The road to Reno is mildly more interesting than the road to Salt Lake, given that passersby have taken to writing messages in rocks on the great salt plain. We spot a peace sign, a “James Loves Britt,” and the shape of a penis past mile marker 39. Nevada welcomes us with the glitz-free Montego Bay casino at the state line. A sign heralds a rest area, but I am disappointed to find a brown shack that resembles a prison cell, encasing a filthy hole in the ground. Thousands of miles of disgusting gas station bathrooms have taken their toll on me, and I start to protest. But when in Rome…
We arrive to gaudy Reno in the early evening and its inferiority complex reminds me of Atlantic City. Everywhere we see people just barely holding it together. We stay at the glitziest casino on the strip, El. Dorado, and even though our room costs only $45 a night and faces concrete, I feel embraced by luxury. George immediately loses $30 in poker and I fashion myself as a cultural anthropologist, observing how the spendthrift natives fall under the spell of the flashing lights and bleep bleeps. We grab a slice that’s only marginally better than frozen pizza and run into a skirmish on the way back. A young man with shaved head, tattoos and red suspenders is screaming in German at an older black man. The argument escalates, and George is pretty sure the young man is a skinhead. We hang around until he scampers off, but I no longer feel safe or comfortable in Reno. It resembles an aging stripper--clown makeup caked on a crumbling façade.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Cannibalish in Mormon country
The drive to Salt Lake City is neverending on a mostly one-lane highway inhabited by brush. The scenery inspires a discussion about the morality of cannibalism and I give George permission to eat me if ever necessary. We do pass through an oddball town called Dinosaur, CO, where they discovered fossilized dinosaur bones, and where nearly all the commercial establishments have some hokey dinosaur sculpture out front.
My tour guides assure me that Salt Lake City is refreshingly “vibrant, even though the Mormons run the show. A Black/Jew hybrid couple spending a night in Salt Lake. This should be interesting. We arrive on a Sunday evening and everything is closed. I have a mild anxiety attack after seeing our Super 8 motel room. Sleep-deprived and cranky, we argue over where to eat and George temporarily deposits me in front of a Mexican supermarket and threatens to leave me there. We are left to dine at Whole Foods. We stumble on what we think is the temple at the center of town (judging by the Joseph Smith-like man brandishing a cross on top), only to discover that it’s really City Hall. Downtown booster signs declare SLC “the place to be,” but all we see are boarded-up buildings and tattoo parlors. George’s theory is that state and federal legislators are too put off by the church/state bedfellows to send funding SLC’s way.
The real Temple is six blocks up the road in the nice part of town near the LDS (code for Latter Day Saints) “family planning center” mansion, and far from the Cockers fetish shop. The Temple square is buzzing with angelic Mormon boys wearing the uniform of white collared shirts and black pants, and women in ankle-length skirts who appear to be at peace with the world. My leather flip-flops from Greece snap and George is forced to fetch the car while I try to remain inconspicuous and stare at the grandiose monument to Mormonism to see if it will strengthen my conviction in Judaism. On the way out, we pass a couple of teenagers who just got engaged.
My tour guides assure me that Salt Lake City is refreshingly “vibrant, even though the Mormons run the show. A Black/Jew hybrid couple spending a night in Salt Lake. This should be interesting. We arrive on a Sunday evening and everything is closed. I have a mild anxiety attack after seeing our Super 8 motel room. Sleep-deprived and cranky, we argue over where to eat and George temporarily deposits me in front of a Mexican supermarket and threatens to leave me there. We are left to dine at Whole Foods. We stumble on what we think is the temple at the center of town (judging by the Joseph Smith-like man brandishing a cross on top), only to discover that it’s really City Hall. Downtown booster signs declare SLC “the place to be,” but all we see are boarded-up buildings and tattoo parlors. George’s theory is that state and federal legislators are too put off by the church/state bedfellows to send funding SLC’s way.
The real Temple is six blocks up the road in the nice part of town near the LDS (code for Latter Day Saints) “family planning center” mansion, and far from the Cockers fetish shop. The Temple square is buzzing with angelic Mormon boys wearing the uniform of white collared shirts and black pants, and women in ankle-length skirts who appear to be at peace with the world. My leather flip-flops from Greece snap and George is forced to fetch the car while I try to remain inconspicuous and stare at the grandiose monument to Mormonism to see if it will strengthen my conviction in Judaism. On the way out, we pass a couple of teenagers who just got engaged.
