Stories From the Road – Page 2

A Horse of Another Color

About 10 years ago, my mom moved to the Northwoods of Wisconsin. In one of my early visits, we tried some of the tourist activities in her area. One of them was horseback riding. Our trail guide wanted to match us up with appropriate horses, so she asked each of us in turn, “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” My mom had owned a few horses while she was growing up and was an adept rider. The guide presented her a docile-looking white mare. “This is Snowflake.” My mom mounted her horse, and then it was my turn. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” “Yes, once, 20 years ago.” I didn’t mention the sobbing in terror part as my horse started descending a ravine. The guide led a young, alert horse toward me and introduced us. “This is Rebel.” Okay, wait a minute. You’re giving the completely inexperienced rider a horse with a behavior problem? That’s an interesting strategy.

Rebel treated the ride as a lunch buffet. As she waded through the thicket at the edges of the forest, I spent the whole ride redirecting her toward the path, tugging on the reins as her head dropped toward the ferns as heavily as a bucket of water, urging her to move and follow the rest of the horse train. The method to counteract many of her behavioral issues seemed the same. “Kick her!” the guides yelled from the front of the line. “Harder!” I wanted to go horseback riding because I liked animals. I had no desire to kick a horse in the stomach.

Over the years, I went on a couple other rides. I got used to the guides handing off a horse with a word of warning. “She’s slow,” they’d caution, or “She’s lazy.” Or it would be the opposite- a sprightly horse would get antsy being stuck behind an older, slower-paced model, and try to cut in line. As I struggled to get my horses under control, I’d jealously watch as other riders placidly gazed at the scenery and joked with the trail guides.

On a later trail ride in Wisconsin, also with my mom, I was unexpectedly assigned a well-behaved horse. Finally! I would get to experience a trail ride how it was meant to be! I was ready for a fun and relaxing time. I wasn’t expecting… boredom. Sitting on a horse who plodded forward in a straight line struck me as dull and uninspired. I was so used to being busy the entire time, working to keep the horse in line, on the trail, in check. Here, nothing was happening. It was like being on a walk in the woods, except that I wasn’t even walking; I wasn’t doing anything. All those years, I thought I was getting the short end of the stick, when it turns out that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Horsing Around

When I was nine, my family and another family drove to Colorado together for a summer vacation. One day, a handful of us went horseback riding. We arrived at a classic stable catered to tourists. After we paid, we were directed toward the barn. The man working there lounged against a fence, sizing up the horses in the pen, probably deciding which horse to match up with each rider. My mom crossed her arms over the fence and peered out at the herd. I could hear the murmur of talk between the two of them. At some point, Mom requested a certain horse for herself. She had been horse crazy as a kid, owned a few of them during her formative years, was adept at riding, and could spot good physical traits in the animals. She was also a feminist. When the employee told her, “I only give that horse to men,” that sealed it: Mom was determined to get that horse. I don’t know exactly how the discussion went, but she eventually got her way.

One by one, everybody was assigned a horse. When the youngest kid in our group was placed on his saddle, he instantly burst into tears. Like me, it was his first time horseback riding. Eventually everyone calmed down mounted a horse, including the guide, who led us across the street. Once safely on the other side of the street, my horse veered away from the group and began walking down a slope into a ditch. In the mountains of Colorado, this roadside ditch looked more like a ravine. Afraid, I yelled out what was happening. “She won’t go down there,” the guide told me lackadaisically. That seemed to be the cue for my horse to plow straight down into the ditch. We hadn’t even gotten to the trail yet, and already two of us had started bawling. Thankfully, the guide steered his horse over to mine, grabbed the reins, and pulled us to back onto the path.

