Hit the road, Jack.

My life is renewed when tires meet the road.

It's always been that way, for as far back as I can remember. When I feel pressed down, or stressed, or worried, I hit the road and I'm made whole. Maybe it's the self-induced isolation, or maybe it's giving myself time to think and unwind and enjoy the scenery. I don't know enough to explain it, but I know that it works.

So it was this weekend, when I left town to see my good college friends Andrea and Keith. On the way to see Andrea in Harrisburg, PA, I took a small section of the old Lincoln Highway - what is now US-30. I've been to Pennsylvania twice, and driven through it twice, and have never seen much of the state because it was always dark when I drove through. It's a beautiful Commonwealth, full of hills and trees and old American farms, and traveling down an old highway reminded me of the Route 66 trip, if only briefly.

My visit to Keith's was an exploration in the truly unknown. Nobody thinks of Columbus, OH when they think of big American cities, but I do now. It's a fine town, complete with a fully-operational Apple Store and a (ahem) major American university. Keith made an excellent host and tour guide, and gave me a whole-day's respite from the road. I like driving, but I also like not moving for a while.

Monday, my birthday, had me hitting the road once again, knowing that when I got back home things would go back to normal. Sure, it's nice to return home from a long trip, but I dread the part of me that feels like I never left in the first place. The road's romance is short-lived, it seems, and I only get the benefit in the doing. And maybe the remembering, days and weeks and years later.

I drive to escape, mostly. To get out of town, to Go Somewhere, and leave the everyday behind. I surely can't drink and eat like I do when I'm on vacation. And I can't suspend life's rules like I do when I'm on the road. All I can do is take a little piece of the road home with me. See this big, beautiful country we live in. Perhaps take some pictures, too.

New adventure?

Perhaps. Only 3 days to get there? No problem.

Gas? That's the problem.

Finding old America in New England.

It's the middle of May, which means it's also time for adventure.

I leave first thing tomorrow morning for the big New England trip - a 10-day quest to discover the roots of our country at its birthplace. The trip starts in Philadelphia, the philosophical center of America, and continues to New Jersey, New York, Boston, and circles into Maine, New Hampshire, and then Vermont. I'll be exploring Revolutionary War sites, famous monuments to our country's birth, and the cities and towns where an entire generation of men found the courage to strike out on their own. I'll also be drinking lots and lots of beer.

Feel free to keep in touch during the trip. I'll have my trusty iBook with me, now with wifi, and will post pictures and progress to my trip blog:

Puritan's Progress

Why "Puritan's Progress?" If you remember, John Bunyan wrote "Pilgrim's Progress" - one of the most famous pieces of English literature - that was subtitled "From this world, to that which is to come." My trip isn't so grand (or so well-written), and instead focuses on "that which already came." This is a history trip, and because our country was founded by religious zealots who got kicked out of their home country, it only makes sense to apply the Puritan work ethic to my travels. And, like Bunyan's character Christian, I'm heading out of the "City of Destruction" (Jackson, MI) to the "Celestial City" (Boston? Bar Harbor? Time will tell...) in search of heavenly light. There's probably no more "heavenly light" left in New York City, or in the entire state of New Jersey, but I do seek the founding philosophy that made America such a fun place to live, work, and watch TV.

I'll have my phone on me, but I prefer e-mail, or comments on the blog. Should I happen to plunge off Mt. Washington, however, and explode in a glorious fireball-induced death, please feel free to take my stuff. Except the Wii. That gets buried with my mangled corpse.

Off I go, friends, on my annual quest. I'll return either Saturday, May 24 or Sunday, May 25 (depending on weather and gumption), with Memorial Day reserved as a return-to-Midwestern-living day.

Ben Franklin set off from Boston to Philadelphia with little more than pocket change and a heart of fire. My car will have tons more stuff, but the fire stuff is the same.

Too-da-loo

Puritan's Progress: my New England trip blog

Working on a blog for my New England trip as a way to keep my friends and family up-to-date on photos and where I'm at, etc.

Feel free to drop in and leave me a comment.

Americans are masochistic in Maine.

You start throwing around phrases like "economic downturn" and "...not since the Depression," and it makes one question the sanity of cutting out of town on another cross-country trip - where even the Hamptons are facing declining real estate values.

Gas. Wheat and milk. The price of everything, except houses, is going up, and here I sit on the edge of discovery, ready to journey into the heart of Old America and look into our revolutionary past. What shaped us as a country? Where did the Founding Fathers come from? Is fresh-off-the-boat crab meat really that tasty?

The answers to these questions, and more, I hope to find when I set out on May 16 to the original colonies. I’ll land on my own version of Plymouth Rock, I’ll walk down the streets of Philadelphia, bread in hand, and I’ll swim in the same pond that taught Thoreau to abandon his fellow citizens and embrace the wilderness as the last respite of a sanity-seeking intelligence. If he could spend time in prison to protest his country’s war-mongering, then surely I can sit on the banks of the Delaware and find out if Washington’s late-night crossing was worth the trouble.

Jefferson taught that a government should keep its powers within the confines of the Constitution, except while he was president, and so I don’t feel so bad taking my government money and putting it into my gas tank to run wild all over New England. If Route 66 was a quest to discover the world and my place in it, this trip is a journey to the roots of our country. What makes us tick? Where do we come from? Why can you talk about the weather with anyone, anywhere, anytime and not sound like a raving lunatic?

I’ve decided that I renting a car for this trip would be a waste. The states are so small, and the driving so non-perilous, that my little Suzuki should do just fine. It would have croaked on the side of some Colorado mountainside, but I believe the rolling hills of Vermont will not be such a chore.

I’ve also decided that, since the states are so close together, the back roads and state highways will be more than adequate to see everything I want to see in a reasonable amount of time.

The trip begins where our Declaration of Independance did: in Philadelphia, a logical starting point to a trek so historical. I’ll lay eyes on the Liberty Bell, and Mr. Franklin’s printing shop, and the building where demigods, as Jefferson called them, met and decided to try out a nation-sized experiment. From there it’s down to Maryland, up to Delaware and New Jersey, and straight through for a night (or two) in Boston and on to Maine, where I’ll stream through Route 1 and 3 on back to New Hampshire. Vermont is a resting stop before tackling Saratoga and upstate New York, with a finish through wherever I think the Adams Family (presidential, not kooky) would want to see last.

These trips are the travel equivalent to a Greatest Hits album: not a full picture, but a quick browse-through of the catalog. I may not get to a Red Socks game, but I’ll be sure to grab a picture of Fenway if I’m in the neighborhood.

