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USA 2002 Travelogue |
 Here is the travelogue from my trip around the country through April and May of 2002. It's not pretty or elegant, but it does give an insider's view of what a road trip around the United States is like for anybody who's planning one. You can scroll down and read at your leisure
from the beginning. Or, you can jump to a certain location by clicking on the
map or textual links below.
Jump to a Date : Or a Region : |
The day started off at about 9:00 AM in Natchez. On the way out, I began to feel a little bit nervous already, but that feeling subsided soon into the drive. Driving along the Natchez trace was quite a serene experience, and instead of worrying about getting to my destination faster, I was worried that I was making time just a bit too good.
The trace is lined with trees of enormous variety, with Spanish moss hanging from them like the handkerchief on a Southern bell's hand on a lazy Mississippi afternoon. Some trees have white flowers that reach up and out, in patterns that mirror the clouds above. Another kind have violet flowers that shoot straight up towards the sky like the waves crashing on a rocky beach. I saw two trees alone in a field clinging and intermingled in each other in epic battle pose.
I saw vast lakes with shores that rolled along the roadside, reaching out to their brethren on the opposite end of the waters. I wanted to stop on the shores, but saw no place where I would pull my car over.
Outside Jackson, I saw perhaps the most picturesque neighborhood I've ever witnessed in my life. Instead of streets, it had waterways that led to the lakes, designed as if Venice and Paris had an affair, and their love child left for America to assert her independence.
By the time I got to Jackson, I was amazed at all the Christian
stuff on the radio. I thought one part of Mississippi was about the same as
every other part. But I guess the Catholic influence in Natchez and its
relatively remote proximity to the heart of the Bible Belt yields a little less
of it.
When I finally got to Tupelo, I went to a Natchez Trace visitor center. The locals picnicking stared at me, like they'd never seen someone driving in a bright yellow SUV or something. Going through the center, I realized I was, by far, the youngest person there. I wondered if this was what the King's home would be like.
I found and reserved a delightfully dreadful but cheap motel room in
Tupelo, and went straight for Elvis's home. I stopped at a visitor center of
Tupelo itself. Very proud for not having yet been lost, I burst into the room
and announced to the greeter, "I'm looking for Elvis."
"He's dead."
"Oh."
"But you can see where he lived instead."
"OK, that'll work."
So, she gave me directions, and I went. To my delight, the whole setup was
neither large nor busy. It was a simple shotgun house about the size of my
first apartment, with chapel and museum on the same grounds.
I explored the Tupelo area (read: tried to go other places but got lost) and came back to the motel. A lady outside stopped me and asked where I was from in Adams county, as she'd seen my license plate. Apparently, she also lived in Natchez up until about six months ago, when she left her husband (and his Natchez family) to come here. Now she works at Waffle House and lives in the motel with her children. I didn't ask any further questions.
I got dinner from a place called "Backyard Burger" down the street and retired here early. I leave for Nashville in the morning.
Today, I awoke to my beeping cellular phone and checked out of the charmingly dreadful motel. With no fanfare at all, I got back on the Natchez Trace to complete the historic path to Nashville.
Vast expanses of wilderness and little evidence of humanity accompanied me on my journey. As I'd left Tupelo without breakfast, I began looking for a place to eat, but saw nothing on the way indicative of anything except remote farming villages. I finally decided to explore one of the exits, and came into a small town I estimate to have about 2,000 people. It was around lunch time, and the only real restaurant I saw was packed with cars and looked too crowded to take one outsider in. So, I went further down the road and bought two corn dogs at a gas-station/grocery-store/deli. It was about the only thing there I could take with me to eat while driving without getting myself dirty. The corn dogs were actually surprisingly good.
The terrain slowly changed from thick forests, to rolling hills, to low-lying mountainous regions. The trace has many lookout points to see the various areas, but they're often in such a place that you don't know which one was good until you've already passed it, with the next turnaround waiting several miles down the road. I managed to catch one and was able to chase off a snake that was hiding out directly where I needed to stand to take a good picture.
The snake was significantly smarter than the various turkeys along the trace, who seem to wait for cars before crossing the road. While I've seen many turkeys, only one small dog let itself be seen on the roadside. After seeing it was a dog and not a cat, I considered taking it to Nashville with me to deliver it someplace safer, but I thought it may have belonged to one of the families in the farming communities.
When I finally arrived in Nashville, rush hour traffic was in its
infancy, and I was trying to find a visitor center. While the traffic there was
not nearly as bad as that in Baton Rouge, it was unfamiliar territory. I
finally did end up downtown and parked in a lot that charged me $7 to sit long
enough to collect my thoughts. I walked to the visitor center from there, which
was only a couple blocks away. It was a massive, futuristic looking glass
structure in stark contrast to the popular Nashville culture. The man behind
the desk was overly helpful in giving me directions to a hotel. So far,
Nashville has some really beautiful women. It will be interesting to compare
them to the rest of the nation.
I found a Shoney's Inn in an area that was in remote walking distance to downtown, but far enough away to not be too expensive. At the front desk was a slender black woman who spoke with a thin Tennessee accent. She told me I smelled really, really nice, and then told me to go eat at this little place across the street when I asked her where I could find food close. "It opened up about two months ago," she said. "It's real good."
I went to this place and was welcomed with open arms by an atmosphere with a deficit of light and a wealth of smoke, politely requesting all patrons leave their political correctness at the door. It's the kind of place that you remember playing country music in the background after you leave, even if there was none.
I found one of the few tables in the place that was unoccupied, alone in the back by an empty band stage. Soon, a cute blonde waitress bounced to my table. She had a demeanor and dress that was sexy but not slutty, bubbly but not annoying. That's a nice change. She enthusiastically brought me my requested Bud Light and a menu. Apparently, this place specialized in something I'd never encountered by its name: a "pressed sandwich." It was just like it sounds; a standard sandwich in what I'd describe as Po-Boy bread, squashed together and sealed. I ordered a tuna melt version of it, which was really quite good, especially considering the price. As I'd only had the corndogs that day and my body was accustom to four full meals by this time, I decided to eat slowly so the sudden rush wouldn't bring on nausea. Between bites, I had little to do but watch people and offer the spare chairs at my table to the patrons that began more densely filling the room. I took half of my meal out with me to finish later, leaving the waitress a big tip for being cute. Yes, I'm a pathetic, lonely man. So sue me.
By the time I hit Washington, I'll probably be glad to see people. I'm used to being alone, but it does eventually get old.
Tomorrow I take downtown Nashville by storm, and plan to buy a Grand Ole Opry ticket for Friday night.
Today was mostly uneventful. I explored downtown some more by foot and found a nice place to eat that catered to the local business crowd.
After that, I really began falling in love with Nashville. The city
holds gleaming glass towers that form a majestic skyline over the historic
brick and stone buildings. I've yet to witness anybody that didn't use a warm
heart in speaking to each other and didn't nod to a stranger on the street.
While a little larger than Baton Rouge, the atmosphere is even more cordial.
Even my driving, defensive by standards back home, almost seems predatory here.
After eating lunch, I went to the visitor center to get a ticket and directions to the Grand Ole Opry. I asked them if they knew where I could find a cybercafe, and the same friendly man gave me driving directions. I wanted to check e-mail, but primarily, I needed to see if I could find parking information for when I get to Washington.
After that, I went to the Parthenon, a replica of the one in Athens. It's supposed to be a full-sized replica of what the Parthenon would have looked like before it became ruins, but it was a lot smaller than it seems on TV. It symbolizes Nashville as the "Athens of the South." From the grounds of the Parthenon (aka Centennial Park), one can see parts of the Nashville skyline in the distance, resulting in a rather interesting contrast of the ancient and the modern.
