Jenni

I woke at 7am to the pinkish glow of the sunrise on the wall. I sat up on my elbow and watched seagulls and pelicans flying past the balcony. I realized that I was hearing almost the same sound I hear at home when we have the window open, only at home, it’s traffic on Crosstown, not the ocean. Sigh.

We drove into Savannah and parked near the City Market. We found a little breakfast place called the Express Cafe, which had a million tasty-looking pastries and espresso. I got oatmeal with apples and cinnamon, and the world’s largest iced americano. From there, we walked down to the riverfront along the Factors’ Walk. It’s a level down from the rest of the downtown, with cobblestone streets built with the ballast from ships coming from England. The shops there are all pretty cheesy/touristy, and we stopped into one for postcards. One of the women who worked there came running at me from across the store, raving about my hair. And, yes, I had to admit, my hair was perfect. We had named it ‘ocean hair’, because of the effect of the humidity. It was really curly, but not at all frizzy. I hardly had to do anything to it in the morning, just poke it around a little and spray it. It was magical. I wanted ocean hair to come home with me, but that was not to be.

We walked down to see the waving girl statue [OK, I found this link about the Waving Girl, and I order you all to complete the Suggested Activities, and get back to me with your very own monument design], then went back up to the main part of town. We wandered amongst the huge trees draped with spanish moss, through squares with statues, and past beautiful old homes. Around 11am, just as we were arguing about whether the south understood decent coffee or not (Heather’s standpoint being that there’s nothing in between Minneapolis and New Orleans; I hold out that there are little enclaves of espresso-consciousness), we happened across a cute little coffeeshop right on the corner near SCAD*.

*Heather also has a deep and burning fascination with SCAD, since she works for MCAD, and there’s some kind of art college rivalry, or something. Don’t ask me.

Anyway, the cafe doubled as a little shop, and at least 99% of what they were selling was cute. Our experience there might have been ideal, had it not been for the women. OK, back up a bit. At our hotel, there were all these people who were in town for a wedding. Seemingly everyone there but us. Which was fine. But, then, at this coffeeshop, all of the women there were in town for a wedding as well. We were starting to get the sense that, in fact, everyone was in town for this wedding, to which we were not invited. And I’m perhaps just a little miffed by that. Yes, I said miffed.

So, I kind of hated these women. They were so very Ivy-League-Sex-And-The-City-South-Beach-Diet-Ann-Taylor. They talked about their sorority reunions and their babies and their socially clueless lawyer husbands. But the way I see it, it was good to spend some time in close proximity with those girls. It was a reminder of exactly what I hope to never be. Hopefully it’s not contagious.

We left the shop and did some more walking. We wandered into a little gay gift shop (Yes! There are gay people in Georgia! Outside Atlanta, even!) with a supercute puppy by the door. Heather stayed outside and got chewed on, and I went in and wandered around. I ended up talking to one of the owners, who used to work for Norwest Bank, so he spent much of his time in Minneapolis. He missed the winter mornings where he’d walk outside and the air was so cold it cleared his sinuses instantly. I told him he was crazy.

We eventually ended up back near the City Market, and decided to try our luck with lunch there. The City Market is this little pedestrian mall about three blocks long with shops and cafes. When we first went to Savannah, I was excited about going to the market, because I thought it would be all cart vendors and local crafts and food and such. I was wrong, but that market does actually exist in Charleston, so I got my wish later. Anyway, we went to shops and looked at menus and didn’t find much promising, but by then it was about a hundred thousand degrees (in the shade), and humid, so we finally settled on the City Market Cafe.

After lunch, we went back to the car, which had been sitting in the sun all morning and had warmed up to the internal temperature of a combustion engine. Heather got in, because she is a trooper, or possibly a masochist, while I stood outside and danced the there’s-no-way-i’m-getting-in-there dance, until a car pulled up wanting my parking spot and I felt stupid. So we were off. We drove around and explored some more, ending up at Colonial Cemetery, which was really cool, and almost as good as those in New Orleans.

There was a mix of above-ground brick vaults and regular graves and some random headstones affixed to the wall. Some of them were ancient, cracked and barely readable. I liked the font, or whatever it was called before there were fonts. Typeface? On a gravestone? I’m not sure. Many of the headstones were worn down almost to little nubs, which made me wonder. Why were those so much more eroded than the others? Crazy wind patterns? Poor choice of materials? People rubbing them for good luck? Hmm. Also, the walkways were made of oyster shells. Neat.

We went past Mercer House again (you know, because of that book), took photos, mailed some postcards even though the folks back home wouldn’t get them until long after we were back in Minneapolis, and headed back to Tybee Island.

On the way to the hotel, we stopped again at Jaycees Park to see if our ducks were still around. Heather found a gigantic, cranky blue heron, various other waterfowl, tiny fish, and finally, the ducks. This time, we came armed with some styro-corn chips from Schnucks, so they were happy. We met a guy out walking his dog, Lucy. He called her a hound dog and said, “Y’all have a good night,” and I was charmed by his Georgia-ness. We stopped at our hotel, changed, and went back to the beach.

Heather swam again, and since there were more people around to notice if she started drowning, I told her I was going to take a walk on the beach. I left my shoes on the blanket and set off, heading north, walking at the edge of the water. Now, the problem with me is that I’m not good at stopping. If you set me walking in a straight line, I’ll keep going until I run into something, or collapse. In this case, I ran into the huge rocks at the north end of the beach, by the lighthouse and the place we had dinner. It was where all the huge cargo ships came out of the Savannah harbor, and headed off into the great unknown.

So I stood there for a minute, looked at all the funny people and the ships, then turned around and headed back. I had no idea how long I’d been walking, but it felt like a lot. A woman pointed out a stingray that had beached itself, wondering out loud as she picked it up by the ‘wings’ if it was going to sting her. It didn’t, and seemed a little stunned to find itself back in the ocean. I started to notice jellyfish on the beach, which I knew had definitely not been there the first time around. They were those perfectly transparent blobs, and they were hard to see on the sand. I started seeing more and more of them, and realized I was walking through a jellyfish minefield. Also, my feet were hurting, and I could feel blisters starting to form on the bottom of my left foot and heel. I thought walking on the beach would be all soft and comfy. I was so wrong.

About the time I was beginning to wonder whether I was going to make it back alive, I spotted the pier. My feet were killing me, and my injured hip was aching. I had the choice between walking on the wet sand or in the water, which was causing blisters, or walking on the dry sand, which was hot and slowed me down. In the distance, I saw Heather on the blanket, and figured she was probably wondering where the hell I had disappeared to. I laid down, and we shared a protein bar and figured out that I had been walking for two hours. It hurt.

We went back to the hotel room so Heather could shower. I considered changing, since my pants were wet and would be all salt-stained when they dried, but I figured it was the right thing to do, wearing ocean-wet pants to a restaurant on the beach. Because, yes, we were going back to the North Beach Grill. It’s that good.

The exact same band was there again, playing the exact same set. We had plantains yet again, and watched the people around us. They were weirder than the previous night, so it was good entertainment. After that, we stopped in at Ben and Jerry’s again, and were back to the hotel by 9pm, sitting on the balcony and watching the tide come in.

We woke up at 7am to some horrifying talk radio station. We got up and fed the seagulls our remaining pretzels from the hotel balcony, then checked out. We were on our way to Charleston, via Starbucks.

I was cranky as hell, as I usually am in the morning. It seemed to take an extra long time to get there, which we finally did around 11:30. Heather wanted to do some present shopping at the Old City Market (on eBay Street!), I wanted to pee. We drove around and around looking for parking, but the place was mobbed. Finally, I told her to go shop and I’d keep looking for parking, and call her when I found it. I never did. Around 12:30, about to pee my pants, I called her and told her we had to switch so I could go to the bathroom, so we did that. Then she went back in for more, and I circled until she was ready to go. Charleston is an incredibly beautiful city, but when you don’t have time to enjoy it, what’s the point?

We got back on the road. I was still crabby, since we had over 1300 miles to drive and were making hardly any progress. We stopped in Columbia, South Carolina for gas and food. We wanted to eat in the car, and since fast food is almost never an option for me, we picked a grocery store, Bi-Lo, instead. I emerged with a protein bar, 2 bananas, and grapes. Heather got a sub sandwich she told me she had ordered because it had “salami and salami and salami and salami and cheese”

We drove and drove and had nonsensical conversations about pretzel dessicants and giant cicadas taking the place of the headrest in your car. Sample conversation*:

Me: PARDON ME, THERE’S A CICADA BEHIND YOU!
H: WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU! I HAVE A CICADA FOR A HEADREST!

*This conversation is best when screamed at the top of your lungs.

It kept us awake, even if we barely managed to stay on the road because we were laughing so hard. We drove through the Blue Ridge Mountains in western North Carolina, then the Great Smoky Mountains in eastern Tennessee. By 6:30pm, we were in Knoxville. I had decided that I really, really wanted to write a book, and had the outline written in my head. Heather was loudly voicing her opinion of each and every other driver on the road. We stopped at a gas station to pee, and Heather had a fight with the slush puppy machine. I decided that ‘Easy On, Easy Off’ was the new title of my autobiography (which gets a new title almost every single day).

At 7:30pm, we were passing the town of Corbin at an alarming speed, and both saw a sign that could possibly change our lives, so we exited. Because, my friends, Corbin, Kentucky is the birthplace of KFC, and the home to the Colonel Sanders museum.

We went into the Sanders Cafe, which is a functioning KFC attached to the original restaurant. There are some statues and displays honoring the (fake) colonel, which were reminiscent of the Sam Walton shrine in Arkansas. They had original menus and photos and even a Colonel Sanders halloween mask, which was both unsettling and erotic. They have the original kitchen and dining room, the (fake) colonel’s office, and a motel room. That’s because the (fake) colonel also ran a chain of motels in the area, and in order to advertise their swankiness, he built a replica in his restaurant. Weird.

Speaking of Sam Walton, on the way back to the interstate, we encountered this:

How often do you see an abandoned Wal-Mart?? It was a good feeling, until I realized that it was because they had just built a brand new Wal-Mart Supercenter down the road. Fuckers.