Ditch Denver for Boulder
We know we’ve arrived in Denver because we’re hit with $10 in tolls in a 5-mile stretch. The city is likable enough, with its yuppified cosmopolitan bars, vanilla shopping plazas and wavy Mile High Stadium that sucks up the skyline. We’re so hungry that we agree to pay $7 for a Caesar salad that consists of two leafs of lettuce and some parmesan thrown in for good measure. George refuses to share, since we’ve been splitting meals for days now. We meet a chatty security guard named T from Chicago, who dreams of owning a restaurant specializing in meat injected with Jack Daniels. We can tell that he views Denver as Chicago’s ugly stepsister, similar to how we view Atlanta in relation to Boston or Philly. He is the umpteenth person to mention that “George and Margie” sounds like a sitcom.
The next day, we eat more overpriced salads (named after famous explorers) and gaze at the blocky, minimalist architecture. We’re in a city, it’s pretty and clean, but there aren’t any real “attractions” unless you want to see how beer is made. We putter around the deserted “Santa Fe” arts district and see photos of Barbie in compromising positions. We head to Boulder for the evening, since we’re craving funk.
People talk to the homeless in Boulder, but they may just be proselytizing. Boulder makes me want to own a bike. Even in the summer, the city is full of fit, young mountaineers zipping around in luxurious bike lanes. It’s upscale bohemian, with dogs on hemp leashes peeing next to $1.5 million condos. It’s also the quintessential college town for the laid-back and perpetually happy. The University of Colorado at Boulder campus is mesmerizing, full of Spanish-style architecture, hidden passageways, and kids teetering on a tightrope slung between two trees. The Colorado Shakespeare Festival is in town performing Love’s Labour Lost outdoors, so we order some Thai to go and head to the box office. The performance is sold out, we’re informed, but George helps the ushers retrieve the tickets by jimmying a door with his shoelace. We’re seated in the sixth row, center.
We decide on a whim to head to Rocky Mountain State Park for July 4 and 5, because Lonely Planet has found me a lodge/hostel for $55 a night. The driving is tedious, climbing 10,000 feet above sea level with the rest of the tourists on holiday. We’re surrounded by snow-capped peaks, blanketed by auburn and gold. It’s a spectacular moment and a looonnng way down. The bikers are out in full force as we arrive west of the park at Grand Lake, the snowmobile capital of Colorado. The town is at fever pitch, ramshackle cabins crammed next to a chaotic strip of restaurants and souvenir shops. This is not the secluded mountain retreat I had envisioned. Our GPS is having technical difficulties, but we manage to locate the one, winding road leading to Shadowcliff Lodge. It’s incredible. Perched on a hilltop overlooking two pristine lakes dotted with sailboats, the log cabin lodge has a definite hostel/Christian vibe with a shared kitchen and bathroom and motivational passages on the wall. We are given a private room with four bunks and one double and the teenage angsty campy craziness of it all stirs romance. We meet a Turkish rug seller in town who comments that I look European and then tries to sell me a throw rug for $600. We watch well-executed fireworks on the rocks next to a campfire, several families, a pair of lesbians, the requisite guitar, and a curious, socially awkward man who keeps squinting and won’t shut up about the dawning of digital photography.
We wake up at 6:30 a.m. along with everyone else and check out a trail (because we’re in the mountains and it’s to be expected). I walk about 1.5 miles before I need to turn back to go to bathroom. I procrastinate on the Internet for a few hours, despite looks of disapproval from the lodge staff. Later, we select a different trail and I manage to go about 3 miles before the mosquitoes become immune to my “deep woods” bug spray. We do see log fences, gushing clear water, several moose (meese?) in the distance, and a horse the size of a hippopotamus. Later, we eat at a barbecue joint where we throw peanut shells on the floor and George beats me at four straight hands of 500 rummy.
The next day, we eat more overpriced salads (named after famous explorers) and gaze at the blocky, minimalist architecture. We’re in a city, it’s pretty and clean, but there aren’t any real “attractions” unless you want to see how beer is made. We putter around the deserted “Santa Fe” arts district and see photos of Barbie in compromising positions. We head to Boulder for the evening, since we’re craving funk.