I then came back to the hotel in time to dodge rush hour traffic and watched Spring Break debauchery on MTV. I'll use the rest of the day to finish plotting my route of entry for Washington, and maybe drive to Opryland later to make sure I know how to get there.
Yesterday I went to visit Opryland. I was able to find it without much problem, and exchanged my voucher from the visitor center for a ticket to the Opry show that night. I walked around the nearby mall and ate at Alabama's restaurant, named after the band, which is named after the State.
The floor of the mall was much like the floors in the rest of Nashville--wood grain and varnished thicker than a truck stop whore's eyeliner.
After my exploring, I decided to visit the local country music wax museum, which shows all the most popular historical country figures in slightly-smaller-than-life size. I then walked across the parking lot to a car museum that shows similarly famous country star's cars. Elvis's car had a flat tire.
After exhausting everything that seemed interesting, I went back
downtown to tour the Country Music Hall of Fame. It really was a magnificent
feat. From the distance, the windows on the modern looking building reflected
off the skylights below to look like piano keys. Whether or not this was
intentional, I cannot say. [I later found out that the piano key look was, in
fact, intentional]. Inside, the self-guided tour begins with the humble origins
of country music in rural farming and slave roots. As one moves along, one can
listen to later and later examples of country music through the ages. Little
booths that curl in on themselves like seashells line the walls, and if you
walk inside, you can see and hear different country music displays. Tourists
watched various videos along the way, each of which used some miracle of
acoustics engineering to localize the sound to where one person was standing,
even though no walls existed to block the sounds from other videos. Behind
projected video screens you could see the real country music archives and
restoration studio.
As one walks downstairs, the walls from floor to ceiling are lined with records of platinum and gold, which make the Cathedral-height wall appear like somewhat of a rhinestone waterfall.
Upon exiting the museum, visitors are led into a circular room showing bronze plaques of the country music hall of fame members.
That night, I went to the Grand Ole Opry House. As the stage was readied, an announcer came out to inform us that this is a live broadcast over radio, and as loyal country fans, we are expected to clap when queued. I sat on the third row of the stage, far on stage right.
It really was a great show, an intriguing combination of reverence and down-home ho-down.
By the time I got to the hotel, I was too tired to write. So, I pulled what I could out of my memory today to write about it.
Today was driving. Lots and lots of driving, from Nashville to Roanoke.
I drove towards Roanoke with the sun setting behind me in the Appalachian mountains. It was beautiful.
I managed to find a Days Inn that looks like it was a pretty nice hotel back in its heyday. I had two leftover chicken nuggets for dinner.
Tomorrow: Washington.
Having lost two hours last night (between the time zone change and the starting of DST), it was not easy getting up this morning in time for checkout. I was used to waking about the time that I actually had to check out at the hotel. But I managed. Barely.
I felt rushed for the first time this trip on the way here, afraid I wouldn't make Washington in time to do get to the hostel and check in. I found out that I could park in Greenbelt, MD, and then take the metro into town. I need to go back tomorrow to make sure my car is safe where it is, and ask if it's OK to leave it there as long as I am planning.
I
finally got to the hostel without mishap, surprising even myself. Shortly after
arriving, I met a fifty-two-year-old Australian named Kevin, who was one of my
roommates. He got laid off in December, and has been touring the U.S. for
something like three months now. He said he's enjoyed the United States
immensely, every single day of it. He said he thought all of the words on the
various Washington monuments were so poetic, but..... (Yes, there's a but), he
said he wished the U.S. lived the words out. He went on with the normal
routine, saying the U.S. oppresses its own people, as well as people around the
world. Thankfully, he was brutally honest. He finally said those four words:
"It's all a lie." And I know that's what so many people believe in their
hearts, but it was refreshing to finally hear someone be honest about it, even
if I don't agree with the sentiment. He went on, "You call this a free society,
but if anybody wanted to speak out against the government, they wouldn't be
allowed. Not with all this patriotism...."
Two days later, I watched a protest against the Bush administration in front of the Justice Department.
Soon, another Australian joined us, Dave, who last year cycled around the West Coast for six months.
The hostel's apparently currently being inhabited by a large student group from England. I talked to a really cute girl from Birmingham (England not Alabama) outside. So many women, so little chance. It's going to be a long trip.
I'm in the Martin Luther King library of Washington, DC, waiting on a computer with Internet access.
Kevin yesterday said something interesting.... he talked about visiting Montgomery, Alabama, and said something to allude that he didn't think people would get along there very well. I think he was referring to racism, which seems to be a dominating theme in the outsider's view of America. Having grown up in the South all my life, it's often funny to hear that, because in my experience, the races get along better there than in other parts of the country. The racism itself is more overt in the South, and less of the insidious kind that you can't talk about. He told me to visit somebody's grave, and when I get back home, tell any black people if I happen to talk to any. “If I happen to talk to any?” I don't know that he has a concept of how much the races do mix socially.
But still, from a quick view, America (perhaps especially the South?) would appear to be pretty segregated. "The other side of the tracks" has a very literal meaning here. Black and white sections of town are still often separated by one street, and people know not to cross that street if they don't belong there. The effects of legal segregation in the past won't be broken for many years to come.
But I think the phenomenon we call racism in this country is no longer correctly named. More than anything, we discriminate on culture, not on race. The issue here is not that the U.S. has distinct races. The different cultures of blacks and whites draw the line of distinction. The racism only comes in when we see the way a person looks and generally expect them to be aligned with one of the particular cultures. So, in that sense, I guess it is racism. But aside from the random oddball, nobody sees a black person and thinks, "Oh look, he is of African descent, an inferior race. I will not socialize with him." What people instead think is, "Oh look, he's a black person, and my kind doesn't socialize with black people because [insert your social/economic construct here]."
So, while it is racism in that we make a judgment based on race, the actual discrimination is cultural and economic, not racist.
This, of course, doesn't make it any less severe a problem.
[Break - Now on Capitol Hill]
I'm looking at the capitol right now, from a picnic table at the Library of Congress. Allegedly, the senate is in session right now behind those very walls I'm gazing across.
Last night, the Australians talked about the lack of
diversity in opinion coming into the country through American media. That's a
common complaint here, too. And how our media compares to European and
Australian media, I really can't say. I get nearly all my news from the
Internet. But one thing is for sure..... we have a lack of diversity and debate
on capitol hill. Do any real debates ever actually go on there? When I've
watched British parliament on CSPAN, they seem to actually have real conflict,
real contrasting opinions. But here, congress dislikes real opinions—they
are a threat. Some say that Congress' problem is that it's so divided, and that
it never agrees on anything. On the contrary, I think the biggest problem
Congress has is that it never discusses anything. It only plays out tactics.
And to change that status quo would be to diminish their power, at least in
their minds.
I've never liked Washington. In a national feat of irony, it is one of the few places that is blatantly non-American in the cultural sense. Capitol Hill debates nothing, cares little about its many constituents, and generally engages in a monumental endeavor of political masturbation.
The Ausi visitors and I would agree on one fact—we love America, but too often hate the people America elects.
I usually preach the wonders of limited government. And I have to wonder if limiting our government's power would help reduce corruption. I think it would. But.... perhaps this isn't a disease of a government possessing more power than was ever intended. The thought of the real problem being something more fundamental to the system makes people like me queasy. But it's a possibility I have to consider if I really want to understand America and its problems. Were I to not think about this very real issue and just throw it aside, I would be no better than those idiots in session right now.