I assumed the guide would lead our group along the path during the ride, but when we reached the trailhead, he said, “The horses know the way,” and trotted back toward the barn. I wondered if this was normal or if he had sadistic hopes that we’d get lost, or that my mom’s horse would buck her off, or that her horse would set off in an uncontrollable gallop into the woods, plunging down the mountain with Mom still in the saddle. During the ride, Mom’s horse was in front of mine in line, and he did act up, stopping and refusing to budge, or backing up into mine. My most vivid memory is during one of these spells, my mom reached out and snapped a branch off of a pine tree, then repeatedly whapped her horse on the rump with it to try and get him to move. I wondered if she felt a sense of angry victory as our group sauntered back to the barn, or if she wished she had chosen another horse.

On this vacation, my mom “made” my brother and I keep a journal for the first time, thinking that we’d appreciate looking back on it years later. Here is the entire description of the trail ride from my Colorado journal: “My horse’s name was Ribbon.”

Up in the Air

On the last leg of my trip (right after New Year’s), since it was cold outside, I tried AirBnB instead of camping. My AirBnB stays ranged from “sort of okay” (a term my dad uses) to great. The hosts all seemed decent, nice, normal. I wasn’t involved in any creepy scenarios, shady interactions, or altercations. None of the other guests seemed freaky or dangerous. Everything worked out fine.

In general, though, I felt like I was intruding, invading the host’s personal space, even when they were welcoming. I mean, you are a stranger in another family’s home, microwaving rice in their kitchen while they go about their normal lives, having conversations about people and events you’ve never heard of, their teenage kids inviting friends over and popping in a movie. Most of the time, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to lounge on their living room couches. I also had my own projects to work on, and didn’t necessarily want company during that time. I’d often end up staying in my bedroom, which felt claustrophobic and reclusive. Sometimes I hung out in the living room or at the kitchen table if I was the only one around.

Offerings extended from sleeping on a couch to renting out an entire house. Actually, some listings were for land where you could set up a tent or park or an RV. Prices differed wildly among similar offerings. In some areas, hotel rooms with a microwave, fridge, and bathroom were available for the same price or less money than an AirBnB where all you’d have to yourself was a bedroom. Either the hosts were delusional, or guests are willing to pay for the experience of meeting new people. I was mostly looking for a place to sleep, so price usually determined where I stayed. Once, I rented a three-bedroom house because it was cheaper than a low-to mid-range hotel room.

On the highly-rated end, some homes looked like highlights from interior decorating magazines, were spotlessly clean, and the hosts treated me like a guest. They chatted, asked if I needed help carrying bags inside, asked if I wanted my dirty towel added to their load of laundry, invited me to hang out with their family in the living room, and wished me safe travels on my last day. I came down with a cold during one stay, and the host asked if she could drive into town and get some medicine, asked how I was doing when she saw me in passing, and cooked soup for us from scratch.

After I had decided what area of the country to move to, I stayed in a couple AirBnBs while I looked for an apartment. The hosts at one of those AirBnBs both happened to be real estate agents. They shared valuable information with me like where the good and bad parts of town were, and which rental companies had a good reputation, in addition to directing me to area attractions. (Thank you, Nate and Joe!)

On the “sort of okay” end, accommodations felt and looked thrown together last-minute. For example, one house was basically a pole barn with plywood walls creating separate rooms. My room had what looked like a 40 watt incandescent lightbulb on the ceiling, so dim I had trouble seeing what I was doing. The building was heated by what looked like a large, industrial space heater near the front door, but heat was not dispensed into each bedroom via a central heating system, and I was freezing. A different place I rented was situated immediately off of a freeway exit, and I ended up leaving early because the sound of traffic was so distracting I couldn’t concentrate.