The vacation time is set, the money is in the bank - what I need now are a few B&B ideas and a map of rest stops for those nights I feel like braving the New England spring nights in my spacious backseat. Nothing beats an economic downturn like a trip out of town and a few adventures along the way. Clinton and Obama can fight for the few remaining states until they’re blue-er in the face; I’ll be finding out about the prize they so greedily seek.

All that’s left is the getting there.

Adventures in the Keystone State.

Got back from Pennsylvania late Sunday night a better American, I think, and a little bit wiser to the east coast's ways.

But first, a tour.



My first thought on entering Pennsylvania late Friday night was, "Jesus, who put all these hills here?" But really, I forgot my last trip through the Keystone State: a frightening midnight run through two-lane Appalachian roads.

Where my sister lives? Beautiful. Rolling hills, changing colors, and enough boarded-up businesses to remind me of my own Rust Belt hometown.




"Don't drink the water," my dad told me before we left. And now I know why: this was the well at my sister's apartment complex, a temporary home for students of WyoTech - like her boyfriend, Trey.




If you know me, you know I love to drive the scenic route. So it was with great pleasure that I took a spin down State Route 981, a beautiful, roller-coaster-like highway carved into the Pennsylvania countryside.




Along the route, I started to feel like I was seeing what I imagined I'd see on my upcoming New England tour. True bucolic Americana - an Emerson-and-Thoreau-inspired trip through U.S. history.




The feeling was strongest in tiny Saltsburg, a river-side town in Indiana County about 10 minutes North from my sister's place.




Saltsburg made its fame (and its name) from deep salt beds buried next to the Conemaugh River that the populace mined for wealth and fortune. What they do now I have no idea.




Take a trail along the river, behind an old folks' home, and you'll find a little path that leads to the former aquaduct.




There I sat on the rocks, and enjoyed the experience: perfect fall day, sunshine, warm, and a shallow river running next to a small American town. Truman would've been proud.




Back in this century, I enjoyed a fine lunch - Texas Hold 'Em included - and a super dinner, as well as a trip to a local tavern, the Roadhouse, for some Yuengling and some Ohio State whipping MSU.

On Sunday we had a giant breakfast, and took my sister's dog Dayton for a romp outside.




We also watched as my dad amazingly fixed the stuck door on my sister's old Toyota. Living in a complex full of auto mechanics helps, however, as long as you have cigarettes for them.




We said our goodbyes and hit the road. I finally got to see Three Rivers Stadium (or whatever it's called now), where my AFC team plays in Pittsburgh, and dad and I shared in the pretty part of Ohio (it does exist, right next to a sliver of West Virginia) as we took winding state highways back home, case of Yuengling riding shotgun.




It was a beautiful trip, and a beautiful state. I plan to engage my assault on New England from Philadelphia next year, so I'll be able to see more of it.

A few things I learned: Pennsylvania is like Ontario, because they only sell beer in beer stores; Italians are legion, judging from the number of pizza joints; they DO have an accent; they love Penn State and the Steelers (sitting in the Buffalo Wild Wings, hearing the lunch crowd cheer for the Nittany Lions, was a neat experience); and the construction is just as bad there as it is here.

Thanks for having me, Pennsylvania.

News, hobo road trip edition.

Thomas Jefferson would disagree with Fred Ziegler's letter to the editor: the "bottom line" of education isn't to prepare students for the working world, but to prepare them for a participatory democracy. An uneducated populace isn't fit to vote or debate national issues, said Jefferson, so a public school system would give kids the basic knowledge to function as American citizens.

Training students on "thank you" ettiquette should fall to the parents, not overworked teachers. It just so happens that Ziegler's "job readiness skills" come along with a good education.

I've heard too often about schools switching to a curriculum that focuses on teaching trades and job skills, but if the best we can do is teach kids how to punch a clock, it's no wonder we need rigid, cookie-cutter standardized tests to keep kids in line.

Many kids in school think learning about Shakespeare or government or economics is boring with a capital "B." But then I think about how current generations are dropping out of activities like reading books and newspapers, voting, and falling for financial scams like sub-prime mortgages, and I wonder how all that "job training" is going to help Americans be good Americans.

---

I've long advocated for a new dieting craze called the Hobo Diet. So far I've developed basic meal plan guidelines: anything in a can (sardines, pork 'n' beans, Vienna sausages), anything high in salt and sodium (crackers, chips, boloney), speadable meats like braunschweiger, drinks enjoyed out of a paper bag, and lots of fried eggs - with little to no fruits or veggies (unless they're out of a can and high in corn syrup - like fruit coctail).

(Come to think of it, my Hobo Diet is a lot like what my grandpa and I ate when I visited him as a kid...)

Now someone has come up with a step-by-step process to become a REAL hobo. How exciting.

Turns out there's an entire hobo language:

"Learn the hobo code. Historically hobos relied on a shared system of symbols that let fellow travelers know more about their current environment. The symbols can vary from place to place and may no longer be used in many areas."

So pack your sardines, learn the handshake, and catch the next train to Sacramento.

Who's with me?

---

Why Dennis Kucinich will never become president: ""Spirit merges with matter to sanctify the universe. Matter transcends, to return to spirit. The interchangeability of matter and spirit means the starlit magic of the outermost life of our universe becomes the soul-light magic of the innermost life of our self. The energy of the stars becomes us. We become the energy of the stars. Stardust and spirit unite and we begin: one with the universe; whole and holy; from one source, endless creative energy, bursting forth, kinetic, elemental; we -- the earth, air, water and fire-source of nearly fifteen billion years of cosmic spiraling."

From his book, A Prayer for America.

---

This weekend will be the first time my dad and I have taken a road trip together in years. Me, him, and my iPod to break the silence.

We're heading to Pennyslvania to visit my youngest sister, who moved down there with her boyfriend while he attends a trade school. They got an apartment, and she snagged a job with Olive Garden. What's cool is my dad's helping them out along the way - care packages, money, whatever - as my sister gets her first start out in life away from home.

I've been through Pennsylvania, but never stopped for any kind of visit. From what I understand, the town is a bit east of Pittsburgh, which I've always wanted to see. So we won't be in the heart of PA, but still: a new place to say I've been.

My dad doesn't talk a lot. My grandma likes to say I'm the happy medium between the two families: sometimes quiet (dad), but never a non-stop talker (grandma).

"I don't know how he hooked up with our family," grandma said. She said a lot more before and after that, but I drift in and out.

Dad was never a helicopter parent - most of the time he was pretty absent from any of my school activities - and he told me the only way I would ever get in trouble with him is if I got caught. Well, I got caught plenty of times, but I've never caught real hell with dad. I think he knew to trust me - to trust my decisions, to trust that I could make my own way in life, and to trust me to just be around, in some fashion. He's independent, so I'm independent.

