The trip started about the same way as my previous drive
across the country. In other words I needed another
car like a hole in my head. I’ve donated my street car
to the poor at the end of the year, which meant several things. Firstly I was left with two 2-seaters, one an
autocross/street car that is quickly becoming uncomfortable on the street and
one a track/street car that is already uncomfortable. Another issue is that I can, in theory, convince myself that I need at least one car
with rear seats to transport my 6-years old. Not that he’s
adverse to the red autocrosser spitting him out at
the elementary school door with soccer moms doing a double-take, but hey, any
amount of internal justification is good when you debate with yourself, right?
So, are two cars enough or not? I put this question in front
of admittedly certifiable panel of friends who I talk cars with.
It’s like AA, you know: “Hello, my name is Mike, I’m
down to two now and am feeling antsy”. Unlike AA these
people are relentless. Not only do they not tell you to concentrate on other
things in life, they constantly supply you with leads on cars that are… that
are… that you have to buy if for no other reason than as a rescue mission. I’ve long understood that I have an addiction. It’s not racing per se, it’s not driving. It’s
hoarding cars.
So, having disposed with preliminaries, do
I even have to tell you that one of my so called friends came up with another
one of those cars for sale in California and three weeks later I found myself
at 7 in the morning at a very cold Logan airport searching for a cash machine
in preparation for my flight and two week drive back?
The car, a 1995 Porsche 911 Carrera 2 Cabriolet with
whooping 112K miles was thoroughly inspected by several Rennlist members and
later by a reputable Porsche shop near San Francisco where it spent the last 4
years of it’s life. The question, apart from nagging
little issues, was whether I can hop into a 10-year old P-car with that many
miles and drive it home to Boston avoiding January snow, which meant about a
4100 miles trip?
The trip started in a fairly bizarre manner. The aforementioned ATM was found and determined to be dead as a doorknob. After some wondering around it was suggested to me that I should go downstairs and talk to Information. Information desk was empty but there was a black phone and a note to pick it up and talk if any info is needed. Which is what I did. The conversation is below, verbatim:
-
Hello!
-
Hello, is this information?
-
Yes, what do you need?
-
Well, the ATM in terminal E is not working, is
there another one?
- Ummm, I’m not sure…. You’ve reached the tower.
-
OK, maybe it’s a good omen. Maybe
the next time trouble strikes I would be patched directly to God?
The uneventful flights took about 8 hours, 13F Boston
weather was replaced with northern California’s
65-degree sunny afternoon and the car with the top down waiting for me. After
some formalities I hopped in, pointed it south and
thus began my Porsche ownership.
After two days in San Francisco that were filled with eating
sushi, watching football and eating more sushi the Monday came with clouds and
rain and cold and gray and I knew that it was time to drive home.
The plan was to drive to Las Vegas, which is about 550 miles
away. Not knowing the car and facing a long trip it
was very interesting and important to see how much of a highway cruiser the
P-car would be. My personal tolerance level tends to be 400 miles. I can drive
more if needed, but the back gets cranky, the head hurts and the attention span
seem to quickly lean towards zero. Thus I was very
much surprised that the fairly small cramped and somewhat loud cabrio was a great long distance car. The stock seats are
narrow but fit my size 32 very well and hold me in place. Even though there is
no adjustable lumbar support, I was comfortable throughout the trip and my back
did not require any pills afterwards. Which is a great sign if it holds true
for the days to come.
The road to Vegas takes you through Bakersfield and Barstow
in California, a long stretch of a desert road with not much to see other than
assorted cactuses (cacti?) and periodic smattering of disheveled-looking mobile
homes sitting in small bunches in the middle of a vast stone and sand spread. It’s unclear to me what people do in these places or where
they get parts for assorted 50s Dodges sitting on blocks all around the mobile
homes. On the other hand, you can see an oasis here and there with nice fruit
stand, a little motel, and a lake, which apparently provides water for all this
desert opulence. This road tends to remind me of another era every time I drive
it. Somehow I drift away from the Neons
and Civics darting around and see a steady and slow progress of mid-50s
convertible barges with scarf-covered blonds on the passenger seat on their way
to little desert retreat with their Hollywood boyfriends.
The roads crossing the main highway are
named appropriately for even earlier times. A Twenty Mule Team Road
makes you think back to pioneers moving across the sand debating whether to
stop there or to press on to the ocean. Apparently some of them did stop. Their
descendants inhabit all the mobile homes around. How’s
that for a short Darwinian theory of human migration and evolution?
In the middle of Rt. 15 I see fog.
