshield defrosted, I familiarized myself with the rental car’s most vital functions, and slipped my crowbar beneath the driver’s seat.
Hours later, I passed quietly through southeastern Washington’s green, amoeba-shaped agriculture fields and wine vineyards with aged, woody plants wrapped tightly around cracked pergolas. Manicured stretches along the horizon gave way to broken, upturned trunks and tilled fields. Treed oases shrouded weathered clapboard houses and trailers with glowing porch lights: tiny beacons welcoming a new day. The rising sun bathed the fields in a lavender glow, and outlined the snow-flecked, rolling hills against the steeply rising mountains far into the distance.
With an impatient produce hauler tailgating me, I eased into an abandoned convenience store parking lot to snap a few photos of an array of midcentury chairs encircling a fire pit. Across the road, coyotes perched atop the hills, keenly attuned to the hoards of bloated finches gliding down over felled, shattered trees. Down a produce farm’s cottage-lined gravel road, a school bus rumbled out with its charges: tiny bodies clamoring over the seats, lowering the fogged windows—shrieks of laughter and curious, wide eyes as they passed me: the stranger regarding the entire spectacle.
I lingered out in the chill, taking in a panoramic view, listening as the sounds of the morning crept into the air. Hairs pricked on the back of my neck, cajoling me back into the car’s encapsulating warmth. Sections of the sky remained forebodingly dark. And as my sedan glided through northeast Oregon and across Idaho’s wide, empty fields, I felt an encroaching storm stalking me.
Having finally arrived in Salt Lake City, I scanned my phone screen with heavy, drooping eyelids, and then screamed. The clerk inside the gas station raised their head, momentarily scanning the dark parking lot for the source before returning to their newspaper. Through a combination of exhaustion and ineptitude on my part, and clever subterfuge by a third-party hotel room reservation platform, I’d unwittingly blown most of my lodging budget in my first night. Once I abandoned my futile attempts to find loopholes in the cancellation policy, I pulled into the hotel’s parking lot, wandered into the brilliantly gleaming, gilded and colonnaded lobby, and asked for my room keys. An apartment-sized suite appointed with an uncomfortable bed and mint green accents in its superfluous living room area all but greeted me with, “Welcome, sucker.”
I lay prone on the king-sized bed, willing my anxiety to dispel and enthusiasm to surge.
It’s ok. Everyone fucks up. It’s a learning moment. EVERYTHING’S FINE.
It was nearing 8pm, and my residual anger combined with overwhelming hunger fueled a speedy restaurant reconnaissance walk. I inched up to the stoop of a highly rated sushi bar on my list, opened the door, and faced a wall of hard, accusatory stares from hipsterish poseurs and wannabe influencers taking selfies and rapping out captions—most of which undoubtedly included #YOLO.
As I turned to exit, I cut a sideways glance at two bouffant-capped tweens in acid-washed mom jeans and Carhartt jackets—clothing reminiscent of my earliest field clothes as an archaeologist.
Silly Salt Lake City children. You won’t out-hipster me. I’m from fucking Seattle.
Twenty minutes later, I took a deep breath, straightened my brilliantly vibrant sweater, flecked my conditioned curls, and charged back inside—bulldozing my way through the hipster gauntlet to the host’s stand.
“Name for the waitlist, Matt. Seat for one.”
I flicked off my generic gloves with an air of decided disinterest in the entirety of the belabored, attention-seeking social positioning unfolding around me, shoved a crumpled jacket toward its owner, and seated myself at the end of a crowded waiting bench. I smiled into my phone’s dark screen, and turned it over. Looking up at the ostentatious light fixtures, I closed my eyes and rested my head against a bank of planters.
It’s all a performance. Just keep dancing.
***
With the canyon and Salt Lake City behind me, I parked at a rest stop to soak in the sun and massage my tense shoulders. Albeit brief, my visit to Utah’s capital had been remarkably uneventful, bland. Everywhere I went, I sensed an air of subtle surveillance, which only amplified my desire to leave quickly.
Overhead, open, blue skies streaked with pillowy clouds entreated me to keep moving forward; I felt more at home there, at a rest stop, than I had in the entire city.
Back on the highway, as the air whipped my hair, I hollered into the vastness—whooping at the arching rocks, the stoic cliff faces, until my lungs felt like tattered rags.