My dad just likes us kids to be there, no strings attached. I think that's a pretty good deal, and so I suggested we take this trip together. Even if it means a total lack of in-depth conversation; just being together is enough.

We leave Friday night. Back on Sunday. Wish me - and the guy that named me - lots of luck.

Off the road again

[This was something I put down the night before heading into Seattle, the night of June 1, on the big trip a few weeks ago. I looked at my Route 66 journal entries from last year for the first time since I wrote them, and it brought a lot of things I had forgotten back.

There are many reasons I took that trip, and only one I took the Seattle trip - which helps its "stickiness" in the brain. Seattle ended up being a blast, of course.]



Sitting in the Motel 6 a year after the trip, it's weird to go back and read the entries - the ones I haven't even read since I wrote them on the Route trek one year ago this week.

This time I'm on another big trip: the Yellowstone/Seattle one, once again carrying me across the country on a grand adventure. Although not as grand as last year's. Preparing for this trip was nothing like getting ready for the Mother Road, and it still doesn't hold the fascination that Route 66 did.

Don't get me wrong: Yellowstone was fantastic. Mount Rainier was the most gorgeous site I've probably ever laid eyes on.

But there was something about that trip last year, wasn't there? Something magical. Something special.

There's not a week, and hardly a day, that goes by when I don't think about the Route. Perhaps that's why it's so popular; how it holds the imagination, how it calls you back to it.

Oh yeah. I've thought about doing it again. Are you kidding?

Except if I went again I would have to bring someone along - to be their guide, show them the ropes, right?

This year has been straight Interstate driving, with a few spurs - route 212 into Yellowstone, route 410 into Rainier National Park - that reminded me of the ol' two-lane highway. Since last year I've found that taking the slow way brings the most enjoyment, and this trip is only affirming that suspicion. Even back home I take M-50 instead of the freeway to get to Toledo. Why not? I'm in no rush, and the little towns along the way are always a treat.

Tomorrow is the first time I'll lay eyes on Seattle, which - thankfully - is no Los Angeles, but will still be a great tour. I've gone from extreme wilderness to a posh urban setting in a few days. Remind you of anything? And like last year, when Santa Monica called like a jewel, Seattle is the cap-off of a long week of driving and restaurant food and sleeping in the car.

That thought never leaves though. The Road Trip as the ultimate experience, especially in this beautiful, giant, weird country of ours. Only in America can you go from Eastern Washington, which reminded me of arid New Mexico, to West Washington - the ultimate in alpine, plush mountain greenery. All within a few hours.

I've already entertained ideas about a New England driving tour, to see all the old Revolution battle sites and historical homes (of Emerson and Thoreau, say), not to mention to see the scenery and the few remaining states I haven't visited. After that, I'll have the four corners of this country covered. I've already thought I could comfortably make a home in any section I've seen so far (maybe not Florida or Georgia, or Texas, or Oklahoma, or North Dakota). The Midwest still calls to my heart, however, and so any immediate moving plans are just an idea.

I'm munching on popcorn and drinking various Big Sky beers, and after visiting Missoula, Spokane, and Tacoma within the span of a day, I'm pretty beat. I guess it's like anything: stuff as much experience and wonder into one day and then attempt to put it down in some coherent form before the pillow helps you forget the sights.

The Route, however, will never lose its potency. The spirit will always be there, on any trip I ever try, along any highway I check out for the first time. Every place has some Route 66 in it - it's only a matter of degrees and miles and weather conditions. It's always there, no matter the gas price.

It follows me, as I followed it for one long week one year ago.

Meet you in Missoula

Someone swiped my pen at work today.

It was a marvel of modern engineering: all smooth, blue plastic and expert writing ability. It made me want to sign some important document, like the Declaration, with it. But like all beautiful things doomed to fail, it disappeared from my desk sometime while I was at lunch. The bastards tried replacing it with a common American 1 pen, which - as loyal as I am - doesn't hold a candle to the variety Visa produces.

They've got the wealth, surely, and it shines through in their writing utensils.

Goodbye, dear pen. My words looked better because of you.

[update: it was my boss. She took it on "accident."]



* * * * *



I've been trying all week to come up with some unifying concept to wrap-up my Seattle/Yellowstone/all points west trip last week, but the words fail me.

Beauty I saw, and wonder I discovered, in the valleys of Mt. Rainier and the docks of Seattle. Creates great and small noted my presence in Yellowstone, and my footprints grace the trails of Roosevelt National Park.

But I think the pictures do it the best justice. So go check them out yourself. Maybe someday I'll share my thoughts, but some things - toothpicks, tortured humor, and ten bottles of Moose Drool beer - are mine alone to keep.



* * * * *



I'm thinking of leaving the cruel world of MySpace behind.

After my account was hacked while I was away, I have to admit feeling violated and unnerved. The whole thing shattered my sense of online security (mostly because I've never had any problems until now).

Suzanne thought maybe my password wasn't strong enough, but does coolness count for nothing in today's grim world? Must I develop a forgettable amalgam of dates, addresses, and initials so some creep living in his mother's basement can't send stupid comments to all 300 of my MySpace comrades?

Is there no decency?

It will be a slow transition, I think, because I like to maintain some sort of online presence. My photos and Google maps and rants will still have a place online. But going through my friends list with Katie the other night, and explaining who each person was ("How the heck do you have over 300 friends?" she asked in disbelief) left me with a hollow feeling.

I once had a Blogger account, and I think I'll resurrect that. But maybe I'll keep this MySpace account a shell, just in case some sap who graduated with me eight years ago decides to look me up. It happens, and then we don't talk again. That's MySpace.

That, and I'm finding less and less time to devote to this thing. Like everything else in our fickle culture, New Things last only as long as our attention span. And I hear there's good things coming out of Cupertino that deserve more of my attention.

And frankly, it's only the spare 20 folks or so who regularly talk to me on this thing, anyway. To hell with the rest of you.

I started my MySpace career doing research on bands for the music website I was writing for, and quickly found it a worthy replacement to the ultra-personal LiveJournal and Blogger stuff I was participating in. I've done a decent job of keeping my personal life off the screens of others, and for that I can be proud.

So stay tuned. Big changes are coming.



* * * * *



If you've eaten in one Chinese take-out, you eaten in them all.

That's what I've learned after grabbing dinner for grandma and I a few weeks ago. At the recently-opened China Garden on West Ave., I faced existential terror at the prospect of sitting in another bland, institutionalized Mandarin eatery serving the same neon pink sweet & sour sauce as everyone else.

