At some point I think the government should declare certain cities to be failed cities, shut them down, and move everyone to Florida. Case in point: Flint, MI. And Buffalo, NY. It poured the whole time I was there, the downtown was completely dead (in all senses of the word), the roads were terrible, and in the morning I had to deal with the craziest, thickest fog I've ever seen. I couldn't read the road signs. I couldn't even make out the car in front of me. It didn't burn off until 30 miles out of Buffalo. They regularly get three feet of lake-effect snow in the winter, and the whole city smells like salami. And people LIVE there. Voluntarily. Why?
It was good to finally drive through upstate New York, even though doing it via the interstate is pretty boring. When I finally left the interstate to drive to the ferry across Lake Champlain, it was just like a postcard: farms, little towns, porches, old 1940s pickup trucks. The lake was beautiful, and Vermont was beautiful. Also full of farms, little towns, etc. Burlington was a cute town, and great fun in the summer. Wouldn't want to be there in the winter. I met up with an old friend and we walked around the downtown and shared fish tacos and Dark n' Stormies at a marina bar.
Today officially marks the next-to-last day of the road trip. I'll drive through New Hampshire and Maine to Boston, where I'll spend the night with another old friend, and then head to Virginia tomorrow.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Let's see...Michigan...Ohio...and Niagara Falls
I think I can safely nominate Michigan and Ohio as worthless states. Now, the fact that it poured all the way through both states definitely colored my opinion. And the fact that both states really, really need to repave all their roads. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland was the one exception. That was cool. Damn cool. If it weren't in Cleveland, I may actually want to go back there someday. Maybe to a concert there.
I skipped part of the original route, which was Detroit to Toronto. I've been hassled by the border cops both times for having too much crap in my car, and I didn't want the four cases of wine in the trunk confiscated. Plus, my phone and GPS don't work in Canada. So I went to Ann Arbor, MI, instead (I feel pretty secure in betting I didn't really miss anything by not going to Detroit) and cut around to Niagara Falls through Ohio and Pennsylvania.
Niagara Falls was just as you'd imagine: a lot of water, a LOT of tourists, a lot of schlocky touristy crap. I've noticed that the more a tourist attraction advertises itself as "family-friendly," the more worthless it usually is for a single adult. I have no use for yet another Hard Rock Cafe, gift shop featuring bobbleheads, or IMAX movie featuring whatever it is I'm seeing in real life. Nor do I have any use for slow-moving hordes of screaming kids and old people trying to take pictures of the screaming kids. Why do families still insist on vacationing together? It seems a unique and painful sort of torture to me. Let the adults go to Cancun and leave the kids at home until they're old enough to behave, I say. I know I'm weird, but I never understood the compunction people have to do things in big groups. I think traveling is much more enjoyable in groups of one or two. More than that just gums up the works, and is an exercise in frustration (high school field trips a case in point).
So I stopped into a pub in beautiful downtown Buffalo, and enjoyed some cheap beer and a burger with a huge stuffed banana pepper on top. Tomorrow I head across New York toward Burlington, VT. I would like to be able to include Woodstock in this trip, but it's a bit out of the way. I may have to console myself with some wineries in the Finger Lakes region instead.
I skipped part of the original route, which was Detroit to Toronto. I've been hassled by the border cops both times for having too much crap in my car, and I didn't want the four cases of wine in the trunk confiscated. Plus, my phone and GPS don't work in Canada. So I went to Ann Arbor, MI, instead (I feel pretty secure in betting I didn't really miss anything by not going to Detroit) and cut around to Niagara Falls through Ohio and Pennsylvania.
Niagara Falls was just as you'd imagine: a lot of water, a LOT of tourists, a lot of schlocky touristy crap. I've noticed that the more a tourist attraction advertises itself as "family-friendly," the more worthless it usually is for a single adult. I have no use for yet another Hard Rock Cafe, gift shop featuring bobbleheads, or IMAX movie featuring whatever it is I'm seeing in real life. Nor do I have any use for slow-moving hordes of screaming kids and old people trying to take pictures of the screaming kids. Why do families still insist on vacationing together? It seems a unique and painful sort of torture to me. Let the adults go to Cancun and leave the kids at home until they're old enough to behave, I say. I know I'm weird, but I never understood the compunction people have to do things in big groups. I think traveling is much more enjoyable in groups of one or two. More than that just gums up the works, and is an exercise in frustration (high school field trips a case in point).
So I stopped into a pub in beautiful downtown Buffalo, and enjoyed some cheap beer and a burger with a huge stuffed banana pepper on top. Tomorrow I head across New York toward Burlington, VT. I would like to be able to include Woodstock in this trip, but it's a bit out of the way. I may have to console myself with some wineries in the Finger Lakes region instead.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Louisville, KY
Yesterday was quite the trip down memory lane. I used to live in Louisville, 900 years ago, and so it was a little trippy seeing how much things had changed--and how much hadn't. I drove past my old apartments and shuddered a little (they hadn't changed at all) and drove up and down Bardstown Road looking at all the changes there. I met up with an old friend and we had dinner at Proof on Main. I've changed, too, in the intervening ten years, which is perhaps the biggest one of all.
All that thinking about my life then vs. my life now finally kickstarted my brain into thinking about the upcoming move to California. I haven't really been able to process it, simply because it's brainpower enough to think one or two days ahead when you're on the road. But now, since I'll be done with the road trip this weekend, I can devote that brainpower to thinking about the logistics of the move. It's a little scary--no, scratch that, it's a LOT scary. It all has to happen quickly, I have very, very little money, and somewhere in the middle of next month I have to go to Ohio to hang out with John and his parents there. That said, the move feels right to me. I said I'd never move for love again, but this is a move for my own reasons, under my own steam, in which I'll get my own apartment and my own life first.
Still. There's no room for error on this one.
All that thinking about my life then vs. my life now finally kickstarted my brain into thinking about the upcoming move to California. I haven't really been able to process it, simply because it's brainpower enough to think one or two days ahead when you're on the road. But now, since I'll be done with the road trip this weekend, I can devote that brainpower to thinking about the logistics of the move. It's a little scary--no, scratch that, it's a LOT scary. It all has to happen quickly, I have very, very little money, and somewhere in the middle of next month I have to go to Ohio to hang out with John and his parents there. That said, the move feels right to me. I said I'd never move for love again, but this is a move for my own reasons, under my own steam, in which I'll get my own apartment and my own life first.
Still. There's no room for error on this one.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Columbia, MO; Memphis, TN; and family
My approach to family has always been something along the lines of, "This is my family. I love them; they're all insane. Good luck." As far as having a family of my own, it was somewhere between "I have a family already, they're PLENTY," and "I like children, if properly prepared."
So this next sentence can be taken as a sign of the apocalypse: I'm beginning to see the attraction in having a family of my own. Now, don't get excited. My biological clock is still firmly on Snooze. But after spending a day with John's family and another with my own (extended) family, I have a picture in my head that won't go away. It's a new and strange sensation, to have this sort of picture in my head. I'm not sure how to feel about it. In the picture I'm happy, and I don't feel oppressed, or trapped, or five inches away from drowning the kids in the bathtub. I keep circling the picture, poking it with a stick, trying to decide if this is temporary insanity from eating too much beef jerky or if the picture is there to stay.
John's family was lovely, in every sense of the word. I felt completely welcomed, and more importantly, like I fit in. I felt right at home the whole time I was there; in fact, by the end of the visit, I was casting about for excuses to stay and extend the trip by a day or two. I didn't, I didn't want to impose any more than I already had, dropping in at 10:30 pm with a day's notice, but it wasn't at all the awkward trial by fire meeting the family usually is. Maybe this is one of the benefits of dating someone you've alreay known for fifteen years--everyone already knows, or at least knows of, everyone else. Watching his family interact made me want to be a part of it, possibly with additions of my own.
(Bells! Fire! Horns! Apocalypse! I know.)
Then I spent most of yesterday visiting two uncles and assorted aunts and cousins in the Nashville area. One lives on a horse farm, way back in the country, and he was having a cookout. My cousin came over with his new baby and we all had beers and burgers and sat around playing horseshoes. I kept looking at the baby, trying to decide if my biological clock was actually turning on, but then the baby got fussy and wouldn't stop crying and any wayward maternal urges I may have had promptly shut down. Still. Watching everyone there interact, too, made me call John and confess to the picture in my head. He didn't laugh, or cry, or run screaming into the night. He confessed to having the same picture. I don't think I've ever once been on the same page in a relationship--always, always, someone wants more than the other one. Then the other one gets freaked out, and it's over. It's weird being able to just say whatever it is I'm thinking about, without fear of repercussions. Maybe I should beat that with a stick a little too, see what happens.
In between all this familial daydreaming, I spent the night in Memphis. It was the first time I'd been back since I lived there for the summer ten years ago. (Ten years ago! Sheesh.) I had ribs at Rendezvous--the best ribs ever--and bought an Elvis clock at Graceland. Today I continue the trek through familiar territory in Louisville, where I plan to go on some bourbon tours, buy some bourbon-smoked products, and drink some bourbon at dinner tonight, before I embark on the last big loop of the road trip. By Saturday, I'll be done...
So this next sentence can be taken as a sign of the apocalypse: I'm beginning to see the attraction in having a family of my own. Now, don't get excited. My biological clock is still firmly on Snooze. But after spending a day with John's family and another with my own (extended) family, I have a picture in my head that won't go away. It's a new and strange sensation, to have this sort of picture in my head. I'm not sure how to feel about it. In the picture I'm happy, and I don't feel oppressed, or trapped, or five inches away from drowning the kids in the bathtub. I keep circling the picture, poking it with a stick, trying to decide if this is temporary insanity from eating too much beef jerky or if the picture is there to stay.