People talk to the homeless in Boulder, but they may just be proselytizing. Boulder makes me want to own a bike. Even in the summer, the city is full of fit, young mountaineers zipping around in luxurious bike lanes. It’s upscale bohemian, with dogs on hemp leashes peeing next to $1.5 million condos. It’s also the quintessential college town for the laid-back and perpetually happy. The University of Colorado at Boulder campus is mesmerizing, full of Spanish-style architecture, hidden passageways, and kids teetering on a tightrope slung between two trees. The Colorado Shakespeare Festival is in town performing Love’s Labour Lost outdoors, so we order some Thai to go and head to the box office. The performance is sold out, we’re informed, but George helps the ushers retrieve the tickets by jimmying a door with his shoelace. We’re seated in the sixth row, center.
We decide on a whim to head to Rocky Mountain State Park for July 4 and 5, because Lonely Planet has found me a lodge/hostel for $55 a night. The driving is tedious, climbing 10,000 feet above sea level with the rest of the tourists on holiday. We’re surrounded by snow-capped peaks, blanketed by auburn and gold. It’s a spectacular moment and a looonnng way down. The bikers are out in full force as we arrive west of the park at Grand Lake, the snowmobile capital of Colorado. The town is at fever pitch, ramshackle cabins crammed next to a chaotic strip of restaurants and souvenir shops. This is not the secluded mountain retreat I had envisioned. Our GPS is having technical difficulties, but we manage to locate the one, winding road leading to Shadowcliff Lodge. It’s incredible. Perched on a hilltop overlooking two pristine lakes dotted with sailboats, the log cabin lodge has a definite hostel/Christian vibe with a shared kitchen and bathroom and motivational passages on the wall. We are given a private room with four bunks and one double and the teenage angsty campy craziness of it all stirs romance. We meet a Turkish rug seller in town who comments that I look European and then tries to sell me a throw rug for $600. We watch well-executed fireworks on the rocks next to a campfire, several families, a pair of lesbians, the requisite guitar, and a curious, socially awkward man who keeps squinting and won’t shut up about the dawning of digital photography.
We wake up at 6:30 a.m. along with everyone else and check out a trail (because we’re in the mountains and it’s to be expected). I walk about 1.5 miles before I need to turn back to go to bathroom. I procrastinate on the Internet for a few hours, despite looks of disapproval from the lodge staff. Later, we select a different trail and I manage to go about 3 miles before the mosquitoes become immune to my “deep woods” bug spray. We do see log fences, gushing clear water, several moose (meese?) in the distance, and a horse the size of a hippopotamus. Later, we eat at a barbecue joint where we throw peanut shells on the floor and George beats me at four straight hands of 500 rummy.
Denouement in Des Moines
En route to Denver, our disheartening choices are either traversing Iowa and Nebraska or Missouri and Kansas. We opt for the former, since it’s the tiniest bit more direct and we hear that St. Louis may be flooded out. We arrive at our motel ragged after midnight. Our Garmin got confused and thought we were staying at a Wendy’s. We should’ve followed its advice. I had envisioned quaint corn-patterned drapes and a down- home welcome. The “hostess” grunts for my credit card and tosses me our key. The room reeks of smoke and something that smells a lot like urine, which I try to ignore. We’re overlooking a highway. I don’t sleep.
The drive into the city of Des Moines is dull as a doorknob—only flatter. It’s a family- friendly city, still sandbagged in spots from the devastating floods. I spend our three hours there holed up in a coffee shop with free WiFi, trying to locate a motel in Nebraska that doesn’t suck.
We drive through the construction zone that is Omaha and stumble on the U.S. Olympic swim trials, where they’re handing out free bottled water. Omaha’s brick-faced downtown is thumping but we can’t find a steak for under $30. A local clues us into a no-frills steakhouse, Gorat’s, about 15 minutes from town, where Warren Buffett is reportedly a regular. No sign of the multi-billionaire, but we do experience our first moment of interracial awkwardness on this trip when we enter the dining room. A hush falls over the crowd. We forgo the pricier Omaha steak and split a 16-ounce sirloin. It’s a helluva steak and worth the stares.