Image description: taken uphill, the shot focuses on an arched geological formation dusted with snow. Sage brush grows in the foreground.
Hours later, as I stooped in thigh-high snow to capture a few shots of a mural stretching along an abandoned storefront, a man pulled up in his Bronco. Immediately, my shields went up, and I angled toward my car; he called after me.
“Hey, you trying to get Horsehead?”
Unsure if this was a local proposition, I stared, vacuously cow-eyed.
“Up there, just near that triangle of trees,” he continued, angling over his seat and pointing far uphill, toward a mountainous stretch.
I aligned myself with his outstretched arm.
“Oh! Yep, I see it.”
He leaned back and smiled.
“So, you’re from Washington, huh?” he said, adjusting his cap and nodding toward my license plate. “What part?”
“Seattle.”
“OH, Seattle,” he crooned nostalgically. “My wife and I go up there once a year. We moved here to be closer to her family. I’m from there. But it’s so expensive now.”
“Yep, it is. I’m sort of on a mission to get out of there myself,” I replied. “On my way to Santa Fe.”
“Welp, yeah, you got a ways to go, but it’s nice.”
He finished by reciting a complex roadmap for reaching Horsehead Canyon. I knew it wasn’t on my way, but waited until he was done, thanked him, and waved him on.
Placing my camera on the passenger seat, I chuckled to myself.
Of course I encountered one of the most open, friendly people from Seattle in New Mexico.
That night, as I drove along streets sprinkled with adobe buildings bedecked with bright tiles, porch arches glutted with hanging chiles, mammoth Cottonwood trees towering overhead, and low, Gaudi-esque walls outlining succulent-peppered greenways, I exhaled.
This feels better.
Image description: an adobe facade with an entry gate, which is made of wood and metal. There are colorful tile mosaics flanking the gate; urns sit atop pedestals on either side of the gate.
***
Fueled with multiple helpings of scrambled eggs slathered in green and red chiles, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and began traipsing around Santa Fe.
Within the first hour, I found myself near tears in the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. While her art has always been inspiring to me, what continued to swirl in the back of my mind was how she described her affinity to New Mexico—the landscape, the beauty of natural forms—and how much of a foil it was to her life in New York City. Blocks away, in the Museum of Contemporary Native Arts, I became even more overwhelmed by the place-based narratives on Native life and traditions, and the destruction wrought through colonialism, and its modern day avatars—all reflected through generations of artists.
Exiting the museum, I ran into droves of people leaving the main square—pink hat-wearing Womxn’s March participants, most of whom were coupled and white and clearly satisfied with their annual contribution to democracy. I scanned the area, landing on the pavilion where Native speakers continued addressing the rapidly dwindling crowd, calling for Indigenous rights to be recognized, honored, and protected. Scattered applause from the crowd faded, melding into the rising conversations from nearby cafe diners and shoppers. Methodic drumming began onstage, rising as the bells from the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi intoned.
Everywhere, this country’s violent history collides.
***
Over the ensuing days, I explored the city center, and ventured out to the periphery—always observing, contemplating, absorbing everything: spiced drinking chocolate; green and red chile; cheese-slathered enchiladas; honey-sopped sopapilla; lime-infused caramels; baskets of bloated bags of homemade red pepper flakes; soft lavender soap; and dark piñon coffee.
The strong, arid air that sucks the moisture right from your skin while refreshing your lungs with its deep, cool gusts. Passersby who acknowledge you and smile.
And, of course, I forced myself to face the downsides: I’d have to buy a car, and I’d probably have to wave goodbye to any hope of a romantic life—but I could probably rustle up a few LGBTQ+ retirees to commiserate with.
On my last night, after a whirlwind jaunt to Albuquerque and dinner in Española, I watched the blood moon rise. A formidable, massive orb, it hadn’t yet flushed red; from my vantage point, it hovered between two shadowed peaks. Its massiveness in the desert’s vast emptiness made it one of the most beautiful moonrises I’d ever witnessed.
Everywhere here, there is natural beauty.
***
With my sights set on Taos, I made a short detour to Abiquiú, again marveling at the richness of the landscape. Soon thereafter, I crisscrossed winding roads, and felt my excitement build as I began noting the amorphous, small hills dotting the Greater World Community: earthships. Walking through the model earthship was like stepping into the future—or, more appropriately, how the present should be. Experiencing an off-grid, sustainable building constructed with recycled materials—tires, plastic bottles, cans—was indescribably inspiring.