The place was truly spartan. The only attempts at decoration were soy sauce containers on the tables, and etched glass partitions with bamboo and dragons engaged in constant struggle. Bare walls. Tile floors. Creamy, mauve, hospital-waiting-room decor. It was depressing, and as the cashier handed me a bag of almond chicken and egg rolls, I had nightmare flash of deja vu: this happens in the same way, in the same manner, with the same duck sauce, as every other town in America.

If MSG and bland, battered chicken is your gig, then Chinese places are the last refuge for the hungry and bored. Don't feel like spending the 15-20 minutes it takes to make a decent meal at home? Order the Peking Duck, and hope for the best.

General Tso was a bastard, and his legacy lives on in the same sort of cuisine the Red Chinese have learned to hate, much as the Mexicans almost started a second War with Texas over Taco Bell.

Real Chinese cuisine is a marvel of tradition and ceremony. American Chinese cuisine (it's big in Ireland too, I guess) sticks Moa's people in restaurants whose name can feature a combination of "China," "Garden," "Buffet," "City," "Yen," "Lucky," and "King" (go ahead - make your own business by mixing and matching the words).

You have to travel to a big city to sample any kind of authentic Chinese meal, so in the meantime grandma and I will travel to Yen King, the classiest Chinese joint in town, and enjoy our fried rice and glowing sauce amid steaming bowls of egg drop soup.

Good luck, comrades, and may fortune cookies rain down upon you.

In bed.Someone swiped my pen at work today.

It was a marvel of modern engineering: all smooth, blue plastic and expert writing ability. It made me want to sign some important document, like the Declaration, with it. But like all beautiful things doomed to fail, it disappeared from my desk sometime while I was at lunch. The bastards tried replacing it with a common American 1 pen, which - as loyal as I am - doesn't hold a candle to the variety Visa produces.

They've got the wealth, surely, and it shines through in their writing utensils.

Goodbye, dear pen. My words looked better because of you.

[update: it was my boss. She took it on "accident."]



* * * * *



I've been trying all week to come up with some unifying concept to wrap-up my Seattle/Yellowstone/all points west trip last week, but the words fail me.

Beauty I saw, and wonder I discovered, in the valleys of Mt. Rainier and the docks of Seattle. Creates great and small noted my presence in Yellowstone, and my footprints grace the trails of Roosevelt National Park.

But I think the pictures do it the best justice. So go check them out yourself. Maybe someday I'll share my thoughts, but some things - toothpicks, tortured humor, and ten bottles of Moose Drool beer - are mine alone to keep.



* * * * *



I'm thinking of leaving the cruel world of MySpace behind.

After my account was hacked while I was away, I have to admit feeling violated and unnerved. The whole thing shattered my sense of online security (mostly because I've never had any problems until now).

Suzanne thought maybe my password wasn't strong enough, but does coolness count for nothing in today's grim world? Must I develop a forgettable amalgam of dates, addresses, and initials so some creep living in his mother's basement can't send stupid comments to all 300 of my MySpace comrades?

Is there no decency?

It will be a slow transition, I think, because I like to maintain some sort of online presence. My photos and Google maps and rants will still have a place online. But going through my friends list with Katie the other night, and explaining who each person was ("How the heck do you have over 300 friends?" she asked in disbelief) left me with a hollow feeling.

I once had a Blogger account, and I think I'll resurrect that. But maybe I'll keep this MySpace account a shell, just in case some sap who graduated with me eight years ago decides to look me up. It happens, and then we don't talk again. That's MySpace.

That, and I'm finding less and less time to devote to this thing. Like everything else in our fickle culture, New Things last only as long as our attention span. And I hear there's good things coming out of Cupertino that deserve more of my attention.

And frankly, it's only the spare 20 folks or so who regularly talk to me on this thing, anyway. To hell with the rest of you.

I started my MySpace career doing research on bands for the music website I was writing for, and quickly found it a worthy replacement to the ultra-personal LiveJournal and Blogger stuff I was participating in. I've done a decent job of keeping my personal life off the screens of others, and for that I can be proud.

So stay tuned. Big changes are coming.



* * * * *



If you've eaten in one Chinese take-out, you eaten in them all.

That's what I've learned after grabbing dinner for grandma and I a few weeks ago. At the recently-opened China Garden on West Ave., I faced existential terror at the prospect of sitting in another bland, institutionalized Mandarin eatery serving the same neon pink sweet & sour sauce as everyone else.

The place was truly spartan. The only attempts at decoration were soy sauce containers on the tables, and etched glass partitions with bamboo and dragons engaged in constant struggle. Bare walls. Tile floors. Creamy, mauve, hospital-waiting-room decor. It was depressing, and as the cashier handed me a bag of almond chicken and egg rolls, I had nightmare flash of deja vu: this happens in the same way, in the same manner, with the same duck sauce, as every other town in America.

If MSG and bland, battered chicken is your gig, then Chinese places are the last refuge for the hungry and bored. Don't feel like spending the 15-20 minutes it takes to make a decent meal at home? Order the Peking Duck, and hope for the best.

General Tso was a bastard, and his legacy lives on in the same sort of cuisine the Red Chinese have learned to hate, much as the Mexicans almost started a second War with Texas over Taco Bell.

Real Chinese cuisine is a marvel of tradition and ceremony. American Chinese cuisine (it's big in Ireland too, I guess) sticks Moa's people in restaurants whose name can feature a combination of "China," "Garden," "Buffet," "City," "Yen," "Lucky," and "King" (go ahead - make your own business by mixing and matching the words).

You have to travel to a big city to sample any kind of authentic Chinese meal, so in the meantime grandma and I will travel to Yen King, the classiest Chinese joint in town, and enjoy our fried rice and glowing sauce amid steaming bowls of egg drop soup.

Good luck, comrades, and may fortune cookies rain down upon you.

In bed.

Sleepless in Seattle

I can't say it's been a surprise, but the states of North Dakota and Montana (and Idaho, for that matter) don't believe in the Internet.

So I'm writing a long over-due letter from lovely Seattle, the Jet City.

I'll have pictures and details when I get home, of course - and there will be tons - but just know that I'm safe and alive and having a blast.

Talked to grandma at the Space Needle, and she thought I fell off the face of the earth. My dad? He just said, "get me a t-shirt." So I got him a hat.

Mt. Rainier is the most beautiful sight on Earth. Look it up. Or, better yet, visit it. Turns out it's actually a pretty active volcano. Kind of like Yellowstone.

Ah Yellowstone. Where Hell comes closest to the surface of the Earth, a place of boiling springs and bubbling clay and more buffalo than you can shake a stick at. A walking stick, preferrably.