Our tour of Nebraska includes a conversation with a trucker about the merits of ethanol, pondering why the corn isn’t as high as an elephant’s eye, and stopping in a sandwich shop in an old western throwback town called Ogallala, where an Asian woman (they have those here?) serves us a cup of cream of potato soup masking as clam chowder. We read the local newspaper, which could double as a napkin, except for the highly technical commodities report on corn and steer. We veer off the main road and grow excited as our Garmin tells us we’ll be approaching another town, only to find another abandoned gas station. One highlight is that the sky engulfs you here, since there’s nothing blocking the view from the ground.
The drive into the city of Des Moines is dull as a doorknob—only flatter. It’s a family- friendly city, still sandbagged in spots from the devastating floods. I spend our three hours there holed up in a coffee shop with free WiFi, trying to locate a motel in Nebraska that doesn’t suck.
We drive through the construction zone that is Omaha and stumble on the U.S. Olympic swim trials, where they’re handing out free bottled water. Omaha’s brick-faced downtown is thumping but we can’t find a steak for under $30. A local clues us into a no-frills steakhouse, Gorat’s, about 15 minutes from town, where Warren Buffett is reportedly a regular. No sign of the multi-billionaire, but we do experience our first moment of interracial awkwardness on this trip when we enter the dining room. A hush falls over the crowd. We forgo the pricier Omaha steak and split a 16-ounce sirloin. It’s a helluva steak and worth the stares.
Our tour of Nebraska includes a conversation with a trucker about the merits of ethanol, pondering why the corn isn’t as high as an elephant’s eye, and stopping in a sandwich shop in an old western throwback town called Ogallala, where an Asian woman (they have those here?) serves us a cup of cream of potato soup masking as clam chowder. We read the local newspaper, which could double as a napkin, except for the highly technical commodities report on corn and steer. We veer off the main road and grow excited as our Garmin tells us we’ll be approaching another town, only to find another abandoned gas station. One highlight is that the sky engulfs you here, since there’s nothing blocking the view from the ground.
Deep Dish-itis
Chicago is my kinda town. I could totally see myself living here, losing myself in the eerie Gothic-inspired University of Chicago campus, visiting the fabulous art museums that line Michigan Avenue, gorging on starch. Chicago has a pulse. And wind gusts that propel me across intersections. Next time I leave the wrap dress at home. We walk the Magnificent Mile alongside a Polish bridal party. We’re in town for Taste of Chicago, a food bonanza where we hoard our tickets like we’re at an amusement park. We trade them for a barbecued turkey leg the size of a forearm (which George promptly drops on his shirt). We blow a whopping 6 tickets on a mealy hot dog. Seems that Taste of Chicago has been overrun with inexpensive chain-type fare—not the gourmet smorgasbord I was expecting.
Deep dish pizza is where it’s at, we’re told, even though I recall throwing up from Pizzeria Uno as a kid. Still, we spot a Gino’s East the next day and order a medium supreme. Thirty minutes later (deep dish takes patience, according to our server) and out pops a saucy pie that resembles a fort. I can only stomach a slice and a half before I begin to understand the lazy “itis” following a carb overdose (Boondocks reference). The gargantuan crust reminds me of cornmeal and the pepperoni, green peppers, and onions aren’t quite in sync. We don’t eat a real meal for another two days.
Down the street in Lincoln Park, we stumble on a gay pride parade, which strikes me as overly commercial (what are the mortgage brokers doing with a float?). We could live here, we think, until we’re told by a local that the average home price in the neighborhood is around $750,000.To get something affordable we would have to look in South Hyde Park, where my “Let’s Go” won’t even go.
We read The Sunday Tribune at a bar next to a drunken blonde who periodically leans over and hyperventilates out the window. We sample improv at a joint where Mike Meyers and Tina Fey supposedly got their start, but the skits performed by their replacements fall flat. The audience is disturbingly quiet and I find myself laughing at stupid bathroom humor just to throw the comedians a bone.
Before leaving, we stop for caramel corn at Garrett’s, the only popcorn place I’ve ever seen with a line out the door. They run out of their signature dish, so we wait 15 minutes. The popcorn arrives, only to be gobbled up by an airport-bound lady’s three jumbo orders. We wait 15 more minutes for them to shuttle the corn from another location. When it makes its grand entrance, it tastes like pure butter, baby.