About a mile down the road, I crossed the Rio Grande gorge, and spotted my last lodging in New Mexico, spread along the Taos Mesa: a hotel of vintage travel trailers arranged next to a brewery.
Image description: two vintage green and turquoise trailers with a connecting deck, taken an an oblique angle. Snow is on the ground.
Once I stuffed myself with sweet potato fries and tofu tacos, I settled into my small trailer, and peered out at the sprawling, snow-covered mesa. Approximately 15 feet, the trailer had everything I needed: a functional heater, bathroom, bed, and kitchen—as well as ample storage. Given my desire for a more mobile, longer-term living situation, I’d wanted to experience this, in all its imperfect glory. And while the space was expectedly small, it felt effortlessly comfortable.
I gazed out the windows as snow fluttered down, and the heater kicked on.
I think I could do this.
Image description: me wearing a bright sweater, laying across the trailer’s bed, and looking out the window.
My eyes drifted to the empty storage shelves and cubbies, and I mentally populated them with my belongings from home.
Wind from a snowstorm began buffeting the sides, and the heater continued humming; I stretched over the bed, dipped beneath the covers, and slowly fell asleep.
***
Steam writhed inside the rim of my tin coffee mug and a snowy haze glowed outside; it felt like the entire world was asleep.
As I rubbed the night’s sleep from my eyes, I marveled at the trailer’s beautiful simplicity—having the necessities within reach, allowing you to melt into being present in the moment.
I looked around and couldn’t help but think: I could give up the rest of what I have to make my own version of this. After all, at the heart of it, the beautiful remaining pieces I possessed weren’t really any different than the built-in table, small shelf by the door, or ample bed with ruffled sheets: all bits of wood and metal and fabric pulled together into a workable shelter. And, as such, their faults could be sanded, repainted, darned, and mended: a patchwork tapestry encouraging growth and change, propelling me into life rather than suffocating my desires or intrigue with a burdensome mortgage, inescapable debt, or a string of unnecessary belongings.
Over my third cup of coffee, I fleshed out a scheme to steward a small parcel of land just north of the earthships. There, I could move a small trailer while methodically building an earthship hut: which, to most, would resemble nothing more than a hole in the desert. But in my mind, it’d be the manifestation of so many personal goals: a base from which I could live a more sustainable, debt-free life.
A few hours later, I made one final pass through the trailer, and then headed to my car. Soon thereafter, I punched in latitude-longitude coordinates for various parcels I’d been stalking online. Snow began cascading down, icy veins of it blowing across the road. Cautiously, I pulled off at the mouth of one of the dirt roads leading to a slew of my target acreage. With little reception and no cars in sight, I decided not to chance it.
Instead, I stood against the wind and snapped a few blurry photos. And questioned my mental state.
What a wildly absurd idea, right? I mean, this is sort of mad.
I took in one last gulp of frigid air and exhaled.
But living is all about exploring the madness.
***
Whether or not I can translate my musings to reality—be they maddened dreams or viable alternatives—remains to be seen.
But if I don’t try, I’m not living.
So, I plan to continue dreaming of a day when, somewhere out in the desert, I’ll dig a hole, and shape it into a home. Where I’ll feel the warmth of the earth around me, and admire the small place I’ve made for myself—embracing the cracks and fissures that’ve formed in my life along the way, whilst acknowledging that I haven’t let the most vital parts of who I am cleave away.
Like the ancient land around me, I’ll weather on—bathing in the starlight, reflecting all of the character and subtle gifts from the myriad turns of the sun and moon.
There isn’t anything particularly poignant about the moment.
We’ve just taken a circuitous route back from the only Starbucks within the vicinity of my parents’ hobbit-esque home in the middle of the Alabama woods.
(Meaning, we’ve just driven 30 minutes in the opposite direction of California. Never underestimate the power of The Starbucks on two deprived gays.)
The sky is overcast and the wind jostles the loaded-down car a bit, causing momentary white-knuckling. It’s been an unseasonably cold past few days in Alabama; but, hey, there’s no such thing as global warming or climate change, right?
Right. (Insert eye-roll here.)
But in this moment, I realize something.
We are actually doing this.
I turn and squeeze Andy’s leg.
“We’re moving to California.”
He turns and smiles.