At 8:15pm, we decided to stop for dinner. That was because Heather’s dream had finally been realized: we found a Bob Evans in Richmond, Kentucky. I don’t know why she likes that place so much; we had stopped at one once because it was the only thing in the entire state of Missouri that was open on New Year’s. Something about biscuits. Anyway, we stopped. In the lobby, they had an American flag hanging on the wall, with a marker for pledging your allegiance, or something. So I did, because there never was a truer patriot than me. We got seated, and I went to use the restroom. On the way back, I passed three waitresses (I know, I usually refer to them as ‘servers’, but this was the kind of place where the girls all worked out front, and the boys all worked in the kitchen), and none of them would make eye contact. Maybe it was my ‘THUG’ tshirt? They all had poorly-conceived face paintings on their cheeks. In an orgasmic frenzy, Heather ordered the Homestead Breakfast with sixteen types of meat, and three pounds of starch. (She wishes for me to mention that she did not, in fact, eat it all. Not even close.)

I ordered a salad and a grilled cheese, which at least was digestable this time around. From our booth, I could see all the behind-the-counter antics, and watched with fascination. The waitresses compared tips; ours counted her cash and had a total of $35. Now, I’m just making assumptions, but I’m pretty sure she must have worked the dinner rush, since they were only open til 10. Sunday dinner, and only $35 in tips? Kentucky sucks.

Carl, the manager, was one of those guys who’s married, in his mid-30s, and likes to refer to the staff as his ‘girls’. He was flirty and condescending. He liked to throw his substantial weight around. He was sure that he was well-liked by all, and he was seriously mistaken. He probably touched a little too often, too. At one point, our server called him over to see if she was making a side salad correctly. He counted the croutons, then removed some. I wanted to cry, because somewhere, a really bad country-western song had been written about this man.

Our bill was $15, and it was disturbing to realize that my $4 tip would make up a full 10% of her take for the night. We got back on the road to get in a few more hours of driving that night. I didn’t see much of Kentucky, but Louisville struck me as kind of cool. From there, we crossed into Indiana, and were safely ensconced once again in NASCAR country. It was raining and we were tired, so we finally pulled off at the Mariann Motel in Scottsburg, one of the three listed in the hotel guide we picked up at a rest area. We each took a bed and collapsed for the night.

I woke up to a horrible, horrible country song and knew I had to get out of Indiana. It was foggy and cold as we got on the road. Somewhere in central Indiana, I pulled out my notebook and occupied myself with making a list of the top ten places I’d ever had sex (which, in Illinois, Heather followed up with facial hair, gay bar, or sex position?). In Indianapolis, Heather called a Starbucks for directions and the girl hung up on her. We found one anyway.

Outside Chicago, we gained an hour, and got into town around 11am. I was moaning about the huge distance we still had to go, and told Heather to expect I’d be crying by the time we got to Wisconsin. She launched into an elaborate word problem involving highway-distance math, something like (A – B) < (C – D) where A = Chicago, B = Frankfort, Indiana, C = Minneapolis, and D = Madison. It still seemed like a lot to me.

We did the usual thing, which was to stop at IKEA for lunch. We shopped a little, then went to the cafe. As always, I had the vegetarian plate (pytt i panna), which has been on catalog special since the beginning of time for $2.49. You can’t go wrong.

I drove out of Chicagoland, through the newly-altered state of Illinois, and got us safely to Starbucks in Madison. I promised Heather again that I would cry before the day was through, so she took over driving; she almost always gets the Madison – Minneapolis shift, because it’s the most painful.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sewing in the passenger seat (it’s a long story, but will someday be a creamedpeas episode). Because I wasn’t paying attention, she ended up listening to entire CDs over and over. Wisconsin was all about road construction, as always. A couple times, we blew past state troopers sitting in the median. Heather would slam on the brakes, slow down to less than the speed limit, and pull into the right lane. Once, she and the trooper even smiled at each other. I told her she couldn’t possibly be less subtle, but we’re lucky. We entertained ourselves once again with cicada jokes, and eventually made it home. And I didn’t cry once.

I drove, by myself, a total of almost 6,000 miles in 19 days. I saw most of the western U.S. for the first time, including the Pacific Ocean. Here’s the map for the entire route.

Read from the beginning below, or jump to each day:

• 6/30: Minneapolis to Glasgow, Montana
• 7/1: Glasgow to Kalispell, Montana (Glacier National Park)
• 7/2: Kalispell, Montana to Seattle, Washington
• 7/3: Seattle (Mount Rainier)
• 7/4: Vancouver, British Columbia
• 7/5: Seattle, Washington to Roseburg, Oregon
• 7/6: Roseburg, Oregon to Manchester, California
• 7/7: Manchester, California to San Francisco
• 7/8: San Francisco
• 7/9: San Francisco
• 7/10: San Francisco
• 7/11: Yosemite National Park
• 7/12: San Francisco to Los Angeles
• 7/13: Los Angeles
• 7/14: Lose Angeles to San Diego (Tijuana, Mexico)
• 7/15: San Diego to Las Vegas
• 7/16: Las Vegas
• 7/17: Las Vegas to Sterling, Colorado
• 7/18: Sterling, Colorado to Minneapolis

I left Minneapolis at 8am with the car neatly organized, clutching a huge iced coffee. The drive out of Minneapolis was uneventful until I hit Moorhead, where I lost half an hour in a traffic jam. Who waits in traffic to get to Fargo? Besides me, I mean.

North Dakota was completely flat for 100 miles, but it’s all on this slight uphill grade. I crossed the continental divide, which I was pretty sure was in Montana, but who knows? The terrain in mid-North Dakota is hilly and open, like Kansas, only the billboards are less about god and more about the many benefits of ethanol. I stopped in Jamestown about 1:30 to see the world’s largest buffalo, not to mention the world’s largest buffalo balls, which were majestic and alarming at the same time.

I drove through downtown Jamestown and found nothing but scary bars, so I picked a mexican place by the mall for lunch. It sucked, but I was drinking coffee, and that’s all that mattered.

Making good time through North Dakota, I decided to pull off to see what the ‘Enchanted Highway’ signs were all about. I drove for a few miles and saw nothing of interest. As I made a u-turn in the middle of a tiny little highway, I noticed that it was really, really hard to turn the wheel. I freaked.

(Some background: I have intense car-trouble paranoia, which is not completely unsubstantiated. [Evidence: exhibit 1, exhibit 2] I occasionally have this sense that my finely-engineered Swedish automobile is nothing more than a jumble of parts held together with scotch tape and twine, and it’s just waiting for the exact worst moment to fall apart in a million pieces around me. And, really, as far as worst moments go, this was close: I was in the middle of nowhere – or at least I thought I was, until I discovered Montana, I was alone, I had no cell signal, and I was on the very first day of a trip of undetermined length.)

I pulled over and quickly realized that the car was still running fine, but the power steering had gone out. I asked myself, ‘Can I take this trip through the mountains with no power steering?’ Um, no. So I got back on the interstate and exited at the next town: Dickinson, North Dakota, the last glimmer of civilization for 400 miles. I stopped at T-Rex Conoco (right past the T-Rex Mall!), pulled out my manual, popped the hood, and located the power steering fluid reservoir. I opened the cap and a wisp of smoke rose from the empty tank. I went into the gas station. I grabbed a bottle of power steering fluid and went up to the counter to ask the mechanic for his advice. Is this the right fluid? Was this normal? No, there must be a leak. Try filling the reservoir and see if it leaks out again. He explained how to get the fluid back in the system: turn the steering wheel all the way to the right, and all the way to the left.

I bought two bottles to be on the safe side, went to the car, and emptied one into the reservoir. I got in the car and did exactly like he said. The power steering came back right away, but it was loud and whiny. I drove into a nearby neighborhood and turned donuts in the middle of intersections, hoping it was working. It seemed to be driving fine, so I decided to get back on the interstate and exit at the next gas station, to check the level again. 18 miles down the road, I discovered that the reservoir was once again completely empty. I drove to another little service station and asked the guy for help. He apologized and said he was about to close, still had work to do, and doubted he could get the parts for a foreign car anyway. My best bet was to go back to Dickinson. I wanted to cry, but decided that this was all part of the adventure, and if I had to spend a night waiting in North Dakota, I could handle it. I emptied the other bottle of fluid into my car and headed back to Dickinson.

When I got there, I stopped at Conoco again, and checked the reservoir. This time, it had stayed at the right level, and it wasn’t making the whining noise anymore. I went in and talked to the same guy, asking him if he thought it had just taken that much fluid to fill it up, so now it would be fine. He said that was probably the case, but wanted to take a look anyway. He came outside with me and inspected the whole engine, checking for leaks while I turned the wheels back and forth. He said everything looked fine, and that Saab had probably forgotten to fill the reservoir when they had replaced the hoses in January. I told him that I was headed into Montana, and was really scared to leave civilization with a potential car issue. He laughed, and said that his advice was to get on the road and head to Billings, 430 miles away. They had a Saab dealership. If I could get that far, there’d be no problem getting parts for the car. He told me to be brave. I wanted to hug him for being so awesome, but I controlled myself. I got the crappiest iced coffee of my life at the Java Hut (by the T-Rex Mall!) and got back on the road. 60 miles and three quick stops-to-check-the-steering-fluid later, I was in Montana.

The second you cross the border into Montana, you become very aware of the fact that you have entered the middle of nowhere. You think you’ve been in remote places before. You’ve witnessed the emptiness of Nebraska and Oklahoma, but you’ve never seen anything like this. And it makes you very nervous, because you have a car in questionably-functional condition, your cellphone is useless, and you’re alone. But a North Dakota mechanic has ordered you to be brave, so you have no choice but to comply.

I stopped at the travel center in Montana, and was a little weirded out by the fact that mine was the only car in the lot, apart from a broken-down pickup that looked to have been there for some time. I went inside and was relieved to find a woman working there. I told her I was headed to Glacier, and wanted to know the best route. She unfolded a giant map (Montana is so huge that it requires a map at least twice the normal size) and showed me how the route via the interstate was 750 miles at 75mph, and the Highway 2 route was 500 miles at 70mph. Taking Highway 2 required a hundred-mile detour through the heart of Absolutely Nothing, but it meant I’d still get to Glacier a lot quicker. Also, Highway 2 (known as the Great Northern Route, because of the railroad) is one of the trips featured in my travel bible, Road Trip U.S.A., so it held a certain appeal.

At that point, I had to decide: take the long route, which was also the path to safety because it was the way to the Saab dealership in Billings, or take my chances with the short route. After checking the steering fluid again, I decided to take my chances.

I stopped for gas and dinner in Glendive, the last city on I-94 before the exit for the Highway 2 route. I called Heather from a payphone at the gas station, figuring it might be my last brush with modern technology that evening. Then I went to find dinner. I decided it would be really funny to eat at one of the many, many casinos in town (in Montana, everything is a casino). I walked in and got a glimpse of the pile of meat on the buffet.