Deep dish pizza is where it’s at, we’re told, even though I recall throwing up from Pizzeria Uno as a kid. Still, we spot a Gino’s East the next day and order a medium supreme. Thirty minutes later (deep dish takes patience, according to our server) and out pops a saucy pie that resembles a fort. I can only stomach a slice and a half before I begin to understand the lazy “itis” following a carb overdose (Boondocks reference). The gargantuan crust reminds me of cornmeal and the pepperoni, green peppers, and onions aren’t quite in sync. We don’t eat a real meal for another two days.
Down the street in Lincoln Park, we stumble on a gay pride parade, which strikes me as overly commercial (what are the mortgage brokers doing with a float?). We could live here, we think, until we’re told by a local that the average home price in the neighborhood is around $750,000.To get something affordable we would have to look in South Hyde Park, where my “Let’s Go” won’t even go.
We read The Sunday Tribune at a bar next to a drunken blonde who periodically leans over and hyperventilates out the window. We sample improv at a joint where Mike Meyers and Tina Fey supposedly got their start, but the skits performed by their replacements fall flat. The audience is disturbingly quiet and I find myself laughing at stupid bathroom humor just to throw the comedians a bone.
Before leaving, we stop for caramel corn at Garrett’s, the only popcorn place I’ve ever seen with a line out the door. They run out of their signature dish, so we wait 15 minutes. The popcorn arrives, only to be gobbled up by an airport-bound lady’s three jumbo orders. We wait 15 more minutes for them to shuttle the corn from another location. When it makes its grand entrance, it tastes like pure butter, baby.
Skip the country in Nashville
We listen to obscure 80s music on the drive to Nashville, harassed by billboards like “JESUS DIED FOR OUR SINS” or “Life is short. Eternity isn’t—signed God.”
We’re staying on music row in what appears to be a seminary of sorts that rents out dorm rooms in the summer. We admire the 1970s textured wallpaper, two twin beds, and moldy shower curtain. It’s like summer camp all over again.
Our first stop is Nashville’s version of the “Parthenon,” built for the World’s Fair in 19-whatever. I’ve seen the real Parthenon, so this is less than thrilling. For lunch, I consult my tour book to find the one Jewish deli in Nashville called Noshville. I don’t get the joke until after we leave.
We take a small detour to the Grand Ole Opry, a sprawling mall filled with overweight white people. Feels like home! My guide recommends the Bluebird Café, an acoustic music venue buried in a suburban strip mall. We arrive to intense humidity and a line snaking out the door. I realize that my faded black sundress isn’t cutting it here. Three nymphettes in mod minis alternately swoosh their highlighted hair, dab at their mascara with their pinkies and ask, “Do you see my sweat?” “Groupies,” I mutter.
We manage to get in, but only because we forget that Nashville is an hour behind us and arrive a full 90 minutes before the show. The three singer-songwriters—one recently won best songwriter of the year--are mind-blowingly good, though there is a definite Christian subtext. They sing of reality—falling down, getting back up, traveling the road to nowhere, remembering old friends. We are bonded by the idiosyncrasies of life, raw emotion rising from their voices. From my perch in the back next to the amp, contentment washes over me. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Later, we hit the downtown bar strip, ducking in and out of western bars, not really feeling it. George, who is biracial, is reminded of being dragged to hick bars with his uncle in rural Massachusetts. We discover a blues club sharing space in an alley with nude karaoke, a surprisingly authentic version of “Proud Mary” streaming into the street. Inside, a sexy plus-size singer wearing a flowy white dress and cowboy boots sways next to a guitarist who could work as a body double for Jack Black. We turn in early, following an unfortunate Led Zeppelin set.
We’re staying on music row in what appears to be a seminary of sorts that rents out dorm rooms in the summer. We admire the 1970s textured wallpaper, two twin beds, and moldy shower curtain. It’s like summer camp all over again.
Our first stop is Nashville’s version of the “Parthenon,” built for the World’s Fair in 19-whatever. I’ve seen the real Parthenon, so this is less than thrilling. For lunch, I consult my tour book to find the one Jewish deli in Nashville called Noshville. I don’t get the joke until after we leave.
We take a small detour to the Grand Ole Opry, a sprawling mall filled with overweight white people. Feels like home! My guide recommends the Bluebird Café, an acoustic music venue buried in a suburban strip mall. We arrive to intense humidity and a line snaking out the door. I realize that my faded black sundress isn’t cutting it here. Three nymphettes in mod minis alternately swoosh their highlighted hair, dab at their mascara with their pinkies and ask, “Do you see my sweat?” “Groupies,” I mutter.