Then more fog. Then it begins to remind me of the Alps. Because the visibility
is down to about 50 feet, you are trying to maintain speed and keep the car on
the road. Even that is not an easy task. Then, as suddenly as fog sets in, it
disappears and the sun shines upon the road again, and the thoughts are back to
mid-50s. Nothing changed here other than the cars. Muddy Waters is in my
speakers. Once again I promise myself to make this
trip in a 57 BelAir.
I make Vegas around 7pm. It supposed to be dark, but this
town plays by its own rules. The strip is lit up more than before, although one
doubts that it’s even possible. Luxor sends up a solid
beam of light, which you can see from the road 20 miles away. The lights jump,
flicker, trickle up and down buildings. Amazed tourists walk around like zombies with their heads up in the air, mouths agasp, small kids are either scared or mesmerized into a
tantric state of disbelief. The town seems to be moving more and more downscale
from my first visit here 11 years ago. I understand that they are trying to
cater to families, but it absolutely kills my 50s mood. The things change, too.
In the four years since my last trip there are a bunch
of new hotels. Paris is interesting with its huge Eiffel tower up front. The Venetian is surrounded by replicas of St.Mark’s
square, the clocktower, the main marble bridge over
Grand Canal. It’s especially funny to me to see
these very earnest albeit smaller scale replicas of the exact places I’ve seen
2 months prior. I suddenly realize that the great majority of people walking
around have never seen the originals. That realization conjures up several deep
thought but I’m too tired to form them. It’s time to sleep, first day is over.
Morning in Vegas is a tough thing, I’ll
tell you. If not for any other reason, than just because the sunlight appears
to clash with the proceedings. Red-eyed people walking around with beer bottles
in their hands, the noise of dropping coins still emanates from casinos, the
blue hair set are still in line to the buffets. The problem is that the harsh sun brings it all to the forefront and what seemed
cute in the dark now stands out and spears you in the eye.
I must admit that one of my own guilty pleasures is sitting
in a breakfast buffet with a paper and a cup of tea and watching people. Mostly
it’s your typical 70+ crowd and their high-volume
conversations can be priceless. This morning two couples are seating in the
next booth. The men are discussing cars in terms that have not been in use for
the past 30 years. They are both very enthusiastic about the Cadillac Beatrice
that one of them has and the other one used to own. The women are quietly
talking about something else at which point the cell phone rings. All four take
turns trying to answer the call and give up after a while. A lively
conversation on the merits and evils of cell phone ensues, which gets me
thinking about the philosophical side of it all. Being halfway there myself at 35 I can clearly see that our own kids will
snicker at us trying to use “one of them newfangled gizmos” that they can’t
imagine their lives without.
Alas, my teacup is empty, the pastries had made their way to
the bottom of my stomach and I feel that they will just stay there for the next
few days. That’s the beauty of Vegas breakfast buffet,
it stays with you for a while even after the memories and observations fade. It’s back onto the road. This time the weather is
surprisingly warm, hovering in the mid-50s, sun is pleasant and the roof come
down. As I head out back to Route 15 I hear a distinct
sound up above. Two F-18 jets rip by in extremely tight formation making a
sharp turn just south of the highway and disappearing as soon as they arrived.
The road will take me through Nevada into Utah and into Zion
National Park. Car is humming and feels stable between 95 and 100 miles per
hour. The road is almost empty in both directions, Jimmy Buffet in the speakers
assures me that “Everybody got a cousin in Miami” and the emptiness around
feels almost astounding. The landscape consists of gray stones and is mostly
flat with just some deep cracks in places. An hour and a half passes by
uneventfully. Jimmy changes his tune, this time it’s
all about fruitcakes. Which again gets me thinking. I know, I know, thinking is
detrimental to your well being and generally soils
one’s brains, but hey, what do you do while essentially sitting as a high-class
prisoner in a fast car in the middle of the desert at speeds that, while well
above the limit, seem like a crawl? Jimmy-induced thought comes back to
fruitcakes. I must be nuts for taking this trip, hey, for buying this car in
the first place. On the other hand, if I don’t do it,
who will? And if nobody will, who will write
below-average trip journals and bore friends and acquaintances or anyone who
shows half an inkling of interest with stories and pictures? So,
I convince myself, I’m doing a cosmically good thing and an important public
service to boot. You probably realize by now that the sun is up high and it’s not a good thing to drive a convertible without a hat.