Me: Can I ask? I’m vegetarian. Is there anything I can eat here?
Waitress: (grimacing) Um… well, there’s the salad bar.
Me: OK. Do you know if there are any sit-down type places in town where I’d find something?
Waitress: (calling other waitress over) Do you know if Pizza Hut has a vegetable–
Me: Uh, I can’t eat Pizza Hut. Like, any regular restaurants?
Waitress: There’s CC’s. Or the Chinese place. No, that’s closed Mondays.
Me: And CC’s is, like, what kind of food?
Waitress: Oh, you know. You order off the menu.

I drove over to CC’s, and quickly realized it was the place where the locals hung out. Breakfast all day, sandwiches, liver and onions. The only things on the menu I could eat were a salad and cottage cheese and fruit. I ordered both. They had no light dressing. An old waitress leaned over the counter and raved about my hair color. The slutty-looking bleached-blonde chick in the corner was staring at me every time I looked up. I covered the table with my huge Montana map, AAA travel guide, and travel diary, and crammed fruit in my mouth while scribbling furiously: everyone here is either old or fat or both. awesome!

I was back on the road just as it was getting dark. The landscape in eastern Montana is beautiful, kind of scrubby and hilly, and completely desolate. I came over a rise and saw the most incredible sky I’d ever seen (OK, it’s goofy, but now I understand why it’s called ‘big sky country’. It’s completely true). There were low-hanging, dark clouds, and I could see rain off in the distance. The setting sun was vibrant fuchsia on the horizon, filtering through the rain. I saw huge lightning strikes off to the west. I hoped I wasn’t driving into a storm. By the time I got to Highway 2, it was raining a little, but not much. It was windy, with a sort of unsettled feeling in the air. I got out at a gas station to buy sunflower seeds (my new favorite roadtrip snack: 1) they’re low-calorie, 2) they’ve got lots of protein, 3) they come in many flavors, and 4) they keep you awake), and everyone inside was talking about how badly they needed rain.

I got back in the car and headed off along Highway 2. My plan for the night was to drive as far as I could, then pull off at a rest stop and sleep in the backseat. After a hundred miles or so, it became clear that there were no rest stops. In fact, there was nothing at all. No buildings, no signs, no crossroads that I could see, no lights. A car would pass me going the other direction every 15 or 20 minutes. If I could have seen well enough what was near the road, I would’ve been happy to just pull off and rest. But I couldn’t see anything, and was convinced if I did that, I’d wake up in the middle of a horror-movie scene. So I kept going.

Around midnight, I arrived at the town of Glasgow. There was one larger combination casino/motel, and four or five smaller motels. I was prepared to take anything, but all the little motels had ‘no vacancy’ signs out front. I turned around and went back to the Cottonwood Inn (don’t let ‘casino’ conjure images of Vegas or anything – this was essentially a Best Western with a cowboy theme and some slot machines off the lobby). I ran inside and asked the woman at the counter how much a single room was. She told me $63. I balked. She said, “You’re welcome to try the next town. It’s 70 miles down the road.” I took the room.

As I went back out to get my bags from the car, I was happy to have stopped. I had driven 770 miles, and had dealt with car trouble, too. The wind outside had picked up and was whipping garbage around the parking lot. I dashed inside and locked myself in my room. As I unpacked to take a shower, I suddenly became aware of the quiet. It was the first night of the first trip I’d ever taken by myself. I felt very alone.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

yo la tengo is the perfect music for western north dakota. it’s like the badlands, only grassier. half the exits say ‘no services’.

things what suck: not having anyone to talk to. no signal. not sharing the experiences. i’ll never be able to say, ‘remember what the sky looked like that first night in montana?’

good things: i can drive a ton on my own. super-nice and quirky people everywhere i go. the way the crappiest food tastes good when you’re on the road and hungry. dill-flavored sunflower seeds!

i miss heather a lot tonight.

– – – – –

On day two of my trip, I began what would be an ongoing contest with myself: to see how quickly I could get out of bed and on the road in the morning. The night before leaving a town, I would pack everything up (the little I had allowed myself to unpack in the first place; if I was just staying somewhere for one night, I didn’t even bring my suitcase in, I just dug clothes and underwear out and shoved them into my shoulder bag – and it’s funny the kind of fashion decisions one makes while rooting through the trunk in the dark at midnight), and everything else I needed to use in the morning would be laid out neatly and deposited back in my bag as soon as it was used. This orderliness was due to two factors: first, I am incredibly, ridiculously impatient. The faster I could get through the formalities of hair and clothes in the morning and get on the road, the better. Second, having everything in order was a way of maintaining sanity. As my friends know well, you can always tell my mental state by my surroundings.

Anyway, I was back on Highway 2 by 7am. I finally got a glimpse of all the nothingness I could only imagine the night before, and it was even less spectacular than I thought. Whereas eastern Montana was all hills and scenic vistas, central Montana is rolling grasslands as far as you can see. (Do you remember that scene in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert when they come up over a rise in the Winnebago and see the Outback laid out before them for miles and miles, going on forever? I had that exact same moment leaving the town of Glasgow.) At this point, I realized that I was relating whatever landscape I was seeing to something else I had seen before, e.g. ‘Central Montana is just like Colorado, only less arid.’ This developed into a game: ‘Kansas with a hint of southern Oklahoma.’ ‘Iowa without the Iowans.’ ‘If Pennsylvania and Missouri had a baby, only Kentucky was the real father, and he was abusive.’

I wondered what I was going to be like after a few more days spent alone. I started to worry.

Left: There’s a ton of road construction on Highway 2. It’s often down to one lane for traffic going both directions, so you have to sit and wait for the Pilot Car to lead you to safety. Right: Cut Bank, Montana, the coldest spot in the nation.

Another thing about Montana: you know those little markers you sometimes see on the side of the road where someone was killed in an accident? Generally a cross and flowers? (Speaking of which, the creepiest one we ever saw was on the Deep South Roadtrip: three crosses on the side of the interstate. One said ‘Jennifer’, one said ‘Jason’, and we didn’t catch the name on the last one. That’s probably for the best, because I’m sure it said ‘Heather’. Since we didn’t see it, we were safe.) In Montana, those crosses are an organized effort. Everywhere someone has died on the road, they put up a little white cross. Often, you see clusters of crosses. I saw way more dead people than living people on Highway 2.

Road Trip U.S.A. told me never to pass a gas station in Montana with less than a quarter-tank of gas, so I obeyed. I was stopping often to pee and get beverages, which is also a good way to stay awake when you’re driving in less-than-interesting territory. I reached Shelby around 10am and drove into town, having seen a billboard with the magic word on it: espresso. I found the little ice cream shop, and ended up with not only a really good iced latte, but a scoop of sugar-free raspberry gelato. I sat there and wrote postcards, then scribbled in my travel journal: i’ve been asked four times if i won this car on ‘the price is right’. I’ve had these license plates for a year and a half now, and no one has ever asked me that before. Bizarre.

I reached the St. Mary entrance on the east side of Glacier National Park at 2pm. According to a sign on the highway, I was 30 miles from the Canadian border, and Canada closes at 11pm. I was a little nervous about driving through the Rockies with my potential power steering issue, not to mention the fact that my brakes were in bad shape when I left home. I had been meaning to have our friend, Nathan, replace them, but hadn’t had the time. Also, I had never driven through the mountains before. Not mountains like these, at least.

I stopped quickly at the visitors center to get maps of the hiking trails. At the gate, I decided to spring for the $50 annual national parks pass, which ended up being worth the price. I drove a few miles into the park, then stopped and took a short, steep hike to see a waterfall.

On the way back up, I encountered a group of four Amish people, two men and two women. The men asked me about the hike. Why was I so amused to find Amish people hiking in our National Parks? I think it was the idea of the women sporting hiking boots under those heavy, impractical dresses.

I got back in the car and drove up and up, pulling off the road to take a million pictures. I reached Logan Pass, the continental divide, at 6600 feet elevation. The visitor center was mobbed. I followed the signs to the hiking trail, which led to an overlook point a mile and a half away. I got a few hundred feet up the path before noticing that it disappeared into a snow hill. I climbed over it and saw that the whole side of the mountain was covered in snow. The pathway peeked out in a few places. There were people all over the place, so I decided to climb up there anyway. I was worried about being cold in my tshirt and capris, but hardly anyone was wearing a jacket, and it was warm and sunny. In fact, it was so sunny that I had given in and put suntan lotion all over, even on my face, knowing that I was going to get zits because of it (skin cancer is worse than zits, apparently).

The snow was starting to melt a little in the sun, especially near the path. I quickly discovered that the best way to climb through it was to run in the looser stuff away from the path, rather than where it was hard-packed and slippery. So I kind of leapt and bounded my way up the hill, taking some pleasure in passing everyone, including the snowboarders. I jumped past a guy who gasped, “I can’t do this, I live at sea level!” I was unused to the altitude, so I was out of breath immediately, but didn’t feel tired at all. About two-thirds of the way up, there was a tiny, narrow trail along the edge of a steep hill. All of a sudden, I was terrified. I was wearing slippery running shoes. I have the worst balance ever. (No, really. I have trouble walking in a straight line. Something about the inner ear infections I had constantly as a kid.) Luckily, there was a long line of people creeping slowly along the edge, so I was forced to take my time. I tried not to think about the climb back down. By the time I got near the top, my shoes were soaked, and there was snow creeping down my ankles and into my socks. The ground was muddy, and we had to pick our way through streams by balancing on rocks. At the overlook, there was a crown of people lounging in the sun, eating protein bars and drinking gatorade. We took each other’s pictures and enjoyed the view. I tried hard not to think about how I was more likely to make it down the mountain inside a giant snowball than on my own feet.

I was starting the downhill trek when I heard a noise to my right. Just as I turned to look, a mountain goat went barreling past me. Then two more came down the hill, all of them making this loud bleating noise that sounded exactly like ‘mom!’ And they were actually yelling for their mom, who appeared on the other side of the slope, surrounded by hikers with cameras. Now, I’m the first to admit that I’m completely unprepared for any sort of wilderness adventure, because I find myself asking questions like, ‘Can mountain goats hurt me? Should I be standing this close?’ (I’m the same girl who’s impressed with the preparedness of the other snow-climbers just because they’re wearing hiking boots and carrying walking sticks.)

