Stories From the Road – Page 4

Join the Party!

I didn’t know I would have so much to say about bathrooms.

I’m reminded of a layover I had once at the Charlotte, NC, airport. A few women with Jamaican accents were cleaning the bathroom, and as travelers entered, the cleaning staff would call out, “Ladies! Come on in! Join the party!” I don’t know if any music was actually playing, but in my memory, I hear bubbling Caribbean rhythms in the background because of the atmosphere these women had created. As travelers washed up and left, the staff would bid, “Enjoy your flight!” and say “Thank you, ladies” Forget customer service- when was the last time you received a welcome like that? When was the last time you gave someone else a welcome, a goodbye, or a thank you with much enthusiasm? It’s so inspiring to see people who make an art of their work, who love their work, who lift others up through their work. Let me reiterate that these women were cleaning the bathroom. If they can bring that kind of joy to others, what’s my excuse?

I love how these women took a leadership role and claimed the bathroom as their territory. They made it their job to not just to scrub and mop, but to revitalize all the weary souls who entered. It’s really inspiring to see people in action who have their priorities in order.

Gross Me Out the Door

Remember school pictures? Kids would exchange small photos, writing messages on the back, usually commentary about the image on the front- something along the lines of, “Hi, Karen! Look how goofy my smile is in this picture! I look like an idiot! Oh, well. Friends forever, Lauren.” One year, the entire message on the back of my friend Aryn’s school picture read, “Well, I’ve had better, but I’ve had worse.”

This line comes to mind a lot when I check out shower houses and bathrooms at campgrounds. I can count on one hand the number of places that looked clean, the way a hotel room or a bathroom in a house might look. Most range from Not Bad to Pretty Darn Skeezy. I’ve seen better, but I’ve seen worse. Some are outright disgusting, with gobs of hair, bugs (both dead and alive), mold, spider webs, scum, sludge, peeling paint, rust, dirt, sand, leaves, sticks, and glistening liquid-gel substances near the drain that, if I’m lucky, are shampoo and conditioner, but could just as likely be a stranger’s spit, snot, or other bodily fluid I’d rather not contemplate at seven o’clock in the morning. Then there’s the trash: wrappers and bottle caps, used Q-tips, used Band-Aids, floss picks, and once, a used tampon (in case you’re wondering, I took a pass on that shower stall!).

I’ve simultaneously developed a tolerance for filth and a new appreciation for cleanliness. I’m curious to see, when I go back to civilization, if I become a total slob, a clean freak, or if they will cancel each other out.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Some people have asked if I get lonely on the road. Not very often; I like to spend time alone. Of course, it helps that I can stay in touch with people so easily through emails, texts, and phone calls. But once in a while I do get lonely.

A movie theatre advertised a funny old movie I had watched with my brother, and I thought that if we were in the same area, we might go see it again and laugh. Then we have family traditions, like going to the botanic garden around Father’s Day or my dad’s birthday, and I missed them both. Some weekends I’ll be in areas with cute little shops and see pairs of women, and I’ll hear, “Mom, look at this!” “Mom!” “Hey, Mom,” and I’ll think, Ohh! I want to be here with my mom! At least I still have the option.

Another time, I went to a baseball game in West Virginia. I’ve never been into team sports, so I thought I should attend a sporting event just to see what I’ve been missing. The capitol city was scheduled to host a minor league baseball game the night I’d be driving through, so I decided to go. That night also happened to be their weekly Take Your Dog to the Park Night, a novelty designed to generate public interest.

I naively assumed that people who attended baseball games were baseball fans. What I discovered was that hardly anyone in the stands paid attention to the game. Kids ran wild through empty rows, slid down handrails, and badgered their parents for concession stand money. High schoolers met up with friends, ate nachos, and chatted, never glancing at the field. Couples ordered beers and talked with other couples. Some people texted nonstop. Then there were those who brought their dogs, making sure their dogs were fed, watered, exercised, relieved, and petted, while throwing out compliments and questions to other pet owners.

A major league game might be different. This ballpark seemed to be purely a hangout venue, and I was there alone. I could have talked to other people sitting in the stands. I could have talked to the players or the employees. I could have talked to dog owners about their animals. But I didn’t.

Another activity I had wanted to try was cheering insanely at a sporting event. Here was my chance to try two new things at once! In reality, since hardly anyone was watching the game, there wasn’t a whole lot of clapping to begin with, let alone the roaring crowds heard at major league playoffs.