John's family was lovely, in every sense of the word. I felt completely welcomed, and more importantly, like I fit in. I felt right at home the whole time I was there; in fact, by the end of the visit, I was casting about for excuses to stay and extend the trip by a day or two. I didn't, I didn't want to impose any more than I already had, dropping in at 10:30 pm with a day's notice, but it wasn't at all the awkward trial by fire meeting the family usually is. Maybe this is one of the benefits of dating someone you've alreay known for fifteen years--everyone already knows, or at least knows of, everyone else. Watching his family interact made me want to be a part of it, possibly with additions of my own.
(Bells! Fire! Horns! Apocalypse! I know.)
Then I spent most of yesterday visiting two uncles and assorted aunts and cousins in the Nashville area. One lives on a horse farm, way back in the country, and he was having a cookout. My cousin came over with his new baby and we all had beers and burgers and sat around playing horseshoes. I kept looking at the baby, trying to decide if my biological clock was actually turning on, but then the baby got fussy and wouldn't stop crying and any wayward maternal urges I may have had promptly shut down. Still. Watching everyone there interact, too, made me call John and confess to the picture in my head. He didn't laugh, or cry, or run screaming into the night. He confessed to having the same picture. I don't think I've ever once been on the same page in a relationship--always, always, someone wants more than the other one. Then the other one gets freaked out, and it's over. It's weird being able to just say whatever it is I'm thinking about, without fear of repercussions. Maybe I should beat that with a stick a little too, see what happens.
In between all this familial daydreaming, I spent the night in Memphis. It was the first time I'd been back since I lived there for the summer ten years ago. (Ten years ago! Sheesh.) I had ribs at Rendezvous--the best ribs ever--and bought an Elvis clock at Graceland. Today I continue the trek through familiar territory in Louisville, where I plan to go on some bourbon tours, buy some bourbon-smoked products, and drink some bourbon at dinner tonight, before I embark on the last big loop of the road trip. By Saturday, I'll be done...
Saturday, July 25, 2009
"It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses."
I have now officially seen more corn than I thought existed in the whole world. If we're actually eating all that corn, in the form of high-fructose corn syrup and other corn byproducts, it's no wonder we're all so fat. Isn't the Midwest supposed to be the nation's breadbasket? Where's all the grain?
The Midwest is far more boring than the West. While the West was much emptier, it was almost desolate in its emptiness, which made it sort of interesting. The Midwest is just corn, corn and interstate, as far as the eye can see--and it's just populated enough to elevate it into the realm of boring. Chuck Klosterman, I love you, but you come from a really boring state.
There are a couple of exceptions--Minnesota was much prettier than either of the Dakotas or Wisconsin (I think because there were more hills). Wisconsin, at least the part I saw from the interstate, rivals central Illinois in its ability to induce sleep while driving. I'm sure many parts of Wisconsin and central Illinois are lovely; but I didn't see those parts. Chicago, however, was and remains a bright shining beacon of hope in the midst of all that boredom. Chicago has now joined LA in my list of Favorite Places from this road trip. Both cities will definitely warrant a much longer and more involved return visit.
I splurged and got a room at an actual hotel, overlooking the lake. Then, because I couldn't get a reservation at Alinea, I had dinner at Blackbird. That was easily the best meal I've had since Vancouver, and it's no wonder--it's probably the first city in which I could have had that meal since Vancouver. I like big cities for many reasons--nightlife, culture, good food--and Chicago fulfills all those requirements in spades. I wouldn't want to be there in the winter, but in the summer it's gorgeous.
At Blackbird, I had good wine, some Chartreuese, veal sweetbreads with truffles, soft-shell crab, and an endive salad in a crusty potato basket thing with a poached egg on top. And of course the cheese plate. The soft-shell crab was more fry than crab, but it came over a mixture of edamame and jalapeno, which made up for it. I was quite happily stuffed. The next morning, I went out to explore the city and got in my cultural fix. I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art and the Art Institute, which are now my favorite art museums outside NYC. MCA featured an exhibit by Olafur Eliasson, which included the most strangely beautiful piece I think I've ever seen. It was a black box room, with a spongey floor, completely dark except for one dim spotlight centered on a fine mist of water. Doesn't sound like much, but the light made such beautiful unexpected patterns in the water, and the sound of the water falling in a dark room was a balm on my travel-weary soul. I stayed there for several minutes, and thanked the universe for art, art museums, and cities big enough to support such art museums.
Lunch involved a 90-minute wait at Hot Doug's, #12 on Anthony Bourdain's list of "13 Places You Have to Eat Before You Die." I had a large order of duck-fat fries (duck fat now joins my list of Things That Make Everything Better, along with bourbon and bacon), and three hot dogs: Spicy Smoked Alligator Sausage with Cajun Remoulade and St. Pete's Blue Cheese, Jamaican Jerk Pork Sausage with Spicy Mango-Passion Fruit Mayonnaise and Roasted Plantains, and Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Aioli, Foie Gras Mousse and Sel Gris. Now those are hot dogs. Well worth the 90-minute wait, even if I did want to start gnawing on my own arm out of hunger by the time I got them.
I stayed with John's parents in Columbia, MO for the night: another drive across corn and interstate, notable only for the fact that it was not Chicago traffic. Chicago, I love you, but you have some really suck-ass traffic. Please, work on that before I return.
The Midwest is far more boring than the West. While the West was much emptier, it was almost desolate in its emptiness, which made it sort of interesting. The Midwest is just corn, corn and interstate, as far as the eye can see--and it's just populated enough to elevate it into the realm of boring. Chuck Klosterman, I love you, but you come from a really boring state.
There are a couple of exceptions--Minnesota was much prettier than either of the Dakotas or Wisconsin (I think because there were more hills). Wisconsin, at least the part I saw from the interstate, rivals central Illinois in its ability to induce sleep while driving. I'm sure many parts of Wisconsin and central Illinois are lovely; but I didn't see those parts. Chicago, however, was and remains a bright shining beacon of hope in the midst of all that boredom. Chicago has now joined LA in my list of Favorite Places from this road trip. Both cities will definitely warrant a much longer and more involved return visit.
I splurged and got a room at an actual hotel, overlooking the lake. Then, because I couldn't get a reservation at Alinea, I had dinner at Blackbird. That was easily the best meal I've had since Vancouver, and it's no wonder--it's probably the first city in which I could have had that meal since Vancouver. I like big cities for many reasons--nightlife, culture, good food--and Chicago fulfills all those requirements in spades. I wouldn't want to be there in the winter, but in the summer it's gorgeous.
At Blackbird, I had good wine, some Chartreuese, veal sweetbreads with truffles, soft-shell crab, and an endive salad in a crusty potato basket thing with a poached egg on top. And of course the cheese plate. The soft-shell crab was more fry than crab, but it came over a mixture of edamame and jalapeno, which made up for it. I was quite happily stuffed. The next morning, I went out to explore the city and got in my cultural fix. I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art and the Art Institute, which are now my favorite art museums outside NYC. MCA featured an exhibit by Olafur Eliasson, which included the most strangely beautiful piece I think I've ever seen. It was a black box room, with a spongey floor, completely dark except for one dim spotlight centered on a fine mist of water. Doesn't sound like much, but the light made such beautiful unexpected patterns in the water, and the sound of the water falling in a dark room was a balm on my travel-weary soul. I stayed there for several minutes, and thanked the universe for art, art museums, and cities big enough to support such art museums.
Lunch involved a 90-minute wait at Hot Doug's, #12 on Anthony Bourdain's list of "13 Places You Have to Eat Before You Die." I had a large order of duck-fat fries (duck fat now joins my list of Things That Make Everything Better, along with bourbon and bacon), and three hot dogs: Spicy Smoked Alligator Sausage with Cajun Remoulade and St. Pete's Blue Cheese, Jamaican Jerk Pork Sausage with Spicy Mango-Passion Fruit Mayonnaise and Roasted Plantains, and Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Aioli, Foie Gras Mousse and Sel Gris. Now those are hot dogs. Well worth the 90-minute wait, even if I did want to start gnawing on my own arm out of hunger by the time I got them.
I stayed with John's parents in Columbia, MO for the night: another drive across corn and interstate, notable only for the fact that it was not Chicago traffic. Chicago, I love you, but you have some really suck-ass traffic. Please, work on that before I return.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Fargo, ND
Wow, I thought Kansas was boring. Then I drove through five more states just like Kansas. Here is my impression of Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, Iowa, South Dakota and North Dakota: corn, corn, corn, cows, corn, cows. Oh look, soybeans! More corn. And perfectly flat. If I stood on a coffee can, I could see Denver. Wyoming was at least interesting in its nothingness because it was so beautiful and so empty at the same time. Those six states, at least the part along the interstates, are just populated enough to keep them from being truly remote, and so they've become elevated to merely boring. And I've seen plenty of corn and cows in my time--I no longer find cornfields either pretty or interesting. Sorry, Midwesterners.
However, Fargo was more interesting than I thought it would be. It's mostly a university town, so in the summer it's deserted. But it's got a cute little downtown and some great houses. My couchsurfing hosts have a very Brooklyn-esque apartment, at I'm sure a twentieth of Brooklyn prices, and because there's no one around during the summer, I don't have to worry about rush hour traffic at all. It's the only large city ("large," anyway) between Minneapolis and Spokane, so it's got a pretty decent music scene. Still. Once you get off the interstate in this part of the world, there really is nothing.
This may be my last opportunity to see nothing, however. Today I head to Chicago via Minneapolis, and then on to Tennessee, Kentucky, and back up to Toronto before I loop around the Northeast. Soon I'll be back in familiar territory. It hasn't quite sunk in that the road trip is almost over...