Once I got back to the snow-covered part of the hill, I discovered that it was easier to run downhill as well, as long as it wasn’t so steep that I couldn’t stop. The snow seemed about ten times more slippery, but I managed to stay on my feet. When I got back to the narrow trail, I stopped, scared to go any further. To whoever was listening, I said, “I’m really afraid of dying on this mountain right now.” The woman ahead of me turned and said, “SHHH!” Very slowly, we crept along the trail, teetering on the far edge whenever people had to pass going the other direction. A few times, I started to panic and had to just stop and stand there, up to my calves in snow. But I made it through, and ran the rest of the way down the hill. By the time I got to my car, my feet were numb from the cold, and I was starving.

I drove down the long descent from Logan Pass, noticing that my brakes were squealing. Another mountain goat wandered into the road and up to my car. I got an impromptu car wash at the Weeping Wall. I spent a few contemplative minutes on the stone beach at Lake McDonald. I stopped at the west entrance visitor center to write postcards, and I was on my way.

I got back on Highway 2 and started looking for a place to spend the night. I almost peed my pants with excitement when my cell service returned in Kalispell, Montana. I drove around to five or six hotels, running in to ask about their rates. Half of them were already booked up, and they were all ridiculously expensive. Exhausted and irritated, I dragged out my AAA guide and found a listing for the Glacier Gateway Motel. The woman behind the counter was the owner, and she obviously took a lot of pride in taking care of the rooms. It was perfect: a tiny little cubicle with a twin bed and shower stall, very clean, and $40. It might as well have been the Ritz, as happy as I was to be staying there. I dumped my stuff in the room, grabbed the local newspaper, and quickly found an ad for a restaurant with the other magic word: vegetarian. I ate dinner on the patio at the Knead Cafe, digging through a stack of travel brochures I’d picked up at the motel. On my way out, they give me a huge loaf of rosemary-tomato bread, because they had leftovers. I went back to the hotel happy, took a long shower, examined my hard-earned, glowing sunburn, and made a bunch of phone calls just for the sheer novelty of having a signal again. By 11pm, I was asleep.

I woke up at 7:30, having slept really hard in my little cubicle of a room. I drove around Kalispell, and stopped at a cute bread shop for coffee and a bagel. I would have shopped in town, but it was 8am and nothing was open (a trend I noticed along the way: the further west you go, the later people seem to get going in the morning). I got back on the road, heading towards Idaho. Western Montana is beautiful: hills, rivers, and pine forests. Except where they’re being chopped down, that is. I pulled off at a poorly-marked rest area that Road Trip USA said was a worthwile stop, and set off on the half-mile hike to the Kootenai River. (I’m aware of the stupidity of hiking alone in the middle of nowhere, by the way. It was a conscious decision.)

I walked up to the falls first, laid down on a huge, flat rock, and enjoyed the sun and the complete silence. Then I hiked the other direction, to the swinging bridge. On the way there, I started to feel a little bit fuzzy, and had to walk slower. By the time I got to the bridge, I was feeling like crap. My blood sugar had dropped, and I was tired, dizzy, and sick to my stomach. So I did the most logical thing, which was to cross the bridge. It bounced and swayed in the wind, which was fun for about 15 seconds, and then just made me sicker. I clung to the rope and took pictures to distract myself.

Then I wobbled back to the platform and sat down with my head against the railing. Part of me wished that someone would come along and reassure me that I was not going to die alone in the wilderness, but the other part of me realized that wasn’t a great idea, in case they decided I was in really bad shape and called for an ambulance. No insurance. I sat for about twenty minutes and convinced myself I was starting to feel better. I got up and started hiking back up the hill. I was shaky and having trouble seeing, but I pushed as hard as I could, knowing that adrenaline would help get me back to normal. By the time I got back to my car, I felt a little better, and resolved not to tell Heather, since she would yell at me for getting sick in the middle of nowhere.

I crossed into Idaho mid-morning, and the speed limit on Highway 2 dropped to 60mph. Everyone in Idaho drives a pickup truck and wears big mirrored sunglasses. Their license plates read, ‘Famous Potatoes’. Ha. I stopped in Sandpoint for lunch. It’s a cute little resort town that seems to be centered around a big Coldwater Creek store. I parked on the main street and wandered around, looking for lunch. I expected to have no trouble finding decent vegetarian food in that kind of town, but was quickly proven wrong. Half the restaurants were already closed for the 4th of July (does it make sense to shut down a resort town over a national holiday?), and the other half seemed to value meat pretty highly. I finally found a really cute Italian restaurant with good veggie lasagna and better espresso, and sat out on the patio and wrote postcards from Idaho.

At some point after lunch, I got to Washington. I had expected to go through Coeur d’Alene and join up with I-90, but I was wrong. I was on the outskirts of Spokane at a gas station before I realized that I had left Idaho, and was probably in the Pacific time zone. I drove into Spokane and called Heather. It was 3pm, and I had made better time than I had expected, so I figured if she could find me a cheap hotel in Seattle, I’d drive the rest of the way there and have an extra day in town. She called back with the address of the Hyatt Regency in Bellevue, a whole $35 a night on Priceline. (Have I mentioned yet that I love Priceline? I do. Despite Shatner, even.) I was thrilled.

I stopped to see Riverfront Park, mainly because Road Trip USA told me they had a giant Radio Flyer. It was indeed giant, and I was a little jealous of the kids climbing on it. Riverfront Park was nice, the kind of place I’d spend a lot of time walking around if I lived there, but Spokane in general was just kind of… um… exactly like you’d expect Spokane, Washington to be like, I guess. Lots of strip malls, kind of industrial. I was in a hurry to get to Seattle. Before I left Spokane, though, I took this very patriotic picture out my sunroof. It’s at a Perkins. Doesn’t it make you proud to be an American? Yeah. Me too.

I got on I-90 and set the cruise for a speed somewhere between legal and breaking the sound barrier. Then I got on the phone to kill time, as I still had 300 miles to go. (I know there are many, many of you who hate people like me for just that reason, but I’m not apologizing. I’m just as reckless off the phone as on it. In my defense, however: I’ve been driving for 15 years, and never been in an accident, or gotten a single speeding ticket. So shut up.) I was surprised at the terrain in Washington; I had expected all hills and pine trees, but the central part of the state is pretty flat and arid (Colorado with a splash of Oklahoma). I crossed the Columbia River, and stopped briefly at the overlook.

After crossing the river, it was pretty much all mountain pass the rest of the way. I had to turn off the air conditioning. I was sick to death of listening to the same dance CD over and over, but driving through mountains at 85mph takes full concentration, so I couldn’t change it. The mountains (Cascade? I should use the internet to verify this, but I’m lazy.) end about 20 miles outside Seattle. I switched to the radio and laughed really hard because the first song I heard on the rock station was by Alice in Chains. I found my hotel easily, parked underground, and hauled out my giant duffel bag. This was a novelty, as I’d been digging clothes out of it so far. The hotel was super nice, and I was on the 21st floor, one of the extra-swank rooms. I’m pretty sure I was the only non-Japanese tourist in the place. I set up my laptop and got my email, which was not as big a thrill as I expected; I’m pretty good with traveling sans internet. I was too tired to even think about going to find dinner, so I opted for room service: red lentil chili and tortilla chips (280 calories, the menu proudly informed me) and a Starbucks latte (more exciting than it probably should have been, but, you know. It’s Seattle. Starbucks from room service! It’s the right thing to do!)

While I was waiting for my food, I called Heather. She had moved into Daniel’s place, as far as I could tell, which made me feel better about leaving her at home alone. I called my mom to tell her I was alive, and both her and my dad got on the phone for the update. The parents are so cute. I called Ryan and made plans to meet for breakfast the next morning. I decided to see Seattle on the 3rd and then drive to Vancouver on the 4th because:

• Canadians don’t care about our holidays, so stuff would be open
• I could also go see Mount Rainier, which would probably also be open on the 4th
• Going to Canada to celebrate the 4th just seemed like the right thing to do.

I’m a planner. Also, I was really excited to see Seattle. I grimaced at myself in the mirror, realizing I looked like crap, took a shower, made a nest of the four pillows in my giant bed, and passed out.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

montana is all about cool road signs: ‘range cattle’, ‘rough break’ (what does that even mean?), ‘chain-up area’.

stopped at a dumb gift shop in troy (mt) and the woman behind the counter told me she had moved there from minneapolis 6 years ago. she said it was like stepping back in time. she couldn’t even get a cell phone, there’s no coverage there. she was so excited to talk to someone from home, i felt bad leaving after 20 minutes.

i fucking hate logging trucks. if i die on this trip, it’s going to be because of them.

idaho: i’m so glad to be back in the land of coffee. there’s even a starbucks here!

what time zone am i in???

my back and neck are killing me from my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel driving through the mountains.

jesus, i look terrible. dark circles under my eyes. messy hair. sunburnt nose. zits from putting suntan lotion on my face. i look really tired. and i smell. i am hardcore.

photos: my passenger seat. bug holocaust (montana).

– – – – –

I got up at 7am and headed into downtown Seattle. I was surprised to find myself in love almost instantly. I walked around the Pike Place Market just as the stands were starting to open. The fresh produce and flowers were incredible. I saw so much that we’d have to hunt down in specialty markets in Minneapolis.

I walked down to the universe’s very first Starbucks and got myself an iced coffee. They also hooked me up with the extra-special Starbucks card that can only be purchased at that very store. I went across the street and sat on a wall overlooking Puget Sound and wrote postcards. Ryan called to say he’d be there in half an hour. I wandered some more and shopped for cheesy souvenirs, and whereas Montana was completely lacking in tacky gifts, Seattle was the motherlode.

Ryan picked me up and we drove over to his neighborhood for breakfast. Afterwards, we stopped to see his apartment, and I reminded him that I had a picture of his bed on my website. We drove to the bluehouse (which is grey) to get a tour of their current projects for Burning Man. They were making three giant geodesic domes and a gyrosphere. The house was littered with plans, schematics, and models. The basement was a full-scale metal shop, medieval-looking and incredible. There were fiberglass pieces being constructed in the backyard. We stood around and talked to Ryan’s friends for a while. One of them gave me passes to his favorite club in Vancouver, and invited me to their 4th of July party. Another guy wandered up and said, “Hey, I heard you’re from Minneapolis. I went to Concordia!” He had graduated from college a year ago, went to Burning Man, met these guys, and decided to move to Seattle. They were awesome.