“I know.”
***
Not to beat a dead horse into an Alpo can, but the past few weeks have been nuts.
Just to recap:
There’s what I’ve come to call the Ten Minute Moment: ten minutes during which Andy resigns from his job, then gets the offer from his CA job.
Followed by a series of Academy Award-worthy ugly cries. (Mine.)
Then, a few days later, a completely unexpected relocation offer from said CA job.
Followed by more joyous, ugly cries. (Me again.) And the transport of Andy’s Prius onto a car carrier.
All of which inform the direction of a professional move, during which I answer the movers’ questions whilst they indirectly box me into the back room Cask of Amontillado-style. (I become ravenously hungry, and slightly claustrophobic.)
And three days of sleeping on hardwood floors, with only three extra duvets as bedding. (Yes, we’re so gay that we had three extra duvets laying around.)
So, before we know it, we’re cramming the last of our things into our remaining hatchback, including five incredibly fragile Art Deco mirrors that we should’ve let the professional movers crate.
And piercing the 6 AM Saturday morning silence with our car horn, bidding adieu to the wankers next door–who’d celebrated the end of finals all night long.
***
A visit to Alabama comes and goes, and I’m reminded of how lucky I am not to have a normal family.
(Because I think it’s completely normal to leave the dinner table right after a conversation about finding a rare Mexican scorpion in bed with you, only to sit back down to a conversation that ends with, “So I’m still trying to figure out what marketing has to do with falconry.”)
More importantly, though, I’m reminded that we’re doing this.
We’re making this happen.
We’re not on another road trip.
We’re not going to have to worry about traffic on the way back.
Because our path is going to end just before the Pacific.
Yes, I fully admit that I have some Trekkie in me.
And I’ve definitely been channeling Spockisms as Andy and I navigate the ever-exhausting process of relocating to LA.
You know, live long and prosper and Luke, I am your father.
Wait.
Lately, though, I’ve been mixing my frustrations with a wee bit of something else. Just to take the edge off.
No, not Grey Goose.
Positivity.
Positivity is abso-friggin-lutely crucial. Because, as we all know, negativity leads to Revolutionary Road endings.
*Shudders*
Regardless of the highs and lows of this emotional roller coaster ride, I’m so insanely excited to start a new chapter. And while it’s scary to move, the whole pill is easier to swallow with someone by your side.
After all, in this quest to embrace what really makes us happy and develop it into something sustainable, we’re going to go at it full-force–holding onto any jobs we’re able to land and use them as vehicles to get to the next phase of our lives together. And while naysayers or skeptics may think we’re irresponsible or unrealistic, I find myself not caring.
Because this journey is ours to take.
And I hardly think we could ruin our 20-some years of life by exploring a road to happiness.
Plus, we have to do this. Because, as a good friend advised, each of us has to assess how happy we are with three of the big things in life: (1) Partner; (2) Job; (3) Location. And, as she said, “If you’re unhappy with two of these three things, you need to try something else.”
As it just so happens, both of us are tired of the latter two. (Although I probably drive him to think about 1 every now and then. No? Good answer, babe.)
So why not try something new? Something we want to do?
***
While the past few weeks have been excessively exhausting, we’ve learned a lot, and have gotten closer. That’s what experiences do: test your resolve to keep going forward. And, to quote Susan Sarandon in Elizabethtown (again), “All forward motion counts.”
So, as I pull things out of closets, and we reassess how much we really like that chair, or decanter, or set of dishware, we’re becoming much more adept at identifying what it is that we want to define us: not stuff, per say; rather, experiences that bring us together and help us realize how little we need to be happy.
And realizing that, in a month’s time, we’re going to be back in California.
At this point, just getting there is a victory. Because we’re doing something important: we’re forging a path set out by no one but us. And, after all of our efforts, “the only real failure would be to stay.”
(Our friend is very wise.)
***
Speaking of being victorious by the mere fact of getting out to LA, let’s talk a bit about space–that nebulous thing that separates this dynamic duo from the West Coast.
Now, I’ve always been fascinated by space and our relation to it. (A fascination that was only fueled by MA thesis research, and reading books like Space and Place by Yi-Fu Tuan, and other lovely things by Tim Ingold.)
So, as we manage downsizing from our massive Raleigh apartment to an LA studio, I’m finding it interesting how we compartmentalize space, and the significance we map onto it once it’s bounded by four walls and a roof.