One AirBnB bedroom was a garden shed, the pre-made kind you can buy at big box hardware stores. It may have been insulated, but it sure didn’t feel like it. The only heat source was a small space heater. You had to go outside to another shed to use the bathroom. I wouldn’t mind either of these things in pleasant weather, but it was below freezing. During the night, I went out to my car and got my sleeping bag and blankets and used them in addition to the bedding provided by the hosts. When I woke up in the morning, the bottoms of my feet were partially white. (To be fair, my feet start to turn white pretty easily. But it usually happens when I’m walking outside in the cold, not when I’m bundled up in bed.) The “kitchen” was basically another shed with a refrigerator, a microwave, and a Keurig. No sink, though, and no counter. You had to get water from the bathroom shed (if it was open) and clean your dishes there, too. It was doable, but not ideal. Cleanliness did not seem to be a priority at this location, either. My garden shed door didn’t have a lock on it, which felt somewhat dangerous. (I later found a padlock inside one of the dresser drawers, but by then, it seemed pointless.) The saving grace for this rental was that I stayed there on the night of the super blood wolf moon (eclipse), and I had a good view of the moon and got some good pictures.

My time camping had numbed me toward disgusting living quarters, so “sort of okay” was probably a generous rating for a couple of the places I stayed. Some of the issues I mentioned you can see right in the pictures accompanying the AirBnB listings. In my experience, if a place looks shabby in the picture, it probably won’t surprise you much in real life.

It was hard to give bad reviews to hosts I had met and talked with, and who seemed like decent people. In those cases, instead of writing a public review, I would usually ignore AirBnB’s emails asking me to review the host until I got an email saying, basically, “Your host won’t see this; just let us know how your stay went,” and then you rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. When it gets to that point, there is no area to elaborate. Not that I’m in favor of people trashing each other, but I would keep this in mind when reading reviews; the ratings may tend to skew in favor of being nice toward the hosts so as not to hurt their feelings.

Some hosts kept to themselves, and others were friendlier. I mentioned that some hosts made a point of saying goodbye on the last morning of my stay. Well, others left the house without a word, even though I was right there, eating breakfast in the kitchen. Then again, it’s possible to be too friendly. One host talked incessantly from the moment I entered the house straight through the next three hours. I’ll admit that the conversation was interesting. But I didn’t even get to put my bags in my room until the other guest who was staying there came back from his foray downtown and the host wanted to hear all about his experience. I took the chance to escape and locked myself in my bedroom for the rest of the night, which isn’t exactly ideal, either.

When I first started using AirBnB, I was more guarded about my travel situation, for protection. Making small talk, hosts would ask where I worked. I hadn’t thought up an alternate lie, so I named the last job I held: working in the recruiting office of a community college. I acted as if I were on vacation. My first host also happened to work in the Student Services department of a community college. “When does your semester start?” she asked. “January 16th,” I threw out, having no idea what day of the week it was. Turned out it was a Wednesday. To my relief, she didn’t seem to doubt my answer, and didn’t ask how I was able to get a vacation during one of the busiest times of the year.

Each AirBnB has its own check in and check out times, and its own rules. At some places, you can use their washer and dryer, their kitchen, their shower, their WiFi. Other hosts don’t want you using any of these. Some hosts ask you to strip the bed sheets before you leave, or take out the trash. Others don’t require anything of you. Some hosts will cook breakfast for you in the morning (if they do, it will probably be advertised in their listing).

Whenever I had a kitchen to myself, I went a little overboard, excited to eat Real Food again (instead of On The Road food). Some AirBnBs were mother-in-law suites and didn’t have traditional stovetops and ovens, but were equipped with countertop appliances, such as a rice cooker, an electric skillet, a microwave, a George Foreman grill, a toaster oven, a slow cooker, and a hot plate. I experimented with some new gadgets and later bought a couple of them myself.

One benefit of staying in other people’s houses is just that: you find out what it’s like to live in another house. You can try out their kitchen appliances, test out their mattresses, their fancy showerheads, their shampoo, see what kind of decorating other people are doing, see what you like in a house, what you don’t like, what you use daily, and what you never use. If you’re thinking of moving, having a house built, renovating, or redecorating, it might be time and money well spent to stay in a few AirBnBs to get a flavor for whether or not you would actually like some of the features you’re considering installing but have never actually tried (for example, a wood stove, a tile floor in a bedroom, or an outrageous wall color). I stayed in a tiny house for a night, to see what it was like and if I could live like that. (I could, although I’d prefer a different layout from the one I stayed in.)