I started out by politely clapping for the home team when they made a play. But I thought it was cool when anyone made a good play, no matter what team they were on. For a little while, I clapped for both teams. Even though the audience seemed lukewarm, I remembered how insane fans can get, covered in body paint and team logos, and I didn’t want to get beat up for clapping for the wrong side. It felt strange only clapping for one team, though. It’s not like I had anything against the visiting team. Why shouldn’t I show appreciation for their effort, too? Plus, I didn’t live around there, so I didn’t know the home team, and I didn’t have any allegiance with them. Unfortunately, with all the rationale, by the end of the game, I wasn’t clapping for either team, even though that felt just as awkward. And I realized how ridiculous I was, sitting there alone, reasoning out why I should or shouldn’t clap, knowing that no one else would have cared either way, and even if they did, why should that have stopped me? Meanwhile, the rest of the ballpark was enjoying spending time with their friends, both human and canine.

I could have cheered, no matter who else was or wasn’t cheering, no matter what team made a good play. I could have started a trend! But I didn’t. It was too out of character.

My feeling about going to a game alone was that my time would be better spent elsewhere. But I was glad I went so that I knew I wasn’t missing anything. If a friend ever wants to meet up at a game, I suppose it’s as good a place as a coffee shop or a city park.

I think what I really hope to be better at is cheering on other people in life, not just professional athletes at a sporting event, and there doesn’t need to be any insane yelling involved to accomplish that.

You’re No Fun

My first grade teacher handed out award certificates when he saw behavior in the classroom worth encouraging. I got an award ‘because you enjoyed yourself!’ It’s hard to imagine that this happened so rarely that he felt the need to reward me for it, but apparently that may have been the case.

In the same vein, you may have noticed that there was no mention of ‘fun’ as one of the reasons for my taking this trip.

I’m sure people mean well with parting words of ‘Have fun!’ If the tables were turned and someone else were travelling, I would probably say the same thing. But I think fun is more appropriate as a by-product than a goal. My internal reaction to the question “Are you having fun?” is, Who cares?

It reminds me of people saying that when they grow up, they want to be happy. As charming as that sounds, it’s unrelatable. When hearing this, I would think, It was never the job of a writer to be happy. My job is to be present.

“Fun” is not the word I would use to describe climbing a 100-foot-tall fire tower, standing outside in 20-degree weather waiting for sunrise, looking into the chilling eye of an alligator, or visiting the Holocaust Museum. However, that doesn’t mean those activities weren’t worthwhile.

“Safe travels” seems to be the preferred goodbye between travellers; it allows for complexity in the experience. For variety, we need more phrases that convey, “I hope you don’t die, but if you do, I hope it’s while you’re doing something amazing.”

The Purpose

People have asked about the motivation for my road trip, the purpose, and whether it’s everything I thought it would be. I didn’t know what to expect; there were so many unknowns.

As far as the purpose, on one hand, the only reason I took to the road was to do something that I had a desire to do.

On the other hand, there are lots of reasons for a cross-country road trip: to change, for adventure, to explore, to see what’s out there (and what isn’t, but should be), to expose myself to different lifestyle and viewpoints, to expand my worldview, to learn, to try new things, to challenge myself, to grow, to live more fully, to follow my intuition, to open myself to opportunity, to live more spontaneously, and to create a pivot point, to take a chance.

I bet that after this, after seeing the results of taking this one chance, I will be more inclined to take other chances.

Am I getting out of the trip what I hoped to get out of it? It’s more a matter of whether I’m putting in what I hoped to put in. I’m getting better.

The Other End of the Spectrum

I’d asked myself what I’d do with one year left to live, but I should have also asked what I’d do with 70 more years to live. Not everything can be accomplished in one year. Learning to play the violin at the level of the Boston Philharmonic probably takes some time.

I wish I had started earlier. I should have chosen goals with varying timelines and worked toward them simultaneously.

It’s become a new game. Subtract your age from a hundred (or, if you’re really ambitious, 120). Think of the social movements you could lead or be involved in, the skills you could master, the experiences you could have, the ideas you could come up with, the wisdom you could gain and pass along in that amount of time. It’s amazing.

I’ve wasted the last twenty-five years. I can’t go back in time, but I can make sure I don’t waste the next twenty-five.

The Catalyst

One of the classic questions to ask yourself when trying to figure out what to do with your life is What would you do if you had a year to live?

I don’t remember where or when I first heard this idea, but every now and then the question would resurface, and I always had the same answer: I’d go on a huge road trip all over the country.