However, Fargo was more interesting than I thought it would be. It's mostly a university town, so in the summer it's deserted. But it's got a cute little downtown and some great houses. My couchsurfing hosts have a very Brooklyn-esque apartment, at I'm sure a twentieth of Brooklyn prices, and because there's no one around during the summer, I don't have to worry about rush hour traffic at all. It's the only large city ("large," anyway) between Minneapolis and Spokane, so it's got a pretty decent music scene. Still. Once you get off the interstate in this part of the world, there really is nothing.
This may be my last opportunity to see nothing, however. Today I head to Chicago via Minneapolis, and then on to Tennessee, Kentucky, and back up to Toronto before I loop around the Northeast. Soon I'll be back in familiar territory. It hasn't quite sunk in that the road trip is almost over...
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Denver, CO and Kansas City, MO
In a way, Denver was the city that wasn't. I spent my one full day there recuperating from the road trip. I got a deep tissue massage, then a 75-minute pedicure, then a hot stone massage, and let me tell you. I am no longer tense. Sore, and a little bruised, from the deep tissue massage, but completely un-tense. Civilization is a beautiful thing.
I spent dinner last night with two old friends from grad school in Boulder, then woke up early this morning to drive across Kansas. Here is my impression of Kansas: corn, corn, corn, and more corn. Oh look, hay! More corn. Wyoming was at least interesting in its nothingness; Kansas, not so much. Fortunately time all blurred together so that the drive seemed shorter than it actually was (8 1/2 hours). And I am happy to report that I've now had the penultimate couchsurfing experience.
The other couchsurfing experiences on this trip were fine: a place to sleep, usually clean, with nice people. I had a very lovely host in Denver who split a bottle of wine with me, for example. But Kansas City's hostess has been the best so far. She hosted another guy from Switzerland at the same time, and took us both out for beers and to Oklahoma Joe's, #13 on Anthony Bourdain's "13 Places You Have to Go Before You Die" list. Quite possibly the only place on his list where you can buy a souvenir t-shirt.
I spent dinner last night with two old friends from grad school in Boulder, then woke up early this morning to drive across Kansas. Here is my impression of Kansas: corn, corn, corn, and more corn. Oh look, hay! More corn. Wyoming was at least interesting in its nothingness; Kansas, not so much. Fortunately time all blurred together so that the drive seemed shorter than it actually was (8 1/2 hours). And I am happy to report that I've now had the penultimate couchsurfing experience.
The other couchsurfing experiences on this trip were fine: a place to sleep, usually clean, with nice people. I had a very lovely host in Denver who split a bottle of wine with me, for example. But Kansas City's hostess has been the best so far. She hosted another guy from Switzerland at the same time, and took us both out for beers and to Oklahoma Joe's, #13 on Anthony Bourdain's "13 Places You Have to Go Before You Die" list. Quite possibly the only place on his list where you can buy a souvenir t-shirt.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Badlands and Denver, CO
Badlands National Park definitely gets my vote for most alien. At the risk of sounding trite, it's easy to see how it got the name "Badlands." It looks like the Grand Canyon, except weirder. Limestone outcroppings, forced into strange pointy shapes, sticking up out of grassy prairies. The weird part is that from one angle, they simply look like a grassy knoll. From the other side, there's a fifty-foot drop-off into pointy rocks. It's not country I'd want to be riding a horse through, especially if I didn't know exactly where I was going.
The rest of the day I spent recuperating. I curled up in my hotel room with a heating pad and the most recent season of "Entourage," and thanked the gods for Target. I went back to the Badlands that night for some stargazing. I got there just in time for a fantastic sunset; one of the best I've ever seen, in fact. There was just so much of it. Then I realized I'd have to wait an hour or so to be able to see any stars, so I hung my head out the car window, rested it on my elbow, and let all the quiet dark wash over me. No people, no lights, no sounds other than crickets and wind. I really missed John at that moment. I thought of all the various ways we could have killed an hour in a dark car in the middle of nowhere.
But clouds rolled in, so I headed back without the fantastic stargazing experience I'd hoped for. I had my iPod to cheer me up. The first part of the trip, I'd been listening to XM satellite radio exclusively; partly because I could, and partly because I kept forgetting to get an auxiliary cable so I could hook up my iPod to the car. But even though I was alternating between six or eight radio stations, I was getting tired of hearing Van Halen, ZZ Top, and John Mellencamp. Apparently these are the bands of summer. I finally remembered to get the cable while in Target (bless you, Target!) and so now I can listen to my own music again. It was like getting reacquainted with an old, dear friend.
And I had plenty of time to get reacquainted yesterday. I drove from Rapid City, SD to Denver, CO, crossing back into the big nothing that is Wyoming. In two hours of driving through Wyoming, I saw six pronghorn antelope. That is officially more antelope than cars. It's pretty country, and it makes for great driving, but it is a little creepy driving for so long with no signs of human habitation.
When I got to Colorado, I decided to hit Rocky Mountain National Park. On a Sunday. BIG mistake. The park is gorgeous, don't get me wrong--the highest paved road in the world, breathtaking views, and more wildlife than you can shake a stick at. I saw full-grown elk and moose. But the park was jammed with people--all the pull-offs were full of cars, so I couldn't get many pictures, and let's not even talk about how aggravated I was with traffic. I crawled all the way up the two-lane road leading to the park, crawled all the way through the park, crawled all the way back down the other side, and then when I finally got to the interstate, hoping to give my right leg a break from all the stop-and-start driving, the interstate was a parking lot. I was so annoyed I wanted to cry. No, scratch that--actually I wanted to get out of the car, throw a tantrum, firebomb the city of Denver, and then get drunk, not necessarily in that order. 12 straight hours of driving does not make for a happy Jenny. My shoulders and right leg are still killing me; I think today's order of business will be to find a spa and get as many 90-minute deep tissue massages as they can give me.
The rest of the day I spent recuperating. I curled up in my hotel room with a heating pad and the most recent season of "Entourage," and thanked the gods for Target. I went back to the Badlands that night for some stargazing. I got there just in time for a fantastic sunset; one of the best I've ever seen, in fact. There was just so much of it. Then I realized I'd have to wait an hour or so to be able to see any stars, so I hung my head out the car window, rested it on my elbow, and let all the quiet dark wash over me. No people, no lights, no sounds other than crickets and wind. I really missed John at that moment. I thought of all the various ways we could have killed an hour in a dark car in the middle of nowhere.
But clouds rolled in, so I headed back without the fantastic stargazing experience I'd hoped for. I had my iPod to cheer me up. The first part of the trip, I'd been listening to XM satellite radio exclusively; partly because I could, and partly because I kept forgetting to get an auxiliary cable so I could hook up my iPod to the car. But even though I was alternating between six or eight radio stations, I was getting tired of hearing Van Halen, ZZ Top, and John Mellencamp. Apparently these are the bands of summer. I finally remembered to get the cable while in Target (bless you, Target!) and so now I can listen to my own music again. It was like getting reacquainted with an old, dear friend.
And I had plenty of time to get reacquainted yesterday. I drove from Rapid City, SD to Denver, CO, crossing back into the big nothing that is Wyoming. In two hours of driving through Wyoming, I saw six pronghorn antelope. That is officially more antelope than cars. It's pretty country, and it makes for great driving, but it is a little creepy driving for so long with no signs of human habitation.
When I got to Colorado, I decided to hit Rocky Mountain National Park. On a Sunday. BIG mistake. The park is gorgeous, don't get me wrong--the highest paved road in the world, breathtaking views, and more wildlife than you can shake a stick at. I saw full-grown elk and moose. But the park was jammed with people--all the pull-offs were full of cars, so I couldn't get many pictures, and let's not even talk about how aggravated I was with traffic. I crawled all the way up the two-lane road leading to the park, crawled all the way through the park, crawled all the way back down the other side, and then when I finally got to the interstate, hoping to give my right leg a break from all the stop-and-start driving, the interstate was a parking lot. I was so annoyed I wanted to cry. No, scratch that--actually I wanted to get out of the car, throw a tantrum, firebomb the city of Denver, and then get drunk, not necessarily in that order. 12 straight hours of driving does not make for a happy Jenny. My shoulders and right leg are still killing me; I think today's order of business will be to find a spa and get as many 90-minute deep tissue massages as they can give me.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Rapid City, SD
First: this is my 100th post! Thanks everyone for making it this far! And second: a big shout-out to my newest fan, Kathy in Mississippi. Tell all your friends!
Wyoming is officially a whole lot of nothing. But a very pretty nothing. I got up early yesterday to tackle the latest 10-hour driving segment, to Rapid City, SD, straight across Wyoming. Bonuses included seeing the sun rise opposite the Grand Tetons, seeing wild buffalo, elk and pronghorn antelope grazing by the side of the road, and miles upon miles of unimpeded, high-speed, scenic driving. The downside of so emptiness became apparent when I had to pee--it was another hour before a rest stop or gas station presented itself. And at 80 miles an hour, let's see, that's at least 80 miles between gas stations, with nothing else in between. No homes, no restaurants, no nothing. Like I said, a whole lot of nothing. The first part of the drive was gorgeous. Around about Casper, the landscape downshifted into canyons and grassy plains; no more mountains. (Look at me; now I'm even talking in car metaphors. Sheesh).