Just like staying in hotels or campgrounds, your satisfaction with AirBnB will probably depend a lot on the specific space you rent. And your attitude.

A Game Changer

While visiting a friend in North Carolina, three of us went to the American Legion one night to play BINGO. I had never played an official game of BINGO (i.e., in public, with cash prizes), and was only familiar with the stereotype that playing BINGO is for old people. I thought of it as an activity that victims, often in wheelchairs, are coerced into only after their brains have turned to jello. I’m sure the level of the game depends on the venue and the specific caller, but there was a lot more mental work involved than I had anticipated.

In most games, each person was given eighteen BINGO cards to mark. The calling was fast-paced. In some games, the corner squares were designated as free spaces, and thankfully, more experienced players sitting near us told us that in advance so we could try and mark the corners before the game started. In some games, the caller would announce that certain numbers were “free.” (The free number might be “two, and any number that ends in two.”) After a period of time that was not nearly long enough, she’d ask if everyone was done marking the free spaces. I’m not sure why she bothered to ask- even when loud protests came from the audience, she barreled ahead. For each game, the winning numbers had to make a different and specific configuration of dots, so you not only had to keep up with marking your cards, but remember to periodically check the current winning configuration and see if that design materialized on your cards.

The most confusing part was that a ping pong ball with a number-letter combination would appear on TV monitors in the corners of the room, and the caller would call that number out loud only after she took the ball away and placed the next ball in front of the camera. So, she might call out “O-sixty-three!” and I’d instinctively look up at the monitor, only to see a ball with “I-24” written on it. So, if you wanted the number on the screen to match the number you were searching for, you had to work ahead of the caller, but you were already behind from trying to mark the free spaces.

During the game Speed BINGO, the caller said she wasn’t going to read letters- just numbers. She didn’t repeat any of them, and it was at a faster pace than normal. We each had two cards that we were in charge of marking, and I think even one would have been a challenge. During a normal game, she might call, “N-37, three seven, thirty-seven.” Then there would be a short wait, and then the next number would be called. During the speed game, it went more like this: “thirty-seven five fifty-eight eleven twenty-six nine forty-one seventy twenty-two sixteen.”

The most refreshing part of the experience was seeing tables with generations of families together: teenagers, moms, grandmothers. Yes, why not choose an activity that everyone involved is able to comfortably participate in? Why not spend one evening a week in the company of your extended family?

As far as the game itself, I think of those posters with photos of senior citizen athletes and the caption, “Growing old ain’t for sissies.” Beware, BINGO is not for the feeble-minded or faint of heart! BINGO is no joke!

Trace Elements

Four-hundred forty-four miles long, the Natchez Trace extends from southern Mississippi across the corner of Alabama, into the middle of Tennessee. The Trace was originally a footpath traveled by Native Americans, European explorers, and early settlers hundreds and thousands of years ago. The National Park System wanted to preserve the history of the path, and did so by building a road that roughly follows the trail.

The Trace was designed to be a scenic byway. Two lanes wind and curve, buffered by stunning scenery on each side, mostly forests or farm fields scattered with hay bales. I drove on pieces of it in January and February- probably the bleakest time of the year- and it was gorgeous. I would love to go back in other seasons to hike, take pictures, and just experience another layer of the area’s character.

Waysides are built all along the route. Drive or bike the Trace at your own pace, stopping at whatever place names and interpretive signs interest you. (My favorite name for a stop was ‘Dogwood Mudhole.’ The stop itself was nothing special in February. I’m not sure if dogwoods actually bloom there in spring, or if the name is only a relic of a former landscape.) Some points of interest include: Native American Indian mounds, a museum in the Visitor’s Center, waterfalls, a Craft Center, military sites, overlooks, intersections with the Trail of Tears, interpretive trails, old cemeteries, former guesthouses, a cypress swamp, ruins of buildings, state parks, and sections of the old trace itself, where you can walk on the same path as the Native Americans and early settlers. Access points to the Natchez Trace National Scenic Trail, with over 60 miles of hiking trails (over 50 of them open to horseback riding), are available from the Trace.