This is a country I was not merely born into--this is a country I claimed as my own. I'm actively American, not a passive resident. And one of the hardest things about being actively American is that you must question this country you love as a matter of duty. Ultimately, the people are the final check and balance, and any corruption in government can be blamed only on Americans.
April 9For the most part, I've been alone, aside for some conversations in the hostel. Last night, I talked to another American who's about to leave for Europe for five months. He's 29 and just graduated from going back to college. He said he wanted to see Mardi Gras, so I gave him my contact info.
Also last night, I met up with Sanjay after he got off work. We went to have drinks at a Mexican restaurant, and then he took me to get my car from the metro station so I could move it to his house. His house is a whole lot safer than the metro station. Parking is absolutely terrible in DC. Nobody wants to let you leave you car for multiple days at a time, unless you want to pay something like $14/day.
After I saw his place, he took me back to the hostel at a little after 11:00 pm.
The cherry trees are blossoming right now, and I got a lot of pictures. Sanjay pointed them out to me after he picked me up last night, so today I went to take pictures of them. While still full on the trees, the fallen petals blanketed the ground like snow. Just walking on pure cherry blossoms is an experience worth a poem.
While heading in that direction, I went to two Smithsonians—Natural History, and American History. Before I leave, I'd like to also visit the air and space museum.
I also walked down to the Jefferson memorial, which lines right up with the White House in the distance.
Washington has maintained tight security since 9/11, apparently. Concrete and steel barricades block off the entrances to main buildings like the White House and the Capitol. All of the other buildings have metal detectors and bag searches on entry. Upon entering the Ronald Reagan trade building, they even made me show a photo ID in addition to looking through my bag.
I generally just walked around Washington a lot today, and the way my feet feel shows it. Eventually, a drizzle started coming down, so I went back to rest at the hostel.
To try to solve some computer problems with my web host, I had to walk down to Kinko's to get some reliable, high speed Internet access. Washington doesn't have a whole lot of that sort of thing. I haven't found a cyber café. I'm really surprised at the total lack of facilities in Washington, given that it's such a popular tourist destination. Leave it up to the Federal government, I suppose.
Tonight I found a wonderful Indian/Pakistani eating place right by the hostel. It's cheap and good, like the Indian counterpart to Red Flower Chinese food back in Baton Rouge. The chef asked me if I wanted spicy or mild. So I had to ask, "American spicy, or Indian spicy?" That one got a chuckle. He said the little picture of a family on my credit card and asked, "That's you?" Apparently, he thought I had a picture of my family on my credit card. I told him that no, it wasn't me, to which he replied, "Oh.... I was about to say, you have a very beautiful wife."
I told Dave, one of the Australians, that I really don't like Washington as a city. It's dirty, poverty-stricken, and void of culture. The government buildings are the only refuge from the mediocre surroundings, and even they usually lack imagination in their form. They really are magnificent buildings in their own right, but Frank Lloyd Wright was on target in saying that they are not American. They are merely copies from past great cultures, not structures that emerge from the present-day American culture. But I suppose American culture hadn't defined itself enough, nor had time to come up with its own styles, by the time the first buildings were designed. And now, we have to keep everything looking like it goes together.
As magnificent of buildings as the White House or the Capitol are, I can't help but think how much more appropriate our seat of government would look were it done in all American styles.
However, Washington's form provides an appropriate parallel of the Federal government it houses. It's sad really. All of the surrounding buildings—the post office, the EPA, the Canadian embassy, the various hotels—all reach toward the mall, like the palm trees on an island growing outward at an awkward angle, chasing their source of life in the sky.
This evolution of the cityscape would be appropriate in a Kingdom, but I have to wonder if it is just as appropriate here in America, where a backlash against that sort of kowtowing is central to the ideals of the state.
Yesterday, my journal writing got cut short by another American who wouldn't stop talking to me. I've taken notice of a phenomenon that may be an absolute truth of nature—those who talk a lot have nothing to say. I've also noticed that they tend to be the least insightful people, I'm guessing because they spend too much time talking to ever listen to anything. I have to wonder what it is inside them that all this talking seeks to satisfy.
I visited the Vietnam memorial yesterday and Arlington Cemetery today. A common facet of them both makes them such sacred grounds. They both force the onlooker to acknowledge the individual, and then comprehend what it means for so many to have died. At the Vietnam memorial, the endless rows of names are all right-justified in their granite plates. When one begins reading, the individual is easily distinguished at its own starting place on the line. Then, as the eyes follow the line further, the individual name devolves into a frenzied chaos of thousands of names, each one speaking to the reader as not only a collective member, but also as an individual, with a family, friends, and a life all his own.
At Arlington, a similar effect is seen with the fields of identical gravestones as far as the eye can see. The names on the headstones adjacent to the street are easily visible, and as one looks further and further into the distance, the sheer magnitude of the number of lives affected and sacrificed becomes apparent.
Last night I had a most enlightening conversation with the head of African American Studies at a university in Alabama. It all started with a student from Indonesia, Wishnoebroto (that's his whole name, just one word. He had to split it up in two parts when he registered for college).
I found the student lying awake in bed when I went back to my room to go to sleep, as I had nothing else to do. I talked with him a bit and asked him if he wanted to go back downstairs with me. We did, and soon ran into his professor.
I opened the dialogue with his professor with something like this:
"I've heard the opinion that a problem plaguing many African American studies programs is that: (1) Almost exclusively blacks attend the degree; (2) As a necessity of physical proximity to their academic program, these blacks tend to stay in the same dorms and congregate in the same areas of campus. This can lead to a type of groupthink, which can then be somewhat dangerous when coupled with the moral authority that the field of study has. What are your thoughts on this?
He answered the question completely, and this led to a further conversation that lasted a couple of hours. Mostly the conversation was him answering my continued line of questioning, but some of it was me arguing with him. He also attempted to answer my long-standing question on the viewpoint that capitalism and racism go hand in hand. He tried to explain with a real life scenario, but the link still seems ambiguous to me.
The link goes something like this:
This is still fuzzy and incomplete. I'm trying to understand it more. I may try to corner the professor again and ask him for some more information.
The Indonesian student today answered another question. "How should Western powers help poor nations?" Essentially, his answer was this: Help the people as individuals in the poor countries and ask nothing in return. He also said that the IMF, often like the US government and US companies, control other countries through loaned money. I'm trying to piece all this information together from the various internationals here to find out the whole construct behind feeling that the United States is an oppressive nation, both inward and outward. I'm working overtime to construct these schools of thought in my head.
No matter where I go, I leave a better person not for the places I've seen, but for the people to whom I've listened. I only hope that I can enrich their lives as well through my interactions with them.
I spent today waiting on Sanjay to call me to go to Baltimore. He never did. But it's OK, I slept late, and then spent a lot of time talking to people, walking around, etc. Tomorrow, I finally leave for New York City via a train from Union station.
I walked to McDonald's today to get dinner at night. One thing I will say that I've thought of is this: If we live in an age where we still have to run back to our little caves for fear of a hungry person attacking us for our food, how advanced is our society, really? That we have houses instead of caves and high-rise buildings in place of trees helps us to feel better. We define our society not by the people who go hungry, but by the speed of our vehicles, the distance we travel, and the art we produce. In essence, we often define our society by the accomplishments of the rich, no matter if the rich are people, companies, or the government itself.
Washington is a cesspool of poverty and crime, and the city we claim as our capital. Arguing whether the two are related could provide sardonic debate, but the symbolism is so blatant, that only a native Washingtonian could miss it. Living in the proverbial forest, one may miss the sky scraping trees.
But perhaps they don't miss the trees. Perhaps one of the reasons that the residents of the larger cities here tend to be so liberal is that they see the poverty every day. It's in their face. Where I come from, the poor never ask for money, and never look hungrily at your food. The reasons for this I do not know.