I miss the easy-goingness of the Route trip, and I forgot how boring the Interstate drive can be. But with sights like Roosevelt National Park and the Montana/Wyoming border keeping me company, I can hardly complain.

Yes, my sight got hacked while I've been gone, which is just as well: my fish Mario died, too ("I did everything you told me to," the roomie says). So sorry for the solicitations. If I wanted money, I'd just ask. Fuck Macy's.

Almost home, and almost out of money, but hanging tight in the Pacific time zone. It's weird to thing all my friends are fast asleep right now.

So, three hours behind, I'll join them.

Born on the Fourth of July

It really is a great country we live in.

And because of that, I've decided that my next big cross-country trip (next spring, maybe?) may be a drive through New England for a bit of history sight-seeing.

I've been thinking about it for a long time now, and had almost decided to drive through the northeast states this fall, to see the colors. But I want more time to explore, and see the places that made America what it is today.

While reading David McCullough's "1776," I found myself picturing the old agrarian towns of New England - Trenton, Brooklyn, Princeton - and wondering what they look like now, and how much has changed.

Of course it's been a lot. Two hundred plus years a lot. But I want to see it.

I want to see the spot where Washington crossed the Delaware River at McConkey's Ferry, and see the spot where the Continental Army marched into Boston as the British retreated into the Atlantic. I want to taste the water and feel the breeze that inspired Connecticut militiamen to join in what was almost a lost cause.

The Revolutionary War bug has bitten me, you could say, and I've got an itch to scratch.

The Founding Fathers, those legendary few men who, in the span of only a decade or so, changed the entire world, have always been a keen interest of mine. I remember driving through Virginia for the first time with Jenn and wondering what it was like for a young Jefferson or Washington to get their start in such a beautiful state. School books could never teach me enough about the plight of the Sons of Liberty, nor could they translate the passion that Thomas Paine had when he wrote "Common Sense."

Born out of the Enlightenment, raised as near-English gentlemen, and smart enough to notice when their government oversteps its bounds (can we say the same today?), Franklin, Adams, and the rest of the crew deserve a lot of respect for the overwhelming odds against them; they started an experiment that's still being run today, everyday, by all of us.

So I'm going to visit them: where they lived, where they fought, where they died, and where their lasting legacy lives on.

I may throw in a few literary hot spots, like Walden Pond and Emerson House, because the American Renaissance is a thing worth knowing well, too.

And really, every American should make a similar trip, if even to their local library to learn more - to discover the tales that school passed over. If "these are the times that try men's souls," we ought to know why keeping the spirit of those Dead Presidents (and ol' Ben Franklin) alive is so damn important.

The spirit of a nation lies in its history, and because we have such a very short history - in the scheme of things - there's no excuse for ignorance on all things American.

Let Jay Leno be damned. Ask us on the street who died in the duel between Hamilton and Burr, and we'll answer correctly.

By rail or by road?

There's a great big country out there, and I'm trying to decide how I want to see it all.

After doing some research on Amtrak, I've found that traveling by rail to Seattle would be comparable in cost - and only a bit lengthier in time - than hoofing it by road. Do I sit and lounge in comfort, watching the countryside pass me by? Or do I zoom out across I-94 and I-90, stopping and seeing what I want to see but risk the health (and possible beauty) of my car?

Decisions.

Also, if I took the train I couldn't venture up into Canada for the Great Trek Back East. Plus, I think it would take me a bit longer for the cross-Canadian stretch. Who knows, I might get picked up by the RCMP.

Part of me feels like the train ride would be a lot smoother, hassle-free way to go. I could just sit back and get there. And by driving, I'm not sure I'd have as much time as I'd like to explore, say, Glacier National, Yellowstone, or Mount Rushmore. I'd be hauling ass either way, and would probably have to take off immediately the morning after Keith's wedding.

(pardon me as I think through this as I type...)

It's sad that this trip doesn't hold the allure of last year's trip. Not even close. Instead of taking my time for a whole week to get to the coast, I'll be rushing just to get to Seattle so that I can enjoy a few days of the Jet City.

But it IS a part of the country that I haven't been to, and I'll be traveling through some unique terrain to get there. Does it matter how I get there?

I'm worried that the financial part of the decision is the heaviest, because after the Orlando trip, the Chicago trip, Keith's wedding, and who-the-hell-knows what else comes up along the way, things will be tight. I'm saving up to get out of debt, after all, and blowing my savings on a cross-country trip doesn't exactly help the cause.

My spring trip, however, is tradition, and damn it all - there are parts of this country I have yet to see, and I mean to see them.

Grandma, for her part, votes for the train ride - mostly because she worries about me driving so much.

"All that driving, you're going to be tired."

"Grandma, I drove for 10 straight days last year, without much a break. I think I can handle three days each way."

"I don't know, I just worry about you..."

This from the lady who - last year - told me I would only make it to Arizona, give up, and turn back for home.

I guess there's something old-fashioned about the idea of riding by rail. In the 19th century, of course, the choice was easier: train or covered wagon? I suppose I should count myself lucky that I have two not-bad modes of travel to pick from.

Half the fun is just in the getting there, right? Seeing the sights, seeing the country, realizing how big the idea of Manifest Destiny really was.

I've got some time to mull it over. The train isn't leaving just yet...

Straight on 'till morning

With it snowing like crazy outside, I find winter is the best time to plan getaways. It gives you something to work toward when spring comes.

And so this year, I think I know where I'm going. Here it is.

It won't be quite as long as last year's Route 66 trip. Then, I cruised 6,000 miles of American highway. This time it'll only be about 5,000 or so. But really, what's a thousand or two miles?

Seattle's one of those Great American Cities that I've always heard good things about, and - for some weird reason - I thought driving through Montana sounded like the best experience since the Mojave Desert last year.

I did some number-crunching, and I'm looking at about $350-$400 for gas, about $200 for lodging (I'm good at sleeping in my car, it seems - but I haven't really found a place I can't get some shut-eye), probably $300 or so for food, leaving me with a total cost of about $900, with $100 leeway for the Just-In-Cases.

The plan is to high-tail it out west on the interstate (who wants to take their time through North Dakota?), speeding down I-94 and I-90, visiting four new states along the way. Stay in Seattle for three or four days, check out the town, then jog north into Vancouver and British Columbia and take the 1 through Alberta and Calgary east through Saskatchewan, then hit the 16 and 17 through Manitoba and into Ontario, round Lake Superior, and take the southern route home.

My vacation time is set. May 26 through Memorial Day week and on into the next weekend, spending the weekends mostly driving and the week in Washington.