Driving the Trace reminded me of my trip across South Dakota to the Badlands [which you can read about here], and of the legacy of Route 66. It’s the whole idea of driving on one road and stopping at a bucketload of attractions along the way, so the point of the trip is the journey, not the destination.

Adding to the beauty of the Trace, no businesses are situated along the road. If you want to get gas or buy something to eat or stop for the night, you need to get off the Trace and stop in a nearby town. (Guides detailing restaurants, attractions, shopping, recreation, and more in nearby towns are available online and in print. Many of these towns are tiny, and you will be supporting small, independent businesses.) No commercial vehicles are allowed on the road, either. The Trace has a speed limit of 50 mph (or less, in some areas) to allow you to soak in the views.

I don’t think I had even heard of the Natchez Trace before my big road trip. What’s more surprising is discovering that there are Tennessee residents who have never heard of it! While it’s easier to enjoy a park when it has few visitors, I have to say that the Natchez Trace is severely underrated and deserves more attention. Granted, I was not there during peak season, but I was still surprised at how little traffic was on it. At times, it felt like they had constructed the elaborate highway just for me.

I drove on my first portion of the Trace during the government shutdown. This meant that none of the buildings were open- no restrooms, no water fountains, no visitor’s centers. I guess I should be glad the place was open at all. But every time I wanted to go to the bathroom, I had to get off the Trace and search for one. Luckily, when I went back on it later, the government was up and running.

I would recommend the Natchez Trace to history buffs, nature lovers, photographers, hikers, bikers, and anyone who loves a road trip. It was one of my favorite parts of my year-long trip around the United States.

A Good Sport

Growing up, I wasn’t really into sports. The only sport I seemed to be any good at in gym class was dodgeball, since you could excel by virtually not participating. I would hide behind other people near the beginning of the game, and then, when the team thinned out, I’d dodge the ball, as the name stated. I wouldn’t touch a ball until I was the last person left on the team and the teacher told me that I had to throw one. (The game would end about five seconds later.)

As an adult, I try playing a sport every once in a while.

In my mid-twenties, I took a tennis class through the park district. The instruction wasn’t bad, but the best way to describe my experience is this: There were six classes, and in three of the classes, I got hit in the face with the ball. That didn’t make me want to move on to level two.

I went to a water volleyball class once at my local rec center. I’m not huge into water sports, and I don’t really know how to play volleyball; I think I just wanted to punch something. It was me and all these seventy-five-year-old ladies. Instead of a traditional volleyball, we used a beach ball. The court was about the size of a pizza box, so you had to tap the ball, as if it were a porcelain teapot, in order to keep it in bounds. That took a lot of getting used to, and once, I overzealously whacked the ball, slamming it right into another player’s face. I don’t know what’s worse- getting hit or hitting someone else.

Some of the activities I planned for this January involved trying out sports I’d never played before. Unfortunately, the mountain biking class (the only class I mentioned I’d be taking) got cancelled.

I stopped an outdoor adventure park and went through their ropes course (twice). When I was a teenager, my summer camp had a ropes course, but I was too chicken to try it. I heard from others that there was a person on the ground holding their safety rope, like with rappelling. Technology has changed the ropes course! Now, you put on a harness, hook onto a metal safety cable, and traverse from one obstacle to the next by yourself, all while attached to the cable system. I don’t know how that old summer camp course was set up, but this one had a rope at chest height next to each obstacle that you could grab onto for support. I had always pictured people walking across a tightrope, for example, from one tree to another, with nothing to hold onto for balance. It seemed so scary- one balance check, one hasty step and down you’d go. You’d have to pray that the person spotting you was paying attention. So navigating this course ended up being a lot easier than I had anticipated. Plus, some of the “obstacles” were ziplines!