Techically, it's 4/15, but it's effectively the same day.
It doesn't look like I'm going to sleep tonight. I slept in late this morning, and I've heard a rumor that someone in our room sounds like "he swallowed a fucking chain saw," as an Australian roommate just told me.
I think I need to get a tape recorder to record the sounds of the cities. I missed a lot of audio I could have captured in Washington, but I bet New York has audio that's even better.
My last day in Washington today was the same day as a pro-Israel rally on the mall. They were expecting between 25-70 thousand people. I would have liked to stay to take photos, but I had a train to catch.
Today on the subway to go to Union Station for my
train to New York, something happened that I'll never forget. I sat quietly in
the subway car when a man in a suit to my left said these words out loud:
"Ummmm.... did somebody here leave a briefcase in this seat next to me?"
I took a few seconds to realize the ramifications of those words. My heart did not stop immediately, but rather paced its beats further apart, and slowed down as the moment sunk into my head.
I looked at the subway map to see the next stop, and decided I would get out there, even though it wasn't my destination. Instead of staying still, my heart began to beat faster and faster, praying for the train to stop. Perhaps we were about to see an explosion. Perhaps we were already infected. The passengers all looked nervously in the direction of the briefcase out of the corners of our eyes. Finally, a short black woman got up and said half jokingly to the man who pointed out the briefcase, "You can look inside if you want." Of course, he declined. Then she said, "You might find lots of scary things in there. But no chemicals." Then we all came to the realization that it was her briefcase.
"Don't pull stuff like that," the man said. "Not on a day like today."
When I got on the train to New York, I spent most of the time talking to a really cute girl with gorgeous blue eyes most of the way. She's a photography student from Philadelphia, and was quite interesting.
Yesterday after getting off the train into New York, I immediately began falling in love with the city. At first, everything seemed so fast-paced and a tad intimidating. But within several minutes, I began matching the pace and attitude of the locals. I felt my neurons ramping up their firing speed to accommodate all of the new information: Subway direction sign up ahead; maneuver left for red line 2; maneuver between oncoming pedestrian traffic; absorb music from the subway band. And all of it happens at a break-neck pace. So, a mental directive comes not every few seconds, but instead a few every second.
For about ten minutes, I just
crouched in a corner and watched people. At first glance, one might see New
Yorkers as easy pickin's, as all of them seem to be in a rush, but none seem to
know where they're going—really going I mean. And in that, they metaphor a
common criticism of American culture. But I suspect the people here have been
given an unearned bad name. To let each person as an individual be lost in a
collective atmosphere that is New York would disgrace not only the people of
New York, but also my standards as a humble observer.
When I stepped out of the train station, New York, in its thick Bronx accent said out of the side of its mouth, "Welcome home, kid. Now get movin'."
Today, I spent a lot of time just walking around Manhattan and exploring the subway system. I wrote post cards while sitting in front of "the Sphere," the now-damaged monument to world peace that was in the WTC before the attack.
I walked around Times Square, watched girls, explore the culture, etc.
Tonight, I met up with Johonna and we went to a little pub. Her brother soon joined us, as usual.
I want to go to sleep, but my room is so hot. Apparently, the roommates have an aversion to sleeping with windows open on summer nights.
Today I found my way to the Guggenheim museum. I wanted to go to it first mostly because I was so interested in its architecture. The art museum aspect of it was secondary. I love how the museum focuses total attention on the art itself, instead of something like the Louvre that competes with the art.
To get there, I had to run through Grand Central Station. It's not as nice as Union Station in Washington, at least not from what parts I saw. And I think I was in the main lobby area. And in that same area, I got a glimpse of the Chrysler building.
I wrote about some of the feelings I had today on the Livejournal.... about how I don't look and feel abnormal here. About how I'm not so short. I titled the entry, "Turning ivory to bronze."
Well, I've spent a lot of time out at night w/ Johonna 'n company, including her new beau, last night.
A couple
nights ago, I stayed up listening to a drug dealer from LA talk to a drug
dealer from England. The one from England had dollar (pound?) signs in his eyes
trying to think of some way to sell hash on the West Coast, since it's so easy
to come by in England. Everybody tried to tell him that the U.S. is a lot
tougher on drugs, especially after September 11th. The guy from LA, who did the
whole drug-gang thing for a while, said that the people in the United States
were less intelligent than people from Europe, his rationale being that some of
his cousin's friends from Europe were much more intelligent and "advanced"
(whatever that meant) than all his friends in LA. I wanted to ask him if he'd
ever considered that it's not the U.S. that's less advanced than Europe, but
rather that LA is less advanced than the rest of the U.S. But I bit my tongue.
His other evidence was that if gangs get in a fight in England, it's just a
fist fight. But here, we use guns and knives. Somehow, this mad English gangs
better, although I don't really know how.
A lot of people from other countries have noted how their country doesn't like foreigners coming on business, especially in Europe. This is in contrast to the United States, which seems to welcome foreign investment, and doesn't resent people coming in on business. Sure, we still have our problems with illegal aliens.
The hostel here is on the Southern edge of Harlem. And across Central Park from Spanish Harlem. Adventure is trying to get your prescription from another pharmacy filled in Spanish Harlem.
So here I am, getting ready at dawn to leave New York, shuffling and organizing papers in the hostel library. One girl is in here with me, reading.
In walks another girl and announces, "Would either of you mind if I did a monologue?" I shook my head, "No. No, actually.... it would be quite entertaining."
So here this girl is, performing Act II, Scene II from Romeo and Juliet. Like..... right now as I type.
Good bye, sweet New York. This city truly is an island in an island
nation.
I've only talked to people from two places in this town so far—the Rite Aid pharmacist and the hotel receptionist. Both had the same question for me:
What brought you here?
But they both said it in a way that really implied:
What the hell are you doing in this shit hole?
I berated the pharmacist for being so down on his home town. Growing up in Natchez, lots of people had the same attitude there, and I saw many an outsider asked the question. And as much as I really hated growing up there, I never blamed it on the town. The town never tried to be anything it wasn't. I don't know the same of this one.
This town is one of those places that looks like it might be of some substantial size as WV towns go, but that it still gets a large part of its income from traffic fines. Some towns just feel like a speed trap, and this is one of them.
All day on the drive toward the West, I was thinking about New York. I listened to the CD that I bought off of a subway musician...... I remember how his music cut through the noise of the subway, like a plant straining through the crack of a sidewalk. At the next subway stop, I could still hear his music in the background, echoing down the endless corridors of the underground tunnels. His music had resolve. "This is America," I said to myself. "This is America's soul."
The drive from Washington took me through beautiful mountains, with the constantly changing altitude popping my ears the whole way.
I love the freedom of the road again. But I still miss New York. A lot.
Today I probably accomplished over 9 hours of solid driving, not including breaks, from St. Louis to almost the Western Kansas border. I don't mind this driving at all..... in fact, when I got up this morning, I was actually looking forward to it. I was excited about the freedom of the open road out west.
Tomorrow I head to Boulder. After that, I want to try to get to Salt Lake City via highways instead of the Interstate.... maybe take my shirt off and get a tan through the sun roof?
I took a few pictures of the arch at night, but I'm afraid the film won't come out well. I have neither the camera nor the skill capable of capturing it adequately. Oh, it certainly was beautiful, though. And larger than I'd anticipated. It has a quality that I've never seen captured on film before. The surface doesn't appear smooth, but rather like plates of shiny brushed aluminum (for all I know, that's what they really were). I got to St. Louis about midnight, so I didn't want to hang out in those dark areas long enough to try to get better shots or touch the arch (if one can even do that sort of thing). The area seemed safe enough, but I was the only one out there that I could see.