We manage to get in, but only because we forget that Nashville is an hour behind us and arrive a full 90 minutes before the show. The three singer-songwriters—one recently won best songwriter of the year--are mind-blowingly good, though there is a definite Christian subtext. They sing of reality—falling down, getting back up, traveling the road to nowhere, remembering old friends. We are bonded by the idiosyncrasies of life, raw emotion rising from their voices. From my perch in the back next to the amp, contentment washes over me. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Later, we hit the downtown bar strip, ducking in and out of western bars, not really feeling it. George, who is biracial, is reminded of being dragged to hick bars with his uncle in rural Massachusetts. We discover a blues club sharing space in an alley with nude karaoke, a surprisingly authentic version of “Proud Mary” streaming into the street. Inside, a sexy plus-size singer wearing a flowy white dress and cowboy boots sways next to a guitarist who could work as a body double for Jack Black. We turn in early, following an unfortunate Led Zeppelin set.
Two hours in...parking ticket
We decide on a whim to make a pit stop in Chattanooga on the way to Nashville. Home to the famous choo-choo and gobs of public art, the city is scrubbed clean. We score a parking meter in the heart of downtown—with 1hr. 45 minutes already on it!—and meander in the arts district along the water, admiring a $1,000 drum made of extra special redwood. “I’ll be rich in two years,” George tells the saleslady at the gallery. “Maybe then.”
Where are the homeless people? As an alternative to panhandling, Chattanooga uses “the art of change” begging meters. Donations are directed to charities, and tourists are spared all kinds of unpleasantness. We regret that we have no change to spare, since we’re spending it all on gas and Dick Cheney’s war, and return to the car to find an $11 parking ticket. Seems the meters in Chattanooga go right to left (in some twisted tribute to Hebrew) instead of left to right. We come up an hour short. We decide the karma in Chattanooga is broken, and plow onward to the town that gave birth to all those country stars we can’t stand.
Where are the homeless people? As an alternative to panhandling, Chattanooga uses “the art of change” begging meters. Donations are directed to charities, and tourists are spared all kinds of unpleasantness. We regret that we have no change to spare, since we’re spending it all on gas and Dick Cheney’s war, and return to the car to find an $11 parking ticket. Seems the meters in Chattanooga go right to left (in some twisted tribute to Hebrew) instead of left to right. We come up an hour short. We decide the karma in Chattanooga is broken, and plow onward to the town that gave birth to all those country stars we can’t stand.
My thirty-something crisis road trip across the U.S.
I had some qualms about spending six weeks with my boyfriend traveling via Kia Spectra from Atlanta to California and back again. Spontaneity is not my strong suit. I find security in the routine. And I’ve always been more fascinated by the idea of traveling than the physical act. I want all the benefits of global citizenship with none of the inconvenience. I like my bed. I like my hound dog. I like not having to live out of plastic bags.
Still, I’ve wanted to do this for 10 years or more. Ever since my good friend from college, Betsy, decided to take a semester off from studying hard-core biology to travel cross-country in a beater car with a friend of a friend. Many of our mutual friends thought she was crazy and would never be back to graduate. I was jealous because she had the balls. (Incidentally, she met her future husband on that trip and graduated only a few semesters after I did). No permanent scars.
Still, I buried this life goal along with the rest (living abroad for a year, writing a book about the death of customer service, ending animal cruelty).
Until I turned 30. I was fading.
So, I approached George (my boyfriend of three years), about going on an adventure to learn about American culture--the ties that bind us--and to clear my head of all the noise and find some direction—any direction, why can’t I just pick a direction already! Basically, I was looking to escape. I grow bored easily—of people, places—so I like to stir things up. The first few weeks are usually bliss.
The timing was right George was quitting his plum reporting job to get an MBA. I found part-time work writing about consumer electronics. I figured I would just freelance the rest.
As I said, I like traveling—in theory. As the date approached, I panicked. I began throwing out excuses, hoping one would stick. I was battling indigestion, a cold, worried about traveler’s insomnia and our beagle hybrid, Ernie, who could plunge into doggie depression while George’s mother was housesitting. I was killing myself trying to finish a set of Atlanta tours for National Geographic, avoiding getting mugged in the process. No time to plan. We had secured housing (in college dorms) in Nashville, Chicago and San Francisco, but the rest was murky. I ordered a GPS overnighted, bought a copy of “Road Trip USA,” and dived in. One week at a time, I repeated to myself.