Next on the list was boxing. This was a competitive boxing gym, not a get-in-shape-while-incorporating-some-moves-that-we-stole-from-boxing-and-other-sports gym. Although I learned the correct way to make a fist and other essentials, my strongest memories of the class come from the dialect spoken by the instructors. I come from a predominantly white area, and I’m not used to a teacher demonstrating an action and then asking, “You feel me?” Or, after I’d try to imitate his movements, “Thazzit, baby!” I spent a lot of time at the speed bag (the little hanging punching bag shaped like a teardrop), trying to catch on to the motion of the punch and the rhythm.

It may have been a mistake to go to an indoor rock-climbing gym the day after the boxing class, where we had done so many conditioning exercises that my legs felt like jello. One of the climbing teachers showed me a few tips, but I didn’t get the hang of putting his advice into practice. I knew that rock climbing was partly mental and involved creative thinking, but it was even more mental than I expected (figuring out what path to take, where to place your feet and your hands, how to hold onto or stand on a certain shape of rock). After an hour or an hour and a half, I think my muscles just gave out. The lesson I learned that can be applied to life is that sometimes, you need to go down in order to go up. Sometimes, if you’re traveling to the left, you need to take a step to the right in order to find a path where you can continue. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck.

I had never touched a gun in my life, and for the most part, I had no desire to get involved with weapons or firearms. But once in a while, I thought it would probably be a good idea to know how to use a gun, if nothing else, to be able to take the bullets out so no one else could shoot it. I attended a class that covered gun safety and basics, with time at the end to practice shooting.

My takeaway from the gun class is to periodically challenge the beliefs you hold about yourself. I can’t count the number of times I’ve mentioned, “I have no aim.” Looking at the photo of my target [here], that obviously isn’t true. The worst part is, I already knew that. Not trying to gross anyone out, but I used to throw dirty kleenexes into the trash can from across the room, and I’d “make a basket” most of the time. So where did this idea of having no aim come from, and why did I continue to perpetuate it, even with evidence of the contrary? Regardless of the reasons, it stops here. I’m not going to say that anymore.

After that, I went to an intro to archery class. Archery seemed like the classic summer camp hobby, but I had never been exposed to it. The instructor went through a few details with us- how to snap the arrow onto the bowstring, where to place your feet, and then he called out “Free to practice!”, our cue to start shooting. I go, “Well, wait a minute- what hand do we hold the bow with?” Then, “Is there a certain way we’re supposed to grip the handle?” (because it felt like it was ergonomically designed, except the grooves felt wrong every way I tried to position my hand). At some point, I heard the teacher tell another student to look through the sight on the bow and line up the red X with the target. But he didn’t mention that in his spiel to the whole class. I felt like that this information should automatically be covered in an intro class. In fact, in many of the classes I took, the teachers gave us tips on how to correct mistakes they saw us making, but the initial instruction was very spare. Maybe people forget what it’s like to be a beginner. It makes me appreciate a very thorough teacher.

The next day, I went back to the same facility to practice archery (the owner let me practice for free!) before taking an axe-throwing class. The thought of axe-throwing was so strange and so out of character that I had to give it a try. I learned the basic technique, but I also learned that, for better or for worse, the tiniest adjustments can cause a huge change in your performance. Stepping back a half an inch can be the difference between your axe slicing into a log or smacking against the log and landing on the floor. I didn’t get a feeling for when I was making mistakes or what I was doing wrong to know how to correct it. [When a bowstring snaps against your elbow in archery and you get a big black bruise, you learn to move your elbow out of the way.]

Of all the sports I tested out, archery was probably the one I felt most comfortable doing. It didn’t feel as dangerous as holding a gun, but it was still about aiming and shooting at a target.

I didn’t have an epiphany during any of this or get a feeling of “This is going to be my sport,” or “This is my new passion.” But as with any new activity, it was good to learn the basic techniques, be exposed to new information, new facets of life, and new people.