Before I started driving, I told myself that it wouldn't be that bad, since I'd already been through high school. After all, high school was even more boring, as I didn't have driving to focus on, and I didn't have a radio and six-disc CD changer. I'm eager to wake up tomorrow morning just to drive.... maybe I should have been a truck driver.
The Plains toward the East of Kansas rolled gracefully to the horizon. Watching the sunset directly ahead of me as I drove gave me a sense of order and serenity. It felt so natural. That's something I think I would miss if I lived in a place like New York.... the sun sets. I imagine it's cold there so much of the year that one wouldn't even want to stay out to watch it after work. I used to like to watch the sun set over tiger stadium from a window in CEBA back home. That scene always surprised me with its beauty.... the sun setting over a football stadium shouldn't please my psyche so much. But to console my anti-athletic tendencies, I tell myself it was the sun that made it beautiful, not the stadium.
The driving scenery is more drab now in this Western area of Kansas. I've wanted to catch a small tumbleweed to take it home with me (I always thought they were the coolest things). But so far, I've only seen one, and I accidentally ran over it. A small tumbleweed falling in the path of an SUV doing 80 doesn't fare too well.
My tears welled up when I saw Kansas City on the
horizon. It's not a pretty city. It's not exceptional in any way I could
determine from my brief passing through. But I think it was just that moment
where I realized how vast this country really is..... how many cities speak out
to maintain the chorus that are these United States.
Holding my car steady to watch for falling rocks from the scarred mountainsides has been replaced by holding my car steady in case a wind gust comes along. Now, instead of the mountains blocking radio stations, the utter lack of anything affords me a million stations, all comprised of different beats of distant static.
I should see Miranda in Boulder tomorrow night. I feel bad about coming in on such short notice. I may try to stay in a hostel in that area. I also need to take a drive up to Fort Collins, CO, to get film developed on PhotoCD. I hope it's all still good. I've taken some pictures that I think will turn out really well.
I love this country. I wish I never had to go back to Baton Rouge, even though I do miss my apartment. I don't miss the city one bit. It's a beautiful city with friendly people.... but it's not for me. I miss Nashville. I miss New York. But as much as I do like it, I don't think I would ever miss Baton Rouge.
I spent yesterday afternoon and night with Miranda. I ended up sleeping on her living room floor, which I really wasn't planning on since I hate to impose on people. But she really tried to convince me I should do that instead of paying for a hotel room. I still felt bad about it. I hate disrupting people’s lives.
Today I went to Fort Collins
to try to find the photo developing place. I finally did find the address, but
it is now occupied by an Allstate office. So, I spent the whole day traveling
to and around Fort Collins, trying to find the wrong destination. But one
resolution I made before I left saved the day. As long as I'm out doing
something, there is no such thing as wasted time. Everything is a new
experience that enriches me, even if it's just wandering aimlessly around the
streets of Fort Collins. I got to watch a lot of people and get a feel for the
culture here. People are generally very cold here.... cordial, but not
accommodating at all.
They don't open again until Monday, and I plan to be gone by then. So, I'll just have to mail it all to them when I get back.
The sunsets here are so beautiful, though. Rays of light rain down over the mountains through the holes in the clouds above.
I'm looking forward to meeting Laura. I sent her e-mail today asking when it was best for me to drop by Vegas, so I could try to plan the rest of my trip accordingly. My block of time in LA should be longer so that a convenient time to see Everett should be in there. I'd really like to plan the rest of the trip so that I have a week to get from Vegas to Baton Rouge. I want to take my time driving through Texas for some odd reason.
Weirdest thing of the day: OK, so I have a non-smoking motel room. Now, this motel room has an ash tray in it. That's weird enough, but here is the really weird part.... the ash tray has a no smoking sticker on it. Can anybody explain that one? I'd be tempted to steal it if I weren't so intent on ridding myself of worldly possessions.
Tomorrow I'll drive through the Rocky Mountains and hope to find something interesting. I should be in Salt Lake City in a couple of days.
Tonight as I was getting out of the shower, the weather was on the nightly news. I looked at the U.S. weather map on the screen and my eyes looked across all the cities I've absorbed on this trip. Suddenly I realized that this country doesn't seem so big any more. Those far off and distant places aren't so removed now. They almost seem right next door. I feel like a poor man whom fate has suddenly given a diamond; such wealth seemed unfathomably distant before, but now that I hold the prize close enough to see all the details, it's more miraculous than I'd have ever imagined. I think most people in this country view it from a distance. They have to. But to see this country—to hold this diamond—makes one appreciate it not merely for the opportunities it affords, but for its inherent beauty in what it is.
I said something to Miranda
last night that kind of bothered me. I recited my long standing desire that one
day I would rather adopt than have my own child, since there's already so many
children in need in the world. I followed half jokingly, "Besides, I don't want
to inflict my genes on anybody else." It really was a joke, but.... that I
thought of it, and that I really felt a hint of it, shows a little bit about
how I feel about myself. I commented to Aaron one time,
"You know, I'm a short, pale guy with black hair, family history of premature baldness, and mediocre standardized test scores. If I put my genes on the market, they'd be in the economy section." The sad part is that it really isn't a joke at all.... that is the absolute truth. And while I don't feel in any way that I'm somehow inferior, the fact that this simple economic example of how society would view my genetic code wreaks havoc with all my body image issues. I'm getting better.... I'm getting past it. I know we are all more than our genes.
Well, my blue-light-special genes need to get to bed. Full day of mountain driving tomorrow!
I drove through highway 40 today, from outside Denver to Vernal, Utah. Highway 40 on this stretch winds around, up, and down snow-tipped mountains. I drove up the mountains through pine forests, then through the snow on top, and then back down into the pines again.
My car did not like going up hill at all..... it's quite underpowered for its weight. But it loved anything off-road. Every time I pulled off on a scenic outlook or anything not paved, it begged to go further away off the asphalt. Alas, while I trust the car to go where I tell it in the wilderness, I don't trust myself to tell the car how to get back out.
I loved the mountain driving. The prairies coming out of the mountains and into Utah were so beautiful..... it would be nice to have a house in this area one day.
I'm thinking I may want to skip Salt Lake City and do more driving. Highway 50 through Nevada is allegedly the loneliest road in America, and I want to see if that's true. While it takes a bit longer to drive, the difference is made up easily in skipping Salt Lake City, and even affords me time to take excursions, if I trust myself to not get lost in the desert. I have a lot of water with me. Perhaps I should get some groceries before heading out there.... I doubt there are many places to stop and get food.
I drove shirtless most of the day, just covering myself when getting out of the car for gas or pictures. Maybe I'll have something resembling a tan by the time I get through Nevada. I'm looking forward to the Nevada sunsets.
I realize this is supposed to be a culture tour, and here I am going in search of nature. But first and foremost, it's supposed to be a fun tour. And to be honest, Salt Lake City has gradually lost its appeal through this trip. While it is a point of cultural interest, I don't know how much its culture has actually contributed to the wider American culture.
I ate lunch at a little German restaurant tucked away in Colorado mountains today. They were the friendliest people I met since leaving New York.
Today was serene, but mostly void of consequential
thoughts. Today I was at peace. I would say that I didn't learn much today, but
I think that days like this.... days we have time to just relax and take in the
beauty of nature.... help set conditions to grow. And isn't that what learning
is for anyway? To grow? So, while I didn't learn much today, I did grow.
And.... perhaps I set conditions to grow even more in the future. Maybe I'll
grow tomorrow.