The rock hills start even before I get into Utah. As the day
progresses the scenery changes dramatically. It is still pretty
bare, but the gray flats are replaced by rocky red hills. The horizon is
dotted with huge dark snow-covered mountains. The road snakes up into the rocks
and finally I arrive to Zion. Now, this is not Grand Canyon, granted, but
nothing is Grand Canyon. There you just stand at awe, completely mesmerized,
trying to understand if you are still on planet Earth. In Zion
you are driving down low by the river looking up from the floor of a sizeable
canyon with red, gray, black and green sides. I know that this is the only
place I will see in Utah, as the snow is coming and this is not the car and not
the tires to try to brave the white stuff in order to see Bryce and Arches. As
I stop along the way, walk around, look and take pictures, I enjoy the sun and
the pale warmth that is only possible on a rare winter afternoon. Until that
is, I take yet another turn and get out of the car to make some more pictures.
Something hits me on the hands, than again. I look around, hearing a familiar
sound. Imagine this for a moment – you’re standing
between huge rocks in complete solitude, the sun is up and the small hail is coming
down in full force competing in sound with a fast narrow river right next to
the road. The hail is over in just a few minutes and suddenly very large and
floppy snowflake falls dawn at my feet. I look up. The sun is completely gone
now; the gray menacing cloud covers the sky, so low it seems to be catching the
tops of surrounding rocks. You feel completely enclosed at this point – rocks
around you, road below, cloud above. It’s time to go,
time to get out and outrun the snow coming from up north.
The unfortunate part of this great plan is that the only way
out of the park to head East is through the eastern
entrance. Which is 4.5 miles away and 2000 feet above where I’m
standing and according to nearby ranger already had some snow. The road there
takes me through a breathtaking serpentine where I can look back and see the
park in all its beauty, the strange red structures hiding behind each other.
The road, however, is getting slippery and is covered
with snow in places. The 30 miles an hour ascend doesn’t
seem slow, hands are gripping the wheel and all attention is on the asphalt
ahead. On top of the serpentine is an old tunnel. It was
built in 1940, is low, narrow and completely dark in contrast to the
Alps tunnel I was flying through in a rented Opel two month ago.
The 25 or so miles after the park entrance are pretty bad. There is snow on the ground, the temperatures
are right around freezing, it getting a bit dark and the stuff beginning to get
very slippery. The road is still snaking, I see front wheel
drive econoboxes bravely heading down to the park at speeds that makes
me question the mental state of their drivers. After 12 years in Rochester, NY
and another 6 in Boston I’ve learned to be very afraid
of the white slick stuff on the road. But to each his
own, I proceed at a snail’s pace until I hit Route 89, which is flatter,
straighter and is just wet. The P-car had passed its first snow test. Another
couple of hours and I’m in Page, Arizona, nice little
town up in the mountains on Lake Powell near the dam. The last thing that goes
through my mind that evening is that one should not eat a plateful of Mexican
food if the plate is 16” in diameter even if the whole thing only costs $9.49
and is unbelievably good. At least not after two baskets of chips with
super-hot salsa and some Mexican beer. I think the Vegas morning pastries are forcefully evicted and replaced with enchilada and chimichanga and all the trimmings and… oh, it hurts
to even think about it now.
I was not so sure that I was going to wake up. Nor was I
sure that I would want to. The Mexican food is a great thing but only if ingested in moderation. I’m not 18
anymore, I have to pace myself. Which brings yet another dilemma – at 18 I was way too serious and would have never taken a trip like this.
And now I can, but there are assorted constraints that
come with age and responsibilities… oh, forget it, where’s my morning tea?
Getting out of town I saw the dam
and the lake set in deep red rocks. Red seems to be the only color as far as
the eye can see. The road is also goes as far as the eye can see – straight,
flat, no turns for at least a couple of miles. The AM radio delivers local news
– 41-year old Page is holding 35th annual Chamber of Commerce gala. Pretty impressive tradition if you ask me. The organizer, a
member of the Chamber’s board with nice grandmotherly voice tells us that you don’t really need to buy the tickets in advance, but should
really RSVP “so Joe knows how much food to cook”. That’s why I listen to local
AM stations on my trips – this is Americana at its best, despite my calendar’s
insistence that we are really in the beginning of year 2004 and somewhere far
away there is internet, dotcoms, NASDAQ and other assorted trappings of hurried
modern life.
Not much happens for the next eighty miles until the road
climbs even higher into the mountains and the snow begins again. The surface is
not bad, but the scenery is again changed
dramatically. All around are pine trees are completely
covered in snow. At one point I see about half
a dozen deer grazing peacefully not twenty feet from where I’m driving. The
whole feel of the moment is too reminiscent of Currier and Ives Christmas
picture to even try to describe differently.