The Best Part, Installment III

As far as traditional points of interest, rather than the big-name attractions, I’ve found the more enjoyable times to be at smaller museums and parks that I’d never heard of. (I prefer museums where you can take your time and actually see everything in an hour or two, rather than getting overwhelmed and exhausted in gargantuan collections.) Finding out about these places on my own may have added to my enjoyment; I didn’t have any expectations. (So, reading about them here may spoil the surprise for you. Sorry.) I’m not sure that I would recommend driving halfway across the country just to visit any of these destinations, but if you happen to be in the area, here are a few that stood out:

A.E. Seaman Mineral Museum, Houghton, Michigan

Fenimore Art Museum, Cooperstown, New York

Museum of Women in the Arts, Washington, DC

Fairbanks Museum & Planetarium, St, Johnsbury, Vermont- hands-on science exhibits, lots of taxidermy, plus a mix of natural and historical objects traditionally found in museums

Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky/Tennessee- There were about 5 different campgrounds dotting the length of the park. In addition to hiking trails, beaches, and typical campground activities, this park offers a driving loop where you can see bison and elk, a planetarium, a nature center, and an 1850s working farm.

Elephant Rocks State Park, Missouri- gigantic rocks that you can climb all over and hike on. This would be a great place to bring kids!

Women’s Rights National Historical Park & National Women’s Hall of Fame, Seneca Falls, New York (two separate museums)- inspiring stories of women who were pioneers, exceptional in their field, involved in public life, started organizations, started social movements, etc.

Anyone with kids should check out City Museum in St. Louis, Missouri- The entire place is a huge indoor/outdoor playground, creatively and artfully constructed. It’s also insanely crowded.

Mille Lacs Indian Museum, Onamia, Minnesota- and next door is a gorgeous (albeit pricey) gift shop

I’d also add the attractions along Route 90 in South Dakota, described in this previous post.

The Best Part, Installment II

Other noteworthy moments on the road include everyday activities, but with a twist. For example: I love Indian food, and I followed directions from an online map to an Indian restaurant in Morgantown, West Virginia. When I arrived at the address, I found that the restaurant was located inside of a tiny airport for tiny airplanes- an unusual, unexpected detail. I walked into a thrift store in Forsyth, Missouri, to a woman playing the piano and singing. I forget how live music electrifies an atmosphere. There was a diner in Sevierville, Tennessee, with a jukebox loaded with songs from the 50s and 60s (aptly named “The Diner”). (Be still, my heart!) I camped at the State Fair Fairgrounds in DuQuoin, IL, on Easter. What an eerie feeling, being in this venue that was designed for crowds of tens of thousands of people, and it was empty. I heard the fun vintage song “Rag Mop” in a thrift store in Borrego Springs, California. (I’ve heard this on CD, but never over the loudspeaker of a store.) On a hike I took with my mom in the fall in Wisconsin, a hungry hummingbird landed on a fuchsia stripe on her T-shirt. Soon after arriving at an Indian restaurant in Salisbury, Maryland, the family at another table left, and I was the only one there. The waiter (who was also a cook) started talking to me while I was waiting for my food. He sat down at another table and ended up talking to me during my whole meal. (It didn’t feel creepy or uncomfortable- just something I had never experienced before.) I drove on the Musical Highway near Tijeras, New Mexico, a short section of rumble strips that plays a portion of the song ‘America the Beautiful’ as you drive over it. (It lasts about 30 seconds.) A police siren started a group of coyotes howling in Catalina State Park, Arizona. They matched their song to the melody of the siren! A tiny downtown park in Sweetwater, Tennessee, featured a winding river, a curved bridge, a variety of ducks, and a coin-operated duck food dispenser. Crossing the bridge, the path continued alongside the river to the main city park, then circled back to the ducks. In Roswell, New Mexico, I chased a kid around the mall for a few seconds. As I was walking down the hall, he’d run ahead a little, then stop and wait for me to catch up. When I got closer, he’d act like he was scared and take off again. So I started running after him. I would have played longer, but I wasn’t sure if his caretaker could tell I was only playing.