Did you know that the United States has sand dunes? Neither did I. But sure as hell, right there in the middle of Utah, we got some big-ass sand dunes.
A new definition to add to my trip dictionary:
You know you're
alone when you press "Scan" on your car radio, and it just keeps cycling
through all the frequencies, over and over, without stopping.
Supposedly, this alone is not that bad compared to what I'll face tomorrow traveling the "loneliest road in America," highway 50 through Nevada. I need to get supplies before I leave in the morning from a little grocery store across the street. I looked at the map, and there doesn't seem to be much of anything. Even less than there was on my driving today.
I found a bleached bone in the desert today. I stopped off on the side of the road to take some pictures and just look around, and soon I found a sun-bleached animal bone. From the size and shape, I'd guess it to be a rib bone of some cattle or other large animal, but I'm no expert. In any case, I kept it as a souvenir.
Today, my cell phone read "No service." The irony is that the last time my phone said that was a week ago, in the New York subways. That phenomenon makes an interesting comment on an odd similarity between life in New York and life in the West. In both cases, the people are isolated. In the West, the expansive deserts and Plains provide isolation—at any point while driving, I may be looking over an area a hundred times the size of Manhattan, and traverse a hundred of these areas in a day. In New York, however, the people crowded together provide the isolation. They never have to leave to get anything done. I saw more people on a city block in Manhattan than I do in a thousand miles here. In the West, one never talks to his neighbor because he is so far removed in space, but in Manhattan, the people may be equally far removed in spirit. I wonder if people actually work to be alone. No matter where you go, people are ultimately lonely.
While in Boulder, I made the comment to Miranda that I was handling the isolation quite well. I said, "I really don't get lonely very much." She quickly chimed in, "Oh yes you do." And from talking to me and reading my journal, I realized she was right. But we were talking about two different kinds of lonely. I don't normally get lonely where I need to be around people...... where I need a lot of interaction. But I do quite often get lonely for intimacy. So, while I can't have the latter without the former, I tend to view the former as merely a means to get to the latter. I wonder if I am normal in that respect..... not that it matters.
My arms are taking on a nice shade that I wish my whole body would follow.
I saw my first Indian reservation today, right here in Ely. They couldn't possibly have been self-sustaining when they were put there..... what can you grow out here? Just a few stubborn grasses are mad enough to call this desert home.
The wind howls furiously outside my motel door. I wonder if it's going to keep me awake tonight..... or if maybe it will help me sleep instead.
It is my responsibility to adapt.... I would say I've adapted well so far, but adapted to what? At the end of every day, I have a room with a hot shower and HBO. Once that is normalized across the country, the bridge between Manhattan and desert really isn't so big.
Yesterday I drove to Carson City, Nevada's capital. I actually
saw—get this—more sand dunes. I drove up to a place called "Sand
Mountain," and walked around the dune, took pictures, etc. I never thought
being that close to a sand dune would be such an amazing experience. I really
fell in love with the desert regions of Nevada and Utah. And, the land isn't
all that expensive. Maybe I could set up a ranch one day? Hmmm, who knows. The
loneliest highway in America didn't seem nearly as lonely as I'd anticipated. I
was picturing a straight road through bleak desert, with no more civilization
than a gas pump every 200 miles. But it had a couple of small towns, some power
lines, mountains, sand dunes..... what more could you ask for? Perhaps its
designation as the "loneliest highway in America" made it not so lonely.
Today, I left for San Francisco, half wanting to skip it completely. I don't know why, but the idea of San Francisco really does not appeal to me at all. Now that I'm here, I see it really is quite a beautiful city. It's almost like one big college campus (which may explain its liberal tendencies). But I haven't been here long enough to say if I like the city or not. I just got here a few hours ago, and have barely had a chance to leave the hostel. I won't see the city until tomorrow. I did, however, get to watch the end of a beautiful sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge. The hostel is on the edge of the bay.
I knew I was in Nevada when I saw a casino at the gas station. However, I knew I was in California when I saw billboards advertising great rates on breast implants. Upon entering California, the scenery immediately started to get more beautiful in the traditional sense. I, for one, thought the stark Nevada deserts could rival the beauty of the California coastline, but I'm sure many people would disagree. Another sure sign I was in California was when I saw signs advertising that an advantage to the real estate in this area was that it was that the community recycles and that they're nowhere near nuclear power.
It took me forever to find the hostel once I got into San Francisco. I hate driving in this city.... the lanes are rarely clearly defines, the streets snake everywhere, and some of them go up and down such a steep incline that one can't even see what he is about to drive onto once he nears the peak. I can only imagine what it would feel like walking. My legs don't have a six-cylinder engine.
So here I am in San Francisco, dressed all warm in an outfit that makes me look sufficiently gay. I blend in better that way. To use Miranda's language, I look quite "Abercrombie" today.
The vegetarian eating disorder seems to dominate this place. The special in the cafe today was "vegetarian curry," and they were selling vegan cookies. My body can take a day—maybe two—of vegetarian food. After that, I start to crash big time. I hope meat isn't so hard to come by in the rest of the city. Yes, get your mind out of the gutter, I mean the kind of meat you can eat. Wait.... that came out wrong.
I feel like such a lightweight on this trip. I've met so many people who make my trip seem like child's play. I just met a guy from England who's been gone for six months in Australia and New Zealand, and is about to spend six more months, much of it in the United States. He's about to buy a car here just to drive around the country. He just spent a few weeks in Hawaii, but said that it "doesn't really count" as being in America.
My
Palm just scared the bejeezus out of me. It jammed up for the first time ever.
I was afraid resetting it would lose all my data. But a soft reset didn't... it
fixed the problem. I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost it all.....
a whole month of writing, gone.
Can you believe that? I've been gone exactly one month today. I'm afraid to know how much money I've spent. I haven't exactly been living the high life, but gas, cheap motels, and hostel fees add up over a month. That's partly the reason I skipped touring around St. Louis, and skipped Salt Lake City entirely. But I'm glad I skipped SLC. Driving around the deserts of Utah and Nevada was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Just driving for eight hours a day out there doesn't seem bad at all. It's a whole lot more fun than sitting in class, that's for sure. Even when I got out into areas that had no radio reception and I'd already heard the same CD's a thousand times, I was glad to just be out there on the road. I found enough amusement just from watching the ever-changing horizon, knowing it looks the same now as it did to the Indians a thousand years ago. It gave me a sense of order. The land held a surprise around every corner. When I came out from around one mountain, I didn't know if I'd see another, or if I'd see a straight, level road that stretched out as far as I could see.
I don't know why I feel a need to keep writing. Maybe I just want somebody to talk to. Maybe the isolation is starting to get to me. I didn't really notice it when I was actually taking a week to get across the country. But then again, in that week, there was nobody really to offer the potential of having someone to talk to. I've come to realize that two months isn't nearly enough time to see this country.... I mean really see it. To get to know to know the diversity of the people here could take years. Actually, it could take lifetimes if you want to do it right. But since none of us have a lot of those, we have to make due with just a few years, I suppose. Maybe after I work some time and save up some money, I can afford to take one of these two year treks that these other hostelers are on. I do envy them. While I miss my apartment, I don't want to go home. I want to stay on the road. Forever.
When I get back, I need to start purging more worldly possessions. I'm not mobile enough to travel like this in the long term.
The bathroom on my floor only has one shower. I have a feeling I'll have to fight for it in the morning if I want to take a shower then. Staying in motels between the coasts spoiled me..... I got used to two regular showers per day again.
One mystery still eludes me..... where do these other hostelers get the food to cook? I know all these people from other countries don't have cars, and to cook some of these dishes I'm seeing, you need more than just two or three items from a grocery store. They can't possibly be backpacking enough food around to eat like this.