Later on I finally hit Flagstaff
and Interstate 40 at which point life becomes truly boring. Everything is
moving at 80+ miles per hour but still appears to stand still. The boring 315
miles track down the interstate is broken up only by fairly
bizarre signs imploring you to stop and buy Indian trinkets at the small
stands and larger stores by the side of the road. The signs before the stand
are nice” “Indian jewelry”, “Cheap silver earrings”,
“Chief Yellow Horse welcomes you”. As you pass by the signs change tone: “Come
back!”, “Nice Indians behind you”, “Your last chance!”.
Yep, until another stand a mile down the road. Interestingly enough, all the
stands take Visa and MasterCard. How they do it in a bare wooden structure
without electricity, windows or walls for that matter remains a bit of a
technological mystery to me and I intend to keep it that way.
New Mexico greets me with overabundance of cops. Apparently there’s a week of hate or some such public
happening that local troopers are involved in. I see at least a dozen of them
on my way to Albuquerque and another 3 or 4 in the
town itself. Most of them have their prey, several are
still on the prowl. I remind myself to slow down and am once again thankful
that the car is not red and blends in well enough with the scenery now that it’s forest green body is covered in dirt and mud.
The boring day thankfully end after about 450 miles. The
good thing is that at 85-90 miles per hour cruise the car gets almost 25 miles
a gallon. The bad thing is that I’m pretty much out of
CDs that I brought with me.
The trip form Albuquerque to
Carlsbad at the southeastern corner of New Mexico is a short hop. You take a
left off Interstate 40 and have about 230 miles on a local highway that take
you from the middle of nowhere through the middle of nowhere to the middle of
nowhere.
The views are getting more and more expansive,
the road is straighter and straighter. The only change during the trip is that
snow covered fields change to bare brown patches as far as eye can see. The
mountains are now so distant; they appear as faint gray lines far, far away on
the horizon. There is nothing around literally for dozens of miles,
emptiness is not broken by anything or anybody. At least the sun is out and the
top comes down again. Steady cruise at 80 miles an hour with music blaring, Fugees this time. Simply because that is the only way to
break up the monotony, at least temporarily.
Well, there is another way. Put the car in 4th, shift to 5th at the red line,
wind it up again. Now you’re looking at triple digits,
mid-triple digits as a matter of fact. With the roof down. The sound is almost
deafening and I quickly tell myself to slow down. The car is dead stable at
these speeds, the brakes are amazingly efficient in scrubbing speed, but this
is more of a wake up procedure than anything else. I’ve done my share of fast driving in Europe, although
admittedly never that fast.
Nothing else is happening anyway, so I am glad when I
finally drive into Roswell. Which actually turns out to be a sleepy town with
standard assortment of McDonalds and Wendy’s and Red Lobsters. Except today is
a special occasion. The president flew in to give a speech
but was gone for a couple of hours by the time I was there.
Nevertheless, the locals decked the town out with some flags and signs. The
local Arby’s has a pair of signs under its traditional western hat. One is a
permanent bit of local humor, “Aliens welcome” complete with a wooden flying
saucer. One is a temporary sign for today only, lovingly put together letter by
letter at the place where the 2 for $3 special are usually
advertised. It’s directly and immediately below
the alien sign. It simply says “Welcome President Bush”. I wonder how everybody
missed it, but than again, it might be just my mean
sarcastic Yankee nature versus nice laid-back approach of the southern
outposts. Or as Judy Tenuta
used to say, “up north we call it intelligence”.
I get to Carlsbad eventually only to realize that it’s even smaller and dustier than Roswell. Having a dinner
in a Mexican restaurant in town I get into a
conversation with the owner, a young women in her early thirties who spent her
entire life in Carlsbad. She mixes very mean non-sweet Sangria and we spend
some time discussing New Mexico’s wines. Yes, Virginia, there is such a thing
although it sounds utterly unbelievable. They grow grapes along Rio Grande and
make some interesting wines a few of which she had me try. Naturally, you learn
things in places you least expected to do so.
One final thing I learn today is, as usual, from a roadside
sign. The thought is too profound not to quote it: “Parents are the bones which
kids cut their teeth on”. The sign hangs over a barbeque joint advertising baby
back ribs. Hmm, note to self – increase calcium intake.
There is a reason, of course, why I ended up in Carlsbad. And the reason is the Carlsbad Caverns. I’ve
heard about them a number of times but never had a chance to visit. They are
nestled so fad down in the southeastern corner of the
state, that any major East-West road is at least a 100 miles away. But this time I was determined to see this wonder and made a
four hundred mile sidestep to do so.