We drove over to Gasworks Park for a good view of the city. They were setting up for the 4th of July festivities, but seemed amenable to tourists barging in to take photos. Then Ryan took me to see the troll under the bridge (you can’t see it in the picture, but he’s holding a real VW Beetle in his left hand), and the statue of Lenin in Fremont.

I freaked when I saw that Seattle has a Scandinavian neighborhood. Just like home; there was even a lutefisk shop. We spent a long time shopping at Archie McPhee, where many more goofy souvenirs were to be found. Driving around, I got the impression that Seattle was all about coffee, good food, and the music scene. And not just that grunge crap, either.

Ryan dropped me off at Westlake Center, so I could take the monorail over to the Space Needle. On the way there, I got a good view of the Experience Music Project, which he was absolutely right about: it’s butt-ugly. I went up in the Space Needle, took photos of Seattle from every possible angle, exchanged picture-taking opportunities with other tourists, and then went to the gift shop. If I didn’t give you a little metal Space Needle replica, I’m very sorry. I bought one for everyone I could think of, so I guess I just don’t like you all that much.

I monorailed back to downtown, and walked back to Pike Place. On my way, I saw a million street performers and musicians (at least half of them mariachis), vendors selling tshirts and light-up jesus artwork and beaded necklaces, two protests, and a bunch of overly-smiley guys giving out gum samples. And that was in the space of two blocks. I found a Turkish restaurant and got a spinach-and-feta pie and Turkish coffee for lunch, and briefly considered just spending the rest of my trip in Seattle. Then I remembered California, and decided to press on.

After lunch, I wandered back through the market, because all the craft vendors were now open, and the place was packed. I went downstairs and found an awesome store selling old movie posters. I went back up and bought blackberries, prunes, and an apple as large as my head. Then I wandered past an ice-cream place and saw that they had sugar-free vanilla-fudge ice cream, and once again thought maybe I should stay in Seattle. I walked back to the car, eating my ice cream and smiling like an idiot.

It took me about 15 minutes in the Escher-esque ramp to locate my car. I got on I-5 and headed south. Traffic between Seattle and its lesser-understood sister city, Tacoma, was horrific. I exited at the marked route for Mount Rainier, and began to understand why, even though the map said it was only 110 miles, the travel guide told me it was a three-hour drive. I stopped and got gas and a car wash. As was the case during most of my trip, I had a frantically-compiled mental to-do list at every stop: get gas. get carwash. dump trash. buy water. buy pop. buy seeds. get cash. look at map. Sometimes, during particularly rushed moments, I would get flustered. I’d start to panic. It’s hard to keep everything straight when you’re used to having people around to remind you to do things. So, when I left the gas station, I left a little piece of myself behind. Or, to be more specific, a piece of my car: the gas cap.

I drove many isolated and winding roads to get to Mount Rainier. It’s monstrous; you can see it all the way from Seattle. I took the road to Sunrise Lodge, which was super-narrow and winding, way more than anything I had driven in Glacier, but there was hardly any traffic. I got near the top to Sunrise Point, and stopped at the overlook. I jumped out of the car and, impatient as always, decided to hop over the wall rather than walk the extra 50 feet to the crosswalk. I stepped up, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on the other side of the wall. It was almost like waking up and not knowing where you’ve been. I scrambled to my feet, shaky and dizzy. My left hand was scraped and already starting to bruise, and I had bumped my left hip (the one without the injury, of course). The altitude affected me way more than I had expected. There was going to be no hiking for me that day.

I drove the rest of the way up to the lodge, stopped at the store, and looked at the huge selection of trail mix and protein bars, finally understanding why they were such a big deal up there on in the mountains. I was still feeling sore and wobbly, so I just took a few pictures, went to the bathroom, and got back in the car to head back to Seattle. The drive down sucked, but I had figured out effective downshifting, which also helped minimize the noise my brakes were making: at this point, the squealing was hard to ignore.

I took a different, equally-slow route back to Seattle. An angry biker gave me the finger for some reason I was unsure of. Perhaps he knew about my lack of gas cap? Even I was unaware at that point, until a short while later, when my car made its happy ‘ping’ noise and popped up a message on the display: TIGHTEN FUEL FILLER CAP. I flashed back to the gas station, replaying the getting-gas-getting-carwash episode, and realized the scene where I put the gas cap back on and closed the little door was missing. Replayed it again, still missing. Again. Missing.

Dammit.

I decided to find dinner in Capitol Hill. I parked and wandered down Broadway Avenue, peering in the cute shops and stopping to examine every restaurant’s menu. A few blocks down, I found Julia’s, which was the same place we had breakfast, but a different location. I was happy with their vegetarian breakfast options, so it was decided. The food was great, but it was so dark that I had to hunch over my tiny little bar table and squint to see what I was scribbling in my journal. This trip had not been great for my posture.

After dinner, I walked back down Broadway. Ryan had told me that Seattle had lots of cute little neighborhoods, but you would cross the street from one and find yourself in a really seedy area. That was exactly the case when I crossed Olive Street. All of a sudden, there were street people everywhere. I saw a guy in a wheelchair and a guy covered with huge, open lesions rolling a joint. I dashed into a dirty convenience store to buy… um, never mind. I went to my car and drove back to my swanky hotel, where I carefully reconstructed my pillow nest before collapsing into it.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

how long can you go without a gas cap?? i have no idea.

– – – – –

I left the hotel about 8am and headed north, coffee in hand. The drive was uneventful and slow, due to the high concentration of Washington state troopers out celebrating the holiday in the best way they knew how: penalizing drivers. I pulled off at the last exit before Canada to get gas, then went into the store to ask for the bathroom key. The guy behind the counter stared at me in confusion for a long time, then turned to ask the woman who had just walked in. I wondered what he was doing at the register, since he obviously didn’t work there. The woman pointed at the key hanging on a post. I grabbed it and ran behind the building. It didn’t work in the lock, and when I looked at it, I realized it was for the men’s room.

Just then, a busload of Japanese tourists was unloading in the parking lot, and lines were forming at by the bathrooms. I went over and opened the door to the men’s room, and turned to smile at the group of men, who were exclaiming in dismay. On the way out, I handed the key to the first guy in line, who was clearly upset.

I tried to get back on the highway, but there was no northbound entrance. I had to drive south for five miles, then turn around. Note to self: don’t leave the interstate if you have time goals in mind. I got to the border around 10:30am, and waited in line. There’s a big park there, where people get out of their cars and wander around, celebrating international peace and understanding, or something.

It took about 20 minutes to get across the border. The woman in the booth asked rapidfire questions: Where was I from? (I answered, ‘Minnesota’, which struck me as strange, since I always say ‘Minneapolis’.) Was I meeting anyone in Canada? Why was I visiting? What did I do ‘there in Minnesota’? Did I have any guns or weapons, eh? I stopped at the visitor center just inside the border and got brochures and huge postcards of the Canadian flag. At the information desk, I talked to the Friendliest Woman Alive^TM, and tried not to giggle at her accent. I headed off towards Vancouver, which was 30 miles from the border. Since I am very easily amused, I was excited to be driving 100km/h. You may not know it, but the metric system is funny. Almost, but not quite, as funny as Canadians.

I make the mistake of following the signs pointing to downtown Vancouver and end up in local traffic for an hour. Vancouver has a huge Asian population, and the downtown looks more Japanese than western. There’s every kind of Asian food imaginable. I was hungry and in need of non-Starbucks coffee (the bluehouse guys had informed me that Vancouver had the best coffee in the universe). I finally found parking and wandered into Gastown. It’s the old part of the city, all cobblestones and restored storefronts. Too touristy, though; most of the shops are selling everything you could ever want, as long as what you want is emblazoned with a maple leaf.

I stopped at the Luna Cafe for a veggie sandwich and coffee. I peered at my friendly Canadian map, and decided to go see Chinatown. Within about five blocks, I crossed from cute, touristy area to crappy, dirty area with used condoms in the gutter, to Chinatown. It was not as exciting as I had expected, for a city with such a large Asian population; I was hoping for something on the order of New York. I decided to stop and see the the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden, which came highly recommended by my friendly Canada brochure.

The gardens were beautiful, and it was the perfect day outside. The gift shop was even more perfect, and I bought a ton of souvenirs. I walked from Chinatown over to Harbour Center to go up to the lookout. It’s just like the Space Needle, only indoors, and Canadian.

I went up and peered at Vancouver from above. It’s a big city. It’s proud to be hosting the Olympics. There were cruise ships in the harbor, probably destined for Alaska. There was a floating Chevron station. I was pretty sure I was the only person in the lookout tower who spoke English, which was kind of cool. Apart from the super-nice girls at the coffee bar. I was starting to sense a trend: everyone there was incredibly nice. Like, too nice. But when you passed them on the street, they didn’t even make eye contact. Coming from what I figured was the least-outgoing place on earth, this was a surprise. People more reticent than Minnesotans? It was hard to believe.

I walked up Granville Street to Robson, and wandered around the swanky shopping area. There were great little boutiques, and good fashion. There’s a huge nouveau-punk scene in Vancouver. Also, people were dressed up to shop, which was a big surprise after the ultracasualness of Seattle (where they still take ‘grunge’ literally). There were a few places on my trip where I felt completely, glaringly out-of-place, and Vancouver was one of them. I cringed when I saw a group of American tourists walking around with flag tshirts on. I walked back to my car and drove over to Stanley Park, which was across the harbor from downtown. I took pictures and giggled at the lawn bowling club. Then I drove across the bridge into Kitsitano Beach, aka ‘Kits’, the trendy shopping/dining area. I was following my friendly Canadian restaurant guide to a vegetarian place called The Naam. I got the special, pea and paneer curry with mango chutney, and a protein shake. At that moment, I was pretty damn happy with Canada.

Back in the car post-dinner, I finally acknowledged that my brakes were completely shot, and in need of replacing. Not only was my car a safety hazard, it had become an embarrassment, squealing loudly every time I slowed down. I resolved to call the Saab dealership in Bellevue the next morning, and get the brakes done before I headed to Portland, even though I was worried that they’d tell me the entire car was about to fall apart, and needed 100% replacement. But I knew it had to be done. By 7pm, I was waiting in line to get back into America. The line was longer to return, and moved slower. My car was a perpetual noise machine, even though I tried really, really hard to ignore it.

I saw several people walking across the border. At first, I thought they were just going to pre-check their stuff through customs, but then I realized they were actually walking across. To where? There’s nothing on the other side. Just a whole lot of empty Washington. Very strange.