I mean, really, differences in space are slight, and may only be distinguishable by being coated with pollen or decorated with an Eames lounger.
It’s all about what we read into spaces, and how we relate to them. So if we interpret space as not ever being ours to bound and populate, then maybe the best way to respect it is to re-tune our materialistic consciousness away from overburdening space with stuff, and practicing austerity.
You know, keep it simple.
Which is why I’ve become more of a fan of modernist design.
Anyway, I just find it interesting how attached we become to space–something we can’t even touch, but can only describe through feelings we have while navigating through it.
And our responses to it being emptied–unshackled from all of the stuff we pack into it.
And acknowledging, like Andy, that leaving a space is “sort of like a mourning process.”
That, despite our excitement, we’re still mourning the loss of the space’s significance in our lives.
Like the balcony where I pretended to be casually sweeping while waiting for Andy to arrive for our first date.
Like the stairs where he hesitated before walking up to meet me.
Like the rooms he’d later pepper with Mid-Century Modern furniture–once we pinpointed his style aesthetic through antiquing excursions.
Like laying on our bed to share a quiet, reflective moment after we were accosted and called “faggots” by a group of bubbas.
Like when I was sitting, running my fingers through Andy’s hair, and suddenly realized that the stuff and space we’d been trying to craft our move around shouldn’t be the foci.
We have to focus on living our lives.
Being true to our feelings.
Encouraging one another.
Learning.
Doing it all in a new space and enjoying the ride.
Knowing deep down that, as my dear friend Norman wrote, we “can work out most anything…even overcooked eggs.”
Knowing that we can always eat around the burned parts and still be nourished.
Midway through our third leg, we realize the rumors are true.
The stretch from Arkansas to Oklahoma should be known as The Land Starbucks Forgot.
So.
We suffer in silence.
Kidding!
I never suffer in silence.
Still, we persevere.
But are reduced to taking photos of billboards instead of scenic vistas.
Before long, we get there. And have a critical decision to make.
“So, we’re going to make it to the antique shops today, right?” Andy asks, clenching the wheel so hard his knuckles go white.
“Right.”
His knuckles regain color.
(Reason #547 I love him.)
***
Cutting through Norman’s outer suburban hell, we pass into a safe haven: the historic district. We pull up to Amanda’s cute cottage, and get out to a deafening cacophony of wiener dog barking.
Amanda gives us the grand tour, and I get to remember antique-centric moments from years’ past while she recounts stories of her acquisitions. Or, in some cases, stories of when I pulled something out of the garbage and gave it to her.
Like a pristine 1950s kitchen table some dolt threw away.
Not that I’m keeping tabs.
Anywho.
Our feline docent Hernando, the dumbest (thus, skinniest) of Amanda’s two cats, accompanies us, while Tristan, whose blobby form could buckle a chair, casts disdainful glances from his surveillance position and awaits offerings of The Food.
Sensing valuable antiquing time slipping away, we decide to head downtown.
But not before we stop for lunch. And for waiter ogling.
We hit downtown Oklahoma City’s antiquing haunts hard, whisking away Fiestaware and Blenko in crazed swoops. And after each jaunt, we quietly revel in our finds, listening to the occasional tink from the plates, decanters, and teapots we’re balancing while motoring through the city’s labyrinthine highway system.
The sounds of another successful antiquing excursion.
We’re set.
***
We stop back at Amanda’s place long enough to drop our finds and unpack the Prius. Meanwhile, Amanda makes us some bourbony-delicious drinks to help rally us for our little hike to a nearby restaurant.
(Like I’d ever tire of the eating-antiquing-drinking-eating process. It’s so, er, holistic.)
Whether it’s The Drink or reality, I decide to declare that I’m no longer allergic to cats as Hernando investigates our tall tumblers. (Hey, it’s the little revelations, really.)
Regardless, there’s food to be eaten. So the vintage glasses are emptied, coats are layered, and we walk a whole five blocks to a cool little hangout, the Cool Factor for which is amplified by the warmth oozing out of its doorways into the chilly evening air.
Well, that and the drinks.
And the bruschetta.
The mac n’ cheese doesn’t exactly go to waste.
Neither do the spinach and artichoke potstickers.
Nor do the cheese-coated chips.
Quadruple wee! And where’s my Lactaid?