Boy, was I not disappointed. There
are certain things in life that you just have to see. Carlsbad Caverns should
definitely be on that list. I’ve been to several caves
before, both lit and unlit. They all present a different view, different
formations, different feel. Carlsbad is just mind-boggling. Starting with its sheer size, unbelievably
intricate structures, very well set viewpoints and excellent lighting. It is
difficult to describe the breathtaking beauty 750 feet under
ground; suffice it to say that I was absolutely
wowed by this visit and will make a point of taking this track again.
What followed was a drive through the corner of New Mexico
and into Texas. The road, a two-lane… mmm… you can’t
really call it blacktop. It’s a gray strip of asphalt stretched in an absolutely straight line among bare cow pastures. As the car
rips through the stale cool air at the allowed 75
miles per hour limit, the cloud of dust rises into the air behind its tail and
stays there for a while. The roof is down, the collar is up, heater
is on full blast. The feeling of solitude is astounding, it seems that you can
drive for days and see nothing but miles of cattle fences, occasional small oil rig and a still cloud of dust brought to life by your
tires. Occasional cattle strip across the road jousts you up and brings some
level of consciousness, but it’s soon forgotten and
you’re back into a semi-meditative state. You don’t
feel like a driver, you don’t even feel oneness with the car. You feel
connected to the road and the road seems to be going nowhere,
the time standing perfectly still, the cool winter air and clouds are
silent and motionless. Varying the speed, listening to music, trying to think –
all fail here. Life is still, flat, gray, uncomplicated, stable. There are
radio stations you can catch, the cell phone has long
ago lost any resemblance of digital signal and now helplessly blinking at me,
reminding me that I have a message from real world that I should probably
eventually listen to. If I ever get back. This is not Hotel California, you can’t even check out any time you like. You just sit there,
vegetating, waiting for Interstate 10 to come up and rescue you, or, more
precisely, shock you back into civilization a hundred and fifty miles later. I’m not sure that civilization is actually any great shakes
compared to that country road.
After braving some rain, which is not a trivial things on slick concrete of the Interstate 10 I get through
the deep fog and serious wind to descend down to San Antonio, my next stop.
Going downtown to River Walk affords me an interesting end to an eventful day.
San Antonio created the mini-Venice around some waterways there. Cafes, bars
and restaurants line up the banks, music is everywhere, people are walking
around and hanging out, there is even a water shuttle scurrying through. I
drink a local Texas beer in a “British Pub” complete with bartenders in kilts
surrounded by photographs of Liverpool and signs from London subways. So, the Texans haven’t quite got a hold of the fact that Urrap actually consists of separate and distinctly
different countries and that they don’t wear kilts in London, but that’s OK.
The place is alive, there’s music and people are
dancing. Again, having bar girls in Union Jack scarves dance to hip hop is not quite how I remember England, but it’s OK. It
gives me a pause to think that I passed through three distinctly different
worlds today – the millions of years of history in the caves, the unchanged and
unmoving prairie and an urban alive setting of River walk in modern Texas.
Texas is Texas.
Texas is large. Long, wide, big, enormous as a matter of fact.
And you are driving from one side of it clear to the
other. You better drink your Coke and get your sugar intake to keep you awake, pardner, or else you’ll be sleeping behind the wheel and
then sleeping with the fishes, see. Wait, that’s
reserved for New Jersey.
The flats of Texas
are wind-swept so much so that the semi truck in
front of you suddenly starts wagging its tail and you are just sitting there
guessing which way it’s going to jackknife if Joe
Billy Su Bubba doesn’t manage to catch it. Inevitably
he does and you pass him only to be swept in the turbulence of the truck’s
aerodynamic blind spot. You white-knuckle the car from the rig’s shadow and continue on at a steady pace until you have to pass the next
one. It doesn’t help that the road is slick with thin
coating of oil and moisture in places.
The entire 540 mile trip today is with the roof down. Sometimes sun
comes out, sometimes it’s starting to rain but the
water doesn’t get inside the car at these speeds. Surrounding drivers look at
you funny, granted, but sometimes it works to your advantage. Some of them
obviously figure that you might be crazy and move away from the left lane that
they blissfully occupied for hours on end otherwise. The fellow drivers are
especially bad around Huston for some reason. That is a strong statement if you
stop to think that it comes for a Boston driver.