Rapid City, SD, is...well, it's civilization, I'll give it that. Mostly it's a jumping-off point for the various touristy sites around. Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Custer's Last Stand, Badlands National Park, Deadwood, etc. I haven't seen so much family-oriented tackiness since Fort Worth. "Pan for gold in this extremely well-trodden patch of dirt!" "See wild bears from your car at Bear Country USA!" "Shop at Mt. Quiltmore!" Gag. Not even a decent place to have dinner. I went to Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse last night, and I can officially tell you all that you can skip them. Like Yellowstone, they are way overrated. Interesting, but seriously overrated, and crawling with screaming kids. The upside to Mt. Rushmore: I discovered that they sell magnets for every state in the gift store. My friend T asked me to get her a magnet from every state I went to, envisioning a refrigerator festooned with state magnets, I guess. And now I don't have to shop for any more magnets: T, you have a full set of all the states now, including Alaska and Hawaii, as well as British Columbia, Ontario and Mexico.
Wyoming is officially a whole lot of nothing. But a very pretty nothing. I got up early yesterday to tackle the latest 10-hour driving segment, to Rapid City, SD, straight across Wyoming. Bonuses included seeing the sun rise opposite the Grand Tetons, seeing wild buffalo, elk and pronghorn antelope grazing by the side of the road, and miles upon miles of unimpeded, high-speed, scenic driving. The downside of so emptiness became apparent when I had to pee--it was another hour before a rest stop or gas station presented itself. And at 80 miles an hour, let's see, that's at least 80 miles between gas stations, with nothing else in between. No homes, no restaurants, no nothing. Like I said, a whole lot of nothing. The first part of the drive was gorgeous. Around about Casper, the landscape downshifted into canyons and grassy plains; no more mountains. (Look at me; now I'm even talking in car metaphors. Sheesh).
Rapid City, SD, is...well, it's civilization, I'll give it that. Mostly it's a jumping-off point for the various touristy sites around. Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Custer's Last Stand, Badlands National Park, Deadwood, etc. I haven't seen so much family-oriented tackiness since Fort Worth. "Pan for gold in this extremely well-trodden patch of dirt!" "See wild bears from your car at Bear Country USA!" "Shop at Mt. Quiltmore!" Gag. Not even a decent place to have dinner. I went to Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse last night, and I can officially tell you all that you can skip them. Like Yellowstone, they are way overrated. Interesting, but seriously overrated, and crawling with screaming kids. The upside to Mt. Rushmore: I discovered that they sell magnets for every state in the gift store. My friend T asked me to get her a magnet from every state I went to, envisioning a refrigerator festooned with state magnets, I guess. And now I don't have to shop for any more magnets: T, you have a full set of all the states now, including Alaska and Hawaii, as well as British Columbia, Ontario and Mexico.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Dreams and answers
I had a dream last night. A man was standing in front of a truck. I yelled to him, "What am I looking for?" He pointed to the road under his feet.
Sometimes the answer really is right there in front of you.
Sometimes the answer really is right there in front of you.
Jackson, WY
I think I've finally reached the West. As in cowboys and Indians, cattle brands, gun racks and no vegetarians. For everyone who wondered: it's in Jackson, WY.
The West Coast obviously is not the West; and Texas is a thing unto itself. Montana felt more like the North. Last night, I ate bison carpaccio and elk chops at The Gun Barrel, which featured an entire stuffed buffalo in the lobby and an extensive gun collection. My drink had a plastic rifle in it. They decorated with antlers, and not in an ironic way. Then I went to the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar. They had saddles instead of barstools. You could get nachos with either bison or elk.
Jackson, in addition to being a ski resort in winter, is the gateway to Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. I can tell you that the best time to visit a national park in the summer, any national park, is about 7 am. After 9:30 or so, the crowds get untenable. Grand Teton is gorgeous, full of the grandeur and majesty I've come to expect from national parks. Yellowstone was a total let-down. Grand Teton centers around the most impressive mountain range I've ever seen, towering over plains and a crystal-clear lake; Yellowstone is full of trees and flat swamplands that spit steam and hot water. Not even pretty trees, at that--the park was full of miles upon miles of dead, blasted trees, leftover from a wildfire a couple of years before. So here I am, oohing and aahing at the pretty mountains, then I turn a corner and get to look at dead trees and swamps.
Oh, plus, the National Park Service in its infinite wisdom has decided that summer, the peak of the tourist season, is the proper time to tear up the one road that runs through each of the national parks. Picture this: a two-lane road which is the only point of access. You tear up all the asphalt for a several-mile stretch, stripping the road down to mud and gravel; then you send one lane of cars through at a time, picking their way through mud at 2 mph while working on the other lane, letting the cars in the other direction pile up for miles. What retard came up with this idea? Why in God's name can't they work on the roads in the off-season, or at the very least at night? So now I'm enjoying the mountains, then I have to wait in a line for thirty minutes, then I have to plod behind an RV in the mud for another thirty minutes, THEN I get to look at dead trees and swampland. In a long line of pissed-off people because there's some RV up ahead that can't go more than 20 mph up a hill. RVs should be banned from national parks. I'm serious. There's too much car traffic as it is, especially since there's only one two-lane road per park. Ban the RVs and the campervans and all the yahoos towing boats, that'll cut car traffic in half. A huckleberry margarita and a steak sandwich revived my faith in humanity.
Driving frustrations aside, I seem to have found my mojo again. I've figured out the next steps and how to finance them, so now all I have to worry about is the idiot in front of me. I keep thinking about doing this road trip, or a similar sort of road trip, in a slightly different permutation. Alaska to Patagonia? Across Canada? On a motorcycle? Maybe my second book can be a rewriting of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," from a girl's perspective...
The West Coast obviously is not the West; and Texas is a thing unto itself. Montana felt more like the North. Last night, I ate bison carpaccio and elk chops at The Gun Barrel, which featured an entire stuffed buffalo in the lobby and an extensive gun collection. My drink had a plastic rifle in it. They decorated with antlers, and not in an ironic way. Then I went to the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar. They had saddles instead of barstools. You could get nachos with either bison or elk.
Jackson, in addition to being a ski resort in winter, is the gateway to Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. I can tell you that the best time to visit a national park in the summer, any national park, is about 7 am. After 9:30 or so, the crowds get untenable. Grand Teton is gorgeous, full of the grandeur and majesty I've come to expect from national parks. Yellowstone was a total let-down. Grand Teton centers around the most impressive mountain range I've ever seen, towering over plains and a crystal-clear lake; Yellowstone is full of trees and flat swamplands that spit steam and hot water. Not even pretty trees, at that--the park was full of miles upon miles of dead, blasted trees, leftover from a wildfire a couple of years before. So here I am, oohing and aahing at the pretty mountains, then I turn a corner and get to look at dead trees and swamps.
Oh, plus, the National Park Service in its infinite wisdom has decided that summer, the peak of the tourist season, is the proper time to tear up the one road that runs through each of the national parks. Picture this: a two-lane road which is the only point of access. You tear up all the asphalt for a several-mile stretch, stripping the road down to mud and gravel; then you send one lane of cars through at a time, picking their way through mud at 2 mph while working on the other lane, letting the cars in the other direction pile up for miles. What retard came up with this idea? Why in God's name can't they work on the roads in the off-season, or at the very least at night? So now I'm enjoying the mountains, then I have to wait in a line for thirty minutes, then I have to plod behind an RV in the mud for another thirty minutes, THEN I get to look at dead trees and swampland. In a long line of pissed-off people because there's some RV up ahead that can't go more than 20 mph up a hill. RVs should be banned from national parks. I'm serious. There's too much car traffic as it is, especially since there's only one two-lane road per park. Ban the RVs and the campervans and all the yahoos towing boats, that'll cut car traffic in half. A huckleberry margarita and a steak sandwich revived my faith in humanity.
Driving frustrations aside, I seem to have found my mojo again. I've figured out the next steps and how to finance them, so now all I have to worry about is the idiot in front of me. I keep thinking about doing this road trip, or a similar sort of road trip, in a slightly different permutation. Alaska to Patagonia? Across Canada? On a motorcycle? Maybe my second book can be a rewriting of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," from a girl's perspective...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Glacier National Park
12 hours of driving is still a lot. Yesterday's batch, though, was over a large section of my new favorite interstate: I-15. 15 runs north/south through Montana, Idaho and Utah before it swings through Vegas and south into California. The northern parts (MT, ID and UT) are beautiful and largely deserted. The road runs through a bunch of national forests and some of the most underpopulated parts of the country, so it makes for some lovely driving. Great scenery, fast speed limit, no billboards, and best of all, no other cars. Yesterday, while it was a long day, was definitely one of the top days I've had in terms of scenery.
I started the day in Glacier National Park, which was draped in early morning fog. It didn't start to burn off until almost 10 am, and not even then in lots of places. And it was COLD. There was snow on the ground in spots. Snow. In July. I know what you're thinking: "OK, Jenny, key word Glacier," but still. Snow! However, it was gorgeous. Even the drive back out to the interstate, two hours of a pokey two-lane mountain road filled with RVs, was gorgeous (but frustrating). My mood improved considerably once I hit the interstate and started driving through the Rockies. I headed south toward Idaho Falls before cutting over to Jackson, WY. I found some more two-lane mountain roads that were completely deserted. Hooray! And I did take a perverse pleasure in blasting out a national forest with some Beastie Boys. Mood saved.
I started the day in Glacier National Park, which was draped in early morning fog. It didn't start to burn off until almost 10 am, and not even then in lots of places. And it was COLD. There was snow on the ground in spots. Snow. In July. I know what you're thinking: "OK, Jenny, key word Glacier," but still. Snow! However, it was gorgeous. Even the drive back out to the interstate, two hours of a pokey two-lane mountain road filled with RVs, was gorgeous (but frustrating). My mood improved considerably once I hit the interstate and started driving through the Rockies. I headed south toward Idaho Falls before cutting over to Jackson, WY. I found some more two-lane mountain roads that were completely deserted. Hooray! And I did take a perverse pleasure in blasting out a national forest with some Beastie Boys. Mood saved.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Idaho and Montana
12 hours of driving is a lot. That's how far it is from Vancouver to Kalispell, MT, not far from Glacier National Park. That includes four stops to gas up and pee and one to just pee. I can get into a sort of zen state while driving; the music is good, the caffeine has kicked in, the worries of the world just drop away. But 12 hours is still a lot.