I want to see all four corners of the country, and this will technically be corner number three. I thought about a New England driving trip, but I'll still have vacation time in the fall to do that one - if I still feel ambitious.

Next year will be a train tour through Germany and surrounding countries, and from there who the hell knows.

Now that I've got the skeleton plan set, the rest of the winter and early spring will be filling in details, saving up, and dreaming of the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Northwest.

I'm starting to feel like I should get paid to do this sort of thing. Where is National Geographic or the Travel Channel when I need them? But I'm sure they'd place restrictions on me, and frankly when I leave town I just want to do what pleases me.

What pleases me now is looking forward to another cross-country adventure, seeing vast swaths of barren and isolated Northern Lands, cutting into beloved Canada and seeing it the whole way through, and coming home to crawl into bed, taking a nap, and dreaming of impossible vacations.

That, my friends, is living.

From the gutter to the top

Ah Detroit - you never disappoint me when it comes to adventure.

Had the KMFDM show Friday night at Harpo's - in the swell part of town.

Show was great. They played everything I wanted to hear, and I was sweaty and I jumped around, and Don got drunk, and I met up with an old friend from junior high. Just a great time.

And then we headed home.

About two miles down I-94, Don and I noticed a weird noise coming from the Aerio's back end.

"I think your tire's flat," Don says.

Well shit. So we pull off on Gratiot, my tire obviously flat, and head to this run-down gas station.

In the ghetto.

We get out of the car, and Don heads in to buy some fix-a-flat (at this noisy homeless lady's suggestion), but I saw the back of the tire leaking the stuff. So that was useless.

Don and I grab the jack out of the back, only to notice that it's missing the jacking bar. Things keep getting better.

So I troll the parking lot, asking for anyone with a jack, and I get ignored in the lot, in the store, everywhere. White boy, ghetto - you'd think I'd get all kinds of attention. But I stop this giant black Escalade, with one guy getting out to pump his gas, and I ask them for a jack.

"What, you broke down?"

No, I'm taking a survey.

The guy makes me pay $5 for his gas before he'll help me, but I figure it's worth it. We jack the car up (our conversation going from Detroit winning that night to how black people get misrepresented), change the tire, and finally head home - lots of hand-shakes and "thank yous" all around.

And besides Don making me stop along the highway to pee, we made it home alive.

Good show, bad drive home, and when we DID get home - I found someone had actually slashed my tires.

A nice big, square hole in the back of my tire. That's what I get for going to enjoy a rock show.

Late night, lots of wisdom.

So how was YOUR weekend?

On the road again - with a new vehicle

Yesterday, I took the plunge and bought a new vehicle.

I shopped around our used vehicle sale this weekend while working - I usually shop around and find vehicles that I like, but then get cold feet and refuse to purchase one. I can't tell you how many Focus hatch-backs I've found that I've liked but either couldn't afford or chickened out on.

Friday I found the Suzuki Aerio above, and it was really the only vehicle that caught my eye at the sale. The Car Company was asking $8,333, which was a bit beyond my price range. So I walked away, and didn't think much of it.

Then I showed up Saturday and decided to give the little bugger a test drive. It's a manual, so getting used to a stick was a bit tricky. But it didn't take long, and I zoomed over to grandma's to show her and ask her opinion. I told her I was going to try to wittle the price down to around $6,000.

"You'll never get that price," she said. "They won't go that low."

When I returned from my test drive, the dealer asked if I wanted it.

"Yeah, for $6,000," I said.

He gave me a look of dumb horror. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "We can't go that low. We have to make some money on this vehicle." He scampered off and asked his dad, who owns the dealership, and returned with a price of $7,333 - $1,000 lower than the asking price.

"No, I can't afford that," I said. "I'll take it for $6,000 - and I'll let you guys think about it." And I walked away.

Later, the owner came up to me and asked if I was going to buy the car. I told him yes, at my price. "Well if I sell it to you at $6,800, I'll be making about $200 on it," the dealer said. I said I understood, but $6,800 was a bit too much.

Work sent me home - it was a slow day - and I woke up from a nap with my boss on the phone: "The guys from the Car Company want to talk to you."

I couldn't help but smile. This negotiation stuff was new to me. I'm usually a no-haggle guy - why bother? - but a few guys from work were talking earlier about our credit union CEO being a ruthless negotiator, and how it was kind of fun to watch him wheel and deal. So by dropping the price by over $2,000, and giving the dealers an afternoon to think about it, I was trying to be Mr. Tough Guy. Would it work?

I got up, drove back to the sale, and sauntered over to the car.

"Are you going to buy it?" the dealer asked me.

"Yeah, if you reduce the price," I said.

"Is $6,800 still too much?" he asked.

"Yup. I can afford right around $6,000."

My friend Ginny came over and we chatted about the car, and the sale, and just talked for a bit, the three of us.

Then the dealer turned to me. "Would you take it for $6,500?"

"Sold."

So now I have a new car.

It's a great machine. I've always been a fan of the compact hatchback models - the Chevy Aveo I took out west, the Ford Focus, etc. - and anything that gets great gas mileage is a plus for me, especially as much as I travel.

It's black, even though I prefer a silver or blue car, and it's a stick, even though I'm not that experienced with a manual, but I got it at a great deal, and it's a slick-looking machine. It's grandma- and best-friend-approved, which helps.

Today I took it for a real spin, down 127 to my dad's and through the backroads on the way home, and it's a lot of fun to drive. I still have to get used to the parking break, and I'll have to get comfy with all the esoteric dials and switches, but I really love how spacious it is, and the hatchback (which will be great when I go grocery shopping), and even little touches like the digital speedometer and RPM gauge.

I gave the Dynasty back to grandma, since she's been vehicle-less for months now, and it will be sorely missed. She put 50,000 miles on it in 12 years, and I doubled that in three years. It's been everywhere, and it's been a great companion.

But now I have a new chariot to get me where I need to go.

Who wants a ride?

Route 66: The road less traveled

A co-worker let me borrow "Route 66: A road to remember" - a documentary made in 1996 of a guy and his wife traveling the route and videotaping the trip. I took it over to grandma's last night to share (and to let her remember what the trip is like), and it was the first real thinking I've done about the trip since I returned.

I thought it was neat how I could point to a place during the video and say, "Hey, I was there," or "I ate lunch at that place" or "I got lost in that town."

The guy (Gary? Lee? Gary Lee? It doesn't matter) stopped at a few places I didn't, and buzzed by some stops I actually visited, but overall it was a good documentation of the route as it stood...Jesus...10 years ago.