This went on for years- possibly even decades- until last summer. Nothing special happened. Nobody died. I didn’t hear a story that made a huge spiritual impact. I was sitting in my car at a red light and the question came to mind again, along with the same answer. I thought, Is that what it’s going to take? Do you actually have to get diagnosed with a terminal illness before you start doing what you really want to do? Is that what you want to happen? Of course my answer was No!!!!!!

We’ve probably all heard stories about people who planned to travel the world when they retired, only to die young and never live out those dreams. Why wait? Why wait to visit state parks with phenomenal hiking trails until I’m 97 and in a wheelchair? There was nothing stopping me except my own fear and laziness.

That day, I stopped thinking of a road trip in terms of some far-off fantasy and started asking How can I make this happen (now)? I started to think about the road trip as inevitable; I just had to come up with the logistics.

I brainstormed. Hotels, an RV, couchsurfing, bicycling, a travel trailer, backpacking, a van, cheap motels, tent camping, a tiny house, hostels, a pickup truck with a cap, volunteer vacations, travel for a cause and find a sponsor… I researched, weighed the pros, cons, and realism of each option, test drove a few larger vehicles, and even tried sleeping in my sedan three different nights. In the end, I bought a tent for the price of a one-night stay in a cheap motel. That tangible step became the first flake in a snowball that rolled onto the highway.

Nightsong

South and east of the Midwest, birdsong is orchestral. Birds out here aren’t satisfied with just “tweet,” “chirp,” or “caw.” One bird is a metallic flute that warbles an intricate melody. Another bird sounds like R2D2 malfunctioning: the modern, electronic spin on the classical bird call.

Laying in my tent at night, I expected to hear the jingle of crickets, the skittish hoot of the horned owl, the whistling of spring peepers, and even the creaky whine of coyotes. What I didn’t expect to hear were cows mooing at eleven o’clock at night and geese honking at 3:30 in the morning. I assumed that animals I saw awake during the day would quiet down as the sun set and sleep during the night. I guess if they can spend most of their days relaxing and napping, they can afford to party all night.

Sometimes, I try and imagine what the animals are saying. Scientists who study bird calls have identified a few sounds to indicate food, mating calls, or danger, but for the most part, they are gracious enough to admit that they don’t know. I was going to guess that they are gossiping, laughing, complaining, telling bedtime stories, and commenting on the weather, just like us. But I wouldn’t be surprised to find that they were competing in an enormous poetry slam, spouting philosophical analyses, or formulating a plan for world domination, all disguised as a beautiful, lilting refrain.

Adventure on the Rocks

On another meetup in Wisconsin, my mom and I hiked a trail that led to a waterfall. The trail crisscrossed a river a few times, which led us to snake across by stepping on precariously balanced stones protruding from the water. I made it to the end, and as I turned to start the trek back, I slipped on a wet rock. When I fell, my face hit another rock, busting the skin near my eyebrow. Another hiker happened to see the fall and was luckily carrying a bandage. My mom did a good job of matching up both sides of the cut so that it healed fairly smoothly. I guess that’s when you know you’ve had a real adventure: when you have the scars to prove it.

The worst part was that the waterfall was about two and a half feet tall and not worth the drama.

Nowadays, I select shoes based heavily on the non-slip quality of their soles. Also, in times of stress, it helps to frame whatever I’m experiencing as an adventure.

Enjoy Your Stay!

Some people really know how to camp. I’ve seen groups cart in bicycles, 4x4s, kayaks, canoes, inflatable pool rafts, fishing poles, lawn chairs, hammocks, coolers, a baseball and catcher’s mitt, corn hole boards and bags, plastic buckets and trowels for the beach- any toy, tool, or contraption that can be used outdoors. They grill a feast, light a bonfire, roast marshmallows, wear glow sticks after dark, and blast the radio… seemingly unconcerned with whether or not everyone else in the park wants to hear it.

I’m amazed at behavior I see in campgrounds. Some people act as if there is a fence surrounding their campsite and they are no longer in public. As if the rest of us can’t hear what’s said through a thin sheet of nylon and netting. Part of me admires their authenticity, and another part cringes. Out here, I get a glimpse- or, in some case, an hours-long dramatic production- of what I assume normally happens behind closed doors. I find out which parents smack their children, who deliberately belittles and insults others, which kids run wild without discipline, who engages in shouting matches, and which rare families spend time peacefully playing frisbee together. I also realize that the reason I’m free from any of these particular judgements is because I’m camping alone.