One of my favorite days happened early on, in Tennessee. It was my third day at the same campsite, and I had already hiked the nearby trails and run errands in town. It was cold and raining, so I went for a drive on the backroads. This great oldies radio station came in, so I spent a few hours driving among green rolling hills, singing along with old songs. I also discovered a charming tiny town with Victorian-style architecture and an old-fashioned main street. That was what road tripping had been like years earlier, and what made me dream of expanding it into a more colossal adventure.

The Best Part, Installment I

Halfway through the trip, I was asked, “What’s been the best part so far?”

If you had asked me to guess ahead of time, I would’ve expected my favorite part to be some attraction I’d visited, a specific area of the country, an important insight I’d had, or a new activity I’d tried.

My answer surprised me: “Visiting people.”

It probably doesn’t sound that shocking, but I’m pretty independent, introverted, and self-centered, so any answer involving other people wouldn’t be the first to occur to me.

I’ve gotten together with friends, family, old coworkers, old family friends, and even my parents’ friends along the way. Some of these people I hadn’t seen in years. Plus, I got to meet friends of friends. If I had known ahead of time how much I’d value these visits, I would have planned a very different trip!

Anyway, I highly recommend getting together with a good friend you haven’t seen in a while. It’s worth it.

Tangerine Dreams

Almost twenty years ago, my aunt in Florida got married. At the time, there were no chain hotels in her town- only small, independently owned motels. When my family convened to fly down, my mom informed us that my aunt had arranged motels for all the out-of-town guests.
“Where are we staying?” my brother asked.
“The Tangerine Inn,” my mom announced, enunciating each word.
There was a moment of silence. “Sounds…classy,” my brother commented.

For years- decades- afterward, I compared every hotel room I stayed in to the Tangerine Inn, and every other hotel room won. The room contained two beds, a TV, and a dead cockroach. That was it. To be fair, it was better than finding a live cockroach. I have minimalist tendencies, but this was beyond bare bones. There was no handle on the bathroom door- only a hole where the handle should have been. There was no towel rack or hook to hang a wet towel.

One morning, after a shower, I discovered I was trapped in the bathroom. With no handle, I couldn’t get a good grip on the door, and there wasn’t enough room to get any leverage to pull it open. Luckily, even though everybody else was outside, my dad and brother heard me yelling for help and rescued me. I guess that’s the upside to paper-thin walls.

After that visit to Florida, the first thing I’d do after arriving at any hotel room was flit around, opening doors and drawers, calling, “Look! There’s an iron and ironing board! There are hangers! A coffee maker! Cups! A hair dryer! Kleenex! A miniature bottle of shampoo! A towel rack! A microwave! A refrigerator! A pad of paper! A pen! A chair! A desk! A phone book!” I was like a starving child who had stepped into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Even though I don’t drink coffee or blow dry my hair or have a reason to iron clothes, what a rush to know that extras were included.

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While visiting coworkers over Thanksgiving, a couple of them assumed, “You have to feel more confident” (after my recent travels). I don’t know about that, but I may have become more blasé.

One side effect of the camping lifestyle is that I can tolerate the cheapest of motels. Overwhelmingly one-star ratings? No problem. So the security door guard is broken. Maybe it smells like cigarette smoke. There are hairs on the sheets. The bathroom isn’t exactly “clean.” Hey, I’ve showered with scorpions. (Good thing I was wearing flip-flops!) I’ve had to stuff my tent with water jugs and bins full of notebooks just so my tent wouldn’t blow away. I’ve showered in a bathroom that had no roof on it. (Thankfully, I did not see any drones or low-flying planes.) I’ve had sand rain down inside my tent all night long. And I realize that I was lucky to have a tent in the first place, plus any kind of shower and a modern bathroom, not to mention a car filled with items to satisfy practically every want and need.

On nights when I was freezing or staying in run-down RV parks with makeshift tent sites, I probably would have welcomed a stay in any motel, even one with a missing door handle and a dead cockroach. After all these years, I think the Tangerine Inn has been redeemed.