Meh.
***
By the time we come to a consensus that our waiter is a missing, but high, Harry Potter character, and owl calling “Whooooowhowhowhoooooo!” as he disappears with the check, we’re a little tipsey.
Which means it’s time for a walk around the University of Oklahoma.
But it’s too cold, and Andy and I doth protest too much. Fine. It’s all me.
So, it’s time to scamper back to the digs. And talk about the past, and muse about the future, and just get lost in those booze-soaked, reflective moments.
And then sleep.
***
Mornings after a night of drinking are always interesting. Mostly because I don’t know how (1) I’ll ever dress myself; (2) I’ll tame my ratnest head of hair; and (3) I’ll make any sense before coffee.
Enter: local coffee shop.
With an amazingly cool retro vibe.
Quiet sitting areas.
And welcoming atmosphere.
Oh, and the coffee and peach-mango muffin ain’t half bad.
And it’s around that time that I realize that I’ve long misjudged Oklahoma. Sure, there’re unsavory parts like anywhere. But, on the flipside, it has revealed its little secrets, each of which has made me appreciate its charm all the more.
So as we putter back with coffee in hand to say our goodbyes, I have a warm and tingly feeling about this little visit.
Not just because Amanda is always fun and awesome and antique-obsessed and quirky in all the right ways, but because I’ve decided there’s quite a bit of stock in that adage about judging a place before you visit it.
Or is that about judging people?
Whatevs.
Either way, there’s plenty more to be learned as we hit the road, our eyes toward the horizon and Sin City.
Do you ever have moments while driving when the music’s just right and you think, Wow, this is just like a movie sequence?
Alright. Maybe I watch too many movies, and bitterly know that I’ll never be in one. So instead of stardom, I just inflate those moments and revel in a kind of narcissistic, starlet-centric projection.
Hey, at least I’m honest.
Regardless, there were so many moments like that during the course of our trip that I thought it was all a dream. Like I’d wake up and still be stuck in my horrible basement apartment from several years’ past, smacking roaches with rolled up Cottage Living and scrubbing off my bedroom closet wall’s black mold with equal parts Clorox and tears.
Thankfully, it was more dream-like than nightmarish.
Still, since we both have extreme commutes, it took us a minute to realize that, no, this isn’t another drive to the office.
But when we passed the exit Andy normally takes for work, it started to hit us: We’re really doing this.
It was high time for an adventure of the Thelma & Louise sort. Minus the whole murder-suicide bit. (Although I would’ve shot that barfly bastard, too.)
It was time to rediscover and unlock those neglected parts of our personalities through roadside experiences, local food, good and horrible hotels, scenic vistas, exhaustion-induced spats, the warming sun. Dust them off. Rejuvenate them.
So we set the tone with Brandi Carlile’s hauntingly beautiful voice.
Because, really, when your hands are numbed by a random cold snap, you’re excited, sleep-deprived mind can only think about coffee, and a plane ride back to Raleigh from a business trip leaves you exhausted, Brandi is your onlyrecourse.
Only she can knock that frost off your hands, get you through a few miles before the coffee sets in, and soothe you to sleep. (Well, maybe not the driver.)
We add a few Neko Case songs to the playlist for good measure.
Ready.
Set.
Go!
***
By the time we get down to Atlanta, the sun is setting beyond the gridlocked traffic. So we occupy our time entertaining thoughts about what we’ll do if Rick Grimes sidles up next to us on that poor, doomed Clydesdale, warning us that “Atlantabelongs to the dead now.”
*Creepy silence*
Alright, so I should probably cut back on The Walking Dead. (Still, there could be much more worse looking zombie-killers, right? Right.)
As we wind our way through the rest of Georgia and cross the Chattahoochee into Alabama, I clarify where exactly my parents live.
“Basically in the middle of nowhere. Partially underground.”
Meh, clarity is overrated. Before long, we turn onto county roads, then onto back country roads. I slow at the unimposing mailbox and pull onto the gravel access road.
***
“Here we are!”
“Wow. Okay. This is a little creepy.”
“Oh, it’s not that scary, ” I reassure, walking into the surrounding darkness, rattling padlock chains against the metal access gate.
Andy inches closer to the open car door.
Tammy the Prius putters down the narrow, mile-long road. On either side: dark woods. Above: a beautifully clear night sky studded with stars.