Fortunately, o glory of glories, I found the Holy Grail of Road Tripping yesterday: many miles of twisty mountain road, with a 70-mph speed limit, and most importantly, no one else on the road. No one. Hallelujah. Once I turned off I-90 in Montana and started heading north, all the traffic magically disappeared. I'd always heard Montana was underpopulated, but damn. I think I passed three farm trucks in an hour ("passed" being the operative word--apparently they were not concerned with maintaining the 70-mph limit, because I blew past them like they were standing still. Good times). Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Idaho and Montana are gorgeous; coming east from Seattle, the land briefly turns to brown, arid hills (potato farming country) that sort of resemble Texas, but then the Rockies start, and the road climbs, and the trees turn to tall mountain pine. The drive through Montana was such a cliche: steep mountains, deep valleys, burbling streams, covered bridges, railroad trestles over aforementioned deep valleys and burbling streams...I'm starting to see why people live in Montana.
Not sayin' I want to live here. Just sayin' I want to keep driving through it, fast.
Fortunately, o glory of glories, I found the Holy Grail of Road Tripping yesterday: many miles of twisty mountain road, with a 70-mph speed limit, and most importantly, no one else on the road. No one. Hallelujah. Once I turned off I-90 in Montana and started heading north, all the traffic magically disappeared. I'd always heard Montana was underpopulated, but damn. I think I passed three farm trucks in an hour ("passed" being the operative word--apparently they were not concerned with maintaining the 70-mph limit, because I blew past them like they were standing still. Good times). Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Idaho and Montana are gorgeous; coming east from Seattle, the land briefly turns to brown, arid hills (potato farming country) that sort of resemble Texas, but then the Rockies start, and the road climbs, and the trees turn to tall mountain pine. The drive through Montana was such a cliche: steep mountains, deep valleys, burbling streams, covered bridges, railroad trestles over aforementioned deep valleys and burbling streams...I'm starting to see why people live in Montana.
Not sayin' I want to live here. Just sayin' I want to keep driving through it, fast.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Vancouver, BC
A big shout-out to my new friend Romaine in Vancouver. Romes, you're the bestest tour guide ever!
I was promised a free dinner if I mentioned him favorably on the blog. ;-) R was a friend of a friend; he showed me around the city yesterday and we had a great time. I was hassled briefly at the Canadian border, yet again; apparently travelling in a car chock-full of crap is frowned upon when crossing borders. Go figure. I rearranged everything at the hostel so that all the wine I bought is now in the trunk and the backseat is mostly dirty clothes and empty water bottles. No hassles re-crossing the border this morning. I met R and we had sushi for lunch, then explored the Granville Island Public Market and I discovered that no one in Canada takes American Express. Boo. I suppose it's just as well, or I would have tempted to charge some native art.
The highlight of the day was dinner at Salmon House on the Hill, affording us panoramic views of the city and some amazing food and wine. I had a Dungeness crab and tomato napoleon in a green tomato consomme with avocado mousse, pan-seared halibut with a morel, corn, fava bean and asparagus succotash, gnocchi, a sweetbread beignet, and truffle cream, and the cheese plate. I fell in love with the two entree wines; I had the Laughing Stock Chardonnay from Naramata, BC and R had the Seven Stones Meritage from Similkameen Valley, BC. Both lovely, lovely wines. Unfortunately I couldn't find them for sale anywhere, not even from the bar. But the bartender did sell me a bottle of the Black Widow "Fortified Vintage One," a port-like dessert wine.
Unfortunately the magic ended as soon as I got back to the hostel, and was confronted with the world's loudest snorer. I didn't get a wink of sleep.
I was promised a free dinner if I mentioned him favorably on the blog. ;-) R was a friend of a friend; he showed me around the city yesterday and we had a great time. I was hassled briefly at the Canadian border, yet again; apparently travelling in a car chock-full of crap is frowned upon when crossing borders. Go figure. I rearranged everything at the hostel so that all the wine I bought is now in the trunk and the backseat is mostly dirty clothes and empty water bottles. No hassles re-crossing the border this morning. I met R and we had sushi for lunch, then explored the Granville Island Public Market and I discovered that no one in Canada takes American Express. Boo. I suppose it's just as well, or I would have tempted to charge some native art.
The highlight of the day was dinner at Salmon House on the Hill, affording us panoramic views of the city and some amazing food and wine. I had a Dungeness crab and tomato napoleon in a green tomato consomme with avocado mousse, pan-seared halibut with a morel, corn, fava bean and asparagus succotash, gnocchi, a sweetbread beignet, and truffle cream, and the cheese plate. I fell in love with the two entree wines; I had the Laughing Stock Chardonnay from Naramata, BC and R had the Seven Stones Meritage from Similkameen Valley, BC. Both lovely, lovely wines. Unfortunately I couldn't find them for sale anywhere, not even from the bar. But the bartender did sell me a bottle of the Black Widow "Fortified Vintage One," a port-like dessert wine.
Unfortunately the magic ended as soon as I got back to the hostel, and was confronted with the world's loudest snorer. I didn't get a wink of sleep.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Seattle, WA
I went back to Pike Place Market today and found the most amazing matted photograph, entitled "Road Trip." Guess why I bought it. I'll try to take a picture of it and post it; it's the perfect embodiment. I wandered around a couple of interesting neighborhoods, ate some smoked salmon belly and dried Rainier cherries, and called it a day. I've been holed up in my hotel room, attempting to plan out the last bits of the trip.
It's weird to think that now I'm officially on the last segment. I've been worried and anxious the last couple of days; worried about money, but also worried about next steps, moving, financing said move, and trying to quell the paranoia demons in my head. ("What if you move and it doesn't work out? What if you can't find a job right away? What if this really has been all a dream and you're going to wake up with the most epic hangover ever?") It's really cutting into my enjoyment of the trip, and I hate that. I'm only doing this trip once--I want to be able to enjoy the last three weeks of it, and not be constantly worrying about money or the details of moving. It's more than enough to worry about where my next hot shower and internet access is coming from, believe me. That's the other thing--living out of my car is finally starting to wear on me. I suppose that's normal, I've been doing it for six weeks, but perhaps it's for the best that I'm starting to look forward to not being on the road. Otherwise I'd never come home, and then my cats would be mad at me.
Speaking of hot showers and internet access, this next week I'll be traveling in some very remote parts of the country. Vancouver tomorrow, but then Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Theodore Roosevelt in North Dakota, the Badlands in South Dakota, and then finally Denver next weekend. So if my blogging becomes sporadic, or nonexistent, it's because wi-fi = fail. My first priority will be sleeping in places with flush toilets and hot showers if at all possible; some of those national parks have hostels, but others don't, and I really don't want to have to camp in a part of the world where temperatures dip into the thirties at night, even in July. What's that all about, anyway?
It's weird to think that now I'm officially on the last segment. I've been worried and anxious the last couple of days; worried about money, but also worried about next steps, moving, financing said move, and trying to quell the paranoia demons in my head. ("What if you move and it doesn't work out? What if you can't find a job right away? What if this really has been all a dream and you're going to wake up with the most epic hangover ever?") It's really cutting into my enjoyment of the trip, and I hate that. I'm only doing this trip once--I want to be able to enjoy the last three weeks of it, and not be constantly worrying about money or the details of moving. It's more than enough to worry about where my next hot shower and internet access is coming from, believe me. That's the other thing--living out of my car is finally starting to wear on me. I suppose that's normal, I've been doing it for six weeks, but perhaps it's for the best that I'm starting to look forward to not being on the road. Otherwise I'd never come home, and then my cats would be mad at me.
Speaking of hot showers and internet access, this next week I'll be traveling in some very remote parts of the country. Vancouver tomorrow, but then Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Theodore Roosevelt in North Dakota, the Badlands in South Dakota, and then finally Denver next weekend. So if my blogging becomes sporadic, or nonexistent, it's because wi-fi = fail. My first priority will be sleeping in places with flush toilets and hot showers if at all possible; some of those national parks have hostels, but others don't, and I really don't want to have to camp in a part of the world where temperatures dip into the thirties at night, even in July. What's that all about, anyway?
Portland, OR and Seattle, WA
As a decade-long resident of New York, I thought I had a lock on freaky people. Oh no. According to the Pacific Northwest, New York don't know nothin' about freaky people.
I mean this in a good way (mostly). I figure maybe 30% of the population of New York has visible tattoos, ironic facial hair, and/or interesting piercings. So far as I can tell, at least 75% of Portland's population has visible tattoos in addition to facial piercings and some unnatural color of hair. The entire city smells like patchouli, and if the homeless population isn't the largest I've ever seen, it's because it's hard to differentiate between actual homeless people and smelly people in ratty clothes hanging out on the sidewalk, with homes.
That being said, the city has a great, laidback vibe. EVERYONE in the Pacific Northwest has a bicycle, and I mean everyone. And they use them. And there are dedicated bike lanes on every road, and there is actual bike parking. The city governments back East are always going on about reducing traffic, but they refuse to do the simplest things to ease traffic: put in sidewalks and institute bike lanes and bike parking in office buildings. Portland has some great craft breweries, and the greatest bookstore ever: Powells. Not only do they sell used books online, they also BUY used books online. I stopped in to their flagship store, sold off some books and guidebooks, and purchased a cookbook I'd been wanting. Good times. I also saw a woman walking around with no shirt on. She seemed unconcerned. I hope she was wearing sunscreen.