What got me most, though, is just the thought that - about three weeks ago - I was there. Three weeks ago tonight I was zooming through the Los Angeles freeway system, risking life and rental trying to get the hell out of California. I slept in my car in Baker, got up to eat dinner at Denny's, and drove like hell through Nevada, Utah, and a bit of Colorado.

Three weeks ago. But it feels like forever.

Before I left, Suzanne asked if I would come back a different person. I remember telling her no, I would still be me, but maybe I would have a different perspective on things. Maybe the world would be a little bigger, a little roomier, but it would still be the world.

As the weeks have passed, I've found that I had it right. I'm no different, really, but my perspective sure has changed.

I remember that Sunday afternoon, when I drove across the Michigan state line, and thinking, "Yes, I'm home." That sense of familiarity - of knowing, of recognizing - was overwhelming. And when I pulled off I-94 and turned left on Airport Rd. to come back into Jackson, it was like my hands took over. Habit could find my way home for me. It was like I never left.

But now I know that there's a lot more out there than our wet, humid, green state. I've looked across the Mojave, I stopped to pee in the mesas of New Mexico, I've seen a roadrunner prance down a small canyon in the Panhandle.

It's made me appreciate what we have here. The only state that kind of reminded me of home was Missouri, and that's only because it was so green and lush and hilly. Most of the rest, except for parts of Illinois, were totally alien to me. And I saw them.

Just last night, on a walk through Cascades Park, I was almost attacked by a snapping turtle. He had dragged himself out of the pond and was trying to cross Kibby Road, a pretty busy street. Luckily me, some hippie, and a cop prodded the big dinosaur bastard back into the pond. He sure put up a fight.

It got me thinking that snapping turtles are pretty common up here, and in the Midwest, but a few miles away they encounter a whole different group of wildlife. I saw armadillos along side the road in Oklahoma - tons of them - and it reminded me of raccoons or opposums here at home. They were just different.

I guess I've gained a new appreciation of what I see and hear and experience in Michigan. Going away taught me to look at things closer right here at home.

That's the first thing I notice when I go away to somewhere I've never been: what's different? What makes it NOT Michigan?

I traveled a road less and less traveled. And maybe it did change me, just a bit. I think it's more likely that my experience just gave me a fresh set of eyes.

So far, they fit me just fine.

Route 66: back in familiar territory

There's nothing like going away on an adventure, but then there's nothing quite like returning home, either.

Pulled back into Michigan about 2:00 this afternoon, much earlier than I had expected. I drove like hell through Nebraska and Iowa yesterday and last night, pulling off at a rest stop near Iowa City about midnight. Got up at about 7:00 and hit the road for the final stretch.

Got to grandma's just in time, too - she had made taco salad for lunch. She didn't think I'd make it back until late tonight or tomorrow (Monday) morning. Pssh. Showed her.

It feels good to be home. And it's interesting that it's 90 degrees here, because it's what I've felt since at least Wednesday.

Lots of unpacking to do, and organizing, and all that good stuff. Got my Arizona pictures developed (though the idiots didn't make the CD I asked for) - and am sharing a few extras here.





[This is at the "Cadillac Ranch" outside Amarillo, TX, where there are 10 Cadillacs buried in a field, and you can go up to them and spray paint them. I wanted to do something dramatic, so I stuck with white and black paint and painted my sort-of motto during this whole trip. Turned out nice, and the Brit bloke Rich helped me out a lot.]



I've never driven through winds like I did in Nebraska. I've never seen such beautiful mountains as I did through Colorado. And I've never seen a more breathtaking state than Utah. And those weren't even on the official "Route 66" trip - they were just extras I passed through along the way home.

Quite an experience. It hasn't sunk in yet, really - where I've gone, what I've seen, what I've been through.

When I landed in Jackson about 3:30 it really felt like I hadn't left at all, for some strange reason. Maybe because I was back in familiar territory. Who knows? But thinking to myself "I just drove home from California" seems unreal.

Did it happen?





You betcha it did.

It's good to be home.

Route 66: Fear & Parking in Las Vegas

I earned my way into California these past few days.

Tuesday night (I think - what day is it?) I would my way through the treacherous Black Mountains, on the Arizona/California border. There are no words to describe the harrowing experience, but "oh crap" will probably do. Extreme sports enthusiast jump out of planes - they should drive the two-land, narrow, cliff-diving roads through those mountains. It'll make any doomjunkie sweat.

Stayed in Needles that night, and tried to connect but the room wasn't having it. I searched all over town for a viable internet connection, but none could be found. Must have been the heat.

Yesterday I spent braving LA to the coast. Let me say that LA is the worst city on earth. Imagine a giant Detroit, with towns dissolving into each other, and a stop light at every road - EVERY ROAD! Then they put you on the snakepit that is the highway system, and I was lucky to get out alive. Luckily I get high on 85+ mph highway driving.

Made it through Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and to the Destination - Santa Monica.

The Pacific was perfect. Perfect weather, perfect breeze, and I even got soaked a time or two dipping my feet in. I made it. I trekked down the Santa Monica pier - the ultimate reward for taking a non-defunct highway across this great nation.

Last night I slept in Baker, CA, in a trucker pull-off. It's hot - it's in the Mojave Desert - so I didn't freeze last night. But camping in the car was nice. I slept like a baby.

Now I sit in an internet cafe on the strip of Las Vegas. I'm taking I-15 to I-70/80, and I thought, "Hell, why not?" So I stopped in, got burned for $8 for thirty minutes, and am now going to tackle Vegas for an hour or so. Shucks, maybe i'll win all the money I spent on this trip back. Maybe not.

I'm ready to get home. The main crux of the trip is over - the Route has been Conquered - now it's 32 hours of straight interstate. But I'll be okay - I plan to do over 12 hours of driving every day. And suprisingly, I'm not tired of driving. I guess that's why this trip made so much sense; the highway and I get along just fine.

Tried to upload pictures, but you can..'t access the drives on this damn junk PC. Tonight i hope to find a decent hotel to stay in (though I said that about last night - and didn..'t find one), so I can share pictures. I didn..'t realize it..'d be this hard to SHARE. ..n

Off to spend $20 at some casino, and take more pictures. Thanks for all your well-wishes. Should be home Sunday, as planned.

..n

..n

over and out,

dave


--
Chances that an unprotected PC will become infected with a virus within an hour of being on the Internet:9 in 10

- Harper..'s Index, May 2006

Tried to upload pictures, but you can't access the drives on this damn junk PC. Tonight i hope to find a decent hotel to stay in (though I said that about last night - and didn't find one), so I can share pictures. I didn't realize it'd be this hard to SHARE.