Still, I’ve wanted to do this for 10 years or more. Ever since my good friend from college, Betsy, decided to take a semester off from studying hard-core biology to travel cross-country in a beater car with a friend of a friend. Many of our mutual friends thought she was crazy and would never be back to graduate. I was jealous because she had the balls. (Incidentally, she met her future husband on that trip and graduated only a few semesters after I did). No permanent scars.
Still, I buried this life goal along with the rest (living abroad for a year, writing a book about the death of customer service, ending animal cruelty).
Until I turned 30. I was fading.
So, I approached George (my boyfriend of three years), about going on an adventure to learn about American culture--the ties that bind us--and to clear my head of all the noise and find some direction—any direction, why can’t I just pick a direction already! Basically, I was looking to escape. I grow bored easily—of people, places—so I like to stir things up. The first few weeks are usually bliss.
The timing was right George was quitting his plum reporting job to get an MBA. I found part-time work writing about consumer electronics. I figured I would just freelance the rest.
As I said, I like traveling—in theory. As the date approached, I panicked. I began throwing out excuses, hoping one would stick. I was battling indigestion, a cold, worried about traveler’s insomnia and our beagle hybrid, Ernie, who could plunge into doggie depression while George’s mother was housesitting. I was killing myself trying to finish a set of Atlanta tours for National Geographic, avoiding getting mugged in the process. No time to plan. We had secured housing (in college dorms) in Nashville, Chicago and San Francisco, but the rest was murky. I ordered a GPS overnighted, bought a copy of “Road Trip USA,” and dived in. One week at a time, I repeated to myself.
Facebook: When did everyone start getting lives?
Lately, I’ve been addicted to Facebook. It happened gradually—just like my previous addictions to craigslist, eBay, and the Sherwin-Williams color visualizer. I waded into the Facebook waters some six months ago, after noticing that George had like 90 friends. I’ve always been a better socializer—and just wittier all around--over e-mail than in person. I remember feeling particularly proud when I broke the 50 mark—before I found out that George’s twentysomething cousin was closing in on 450 friends. Way to rain on my Facebook parade. I swear one day I’ll write an essay about Facebook’s power to erase decade-long grudges—how a simple “friend request” can make you forget how your ex-best friend stopped all communication when you confessed your love to him in a moment of desperation after college graduation.
Anyway, it’s been fun reconnecting with the popular crowd—you know, the people who didn’t think you were cool enough to hang with them back in high school but now just want to boost their friend quotient. A lot of them still look like former Miss Congenialities—only now with designer partners and kids. Some have let themselves go, and, yes, that makes me happy. What is it I read--that if you were socially well-adjusted in high school than you have about one-tenth the self-esteem issues as all the rest of us socially stunted souls—no matter what you look like now. I’ve lost some weight since then, which means my wall is frequently vandalized with comments like “You look great!” I cringe. I must’ve looked like a train wreck back then. But I digress…
The problem I have with Facebook is not with the high school clique, who all grew up in a working-to-middle-class suburb of Philly called Havertown (i.e., “Have-no-town”). They’re all leading relatively normal lives mostly in the tri-state area—working as teachers, stay-at-home moms, cosmetologists, ho-hum tax accountants. The problem is that after graduating high school I went on to an Ivy League school and then to a prestigious newspaper internship program, so I’m also connected with a bunch of overachievers—the legislative aides to powerful senators, Chicago Tribune writers, NYC cardiologists, police chief attorneys, hot-shot management consultants with a degree or two added to their resume. And—to make matters worse—most of them have rock-solid personal lives (married, sometimes married with kid) in addition to killer jobs and, judging from their online photo albums, kickass wardrobes. So much for the work-life ultimatum we’re always hearing about. I should be happy for these long-lost friends—as happy as I am for the ragged former prom queens who are retaining water. But perusing their profiles only magnifies my insecurities about where I’m at, where I’m going, and the choices that led me here.