The seafood, naturally, is also top-notch in this part of the world. I had some oysters for lunch, and I've decided that I much prefer Pacific oysters to Atlantic or Chesapeake Bay oysters. Bay oysters are kind of sweet; Pacific oysters taste like the ocean. No, more than that: they taste like the deep, dark parts of the ocean, clean and salty and ineffably lonely. I saw all manner of seafood for sale yesterday in Seattle's Pike Place Market, and I've never wanted to cook so badly in my entire life. Four-pound lobster tails (TAILS), entire king salmon, halibut cheeks the size of my hand, Dungeness crabs the size of my head...I can't imagine what I would pay for quality seafood like that in New York, and here they're practically giving it away.
I definitely like Seattle better; it's an actual city, and there are a few normal people here ("normal" being defined as "a person who might own and wear a suit"). It's also got a great laidback vibe, without so much of the crunchiness of Portland. The people are really friendly, too; while having dinner last night at Quinn's Pub, I met a theatre techie from ACT who offered me a both a free ticket to last night's performance of "The Breaks" and a gay date--his friend Ty, originally from New York, accompanied me. I also had the first really good Dark and Stormy since I left Charleston. Dark and Stormies, a belly full of foie gras, bone marrow, beef tartare and pork belly, and free theatre. It was a good night.
I mean this in a good way (mostly). I figure maybe 30% of the population of New York has visible tattoos, ironic facial hair, and/or interesting piercings. So far as I can tell, at least 75% of Portland's population has visible tattoos in addition to facial piercings and some unnatural color of hair. The entire city smells like patchouli, and if the homeless population isn't the largest I've ever seen, it's because it's hard to differentiate between actual homeless people and smelly people in ratty clothes hanging out on the sidewalk, with homes.
That being said, the city has a great, laidback vibe. EVERYONE in the Pacific Northwest has a bicycle, and I mean everyone. And they use them. And there are dedicated bike lanes on every road, and there is actual bike parking. The city governments back East are always going on about reducing traffic, but they refuse to do the simplest things to ease traffic: put in sidewalks and institute bike lanes and bike parking in office buildings. Portland has some great craft breweries, and the greatest bookstore ever: Powells. Not only do they sell used books online, they also BUY used books online. I stopped in to their flagship store, sold off some books and guidebooks, and purchased a cookbook I'd been wanting. Good times. I also saw a woman walking around with no shirt on. She seemed unconcerned. I hope she was wearing sunscreen.
The seafood, naturally, is also top-notch in this part of the world. I had some oysters for lunch, and I've decided that I much prefer Pacific oysters to Atlantic or Chesapeake Bay oysters. Bay oysters are kind of sweet; Pacific oysters taste like the ocean. No, more than that: they taste like the deep, dark parts of the ocean, clean and salty and ineffably lonely. I saw all manner of seafood for sale yesterday in Seattle's Pike Place Market, and I've never wanted to cook so badly in my entire life. Four-pound lobster tails (TAILS), entire king salmon, halibut cheeks the size of my hand, Dungeness crabs the size of my head...I can't imagine what I would pay for quality seafood like that in New York, and here they're practically giving it away.
I definitely like Seattle better; it's an actual city, and there are a few normal people here ("normal" being defined as "a person who might own and wear a suit"). It's also got a great laidback vibe, without so much of the crunchiness of Portland. The people are really friendly, too; while having dinner last night at Quinn's Pub, I met a theatre techie from ACT who offered me a both a free ticket to last night's performance of "The Breaks" and a gay date--his friend Ty, originally from New York, accompanied me. I also had the first really good Dark and Stormy since I left Charleston. Dark and Stormies, a belly full of foie gras, bone marrow, beef tartare and pork belly, and free theatre. It was a good night.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Side rant about California drivers, two-lane roads, and slow people
Public Service Announcement: If your vehicle is incapable of either reaching or maintaining the posted speed limit on a two-lane road, GET OFF THE DAMN ROAD. Thank you.
The following should never, ever be allowed on any two-lane road, especially a two-lane mountain road:
1. Any vehicle towing anything, especially boats.
2. Semis.
3. RVs.
4. SUVs.
5. Old people.
6. Minivans will be considered on a case-by-case basis.
California drivers are the worst. Even worse than Florida, and Florida is full of old people. I've never in my life seen a group of drivers more committed to driving in the left lane, or to being so afraid of a curvy road. Apparently in California, if the posted speed limit on a curvy road is 55, and then a sign warns you that 35 is the safest speed with which to approach the upcoming curve...then apparently the speed limit has just changed to 35 for the ENTIRE road, not just that particular curve. Now, I like driving over curvy mountain roads--provided there are not a bunch of nimrods clogging up the works. I even like driving mountain roads in a rental P.O.S., though I'm sure I would enjoy it a lot more in a BMW Z4. However. My road rage worked itself into a full frothy raging frenzy today, for obvious reasons. I'm really glad the next few days will be solely on interstates.
The following should never, ever be allowed on any two-lane road, especially a two-lane mountain road:
1. Any vehicle towing anything, especially boats.
2. Semis.
3. RVs.
4. SUVs.
5. Old people.
6. Minivans will be considered on a case-by-case basis.
California drivers are the worst. Even worse than Florida, and Florida is full of old people. I've never in my life seen a group of drivers more committed to driving in the left lane, or to being so afraid of a curvy road. Apparently in California, if the posted speed limit on a curvy road is 55, and then a sign warns you that 35 is the safest speed with which to approach the upcoming curve...then apparently the speed limit has just changed to 35 for the ENTIRE road, not just that particular curve. Now, I like driving over curvy mountain roads--provided there are not a bunch of nimrods clogging up the works. I even like driving mountain roads in a rental P.O.S., though I'm sure I would enjoy it a lot more in a BMW Z4. However. My road rage worked itself into a full frothy raging frenzy today, for obvious reasons. I'm really glad the next few days will be solely on interstates.
San Francisco, CA and Napa Valley
Sorry for the delay--the hostel I was staying at north of San Francisco had no wi-fi. So uncivilized. They get points for being in the most remote location (relatively speaking; it was in the Marin highlands, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but I wasn't aware you could be within four miles of downtown SF and have no wi-fi or PHONE SERVICE), but still. Boo.
To wrap up my LA experience: Venice Beach at 9 am on a Monday morning is still a nutty experience. I didn't get the full complement of freakiness, but I saw enough to extrapolate. I'd wanted to have lunch at Ford's Filling Station, but they were closed for some sort of employee thing, so I had to settle for some candied bacon to go. Yes, folks: candied bacon. On a stick. I met up with a couple of friends from Columbia, and met their new baby. Candied bacon was enjoyed by all.
The next morning I got up bright and early and started driving up the PCH toward SF. I got to see the sun rise over Malibu...and then the rest of the PCH, until San Simeon, was largely a bust. I was thinking, "Why am I on this stupid two-lane road when I could be on the interstate?" and then I hit Big Sur.
I apologize for not having any pictures of Big Sur, there were no good places to pull over and take any. See link above for other people's pictures. I just had to drive straight through with my mouth hanging open. Definitely one of the top three most beautiful things I've seen on this trip. Imagine driving a twisty, 20-mph mountain pass with meadows full of mountain grasses, or cliffs, on one side and a sheer, 500-foot drop-off directly into the Pacific Ocean on the other. For about three hours. Occasionally dipping into an old-growth hardwood forest. If it hadn't been for all the slow-moving idiots on the road, I may have been perfectly happy.
After Big Sur, the drive was uneventful. I hit the hostel just outside Sausalito and went into SF for dinner at Gary Danko. Yes, I couldn't afford it. I ate there anyway. Suck it, budget. I couldn't get a reservation at French Laundry so I took the next best thing. I also made some lovely purchases at Cellar 360 and saw another old friend, who sent me on with some bottles of his own private wine label. But more about dinner. Here's what I had:
Amuse bouche: Gazpacho with duck proscuitto
Glazed oysters with osetra caviar, zucchini pearls and lettuce cream, served with Gruner-Veltliner, Gritsch, Singerriedel, Federspiel, Wachau, Austria 2007
Horseradish-crusted salmon medallion with dilled cucumbers and mustard sauce, served with Saint-Joseph, Domaine Courbis, Northern Rhone, France 2007
Seared filet of beef with cumin potatoes, swiss chard and tomato-corn relish, served with Toro, Bodega Numanthia Termes, Termes, Spain 2006
Cheese course, served with Petite Sirah, Switchback Ridge, Peterson Family Vineyard, Napa Valley, CA 2004
Baked chocolate souffle with two sauces, served with Maury, Mas Amiel, Vin Doux Naturel, Languedoc-Roussillon, France 2006
YUM. And again I say: YUM. And the service was exquisite, real Old World European-style service. Nothing makes you feel like a civilized person faster than being fawned over by multiple waiters. I was mortally ashamed to be wearing jeans (my cool weather nice attire is not what I would like, it was too chilly to wear my one DVF dress), but if anyone noticed, no one said anything, which I very much appreciated. Have I mentioned lately how much I love cheese? I am a cheese whore. The stinkier, the better. Note: if you ask nicely, they'll do an entire five-course tasting menu, with wine pairings, made out of nothing but cheese. I was sorely tempted, believe me.