Along the way, I point out the family dog’s grave and a historic house site, then motion down the road to a partially illuminated hillside.
“There it is.”
***
We pull up to the stone and glass façade and are soon greeted by my parents and Petey, the hyperactive Jack Russell (then again, “hyperactive Jack Russell” is redundant).
My parents usher us and our ridiculously overpacked luggage inside (hey, we really needed ten pairs of shoes between us). After the requisite reunion with my feathery brother–the every curmudgeonly 25 year-old African Grey, Scooby–we give Andy the tour of the hobbit house before settling in for the night.
It may have been the driving. But I think it was the unfamiliar pitch black silence replacing the usual ambient streetlight-fratastic ruckus that drove me into a deep sleep.
***
Waking up to sweet potato muffins and pancakes the next morning reminds me how lucky I am to have the family I do.
As does hiking with my sister, talking about life and the future, all the while crunching leaves and branches under our feet on the way down to the creek.
About an hour or so later, we walk back in and find our dad watching The Walking Dead Season One finale.
“Wait, didn’t you start watching that before we left?”
“Well, yeah, but this damn TV is busted, so I had to watch the whole disc to get to the last episode.”
“Ah.”
He turns back around, hunches toward the TV, and continues watching, letting loose the occasional “Ewwgah!” as Andy and I prep to leave for my hometown, Opelika.
***
Conjuring stories from my childhood and teen years while driving past my parents’ former historic home, and through a newly revitalized downtown, makes me nostalgic for the little things that made my childhood exactly that. But most of the stores I remember have long since moved, the streets have been reoriented, and the town where I grew up has an even more foreign air to it than when I visited during graduate school. Still, I watch Andy take in the places I cherish and dovetail them with our personal history, gaining a greater understanding of where I come from and how I’ve changed.
And I do the same thing as we peruse an antique mall, pick up things, assess their appeal, and, in most cases, laugh before putting them back.
Over dinner that night, the family eats well, drinks fully, and reminisces about past times and future times, exuding a certain glow—one that’s a mixture of pride and longing.
In the morning, syrup-soaked French toast and black coffee fuels us to continue our trek. (After family photos, of course.)
And then my hometown becomes a check off the list as we head to Little Rock.
But not before we log away more memories–to push us on when we get frustrated and wonder why in the hell we ever thought this was a good idea.
While delicious, heavy carbs can only fuel you so far when you tire at the wheel. New memories, though, are like jolts of caffeine. Reminding us that this is what it’s all about: figuring out this crazy life on our own terms.
I’ll just go ahead and write it. Put it out there. Feel the weight of a lackadaisical writing mantle be lifted off of me and onto the shoulders of some other, more resolute writerlyish person. Deep breath.
Using a limited vocabulary to convey just how life-changing a trip can be is, well, limiting.
(See?!)
Just kidding! I’ll never shut up, nor will I ever stop using words incorrectly.
So, here we go. The first (but definitely not last) post since the cross country road trip came to its conclusion Sunday night.
***
Like I was writing, a road trip of this scale can leave much more in its wake than an ear infection and six cavities. Because there’re certain things we learned along the way that’ll have long-lasting implications for every single thing we do from here on out.
Such as:
1. Never substitute anything for your favorite vodka. Dirty, dry martinis just aren’t the same without Grey Goose.
2. You should get drunk and watch The Muppet Show on mute in a trashy gay bar at least once. And appreciate how well their mouthing syncs with Rihanna’s music.
3. French toast will never be the same after eating at Olea’s in San Francisco.
4. When faded and tattered, Hampton Inn signage is incredibly disturbing.
5. When all else fails, and you have no idea of a city’s sketchiness factor, plug the local Whole Foods address into the GPS. You may have to fight over the last of the vegan gummy bears, but at least you won’t get knifed. And you might even see Jake Gyllenhaal.
6. If you have a visible tattoo, use it to your advantage in Bubba Land while doing your best to engage in overly butch behavior. (Yes, even in a line at a gas station Subway. Especially in a line at a gas station Subway.)
7. Celebrities are much shorter in real life. But they still sort of shine.
8. Coffee is a necessity. If trying to travel cheaply, just skip lunch. Your partner will thank you for it. 9. Always tip the silver fox valet. Well.
10. Los Angeles has a lot of charm if you’re willing to wade through some muck first.
11. Don’t ever discount a city or state without first visiting it. Almost every state has something amazing hidden away. Except Mississippi.