That’s why my status updates have been real downers, lately. I look at my friends who are off on whitewater rafting expeditions in Austin, reporting on refugees in Darfur, enjoying some bouncy baby contraption, and all I have to convey is my disgust about the Hot Chick Veep pick. Once you hit 30, are you no longer entitled to express angst about your career path and personal relationships? Somehow, I missed the memo that between 25 and 30 you need to have your whole life figured out. I could just be jealous—or naïve. “They’re just putting their best foot forward,” George tells me. Like in an obituary notice. Maybe I’m just too honest on my page. Under occupation, I list writer. Under employer, I list myself. Can’t get more basic than that. George tries to console me, telling me that he recently befriended a friend of a friend who lists actress, but a Google search reveals that she hasn’t been in anything remotely noteworthy. Meanwhile, Googling my name uncovers a movie review from 1997 about the digitally remastered release of “Dirty Dancing” and a profile on a wedding planner that got distributed to members of an electric coop. Perhaps I need to just accept Facebook at face value—a social networking tool similar to JDate where a little photoshop here and a little exaggeration there never hurt anyone. So, why do I feel hurt?
Anyway, it’s been fun reconnecting with the popular crowd—you know, the people who didn’t think you were cool enough to hang with them back in high school but now just want to boost their friend quotient. A lot of them still look like former Miss Congenialities—only now with designer partners and kids. Some have let themselves go, and, yes, that makes me happy. What is it I read--that if you were socially well-adjusted in high school than you have about one-tenth the self-esteem issues as all the rest of us socially stunted souls—no matter what you look like now. I’ve lost some weight since then, which means my wall is frequently vandalized with comments like “You look great!” I cringe. I must’ve looked like a train wreck back then. But I digress…
The problem I have with Facebook is not with the high school clique, who all grew up in a working-to-middle-class suburb of Philly called Havertown (i.e., “Have-no-town”). They’re all leading relatively normal lives mostly in the tri-state area—working as teachers, stay-at-home moms, cosmetologists, ho-hum tax accountants. The problem is that after graduating high school I went on to an Ivy League school and then to a prestigious newspaper internship program, so I’m also connected with a bunch of overachievers—the legislative aides to powerful senators, Chicago Tribune writers, NYC cardiologists, police chief attorneys, hot-shot management consultants with a degree or two added to their resume. And—to make matters worse—most of them have rock-solid personal lives (married, sometimes married with kid) in addition to killer jobs and, judging from their online photo albums, kickass wardrobes. So much for the work-life ultimatum we’re always hearing about. I should be happy for these long-lost friends—as happy as I am for the ragged former prom queens who are retaining water. But perusing their profiles only magnifies my insecurities about where I’m at, where I’m going, and the choices that led me here.
That’s why my status updates have been real downers, lately. I look at my friends who are off on whitewater rafting expeditions in Austin, reporting on refugees in Darfur, enjoying some bouncy baby contraption, and all I have to convey is my disgust about the Hot Chick Veep pick. Once you hit 30, are you no longer entitled to express angst about your career path and personal relationships? Somehow, I missed the memo that between 25 and 30 you need to have your whole life figured out. I could just be jealous—or naïve. “They’re just putting their best foot forward,” George tells me. Like in an obituary notice. Maybe I’m just too honest on my page. Under occupation, I list writer. Under employer, I list myself. Can’t get more basic than that. George tries to console me, telling me that he recently befriended a friend of a friend who lists actress, but a Google search reveals that she hasn’t been in anything remotely noteworthy. Meanwhile, Googling my name uncovers a movie review from 1997 about the digitally remastered release of “Dirty Dancing” and a profile on a wedding planner that got distributed to members of an electric coop. Perhaps I need to just accept Facebook at face value—a social networking tool similar to JDate where a little photoshop here and a little exaggeration there never hurt anyone. So, why do I feel hurt?
Why Night Vision?
“I do my best thinking at night,” I tell my boyfriend, George, one night while we’re lying in bed. George and I bond during these late-night conversations. Somehow, with the day a distant memory, darkness allows me to process my thoughts and see “clarity, peace, serenity,” to borrow a phrase from that riot girrrll philosopher, Fergie. It’s only logical, then, that I blog at night. That and my significant other just started an MBA program, so he’s busy studying and/or sleeping. I’m one of those people who always needs to be doing something productive or I feel like a tax on humanity. It’s weird. It took me 10 seconds to come up with Night Vision as the name of my blog tonight, yet I’ve been agonizing over a paint color for the livingroom for the better part of a year. Maybe I should apply for a job working third shift or something. In the meantime…
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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