The gourmet experience continued the next day in Napa Valley. I had grand illusions of covering several wineries, but let this be a lesson to us all: it is impossible to a) drink a lot of wine and b) drive. Especially c) without falling asleep. I managed four wine tastings and two stops at wine stores before I called it a day. You wouldn't think drinking wine all day would be so exhausting, but it really is. I think four wineries per day is about the maximum anyone can hope to accomplish in Napa. Most of the places I was particularly interested in visiting were appointment-only (Joseph Phelps, Stag's Leap, Opus One, Caymus, Copain) so I chose Domaine Chandon, Plumpjack, Heitz and Chateau Montelena instead. Between Napa and Cellar 360, I made some really, really lovely purchases, all of which I was assured could not be found outside the state of California.
Today I drove to Redwoods National Park. Redwoods are some big damn trees. And northern California is foggy. And cold. And my liver is still full of wine, and driving on two-lane roads all day long has made me cranky, and, and, and. So tonight I will go catch "Macbeth" at Oregon Shakespeare Festival to clear my brain out a little.
To wrap up my LA experience: Venice Beach at 9 am on a Monday morning is still a nutty experience. I didn't get the full complement of freakiness, but I saw enough to extrapolate. I'd wanted to have lunch at Ford's Filling Station, but they were closed for some sort of employee thing, so I had to settle for some candied bacon to go. Yes, folks: candied bacon. On a stick. I met up with a couple of friends from Columbia, and met their new baby. Candied bacon was enjoyed by all.
The next morning I got up bright and early and started driving up the PCH toward SF. I got to see the sun rise over Malibu...and then the rest of the PCH, until San Simeon, was largely a bust. I was thinking, "Why am I on this stupid two-lane road when I could be on the interstate?" and then I hit Big Sur.
I apologize for not having any pictures of Big Sur, there were no good places to pull over and take any. See link above for other people's pictures. I just had to drive straight through with my mouth hanging open. Definitely one of the top three most beautiful things I've seen on this trip. Imagine driving a twisty, 20-mph mountain pass with meadows full of mountain grasses, or cliffs, on one side and a sheer, 500-foot drop-off directly into the Pacific Ocean on the other. For about three hours. Occasionally dipping into an old-growth hardwood forest. If it hadn't been for all the slow-moving idiots on the road, I may have been perfectly happy.
After Big Sur, the drive was uneventful. I hit the hostel just outside Sausalito and went into SF for dinner at Gary Danko. Yes, I couldn't afford it. I ate there anyway. Suck it, budget. I couldn't get a reservation at French Laundry so I took the next best thing. I also made some lovely purchases at Cellar 360 and saw another old friend, who sent me on with some bottles of his own private wine label. But more about dinner. Here's what I had:
Amuse bouche: Gazpacho with duck proscuitto
Glazed oysters with osetra caviar, zucchini pearls and lettuce cream, served with Gruner-Veltliner, Gritsch, Singerriedel, Federspiel, Wachau, Austria 2007
Horseradish-crusted salmon medallion with dilled cucumbers and mustard sauce, served with Saint-Joseph, Domaine Courbis, Northern Rhone, France 2007
Seared filet of beef with cumin potatoes, swiss chard and tomato-corn relish, served with Toro, Bodega Numanthia Termes, Termes, Spain 2006
Cheese course, served with Petite Sirah, Switchback Ridge, Peterson Family Vineyard, Napa Valley, CA 2004
Baked chocolate souffle with two sauces, served with Maury, Mas Amiel, Vin Doux Naturel, Languedoc-Roussillon, France 2006
YUM. And again I say: YUM. And the service was exquisite, real Old World European-style service. Nothing makes you feel like a civilized person faster than being fawned over by multiple waiters. I was mortally ashamed to be wearing jeans (my cool weather nice attire is not what I would like, it was too chilly to wear my one DVF dress), but if anyone noticed, no one said anything, which I very much appreciated. Have I mentioned lately how much I love cheese? I am a cheese whore. The stinkier, the better. Note: if you ask nicely, they'll do an entire five-course tasting menu, with wine pairings, made out of nothing but cheese. I was sorely tempted, believe me.
The gourmet experience continued the next day in Napa Valley. I had grand illusions of covering several wineries, but let this be a lesson to us all: it is impossible to a) drink a lot of wine and b) drive. Especially c) without falling asleep. I managed four wine tastings and two stops at wine stores before I called it a day. You wouldn't think drinking wine all day would be so exhausting, but it really is. I think four wineries per day is about the maximum anyone can hope to accomplish in Napa. Most of the places I was particularly interested in visiting were appointment-only (Joseph Phelps, Stag's Leap, Opus One, Caymus, Copain) so I chose Domaine Chandon, Plumpjack, Heitz and Chateau Montelena instead. Between Napa and Cellar 360, I made some really, really lovely purchases, all of which I was assured could not be found outside the state of California.
Today I drove to Redwoods National Park. Redwoods are some big damn trees. And northern California is foggy. And cold. And my liver is still full of wine, and driving on two-lane roads all day long has made me cranky, and, and, and. So tonight I will go catch "Macbeth" at Oregon Shakespeare Festival to clear my brain out a little.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Los Angeles, CA
For the longest time I was sure I wouldn't like LA. I'm not sure why--I think I thought it would be full of hippies and freaky people with no work ethic. But I've completely and totally fallen in love with LA. I guess I failed to take into account that I myself am a freaky person with no work ethic.
In a weird way, liking LA so much makes me more excited and more ready to move to southern California. It's about 100 miles between San Diego and LA, so I'm not contemplating moving to LA and dating in San Diego or anything like that. But if things go south, I could move to LA and pick up the pieces without having to worry about moving all the way back to New York. Plus the restaurants/nightlife/cultural options are close enough to take advantage of them on the weekends.
I've been through a lot of cities with no character. You all know the sort of cities I mean--there are buildings, and businesses, and people, and some suburbs, but the city lacks any identifiable soul. To quote Gertrude Stein, there's no there, there. That was always part of my problem with America ("America" as opposed to "New York"--because we all know New York is not actually a part of America, and vice versa). I couldn't understand how so many people could live in places that were so...boring. That was part of the reason for this road trip--to break out of the New York bubble and see what the rest of the country was like, before I lived in New York too long to actually relate to it. But LA had an immediate and very identifiable soul. Even driving through it at 8 am on a Sunday, when no one else was around, I could feel the energy. It made me want to leap out of the car and run around the streets meeting people.
I checked into my hostel, two blocks from the Santa Monica beach, and then gave myself a driving tour of LA. Down Santa Monica Boulevard to Sunset Boulevard and the Sunset Strip (hi, Whisky A Go Go!) through Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive, down Hollywood Boulevard into Hollywood, to Hollywood and Vine, down Melrose and then Wilshire...well, you get the idea. I went to the Farmer's Market, checked out the La Brea Tar Pits and the LA County Art Museum, then drove back up to Griffith Observatory (you know it from "Rebel Without a Cause") to take some truly amazing pictures of the city. I ended the day exploring Santa Monica's beach, and today I'll wander down to Venice Beach.
While I was enjoying a beer on the beach last night, I struck up a conversation with a guy whose life had eerily paralleled mine. He moved out here from DC to join his girlfriend, then couldn't find a job, then got dumped, and now finds himself living out of his car and selling off his worldly possessions in order to eat. However, he didn't regret the move. I gave him the outline of my situation, and he told me a) if he had to do it again, he would, b) if he did it again, he would definitely choose San Diego over LA, c) that I should do it, with a bare minimum of stuff, because it's surprising the amount of stuff you can live without, and d) it sounded like I'd already made the mental break with New York, even before San Diego. Sometimes bar conversations are just that, and sometimes they're the universe trying to tell you something.
I've made up my mind to move out here, it's just a question of when. If I move out here now, I'd have to get my own place and my own car. I can't put myself in the same position as last time--when I moved to a place I would never have considered moving to otherwise, and let my own life and my own identity get completely wrapped up in his, so that when he dumped me, I had less than nothing. Not even my own sense of self-worth to fall back on. I don't want to be a cynic, but I also want to be rational about this. There is a kid involved, after all. That being said, I'm going into this with my eyes open, so I've already got an advantage over previous situations. And I think that even without a compelling reason to move to San Diego, I'd want to finish the trip and start over in LA. I think I can definitely make a life of my own out here.
The problem is that I have no money. It takes capital to move, get a job, get a place, start a new life, and I just don't have it. Originally I thought I would get a temp job in New York and build up the bank account a bit, but I can get a temp job here just as easily, and quite honestly, it's becoming harder and harder to picture myself in New York for any length of time. I don't want to put myself in the position of "I won't move without a ring," either, because that's emotional blackmail and it's not the ring I care about--it's the sense of security. Perhaps the answer is to have some legal paperwork to bolster this effort.
Or perhaps the answer is to quit overanalyzing the situation and just enjoy the rest of the trip. It's good to be on the road again--don't get me wrong, I enjoyed my week of domestic bliss immensely, and I can't wait to have some more of it, but the road feels like home now. I guess there's more vagabond in me than I knew.
In a weird way, liking LA so much makes me more excited and more ready to move to southern California. It's about 100 miles between San Diego and LA, so I'm not contemplating moving to LA and dating in San Diego or anything like that. But if things go south, I could move to LA and pick up the pieces without having to worry about moving all the way back to New York. Plus the restaurants/nightlife/cultural options are close enough to take advantage of them on the weekends.
I've been through a lot of cities with no character. You all know the sort of cities I mean--there are buildings, and businesses, and people, and some suburbs, but the city lacks any identifiable soul. To quote Gertrude Stein, there's no there, there. That was always part of my problem with America ("America" as opposed to "New York"--because we all know New York is not actually a part of America, and vice versa). I couldn't understand how so many people could live in places that were so...boring. That was part of the reason for this road trip--to break out of the New York bubble and see what the rest of the country was like, before I lived in New York too long to actually relate to it. But LA had an immediate and very identifiable soul. Even driving through it at 8 am on a Sunday, when no one else was around, I could feel the energy. It made me want to leap out of the car and run around the streets meeting people.