Off to spend $20 at some casino, and take more pictures. Thanks for all your well-wishes. Should be home Sunday, as planned.

Updates are few and far between because some libraries actually block MySpace, those nazi bastards.

Over and out from The Strip.

Route 66: Oklahoma is OK!

Tonight I'm spoiling myself.

I just paid $60 for a night at Days Inn, about $30 more than I've paid
the last two nights. But you know what? A pool and a high-speed
internet connection is more than worth is. Besides, I can walk around
here in my undies and not have to explain myself to the authorities.

Today was spent winding through Missouri and Oklahoma. Yesterday I
met St. Louis, after a bit of a back-track spell, and the mighty
Mississippi, gateway arch and all.

Illinois paled in comparison to the beauty of Missori. The Ozarks,
the lush green forests, even the fresh smell of the state was more to
my liking. But they are not as proud of their Route 66 heritage as
Illinois and now Oklahoma are. Instead of the "Show Me State," it
should be the "Just Get Through Me State." Or the "Dave Gets Lost State," because it happened here more than anywhere else.

This morning was a bit of a scare. My gas tank was on E, and I headed
toward what I thought was a town with a gas station. Instead, it was
a group of trailers, double-wide, and an intersection. So my gas
light came on and I was getting frantic. The scenery was gorgeous, though. Swooping curves and steep hills through the mountains - and everything was steaming because of the heavy storm last night. I hit the interstate and
luckily found a station ($2.50 a gallon!) and a spot for some crappy breakfast.

Last night I stayed at the Vermelle's Motel, a route original, and met
the 40-year owner, Ed. There were only me and three other people
staying there, and I was lucky to catch it. Ed's billboard came right
before the exit, and I barely made the turn in time. And despite its
shabby appearence, the motel was clean and cozy. It even had the bug
zappers and crickets. If it wasn't for the bad thunderstorm last
night I would've slept perfect.

I cheated and took I-40 for much of Missouri, but the route ran right alongside the highway so I didn't feel so bad. Hell, I just wanted to get to another state, as pretty as Missouri was. I got a bit lost around Springfield, but used my maps and found my way back to the route, and headed into Kansas. Kansas lasted all of about 15 minutes, and then it was Oklahoma.

If Missouri was a jewel, and Illinois was a slab, Oklahoma is more
like a really pretty stone (just go with me on this one). Sure, it's
flat and farm-rich and really warm, but it's also pretty in its own
way. It has some of the hills and scenery, and some longer stretches
where it's just you and the road. I zoomed past Tulsa and ate in
Bristow, where I met two farmers - Bill and Bob - who were very nice
to talk to and my only real source of conversation so far. They were
cotton farmers, and knew all the ins and outs of the route. What's funny is they seemed just as pleased to talk to me as I did with them.

I left Bill and Bob around 8:30, and it started getting dark. I wound
my way around to I-44 and decided to hop on to find somewhere to stay
for the night. Oklahoma City is also off I-44, so I may just take it
all the way into town.

Which leads me to Days Inn. A pretty Okie (with a ring on her finger)
met me at the counter. My first question?

"How late's your pool open?"

"11:00 tonight," she said.

"Then I need a room."

She even lent me an ethernet cable to make this e-mail possible. So
here I sit, fresh out of the pool, and getting ready for bed.

Ready for some pictures?



Into Chicago, probably my favorite spot on earth. Traffic was a nightmare getting in.




At Millennium Park - near the amphitheater. I have many more pics to share.




The birth of the Mother Road. Here's where it all starts, right downtown.




That first night was mainly spent trying to find a place to stay. When I did, I ate here (thanks for the call Dayna!).




Yes, ladies, this guy's single. There are several of these giants stationed around Illinois (one was a spaceman, but I didn't grab a picture). Look at that weiner!





Through most of Illinois you can see where the old route ran. There are some parts you can still drive your car on, but I didn't take any chances.





Just me and the road.




When I finally did get into St. Louis, my first major goal, I headed straight for the arch and the Mississippi. The arch was huge, but I thought it crossed the Missippi into Illinois. My bad.





Race you to the top.




Take a good long look, because it's the last of civilization I'll see for the rest of the state.





I didn't even try to take any pictures of the highway and the way it swoops through the mountains - I'll save those memories for myself - but there were some very cool rock formations just about everywhere you looked. I think I can say Missouri is the most beautiful state I've ever seen.





The motel I stayed at on night two. Ed's Vermelle Motel. It's even in my guidebook. A cozy little spot, and Ed was really fun to talk to - even if I pulled him out of bed at 10 p.m. to get my room.




This was through the last leg of Missouri, near this giant drive-in movie theater for RVs.





This was all I got through Kansas. The route only passes through Galena, and then on to Oklahoma.





The weather wouldn't make up it's mind, but it was hot - and it provided for some gorgeous sky. That's Oklahoma, flat and pretty.




I'm a sucker for a pretty sky. Here it is, the end of day three. Hard to imagine. And I thought about how each morning I'm waking up in a different state.

Tomorrow is the rest of OK and then on to Texas.

Who needs a drink?

Route 66: Greetings from Farmersville, IL

It's day two down Route 66, and everything is going great.

I'm in Farmersville, this tiny little farming village about midway through the state. It's not actually ON the route, but I pulled off for lunch (bologne and crackers) and for a quiet place to sit. Boy, I found it.

Last night I made it to Chicago by about 4:00, walked around town for about an hour, taking pictures, and then had a Chicago-style pizza for dinner. The route has been very easy to follow, at least here in Illinois. There are these helpful brown "Historic Route 66" signs that have helped point the way. I stayed in a little berg called Dwight, at the Classic Inn (can't beat $30/night), got up and ate at the Family Route 66 Diner, and hit the road.

Illinois is pretty boring - I'll be honest. It's flat, and there are fields and farms everywhere. I have managed to stop at the interesting points, like in Funks Groove for some maple "sirup" (where Debbie informed me that more Germans take this trip than Ameicans) and in Atlanta where there's this giant Paul Bunyon holding a hot dog.

I took I-55 south for a bit, just to speed things along. Next stop is Springfield, then St. Louis (which I hope to reach before dinner) and then through Missouri. It's a little bit slower going than I had planned, but jumping on the interstate was a smart idea. I made up some time going my more comfortable 80 mph.

I've figured that by taking this trip I won't really get to know America. There's far too much involved. I can only hope to see it, and with that I'm doing pretty well. It's a balls-out dash to the coast, and I'll stop and visit what I can. But I can't take my time, I'm learning that.

Now I'm going to ask the nice, quiet librarian if this Michigander can use her bathroom, then I hit the road again.