I guess it's time I went to bed. Or tried. Maybe I'll check my online journal one more time, just in case somebody left a comment or e-mailed me. I want interaction of some kind.
This town has a strange affinity for Arabic music. I wonder if they had this taste before the backlash against the War on Terrorist began. While I applaud the embracing of another culture, I have to worry about what seems like it could be the beginnings of a budding anti-Semitic movement. I hope that this country would not allow it to turn into that. But protesters that exhibit more of an anti-Israel attitude than a pro-Palestine attitude worry me. That's what has always worried me about the far left of this country..... it is more about tearing things down than it is about building things up. It seeks to create equality by bringing the accomplished and privileged down instead of encouraging the less accomplished and unprivileged to strive up.
Quote from the San Francisco Examiner for Wednesday, May 1: "These were business conservatives like Simon, and while they may care more about small government than school lunches, they aren't scared off by harsh rhetoric." This newspaper seems more like Salon.com than a real newspaper. If you had the Wall Street Journal on one end and the Examiner on the other, the New York Times would probably be in the middle. If you can believe that. Of course, I read this with a little of my own bias. I'm reading the Examiner writers as examples of liberal bias instead of as a news source. But when they speak with such an abundance of clever language and such a deficit of intelligent forethought, it's hard to get past it. I guess the clever language for the liberal audience is kind of like waving shiny objects in front of a monkey..... it keeps them interested. But I really would rather my news stories have some substance.
That the signs advertising intellectual and environmental enlightenment in this town fall next to signs advertising psychic readings speaks for itself. But I have to try really hard to not let my prejudices over California—this part in particular—gets in the way of my observing the culture. I just can't get into this town, though.... I'm trying. I don't like it. It seems like everything is a show. The perfectly manicured buildings, the contrived casual look in the clothes, the clever facade of the newspaper language, the radio DJ's squeezing in their token yoga tunes and words of love and peace..... it's all a show. It all seems fake.
OK, that was weird.... a lady just came up and gave me a note that says she's mute and asked me to call a number for her and tell the guy she's on her way. I did, but then the lady talked to the guy.... so she apparently wasn't mute and just wanted to use my phone. Then she asked for some change to buy a cup of coffee. Oh well, at least she wasn't totally fake.
Right now, it seems a school for deaf girls is here in the hostel. They look to be about 10 years old, and amazingly quiet for their age. They're all signing to each other.... it's a sight to see. It's amazing to see how much you can tell just by looking at the expressions on their faces and their body language... I can interpret their moods and basic needs, if not the specifics of what they're saying.
Today I stayed in the park a lot because the sun came out for the first time. For about an hour, I watched this girl practice yoga poses. That was nice. She had a backpack and a "No War" t-shirt on, so chose to make a gross assumption that she was from UC Berkeley. She must have been incredibly thin, because she was able to fit between the legs of the statue in the park. I looked at the statue later and saw that I couldn't have even fit my rib cage in, much less my big head.
I was glad to finally leave San Francisco. I really
didn't enjoy that city. Part of it may have been that I was just in the wrong
spot, too far away from any of the action at the hostel I stayed in. But aside
from that, I don't think I mix in very well with the San Francisco culture. It
seems void of intellect. Everywhere you look, there is some kind of reason to
worry over something. Maybe it's a sign that warns about nuclear power, or
something else telling you to exercise, or some other notice warning that
cigarette smoke "Is known by the State of California to cause cancer," or that
the sky is falling, or some other such reason to live in paranoia. It's like a
whole city of people walking around with a sign on that says, "The end is
near." If they didn't hate Christians so much, I'd pair them up with the
Revelations crowd. Aside from the technical details of what exactly is causing
the end, they really preach from the same playbook.
Yesterday I traveled down the California coast via highway 1. Aside from tons of picturesque scenery, the main interesting sight I came across was a whole bunch of molting Northern Sea Lions. I'd never seen anything like that in person before.
Today I traveled down the coast mostly via highway 101 to Santa Barbara. The lady at the front desk of the Motel 6 I'm in now told me that she went on a similar trip after she graduated college, and she did hers alone, too. She told me I should go to the Cinco de Mayo celebration here. So, after checking out my room, I headed to downtown Santa Barbara and joined the crowds of people. Lots of hot girls here dressed in really nice stuff. It was horrible, awful torture.
I reflected back on my trip out West and thought to myself that I
saw this country as the pioneers did, and I finally understood manifest
destiny. This land, it is like a virgin laid out on white sheets, waiting to be
taken. The beauty before my eyes evoked a paradox of the spirit, my heart
battling between conquering her waiting beauty for myself and bowing in awe
before her grace.
That is why I'm here—to see this woman we call America. And my friends, she's everything they said she'd be.
I like this City of Angels a whole lot better than the rest of the state. Granted, it's a beautiful state with gorgeous beaches and really pretty people. But I couldn't find much else that I liked about it.
Los Angeles seems a whole lot nicer. It's not as culturally rich as New York, but it's not actively stupid like San Francisco.
From the little bit I've driven here, this certainly is a city that's a lot easier to drive in than most of the others. Being a newer city (and a pretty nice section of it), the streets allow ample space, the grid system makes sense, and the traffic signals are easily seen. From what I've seen so far, I could definitely live here. After I see more, I should have a better idea about it.
I was able to park in the garage directly across the street on the third level, in a spot that I can see easily from the front door of the hostel. I hope I don't have to move it, but I don't think I'll be that lucky.
Today I've eaten two real hamburgers, dripping with grease and cow blood. It was great. I feel so much better now. I didn't realize what bad shape my body was in from that battle with vegetarianism in San Francisco.
I spent a lot of time at the beach today. The scenery was really beautiful, but the beach itself was pretty littered. I saw a standoff between a dog and a marine animal that I think was a sea lion. Unfortunately, I couldn't get my camera out in time to take a snapshot of the golden retriever and the sea lion staring at each other nose to nose. I was able to get one of just the seal, though.
After that, I watched two sisters trying to practice their gymnastics on the beach, and I got a picture of them while one was standing on her hands. They didn't want a copy of the one I took, but they did ask me to take one of them sitting together.
I feel parts of my digestive system working now that haven't been engaged since I hit the West coast. This feels good.
OK, it's been a while since I wrote last, and I'm not sure if that's a good sign, or a bad sign. At least it means I was too busy doing other stuff.
What did I do, you ask? Well.... let's see..... I walked around Santa Monica a lot, including the pedestrian mall on 3rd Street. I went to the beach some more (I really like the beach.... I wish I lived on the beach). And, I met Everett face-to-face for the first time.
Everett met up with me on Tuesday (May 7), and gave me the grand tour of the Symantec office where he works. It was basically a big pseudo-campus with lots of computers and programmers everywhere. That development office is where they make and test all of the Norton products (Antivirus, Systemworks, etc). He then gave me a nice tour of UCLA, which seemed like an incredibly well-funded school. Modern buildings dominate the campus landscape, with some parts looking more like a corporate campus than a college campus. I have to wonder what effect this might have on the psyche of people like Everett, who live their whole life in an environment somewhere between the most well-funded schools, and the richest companies. From what I've observed, it leads to a similar insular mentality that exists in New York, but the people in Los Angeles seem to be more obnoxious about it. In New York, they just don't know about the rest of the world. Here, it seems that they believe their way of life is somehow inherently better than that of the rest of the world.