There was a guy walking up and down the line of cars with an ice cream cart. I was bored to death waiting, so I sat and messaged Heather, which was probably costing a ton. I propped my journal up on the steering wheel and wrote, slowly squealing my way towards the US. Finally, I got to the crossing. The guard asked me a few questions and peered at my license. He ended with, “Got any meat? Transporting mad cow disease or anything?” I replied, “I’m vegetarian!” He let me go. I drove like hell back to Seattle, getting back to my hotel just as I started to see fireworks on the horizon. I decided to skip the party at the bluehouse, since I was exhausted. I went up to my room, opened the curtains, and sat with my feet up on the windowsill, calling the parents while watching fireworks. They were going off in a hundred different locations along the mountains in the horizon. After I got off the phone, I started hearing huge explosions nearby, and seeing flashing from behind the building. I pulled on my jeans, grabbed my key, and went out into the hall, barefoot and braless (if I were to publish this as a book, I’d call it ‘Braless in Seattle’). At the end of the hall, there was a Japanese tourist couple and another guy who gave me his spot so he could go upstairs to watch. They were shooting fireworks from the roof of the mall across the street. It was incredible; I’d never seen fireworks up that close, or the actual process of firing them. The show went on for a long time, rattling windows and setting off car alarms. After a while, the couple went back to their room and I was left alone. I sat and pressed my back against the glass so I could feel the explosions. I could still see a bunch of other displays off in the distance, including Lake Washington and Puget Sound. They all seemed to reach their finales at once, so I got to witness this huge fireworks orgy over Seattle. It was kind of amazing.

I went back to my room, packed quickly, looked up the number for Saab, and went to sleep.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i’ve seen two celine dion lookalikes so far.

what’s with the blinking green semaphore?? so confused.

hey, canadians seem to be proud of their country, too. weird.

i like how they can slap a maple leaf on anything and make it canadian. sears! only canadian! ha.

did i get sunburnt today? my neck hurts. is it that obvious i’m american? apart from my accent?

ok, server boy is super cute and making much eye contact. he makes up for the other shy canadians. i’m going to leave him the rest of my canadian cash and head back to my country, which is busy celebrating itself today.

on the street downtown today, i heard someone behind me yelling my name. i almost turned and looked, then realized that no one could possibly know me here. it was such a strange sensation, knowing that i was 2000 miles from home, and absolutely anonymous. it made me sad to be so alone in a city in another country, for god’s sake.

heather just messaged that barry white died. holy shit, i’m never leaving america again if this is what happens. wait, shouldn’t those flags be at half-mast?

i almost freaked leaving vancouver when i saw a sign reading ‘seattle: 222’. then i realized that was km. ha. i’m bad with converting the metric. i bought a tshirt for $22 canadian. what’s that, like $15? when i bought postcards at the visitor center, i gave her $10 us and got $10+ canadian in change.

seattle radio, which comes in in vancouver as well: nirvana (1), alice in chains (2). stuck in the 90s.

man, it’s cool that there’s a turnaround in case you change your mind and decide to return to canada. i’m not. i’ve had enough ‘aboot’ for one day.

– – – – –

I woke up at 7am to the sound of Creed. I heard three Creed songs in a row on the radio, or at least it seemed like it, and that was enough to scare me out of bed. I got dressed and tried to call Saab at 8am, but their message told me they opened at 9. The website had lied to me, and I wasn’t happy about it. Impatient, I decided to wait until San Francisco to take the car in. I rushed to check out and get on the road. The route to the 405 was under construction, and there were weird detours all over the place. The traffic lights weren’t working, and I realized that much of the power was out in the area because of the fireworks the night before. I finally found the entrance ramp, which was all torn up from the road work. I turned, heard a loud bang, and felt the front tire go flat.

At that point, I paused to consider my options. Ritual suicide was topping the list. If I had been driving in the mountains right then, I would have simply driven off a ledge, ending both my and the car’s misery. But such was not the case; I was in Bellevue, Washington, and I wasn’t even in a position to be able to drive home. So I went into disaster mode, employing one of the tactics at which I excel: not thinking. Just doing.

I pulled into the parking lot of a hotel across the street, popped the trunk, and unloaded everything into the back seat. I had to jump on the tire iron to get the bolts to loosen, and it took forever to jack the car up. Then I couldn’t get the wheel off the hub. We had had this problem before, and two girls and two state troopers were unable to budge it; it finally took a mechanic. I was pissed. I yanked and tugged and pushed and swore. I sat down on the ground and yanked some more, but it wouldn’t move. I was covered in dirt and grease. I got out my cellphone to call AAA, knowing I’d be waiting at least half an hour for the tow truck, and angry at myself for not being self-sufficient. I dialed the number, then hung up right away. I sat back down, leaned back on my hands, and kicked the hell out of the tire, over and over, with my heels. It was great stress relief, and finally, I felt it budge. I kicked some more until it was wobbling, and then I pulled it off and put on the spare.

I drove around to the front of the hotel and went into the lobby, sweaty and covered in dirt. I asked to borrow their phonebook, and looked up the address of Barrier Saab. I handed the girl back the phonebook, covered in dirty fingerprints, and ran out. It took me 15 minutes to find the place. When I got there, a salesguy came out and told me that it was now a Porsche dealership, and gave me directions to Saab. By the time I got there, the service department had just opened. I pulled in and told the guy that it was possibly the worst day of my life, and then ran down the whole drama for him. He struck me as kind of car-salesman-slimy, so I was immediately nervous. He looked at my tire and brakes and said, “Well, you’ve got some money to spend here.” I was freaked. I had to wait while he helped some other people who were there first. I was getting more and more upset by the minute. I went to the bathroom and scrubbed the grime off my hands, then stood around. I stared at my car and started crying. I was convinced it was going to cost a ton of money to fix, and I was going to have to turn right around and drive home.

He looked at the car again and said he’d try to find some used tires for me, so it wouldn’t be quite as expensive. He had the car brought into the garage so they could let me know what the brakes would cost. I called Heather and sobbed while the Audi salesmen stood nearby, politely pretending not to notice. The really nice girl at the front desk got me coffee. After ten minutes or so, the guy came and got me to show me the car. First, he pointed out a set of almost-new tires they had taken off another car and were unable to resell, so they were giving them to me for free. He and the technician both seemed really happy about their find. He said that the front pads and rotors were shot, which I had assumed. The total cost would be $560. He apologized that it probably wouldn’t be ready until noon. I was so happy, I wanted to hug them both.

He pointed me in the direction of breakfast, and I headed off. I walked all over looking for a place to eat. It was all fast food, IHOP, and Denny’s. I stopped at Starbucks, got coffee, and asked about food. I finally settled on Coco’s Bakery – total Baker’s Square action, but I could sit for a while and write, and hopefully find something vegetarian. Wrong! OK, the only thing I could eat on the breakfast-only menu was the oatmeal. I ordered it without brown sugar, cinnamon apples (they had sugar on them), or milk, which left me with raisins. I added a couple packets of Equal, and it was exactly the kind of comfort food I was craving, anyway. I sat there and watched the dynamics of the staff. All the servers disliked the manager in an extreme way. In fact, I overheard one of them whispering to another, God, I hate him! He walked by my table and was angry that there were two glasses of water sitting there, when there was only one of me. I was happy that my life was not so petty.

I still had time to kill, so I went over to Starbucks, got coffee, and had a long talk with the barista about car repair and road trips. I sat outside and called Heidi to tell her I’d be getting into Portland later than I expected. We made plans to meet for dinner. Then I decided to head back to Saab. On the way there, I walked past two people with sandwich boards advertising a mattress place. The woman (Marilyn) smiled as I walked past and said, “Pretty hair!” The guy said hi and asked me how I was. I was instantly happy. Sometimes, people surprise me.

As I got back, they were just finishing up with my car. They had checked all the fluids and hoses for me, too, since I had mentioned my power steering issue. Everything checked out fine. I paid, thanked him about ten times for the tires, and I was once again on my way.

The traffic leaving Seattle sucked. It was 150 miles to Portland, which took just under 3 hours. I drove into downtown with no idea about where I was going. At a stoplight, a car pulled up next to me and the girl in the passenger seat yelled, “Did you win your car on the Price is Right?” I parked and called Heidi to find out where we were meeting. She told me to find the Starbucks at Pioneer Courthouse Square, otherwise known as ‘Portland’s living room’. I had driven by it, so I found it easily, and sat down on the steps to write and look at the map. The farther I was getting into my trip, the less I had planned. Before I left, I had researched North Dakota and Montana, but that was about it. I figured I’d have time to read the travel guides as I went. That was proving incorrect, as I barely even had time to think. By the time I was getting back to my hotels at night, it was all I could do to stay awake long enough to shower.

The weather was perfect in Portland, sunny and cool. I sat there and watched the people in the square. The presence of hackeysack players was the biggest indicator that I was in the Pacific Northwest. I considered walking down to the riverfront while I waited, but forced myself to be patient for once, and just sit.

At 3:45, I wandered over to Starbucks, got coffee, and sat out in front to wait for Heidi and her husband, Dan. We were going to meet and wander around Portland, then get dinner. They arrived shortly thereafter, and we set off towards the open-air market. Feeling slightly out-of-touch with people who knew me, I’m pretty sure I was jabbering constantly. At the market, I saw more tie-dye than I’d ever seen in my life, lots of cool crafts, state-fair-esque food, and some really awesome tattoos and piercings. After that, we walked up to Powell’s. It’s no joke, it’s the IKEA of used books. It looks so small and unassuming on the outside, but inside you can’t get around without a map. Incredible. It was funny, we hadn’t been together that long, but I felt like we had already talked a ton. Heidi and Dan are such a great couple: they have all the inside jokes and goofiness just like me and Heather, so I was instantly comfortable. We walked to their car and drove to a nice little Mexican place for dinner. I was so hungry, I ate a bunch of chips, then ordered a black bean tamale and ate it all. I drank a ton of pop and had to go pee twice. The second time I went to the bathroom, I had one of those moments of total disorientation: what day is it? where the hell am i? I could’ve walked out of the restroom and not been surprised to find myself anywhere.

We drove back into town, past the jazz festival on the waterfront. They dropped me off at my car, and I thanked them for dinner and a great time. It was so nice to hang out with people I knew, even if technically I hadn’t met them before.