The neatest thing
in Texas are roadside signs. Firstly, everything is huge and there are hundreds
of them dotting the road. More interestingly, the signs are imaginative and
have a clear twinge of Texan humor to them. My favorite one advertises a car
dealership: “We beat everyone’s prices, guaranteed, or we’ll kiss your ass”. Of
course there’s a cute picture of a donkey instead of
the word “ass”. The only thing unclear in my mind is whether you have to bring your
own ass or one would be available on premises especially for kissing.
The highway is so
long that eventually my bleary eyes see Exit 867, then 869. The landscape has
changed decidedly by this point. The desert of western side of Texas had been replaced by landscape that reminds me uncannily of
upstate New York with its rolling farms, cows and horses grazing in the
distance. Eastern part of the state is covered with
bayous and woods. There are hunting lodges advertised by the side of the road,
campsites, crawfish restaurants. Which could only mean
that Louisiana must be somewhere nearby. Which, of course, it is, right here
just over the bridge. Boy, am I glad Texas is over.
Eventually and inevitably I get to New Orleans, my destination for the day.
I’m dead tired but can’t bypass a chance to go to
Bourbon Street. I have to say that this is my first visit to New Orleans so my
opinions might be slightly skewed. But
I will say this – Bourbon Street is unbelievable. Describing it would not do it
any justice. It’s uncontrolled pandemonium, masses of
people circulating through dozens of bars, in and out, drinking and dancing on
the street. Balconies of old style southern row houses are seemingly bending
under the weight of people and their beer. Music is blaring inside every bar
and the street consists of a cacophony of sounds that adds to the surreal look
and feel.
Revelers wear
colorful cheap beads and the entire atmosphere is of complete
and utter devil may care variety. About three quarters of people are drunk
enough to have tough time standing on their feet, but the crowd supports itself
well enough that the entire scene doesn’t deteriorate into a collection of
bodies littering the street. Nor does it become an orgy, but it’s
too early for that – Mardi Gras is a few weeks away. The crowd seems to be one
coherent live and breathing organism although one would be
well advised not to sample the breaths individually.
Whistling and
screaming signifies that a pretty girl was spotted and some beads are about to
change hands. Well, let’s take that back. Some beads will be exchanged for a flash of breasts or bear butt. Beads
are flung from the balconies upon lucky females down
on the street. Or from the street up to the balcony. Or just thrown around. Sometimes there are no beads at all, that’s certainly not any detriment to flashing breasts to
the strangers.
The interesting
thing is that there are cops around. They don’t try to
intervene or stop anybody from doing anything. They seem to be there to
observe. Other than the decibel level this might be
the coolest job in the country. There’s not much to do
for them here. At least on this Saturday there are no mean drunks, everybody is
nice to each other and smiling. There’s something
primal and globally right about this place, somehow I feel right at home.
Apparently there is life in New Orleans during the day
too. It’s not the same as it is at night, but it would
be truly surprising if it were. Because it would cause me to stop my journey
immediately, rent a place and stay here for the rest of my life. Daytime on
Sunday brings gray clouds and rain, yesterday’s revelers are mostly gone,
locals are crowded into a large modern church that somehow reminds me of
unreality of yesterday’s proceedings with it’s white
walls and ceiling, modern chandeliers hanging down and world flags adorning the
walls.
Outside, the River
flows steel gray and slow, gray ships are docked by
the gray shores reminding you that it is, afterall,
the end of January. The Riverwalk is empty as there are very few tourist and
those who are in town, I’m sure, are either still
asleep or sipping their coffee nearby at Café Du Monde trying to get their
bearings and remember what their names are. In other words, it’s
a good start to a good weekend. The hangover is evident everywhere as people
eat their brunch averting the eyes from any resemblance of stray light. The
irony of the situation is fairly apparent – sin, sin,
sin, pray, repent, drink some coffee. Good life philosophy, if you ask me.
The rest of the day
is spent on sightseeing and visiting acquaintances in
the not so nearby suburb full of beautiful large houses in no less beautiful
woods the apparent price of which makes me question my love for Boston. And then it’s back to Bourbon Street again as the night
falls.
However, it seems
that you can’t step into the same river, or in this
case street, twice. On a Sunday night the place is
almost deserted compared to the day before. Some people are still wondering by,
there’s still some drinking and the balconies are
still busy. The girls at Temptations’ windows are still dancing, blissfully
detached from the street by opaque covering on the window and probably unaware
of what day or, for that matter, what year it is. But
the atmosphere is not the same, not at all. Maybe it will never be the same.