In any case, the next day, Everett, an über-Christian, began
introducing me to the Christian aspect of my American cultural tour. Since the
American brand of Christianity is such a pervasive part of our culture,
especially in the areas around where I grew up, I felt obligated and eager to
add it to my journey. So, when he offered, I took him up on it. Wednesday
night, we went to a little meeting called a "fellowship." This is where a group
gets together to study the Bible, as well as offer each other support. It's
things like this that bring together Christianity the religion with
Christianity the lifestyle. The support aspect of the fellowship is, of course,
something that many groups do together, even if it's not the expressed purpose.
Why else do we have girls’ nights out and things of the sort? But with a
fellowship like this one, the social support serves ultimately to guide people
in receiving Christ's support. Of course, the definition of "Christ" to this
cultural subset
is worthy of a whole book by itself, and I won't go into that
here. But needless to say, the psychological Christ—which, in this
fellowship, seems inseparable from the Biblical Christ—has been written
about in innumerable incarnations, under innumerable names. It is a fundamental
aspect of the human condition that is not limited to the Christian mindset.
Nobody tried to "save" me, and they didn't even make me sing with them. They opened with song at the fellowship, and I just read along while (some of) them sang. I also watched their faces. There was a lot of surrendering going on with the music and with the prayer. Like some people's faces would surrender to chocolate and others to sex, they surrendered to Christ. And in that surrender and in the bliss they feel, they were right about one thing—Christ provides all for them. No matter if one believes in Christianity or not, anybody who looks at this fellowship objectively would see that Christ (no matter if you believe in the deity or just the psychological construct) really is a source of strength, support, and yes, satisfaction. And it's really not a bad deal.... instead of shopping around town trying to satisfy one's needs piecemeal (a relationship over here, a career over there, and some intimacy on the side), they have a way to do it all at one supercenter. It is not the lifestyle I would choose to adopt, but to dismiss it as anything but a legitimate, complete, and enlightened lifestyle would be an ignorant and closed-minded move at best.
The next day, we added another little experience to go along with the theme and visited the Institute for Creation Research in San Diego. It was a surprisingly well-maintained, quality institution with a staff knowledgeable in both science and scripture. We went along with a group of fifth graders from a Lutheran school on a tour (which of course opened me up to be the butt of many jokes, being the only Catholic there with all the recent media coverage the Church has gotten). Despite that the tour guide, who had a Ph.D. in Biology if I remember correctly, was preaching to the choir, he still maintained a decent degree of objectivity. I took issue with some of the supplementary information on the walls of the museum, such as trying to link evolutionary theory with racism, and describing someone as having "left Christianity," when the truth of the matter is that they were forced out of Christianity because of their views. But the tour itself was informative, and the guide was obviously experienced, adept, and knowledgeable.
After the ICR, we headed off to a San Diego bay where we went kayaking for about two hours. We battled against the tide and wind most of the way out, and then let it push us effortlessly most of the way back (except for when we had to steer clear of crashing into rocks, which looked quite intimidating every time the waves hit). The waves hitting the rocks reminded me of the shapes of flowers in Mississippi I saw on my first day, and made me think about how my journey is slowly coming to a close here. I'm surprisingly not sore now. Only my abs feel a little sore, but my arms are fine.
Everett brought me back to the hostel and I thanked him
for the great time. I probably won't see him again for a long time, if ever.
But it was nice to meet him finally, after knowing him only virtually for about
ten years.
I'm beginning to feel isolated now. I've gone too long with any kind of human interaction. I'm getting stir crazy and have considered leaving today instead of tomorrow, but that wouldn't help. I'd be even more isolated then in a little motel room. It's somewhat rare that I get lonely like this, where I simply crave human interaction, but it does happen. And I've gone a long time without much interaction at all.
These two gay guys over on a bench in the hostel's courtyard (where I am) keep looking over at me. Hmmm.... there is a chance for human interaction, although I don't know what I'd be getting myself into. I'm on weekend minutes on my cell phone now, so I guess I could call somebody.
[Remainder of entry finished at a later date because of an interruption described below]
OK, so these two obviously gay guys keep eyeing me in the courtyard of the hostel while I'm here typing on my travelogue. They were neither attractive nor ugly, just kind of average and gay looking. They appeared to be in their late 20's or early 30's, which was confirmed later in the night. Every so often, I'd look up from typing and see one of them in particular trying to establish eye contact with me. A little later, they got up to leave. But just after they passed me, eye contact boy doubled back to talk to me. He "just wanted to say hi." Later in the conversation, we established that I was from Louisiana and they were from Detroit. We also established that I had no plans for the evening except to finish my travelogue, and that they were going downtown to see various Hollywood sites. They invited me.
Now.... I was faced with two options. One, I could sit at the hostel and be alone, and continue to feel seriously in need of human contact. Or, two, I could risk giving the guys the wrong idea of what I wanted, and go with them. I thought about the advice I'd given to all the girls..... just because you go and do something with somebody doesn't mean you're promising more, and even if they got that impression through no fault of your own, you're under no obligation to put out. So, I figured that nothing really bad could happen with two strangers as long as I stayed in public places, and since they knew how to get to all the sites already, I tagged along.
We took a long bus ride past West Hollywood, which they had eagerly visited the night before, and to the big Hollywood sites. We saw the Hollywood sign on the way, but were never in a position to get a good picture of it. After the stop, we got out and saw the Chinese theatre, the stars, the footprints, etc, etc, etc.
Along the little adventure in Hollywood, they found a twenty-year-old male hooker and asked him to accompany us. He was an interesting character who left home as soon as he could. He now supports himself through payment for his services, plus money he gets from his parents who now feel guilty about screwing up his life. He presented amazingly well, aside from a few bumps on his lips that could have indicated a really scary disease. He was really quite nice.... While I was fumbling for change to get on the bus back to the hostel, he just paid my way. When the bus arrived back at the hostel, we told him good bye, and the two guys I was with left to catch a plane back home. I walked around the 3rd Street Promenade a bit, and then went to bed, looking forward to heading back towards home.
Yesterday I got to Las Vegas and called Laura soon after I got in. She was with her mom for mother's day, performing "mom maintenance," in her words. We agreed to get together later that night when she was done.
[Remainder of entry contains observations about Laura, which I won't post for the whole world to see]
I began the day with Texas cacti and ended it with the swampland I call home. As I drove closer to Louisiana, the trees crept further toward the interstate, until they all crowded each other to witness this strange Louisiana anomaly called pavement. After spending days in the Southwestern deserts, I liked seeing plant life that looked like it was growing just to try to keep up with the excessive water supply. The sun melted over the swamp behind me just long enough for me to see the State capital building in Baton Rouge towering over the humble cityscape. For the first time, my radio presets found their designated stations again, and through no intentions of my own, the song "Calling Baton Rouge" came through the speakers. I grinned at the irony as the swamp snuffed out the last of the sun.
I had a spectacular journey that most can only dream of. This country, its land, and its people, are far more wondrous than anybody ever wrote. My short trek between the coasts could not begin to discover this thing we call "America." I wrote so much of what I saw and did, but could express so little of what this country meant to me along the way. I can tell you about running shirtless in the sleet in an otherwise dry desert, or talking face-to-face to a sea lion, or watching college students cry out against their government on its most sacred grounds, or listening to a century-old woman who spent her few remaining breaths on a Manhattan street playing a harmonica for food. But my telling them could never accomplish as much as the painters of the West or the writers of the Mississippi. Those artists, who tried so passionately and skillfully to express what I'm feeling right now, made such expert pursuits, but failed so miserably in fully expressing the beauty and diversity of this land. They possessed far more ability than I.
All I can muster after an experience like this are three words: "I saw America."
Last updated 2002-10-06 at 06:51 GMT Copyright © Van Goodwin, 2002 Contact Van