I got on I-5 and headed south, having decided to go as far as I could that night, hopefully all the way to California. I called Ryan. I called Heather and gabbed for an hour. I called my parents. I was out of it and overfull from dinner, already tired from driving. I considered driving over to the coast to see the sunset, but it was 9pm by the time I got to Eugene, and it would have been another 60 miles to the coast from there. I still hadn’t seen the Pacific Ocean, but I decided to wait until I got to California. I drove around Eugene, looking for coffee and/or food to keep me awake. I found a Starbucks, but it had closed at 9pm. What the hell? Eugene was an odd little town in general. Everyone was on bikes. I couldn’t find the downtown. I drove around for a long time, then gave up and stopped at a crappy little grocery. No protein bars, no Red Bull. I got two bottles of pop, a banana, and a bag of pretzels: $4.14. Awesome.

Worn out, I got back on the interstate. There were no lights and my contacts were dry, so I was having trouble seeing. I decided I needed to stop and find a shower and bed. At midnight, I exited at Roseburg, Oregon, and pulled into the Econolodge, because their billboard said $39 a night. The two guys behind the counter were punchy and giggling.

Me: Do you have a single room? For $39?
Oregon Boy #1: Sure. Just fill out this form.
Oregon Boy #2: Dude. You’re not supposed to just give out that rate.
Oregon Boy #1: Dude! It’s midnight! She’s tired!
Me: This form is confusing me.

I put my head down on the counter, unable to figure out the difference between ‘driver’s license’ and ‘car license’. Oregon Boy #2 continued their previous conversation as Oregon Boy #1 ran my credit card. #2 made some joke about redheads.

Me: Hey!
Oregon Boy #1: Dude! She’s a redhead. But she’s OK, it’s obviously dyed.
Me: You’re not supposed to point that out.

He gave me the key and I was halfway through the lobby before I stopped, confused. I turned and asked, “Don’t you want me to pay or anything?” Oregon Boy #1 waved the credit card receipt at me and said, “You are tired. Go to bed!”

I ran up to my room, took the fastest shower ever, ripped the beds apart and made my pillow nest, stared at the road atlas long enough to decide I was taking the 101 down the California coast, and fell into bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

portland cop to a kid in the square: “no, i haven’t reloaded since last parade day.”

i can’t wait to get the hell out of oregon. eugene freaked my shit out.

– – – – –

I got up at 6:15 and practically ran out of the Econolodge. Oregon Boy #1 was still at the front desk when I checked out. I said, “Hey! You’re still here.” He said, “Hey! So are you.” I replied, “Not for long!” He told the whole red-hair story to the girl at the counter. They directed me to a drive-up coffee cabana, where I scored a triple-shot americano for $1.50. Shit is cheap in Oregon, my friends.

I got back on the 5 and headed south to Highway 199, which cuts across to the coast. 60 miles later, I found myself in California. Never having been before, it was a big moment for me. Some guy in a truck with Oregon plates seemed to think he was off on the trip of a lifetime, but I had him beat. I was hoping for the California border produce shakedown, but I guess they only do that on the interstate. I was a little disappointed, but pressed on.

I drove through Redwoods National Forest, which was beautiful. I was really glad to have a sunroof. Furthermore, I was extra glad I had had the brakes done in Seattle, because I would have been miserable driving through the hills to the coast. As I got nearer, I started to notice weird clouds in the sky to the west. It took me forever to realize that it was the mist from the ocean. I had never seen anything like it before.

I arrived in Crescent City around 11am, and got my very first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. It was less spectacular than I expected; not that it was the ocean’s fault, but it was about 50 degrees and overcast, and Crescent City seemed deserted. I walked out on the pier, took photos, and talked to some kids who were netting crabs.

I got back in the car and headed south, finally on the 101. It was a little disconcerting to see mile markers in the 900s, and realizing I was probably going to be driving every one of those miles. The fog was incredible. It hung over the road, and occasionally the sun filtered through and made rainbows. I wished it was sunny, because I wanted to stop and sit on the beach, but the cool weather was a nice change. I stopped a ways down the road at a black-sand beach and got out to see the ocean. The beach was covered in driftwood, oysters, and crab shells. I climbed amongst the rocks, looking at the seaweed and above-water anemonies. The rocks were slippery, and I decided to leave before breaking my bones.

I drove past Trees of Mystery and saw the statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Until recently, I wasn’t aware that Paul Bunyan was a big deal anywhere outside Minnesota. It made me a little homesick. Then I saw some elk, and many, many redwood trees. At that point, I was 280 miles north of San Francisco, and wasn’t planning on getting there until the next day. That meant I could take my time along the coast.

Based on advice from Road Trip USA, I stopped in Arcata for lunch. The book said the Utne Reader (also a Minnesota original) described it as ‘the most progressive tiny town in the US.’ It was really cute, with a town square surrounded by little shops and restaurants, and totally hippie; all the girls were wearing peasant shirts and sarongs, with their long hair up in ponytails, and the guys had dreads and wore cutoff shorts. Also, almost everyone I saw was college-age. I felt old.

I stopped at the Big Blue Cafe and ate a tofu burger. While I was sitting there drinking my cappuccino, a couple of college kids came in for lunch. They turned down the first table they were offered because it had bad feng shui. The second table was acceptable. I half-listened to their conversation as I wrote. The boy was babbling about Echelon, which I found interesting because I thought that kind of government-conspiracy paranoia was exclusive to the right wing. He went on and on until my hands started to twitch, wanting to wrap themselves around his throat. The conversation eventually drifted to living in Arcata. The girl said she liked living there now, but wouldn’t want to raise kids there, because they’d end up as drug dealers. The boy said, “Well, that would be OK, as long as it wasn’t crack or heroin or meth or something.” At that point, I knew I had to leave, or I’d soon be overturning tables in a rage.

I wandered around town for a bit, getting a really weird vibe. There were a bunch of drunk guys laying on the sidewalk outside a bar, and in the town square. I went into a cute glass shop and talked to the guy there for a long time about the weather in northern California, and the possibility of tsunamis, which I somehow found really amusing. He seemed starved for human contact. I stopped at the natural foods store and stocked up on protein bars and produce. Then I drove to Eureka, which was a super-cute, artsy little town. I got coffee at the bakery and shopped at a few galleries. Once again, the place was almost deserted. One of the women working there said that you could never predict when it would be crowded. It was kind of cold and overcast, but it was still a holiday weekend. I stopped and talked to all the people working in the stores, and everyone was really friendly. One girl I met said that it was hardly ever sunny there, but you could go 15 miles inland and it would be 100 degrees.

I went into a shop (OBJX) that I could have spent hours and all my money in. It was like a museum, with bizarre junk from everywhere. My favorites were brooches made of ear bones, bingo cards from a mental hospital, and the hundreds of glass slides from medical schools and colleges. I bought three slides of patients with facial deformities to bring to Jay. They totally creeped me out.

I got back on the 101, then exited at Ferndale. It’s the kind of town my mom would love: all victorians. The cemetery was amazing; it reminded me of New Orleans. It wasn’t a port like the towns north of there – at least, there was no huge waterfront. Lots of beef and dairy farms. A lot like Wisconsin, actually.

I was a little tired of driving, and considered whether to take the 101 (faster), or Highway 1, where it began further south. I figured if it stayed foggy and cold, I’d stick to the 101. All of a sudden, it was sunny and beautiful, and my decision was made. I must have been far enough inland, because it went from 60 to 80 degrees. I opened the sunroof and windows, even though I was going 70. It was so perfect. I exited at the famed Avenue of the Giants, a 35-mile route that parallels the 101 through the redwood forest. I stopped and saw the Immortal Tree with a bunch of Japanese and Indian tourists. It probably goes without saying, but I love that there’s this entire route devoted to giant trees. It’s kind of amusing. I mean, people like giant things. Biggie fries, SUVs, redwoods. Put them all together, and you’ve got yourself a party. Unfortunately, this time it was just me and the trees. I drove on, and finally, I stopped for the big event: the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I pulled up to the booth and the little old man inside asked, “Just one?” I said, “Yep, just me for the drive-thru tree today!” He laughed and asked where I was from, and commented that I was far from home. I considered telling him that I had driven all that way just to drive through his tree, but I couldn’t lie to a cute old man in a booth. He gave me a coupon for a FREE postcard at the gift shop. $1.50 for the drive-thru tree and a free postcard. How could I go wrong?

I sat and waited for the dumb woman with 15,000 kids in an SUV (and probably some biggie fries) to nudge her way into the tree in her gigantic vehicle. It was 7’x7′ clearance, and she barely made it. They had to fold in the mirrors and everything. It took forever. Finally, it was my turn. Chico fit easily, of course. I took a picture looking up out the sunroof through the hollow tree, then pulled up so I had enough room to get out and take a photo of the car inside the tree. I was pretty damn happy with myself, and thankfully no one was watching.

I went into the gift shop to claim my FREE postcard. There were two old women sitting in there. One of them said, “Girl, you got such purty hair!” I thanked her and ran away as fast as I could. This wasn’t the first evidence I had that northern California was actually part of the South.

I got back on the 101, laughing to myself. I decided that I was indeed going to take the 1, because it was beautiful outside. I exited and immediately, it became a tiny, twisting mountain road. At that point, I was positive that blowing a tire was a message from the god I don’t believe in to get the brakes done right away. I would have hated myself otherwise. There was no way I’d have made it to San Francisco, or at least I’d have had to stick to the interstate, and missed the whole coast.

Highway 1 wound up and down for 40+ miles. I had to keep putting on and taking off my sunglasses; one moment, I was blinded by the sun, the next it was dark from the overhanging trees. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in 20 minutes. I had to use 2nd gear most of the way down. With all the sharp turns, it was like slaloming, which was fun for a while, but quickly started to wear me out. With all the mountain driving, my arms and shoulders were killing me.

Half an hour later, I drove up another big hill and came around a curve that finally had no trees. The sun was glaring. I got to the top and started to round the curve, and my jaw dropped. It was the Pacific Ocean – the rocky, rugged coastline I kept hearing about but didn’t really believe existed. The water was perfectly blue. I pulled off at the overlook and started crying. I couldn’t believe how incredible it was. It was perfect.

I took about a million pictures at six overlooks. I thought about stopping at the beach, but it was getting late. The road began to straighten out at various points along the coast, so I drove as fast as I could, feeling my stomach drop as I went speeding up and down hills. I was the only one on the road for miles. I drove through Fort Bragg, then decided to stop in Mendocino for dinner around 8pm. It was a cute, tiny little town (Road Trip USA told me it was the idyllic scene for many movies and TV shows, including ‘Murder, She Wrote’). I decided against trying to get into Cafe Beaujolais dressed the way I was, so I picked a place next door: the creatively-named 955 Ukiah Street Restaurant. The servers there were kind of snooty, but nice. They put me upstairs in the very back corner. I ordered a salad and cappuccino, and got out my notebook. A short while later, they seated a couple of women at the table right next to me, even though the upstairs was almost completely empty. The next time the server came back, they quietly asked to be moved. I laughed. Was it me? I hoped so.