The moment is gone and it’s time for me to live. I
know I will be back again, this town has too much of a carefree soul to not
enjoy it more often.
Day 9
The boredom of
familiarity and fatigue finally sets in, as it usually does for me towards the
middle of a second week of every trip. Today’s trip through the middle of
nowhere should take me to some undetermined place at Tennessee and position me
for a drive to DC. Which is routine but no less boring because of that.
It is interesting
to see that the open spaces of the middle Texas and strange
landscapes of Louisiana are being slowly replaced by Mississippi’s woods and
hills. Hour after hour the car is humming very
much like a Boeing 737 not really intruding into my state of near-vegetation.
Neither is Paul Simon quietly singing in the background. The reason for that is
the only AM station I can catch on my radio is the religious kind. This is,
after all, deep South. A preatcher
is screaming at his followers. I am sure that the message is profound and
important, but I’m also sure that this is not what I
need right now. I need breeze through my hair, the air that really smells of
fall and not of winter, brains crystal clear with nary a thought. This goes on
hour after hour.
Alabama replaces
Mississippi but the things do not improve much. I drive, I drive, I drive and
the miles roll up on the odometer and the road remains the same. The hills
begin to appear larger and larger as I enter Tennessee and catch the lower part
of Blue Mountain ridge. These are not the same mountains that
I saw out West. These are old broken down mountains that’s
been here forever, inhibited by old people living in old houses.
The outside air is
down to about 27 degrees and wind is picking up something fears. There is a
storm brewing in the East and I am actually trying to avoid it by driving along
its western edge. I know the other side of the mountains is
hammered. Carolinas are covered with snow, Georgia is icy, Virginia will
get blanketed in a few hours.
I get off the
highway at a small town. The first gas station that I see is closed. So is the
second one. And the third. As I drive towards downtown
of this megapolis I see
closed stores and restaurants. I finally find an open Exxon station, start the
pump and walk inside to stay warm. There’s quite a
find in a freezer – a glass bottle of Cheerwine. For
those of you who tried it there’s no explanation needed. For those who have
not, this is a unique experience. Cherry flavored soda in a reproduction early
1900s bottle. Tastes nothing like Cherry Coke, has its unique smell and
bouquet. Completes any mid-southern experience along with grits and other
assorted stereotypes. Drink Cheerwine when you are
down in Carolinas or Georgia, Tennessee or Alabama. You will be content, slow
and happy, in other words you’ll fit right in. Wait, wait, that sounds like a commercial mixed with some of that
patented Yankee hostility. So be it.
It takes several
minutes to pay for the precious liquid and gather than much thought. I come
outside. The pump managed to get about 3 gallons of gas into my car and is
dutifully humming away at this amazing rate. I wait. I have no choice, every other gas station in town is closed. Next to
me is a local guy in his late 50s or early 60s and we
strike up a conversation. This used to be a booming town with several
woodworking plants that closed down in mid-90s. About 20 thousand people, down by about half now and slowly dying away. That’s
why everything is closed down. Another 10 minutes later
I am sufficiently depressed, my hands are blue, Cheerwine
is almost gone and the tank is finally full.
Back into the car I point it North and soldier on. Now I have something to
think about but I don’t want to think about it. It’s just sad to see a dying town tucked away in the
splendid valley in the middle of this God’s country.
Day 10
I wake up in
Knoxville, TN and turn on the Weather channel. Things do not look good, not at
all. There’s snow and ice everywhere, three dozen dead
and the storm is not letting up. I will try to make it to DC suburbs today to
stay with my friends, but it seems that the chances of that are pretty slim. The car has felt unstable on any wet surface
since the beginning of the trip. Snow in Utah was a white-knuckle experience. But I need to press on, the end of the trip is less than a
thousand miles away and even thought I’m in
Tennessee, it’s beginning to feel like home.
That is the
strangest thing, actually. I have had several opportunities in my life to move
out West, even right now. Every time I fly to California during the winter I look around, and understand that I could be racing
here right now instead of experiencing 5 month of off-season. I also could
forget about gloves, frozen wiper blades, snow tires, cold wind and
non-convertible weather. I spend about a day in this state of mind. I have some
good sushi and settle in to watch TV. This is when it hits me. Everything is
over. All the news had already happen by 9pm PST. All the games that I care
about are over on ESPN, CNN is recapping the day or, worse yet, has Larry
King’s face plaster across the screen. That alone makes me cringe. It becomes
more and more apparent to me with each passing year that I am an easterner,
true and true. Imbedded in me is disdain for the weather, certain roughness of
the old overpopulated Northeast, lack of political affiliation or any sort of
need to be an activist. Still… I could be racing right now.