12. Only stop at Mississippi’s visitor’s center if you want to be offered apple cider laced with Jesus.
13. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is always a good default. Culinary safety blankets should never be underestimated.
14. If you want a primer on what’s wrong with America, spend approximately six minutes at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.
15. Alabama’s red clay has restorative properties.
16. Traipse around the woods and talk about life. It’s incredibly freeing. Even if you’re not talking to anyone.
17. Daydreaming is the basis for action and change.
18. Frustration and borderline migraines will dispel after the first bite of well-cooked chow mein. Even at 11:00 PM. On Christmas.
19. Always carry an umbrella in San Francisco. And remember it may not always fit between construction scaffolding.
20. Strong drinks and antiquing should almost always be coupled.
21. Silence can be just as meaningful as conversation.
22. Brandi Carlile should be on every traveler’s playlist.
23. Wait for that overnighted fleece. You will reap the rewards your entire trip. Even if you have to admit that he was right.
24. Never eat at a Vegas casino. It’ll just make you sad inside. And your insides sad.
25. Sometimes, you just have to quiet that inner food critic and eat something because, as Andy says, “It’s warm. And you can chew it.”
26. The Grand Canyon will take your breathe away. (Or is that the 14 degree weather?)
27. A Post It that reads “Duvet covers & sheets are clean for your arrival” probably means exactly the opposite. And that a porno was just shot there.
28. The comfort of holding hands in silence cannot be overstated.
29. Deciding that you can’t grow anymore in a place you love means it’s time to move on. Not that you’ve failed.
30. Revel in the ambiguity, for it’s all that we know.
***
I know what you’re thinking. Chow mein, really?
Alright.
But at least a few of them are serious and slightly sentimental. (Or are you crying because you have a wicked New Year’s hangover? At least now you know Point 1 is valid. Booyah.)
So, while I’m downing medication for my agitated ear and sinuses, and Andy and I are setting our sights on the future, there’s plenty more to figure out.
Finding someone who tolerates my quirks and finds most of them endearing was hard enough.
Combining households, thus subjecting him to my neurotic OCD-ADD-informed organizational structures and unyielding design aesthetics, was fraught with the usual hiccups when any two people move in together.
(Okay, so not everyone has to deal with a partner who has OCD or ADD or both or squirrel!)
So. Deciding to drive across the country together hasn’t really seemed like a big deal.
I mean, sure. It’s across the country. Like, from here to there.
Over mountains, through woods, to a rusted-out bus in the middle of the Alaskan tundra.
Kidding!
At least about the bus.
***
We’ll have ups and downs and plenty of turnarounds and screaming matches with the GPS and little spats and possible tears as we pass through Oklahoma and Texas to New Mexico without Starbucks.
Still, we’ll have an amazing adventure. Something we’ve both wanted to do individually, but are now fortunate enough to do together.
And while I know that we’ll have plenty of moments that’ll make others pale in comparison, I’ll still savor the quiet moments, no matter how brief they’ll be.
Like the sun slowly warming the car.
Like me reaching over to rest my hand on his.
Like the exhilaration of passing into another state we’ve never visited.
Like eating great food at random holes-in-the-wall.
Like catching up with far-flung friends.
Like laughing at our fleabag accommodations along the way, and dreaming of the amazingly beautiful, swanky California hotel rooms that await us.
Like making a peanut butter sandwich on the side of the road while contemplating a visit to the Grand Canyon.
Like making macabre references to Thelma & Louise.
Like forgetting all of the work-related bullshit that’s been weighing us down.
Like sleeping in until 7.
Like a threesome in The Standard’s rooftop pool with Joseph Gordon-Levitt or Ashton Kutcher. (Hey, it could happen!)
Like enjoying life a little bit.
***
Maybe I’m less concerned about the what-ifs because I’ll have a copilot.
A copilot with a printed Powerpoint presentation of our trip.
(Yes, I’m a lucky bastard.)
Regardless, I know we’ll be fine. We’ll make it work. Because we’ve made far more stressful things work before.
And this time around, we’ll have the wind behind us, the music blaring, and the knowledge that we’ll be free for a few weeks calming our nerves like a vodka tonic.
With nothing but open road ahead of us and a dust cloud in the Prius’s rear-view.