I checked into my hostel, two blocks from the Santa Monica beach, and then gave myself a driving tour of LA. Down Santa Monica Boulevard to Sunset Boulevard and the Sunset Strip (hi, Whisky A Go Go!) through Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive, down Hollywood Boulevard into Hollywood, to Hollywood and Vine, down Melrose and then Wilshire...well, you get the idea. I went to the Farmer's Market, checked out the La Brea Tar Pits and the LA County Art Museum, then drove back up to Griffith Observatory (you know it from "Rebel Without a Cause") to take some truly amazing pictures of the city. I ended the day exploring Santa Monica's beach, and today I'll wander down to Venice Beach.
While I was enjoying a beer on the beach last night, I struck up a conversation with a guy whose life had eerily paralleled mine. He moved out here from DC to join his girlfriend, then couldn't find a job, then got dumped, and now finds himself living out of his car and selling off his worldly possessions in order to eat. However, he didn't regret the move. I gave him the outline of my situation, and he told me a) if he had to do it again, he would, b) if he did it again, he would definitely choose San Diego over LA, c) that I should do it, with a bare minimum of stuff, because it's surprising the amount of stuff you can live without, and d) it sounded like I'd already made the mental break with New York, even before San Diego. Sometimes bar conversations are just that, and sometimes they're the universe trying to tell you something.
I've made up my mind to move out here, it's just a question of when. If I move out here now, I'd have to get my own place and my own car. I can't put myself in the same position as last time--when I moved to a place I would never have considered moving to otherwise, and let my own life and my own identity get completely wrapped up in his, so that when he dumped me, I had less than nothing. Not even my own sense of self-worth to fall back on. I don't want to be a cynic, but I also want to be rational about this. There is a kid involved, after all. That being said, I'm going into this with my eyes open, so I've already got an advantage over previous situations. And I think that even without a compelling reason to move to San Diego, I'd want to finish the trip and start over in LA. I think I can definitely make a life of my own out here.
The problem is that I have no money. It takes capital to move, get a job, get a place, start a new life, and I just don't have it. Originally I thought I would get a temp job in New York and build up the bank account a bit, but I can get a temp job here just as easily, and quite honestly, it's becoming harder and harder to picture myself in New York for any length of time. I don't want to put myself in the position of "I won't move without a ring," either, because that's emotional blackmail and it's not the ring I care about--it's the sense of security. Perhaps the answer is to have some legal paperwork to bolster this effort.
Or perhaps the answer is to quit overanalyzing the situation and just enjoy the rest of the trip. It's good to be on the road again--don't get me wrong, I enjoyed my week of domestic bliss immensely, and I can't wait to have some more of it, but the road feels like home now. I guess there's more vagabond in me than I knew.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
So, San Diego for real, plus Tijuana, Mexico
The road trip officially went international today. I drove to Tijuana this morning, drove around for a few minutes, didn't find a thing worth stopping for, and then spent the next ninety minutes waiting to go back across the border. The border cop hassled me for having too much crap in the car, and for having beer in the backseat. I think I've probably just had the quintessential Tijuana experience--minus the donkey shows and vomiting tequila in the streets, of course.
So I'm comforting myself by cooking a big girlfriend-worthy dinner: scallop carpaccio, apple-smoked bacon-wrapped quail with peach salsa, brussel sprouts, and roasted corn, and fresh Rainier cherries for dessert. I'm also going to bust out the bourbon-aged beer I bought in Charleston, along with some of the fancy salt.
San Diego itself has a lot of tourist attractions, but only one or two that interested me. I didn't care about SeaWorld, or LegoLand, or the military stuff. We went to the zoo, which is big and a bit confusing (and expensive! $35 each to get in!), but is one of the best-designed zoos in the world. We wandered through Balboa Park, home to most of the museums, the Gaslamp Quarter, Old Town San Diego, and several of the beaches. The weather took a bit of getting used to for me--granted, I'm not complaining about 75 degrees and ocean breezes 365 days a year, but after four weeks of 100-degree temperatures, 75 feels downright chilly. And the water is COLD. We discovered a great wine bar at the Hotel del Coronado, as well.
California is as laid-back as I've always heard, the produce and seafood are fantastic, there are at least three good theatres in town, and even though the drivers SUCK, it is possible to get around town on a bike or a Vespa. I'm trying to imagine myself living here, and it's getting easier. Granted, the state is bankrupt, I'd have to deal with wildfires and rolling blackouts, and the unemployment rate is 10%. But the unemployment rate in New York is 10%, too.
So I'm comforting myself by cooking a big girlfriend-worthy dinner: scallop carpaccio, apple-smoked bacon-wrapped quail with peach salsa, brussel sprouts, and roasted corn, and fresh Rainier cherries for dessert. I'm also going to bust out the bourbon-aged beer I bought in Charleston, along with some of the fancy salt.
San Diego itself has a lot of tourist attractions, but only one or two that interested me. I didn't care about SeaWorld, or LegoLand, or the military stuff. We went to the zoo, which is big and a bit confusing (and expensive! $35 each to get in!), but is one of the best-designed zoos in the world. We wandered through Balboa Park, home to most of the museums, the Gaslamp Quarter, Old Town San Diego, and several of the beaches. The weather took a bit of getting used to for me--granted, I'm not complaining about 75 degrees and ocean breezes 365 days a year, but after four weeks of 100-degree temperatures, 75 feels downright chilly. And the water is COLD. We discovered a great wine bar at the Hotel del Coronado, as well.
California is as laid-back as I've always heard, the produce and seafood are fantastic, there are at least three good theatres in town, and even though the drivers SUCK, it is possible to get around town on a bike or a Vespa. I'm trying to imagine myself living here, and it's getting easier. Granted, the state is bankrupt, I'd have to deal with wildfires and rolling blackouts, and the unemployment rate is 10%. But the unemployment rate in New York is 10%, too.
More San Diego
It's been an interesting week, I'll say that.
First, the bad news. My friend still seems convinced I fell in love to spite her; I got called a fat, selfish whore, got defriended on Facebook, and was told in no uncertain terms she never wanted to speak to me again. All of which, if possible, breaks my heart even more. I wish she could have at least called me and tried to have a rational conversation about what happened; don't thirty years of friendship warrant at least that much? Instead, I become the target of this mean girl high school bullshit and of a smear campaign amongst our mutual friends.
Fortunately, John keeps reminding me I'm due for a run of good karma. And while we moon about San Diego, taking in the sights and generally being that annoying, gooey, in-love couple, we're also managing to work in important conversations about logistics, cross-country moves, and his son. I still can't quite bring myself to believe this is real; I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and discover I've been doing peyote in the desert all this time.
The strangest part about this new relationship is that it doesn't seem strange. It seems perfectly comfortable and familiar and normal, which is why I keep circling it in my head, poking it with a stick and waiting for it to rear up and bite me. Granted, we've known each other for fifteen years, but still. I'm not freaked out that he has a kid, or that we keep saying the L-word, or even that the M-word has come up after--what? Five days?--or that I'm contemplating a cross-country move. And I'm the person who has said the following, in no particular order: "Marriage is like a living death." "I'm never moving for love again." "I'm never living with a man again, unless we're married, and maybe not then." "There is no such thing as love at first sight." "It's not possible to be completely, 100% sure about a person." "I'm never leaving New York."
Never fear, though: I won't be leaving New York right away. First I have to finish the trip, of course. Neither God nor man can stop me now. Then I think the best course of action will be to stay in New York for at least a few months, get a temp job, get my finances back in order, date long-distance for a bit, and wrap my brain around all of this.
Plus, I have to admit, I've been trying to picture my wedding day without my best friend, and I just can't do it.
First, the bad news. My friend still seems convinced I fell in love to spite her; I got called a fat, selfish whore, got defriended on Facebook, and was told in no uncertain terms she never wanted to speak to me again. All of which, if possible, breaks my heart even more. I wish she could have at least called me and tried to have a rational conversation about what happened; don't thirty years of friendship warrant at least that much? Instead, I become the target of this mean girl high school bullshit and of a smear campaign amongst our mutual friends.
Fortunately, John keeps reminding me I'm due for a run of good karma. And while we moon about San Diego, taking in the sights and generally being that annoying, gooey, in-love couple, we're also managing to work in important conversations about logistics, cross-country moves, and his son. I still can't quite bring myself to believe this is real; I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and discover I've been doing peyote in the desert all this time.
The strangest part about this new relationship is that it doesn't seem strange. It seems perfectly comfortable and familiar and normal, which is why I keep circling it in my head, poking it with a stick and waiting for it to rear up and bite me. Granted, we've known each other for fifteen years, but still. I'm not freaked out that he has a kid, or that we keep saying the L-word, or even that the M-word has come up after--what? Five days?--or that I'm contemplating a cross-country move. And I'm the person who has said the following, in no particular order: "Marriage is like a living death." "I'm never moving for love again." "I'm never living with a man again, unless we're married, and maybe not then." "There is no such thing as love at first sight." "It's not possible to be completely, 100% sure about a person." "I'm never leaving New York."
Never fear, though: I won't be leaving New York right away. First I have to finish the trip, of course. Neither God nor man can stop me now. Then I think the best course of action will be to stay in New York for at least a few months, get a temp job, get my finances back in order, date long-distance for a bit, and wrap my brain around all of this.
Plus, I have to admit, I've been trying to picture my wedding day without my best friend, and I just can't do it.
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