As I drive up
towards Virginia the snow begins to fall. It’s more of sleet, really, the road is wet and slippery.
Temperature hovers right above freezing and I know that if it falls there will
be consequences. And it will fall as I am climbing
higher and higher up the Blue Mountains.
The car is very
hard to control. I’m proceeding at a snail’s pace of
about 55 miles an hour. About half the traffic on the road slowed down as well.
The other half, however, appears to be oblivious to the condition. The minivans
with southern plates fly by me like I am standing
still, spraying me with semi-frozen slush that now covers the road surface
completely. Hours pass and I am almost drained of all
energy. My only remaining thought is to keep the car on the road and in one
piece.
Things around me,
however, are getting curiouser
and curiouser, as Alice once said. I see a van on its
roof in the median, than a car sticking out of the ditch. Over the next hour I pass by a few more. Than
comes the crown achievement of weather’s triumph over technology – a full size
18-wheeler that went off the road, demolished a guardrail hit the highway
embankment, rolled down and got wedged between the dirt hill and a bridge
support that just happens to be there. The truck is lying on its driver’s side,
cab appears to be in good shape but the cargo box is
completely ripped apart, looking very much like one giant special
effect.
The impeding doom is obvious but I am only 80 miles away from
my destination. If US-81 is that bad and slippery, maybe US-66 going through
Virginia is better. I make the right turn at the junction and grab the wheel
even tighter. The road is covered with snow. The snow
is everywhere, coming down from the sky, drifting across the road in a
haphazard and random fashion, swirling around upwards. The windshield is getting glazed by a layer of ice. I hit the washer lever and
nothing happens. As it turns out a week later, the water that was in the washer
bottle mixed with a gallon of actual washer that I added in simply froze. They
use water in washer bottles of convertibles in California. That’s
yet another thing that they wouldn’t have to think about if I lived there.
At this point I am just looking for an exit. The rear of the car
dances uncontrollably across the lane and any thought of continuing to drive should be considered as a direct reason for an immediate
commitment to the finest institution with the softest rubber walls. I get off
the road at the first exit, which happens to be Front Royal, Virginia. Fight my
way through about 200 feet from the highway exit to a hotel parking lot, enter
it and promptly get stuck. The car is not going
anywhere today and neither am I.
Days 11-14
Now, that was an
adult thing to do. Assess the situation, stop and do not press on if the risk
outweighs the reward. I am very proud of myself. What I’m
not proud about at the moment is Virginia’s AAA chapter. I have Gold
membership. Which, in theory, means that they should get me out of a snow bank
that my car is cozily embedded in, and tow me for free
up to 100 miles. Which also means that if I call them at 4:45 PM I don’t want to hear that “we’ll have somebody out there
within 240 minutes”. That, by the way, is four hours. I am even less enamored
with the idea of calling back in two hours to be flatly told that nothing will
happen that day, they are all busy and as long as my car is safe they just
simply don’t care. OK, I made arrangements with AAA to
call me at 8 in the morning, checked into the hotel getting what appeared to be
the only non-smoking room and relaxed. It helped that the room had a jacuzzi and that you can actually
watch the Weather Channel surrounded by bubbling water.
The morning dawned
as expected. Cold and white. The hotel room windows overlook the woods and
every tree is covered in an intricate pattern of snow
and ice, all braches are weighed down and standing
still as there is no wind. The idyllic picture is
supplemented by a nice breakfast and, of course, evened out by the fact that
AAA never even called. So everything is right
with the world, don’t relax too much last you have to schlep out there and dig
your car from the snowbank with your bare hands. Which is what I did.
Surprisingly enough
I was actually able to inch myself out of snow, a procedure that I would be
bound to repeat for the next couple of day in New York and Boston. The highway
was clear and clean and by midday I was finally able
to get to my friends’ place in Rockville, MD.
I will spare my
faithful readers the boring personal details of the next few days. I visited
with my close friends in DC and my best friend’s family in New York. I enjoyed
the time and finally had a chance to sit down, get a glass of wine in a good
company, kiss and be kissed, rest from the road and
reflect.
The trip lasted two
weeks and 4534 miles. It took me through 17 states and countless small and big
towns of this great country. It was a great time, certainly something I
recommend to anyone whose heart is set aflutter when thinking of an open car on
an open road.
I made it home an
hour before the Superbowl. By the end of day 14 I had no fingernails or emotions left. Those who saw the
Patriots – Carolina game will surely understand.