I still had no idea where I was spending the night. Based on my book, I was hoping to reach Gualala, because it was one of the few places along the coast with relatively inexpensive lodging. I was amazed at how remote some of the coast was. The towns were few and far between, and the fact that I could drive 40mph at the most on Highway 1 made everything seem even farther apart.

It was getting dark by the time I left Mendocino, and Gualala was seeming really far away. I had gotten used to the fact that it was light until after 10pm in the Pacific Northwest. The fog made it seem a lot darker, too, and I was feeling like I was really out in the middle of nowhere, completely alone. I drove and drove, looking for a motel. Finding nothing for miles, I decided to just camp in my car, because there were numerous state-run campsites all along the beaches. So then, my goal became to find a payphone so I could call home and reassure them that I was alive. I had been out of contact for over 24 hours, and the last anyone knew, I was in Portland. Also, I had forgotten the two-hour time difference, which made it after 11:30 in Minneapolis.

I finally arrived in Elk, California. It struck me as a nice coincidence, as I had just read an article in a travel magazine at my mom’s house about this tiny little town called Elk that no one knew about, but which was worth the trip. It was about 10 buildings in total, and even though there were cars and lights at the resort, it seemed deserted. Not even a gas station. I ran into the post office, looking for a phone. Finally, I saw the glowing green PacBell phonebooth at the side of the road, looking ominous. I rushed to call Heather. She yelled at me that mom my was in a panic, and wanted to call the highway patrol. I have to admit I loved the idea of Eric Estrada coming to my rescue, but she wasn’t so amused. I was in a hurry to find somewhere to sleep, and it was getting later and later. She agreed to call my mom, and I ran back to the car. A hitchhiker carrying more than his own weight in packs came staggering up just as I started the engine, and scared the hell out of me. My car went screeching back onto the highway.

I headed south again and finally saw a camping sign about 10 miles down the road. I couldn’t find the state beach, but there was a KOA. I pulled in ten minutes before the office closed. The woman at the counter was super nice, like a mom. She put me in a campsite near the bathroom, and told me that she’d let the security guard know I was there, so he could keep an eye out for me. Not that they ever had any problems, but I was a woman on my own, sleeping in my car. I found my site, parked, and hauled my sleeping bag and blankets out of the trunk, setting up a semblance of a bed in the backseat. I ran to the bathroom and washed up. The restrooms there were way nicer than I expected: private, and really clean. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have showered.

Sleeping in the car wasn’t as bad as I expected. It would have been pretty comfortable if I hadn’t been so sore from mountain driving and falling down. I had the sleeping bag on the seat, my big pillow against the door, and three blankets. I woke up and flipped around a lot, but otherwise I slept well, and I knew that the next night I’d get to sleep in a real bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i’m dressed like crap and i look like i’ve been beat up, but i totally fit in here anyway.

there’s no cell phone reception up here. isolated in california? go figure.

omg. he just said, ‘the way of the tao’. why do i hate them so very very much? and why do they serve so much meat here?

is it weird to have all this redwood stuff for sale in the redwood forest? i mean, aren’t we celebrating the majesty of the living trees?

holy shit, gas is expensive in california.

further evidence that norcal is part of the south: i’ve had no signal all day. i’m within 150 miles of sf! wtf?? i feel like i’m in montana. although i suspect calling people and raving about how unbelievable the ocean is might be unpopular anyway. man, i’m totally going to have to find a payphone.

– – – – –

I woke up at 6am, feeling a little stiff. I got dressed, which consisted of putting on my shoes; I was going to arrive in San Francisco wrinkled and smelly, and didn’t really care. I went to the bathroom and put on my bra and contacts, shifted my hair around halfheartedly, and was on the road by 6:30. I ate a protein bar and drank a Red Bull (the poor man’s meth) and was wide awake. It was cold, in the 50s and foggy. I drove south, looking for somewhere to have breakfast by the beach. The roads were deserted until after 7am. It was still all tiny, winding highway, cattle farms, run-down houses, resorts, state beaches, and road construction. I was within 120 miles of San Francisco and might as well have been in Iowa.

The sun came out around 9am, as I arrived in Bodega Bay. I came across The Wharf, which got my business because it had the word ‘breakfast’ out front; everything else I had encountered up to that point had been closed. I had oatmeal, which I ate very slowly while I wrote postcards and in my journal. I almost peed my pants with excitement when I realized my cell signal had returned. There were a bunch of messages from home from the day before when they were considering sending out a search party. I messaged Heather, and decided to drive to the beach to hang out for a while and make some phone calls.

I went to the post office to drop off a huge bundle of postcards, then stopped at the espresso shop. The surfer dude running the place said that the beach north of town was the best in the area, but the currents were really dangerous. Even if I had wanted to swim, it was still too cold and windy. The beach was the southernmost of the Sonoma Coast state beaches, and it was incredible. I had the whole place to myself for a little over half an hour. I laid out my blanket, took off my shoes, and walked along the ocean. Then I sat down, grabbed my phone, and realized I was once again without a signal. So I wrote some more, then just sat and stared at the ocean. I looked down and noticed that I was writing with a pen from the Glacier Gateway Motel in Kalispell, Montana. It seemed so long ago.

Finally, I got up and decided to head back into town so I could call home. Before I did that, though, I felt like I had to get my life back in order. I opened the trunk and all the car doors. I dragged the entire contents of my vehicle into the parking lot, then set out to reorganize. I rolled up my sleeping bag and folded blankets. I emptied souvenirs from their bags and consolidated all of them in one large bag. I tossed out all the trash, dug wayward CDs out from under the seats, and spent a long time peering at my map to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. Then I went and had the Port-A-Potty experience I never wanted; I knew I had packed antibacterial wipes for a reason. My car organized (and, therefore, my sanity restored), I was on my way.

I figured my mom would yell at me for scaring her the day before, but she was just happy to hear from me. I talked to her for about 10 minutes, and then lost the signal again on the way out of Bodega Bay.

I drove a couple miles off the highway to see Bodega, the little surfer town where they filmed The Birds. From there, Highway 1 heads inland. I drove along Tomales Bay and saw oyster ships. Point Reyes Station was really cute, and one of the last towns before crossing into the Bay Area. I decided to stop there for lunch. I had time to kill, and I was worn out. I had a really good veggie burger at a restaurant I don’t remember the name of. I walked around the main street, stopping into a few shops, then got back on the road.

I decided to drive up Mount Tamalpais to get a view of the city I’d soon be visiting. About halfway up, I remembered that I really, really hated mountain driving. I went up and saw the amphitheatre, then drove all the way up to the lookout. It required hiking, which I was even less thrilled about, but I had to do it. I climbed up to the top and sat on the rocks at the base of the fire tower. I took a million pictures and tried to get my bearings by picking out features I could see: the Golden Gate. The Bay Bridge. Alcatraz. I once again could use my phone, since I was essentially sitting right by the cell tower. I called Heather and talked for a long time. I tried to tell her everything I’d been doing, but I was so tired that it was all a blur. Then I called Jay and got directions to his apartment. I wrote down everything he said: bridge – famous – red. s 101. downtown/marina. fork – right. 45 mns. I started back down the mountain and ran into some talkative old people. We compared cell phones. They welcomed me to California. One guy said he could tell I was excited because I sounded so enthusiatic on the phone. For a minute, I actually regretted my constant casual swearing. Who wants to offend friendly old people? Not me. At least, not these particular old people.

I drove down the hill and found myself lost in the wilds of Marin County. After a while, I managed to get myself back on the 101. Within five minutes, I was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.

I didn’t mind paying $5 to enter San Francisco, but I wondered what they do to you if you don’t have cash. Shouldn’t they warn you about the tolls in advance? Anyway. It was clear and sunny, 60 degrees, and incredibly windy. I hated the hills instantly. I drove around for a while looking for a parking spot. When I finally found one two blocks away, I worried that it wasn’t a real spot, because it seemed too good to be true. I finally understood the street cleaning thing, too. What city cleans its streets every single week? I think it’s just an excuse to give parking tickets. I called Jay and he was just leaving work, so he told me where to find a Starbucks nearby. The guy behind the counter (I have trouble calling guys ‘baristas’) begged me to sell him my superspecial Starbucks card. (I haven’t mentioned this before, but my Seattle Starbucks card made me a celebrity everywhere I went. The baristas always wanted to know where I got it. Apparently, quite a few of them collect the cards.) I told him no way, I drove all the way to Seattle for that card. I sat and wrote and stared at the passersby, happy to be in a city again. At 4:30, I walked back up to Jay’s. His apartment is so cute. Also, he is correct about it being a fishbowl, which is pretty cool. The building has one of those old elevators with the gate you have to pull shut. Awesome.

We sat around and talked for a long time. Or, actually, I rambled, he listened. I couldn’t believe what a relief it was to see someone I knew after so long. We went to get my stuff out of the car, and I finally showered and changed clothes. He had decided to park my car over by Michelle’s where it would be easier to find a spot we could leave it in for a while. We drove over there, and the three of us went to dinner at a Thai place with trippy artwork and weird music. I had almost forgotten what tofu was. After dinner, they dropped me off at his apartment. I got my email, took another shower, and crashed. Hard.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i wondered how long it would take me to start talking to myself in the car, and now i know: 8 days. it’s more a function of disconnect with the outside world, though – remoteness and lack of cell signal – rather than time, i think.

at 8 days, 3300 miles, that means i’ve averaged 400 miles a day. insane.

i saw an accident on hwy 1 – a timber truck had overturned on one of those hairpin curves. yesterday on the 101, i saw a camping trailer that had turned over and dumped its contents everywhere: cabinets, beds, luggage. it looked like it had been packed full. (is runawaytruck.com available? probably not.)

i have my own roadtrip inside joke: the garage magnet. it sucks having inside jokes only with yourself. sigh.

why do sf cops look like the village people?

i’m worried about my brakes here, even though they’re new. my car knows it doesn’t belong here, so it hates it.

is my butt orange from sitting on that mountain? i wonder if i look like a hick. cool.

i have a bruise on the palm of my hand from driving.

i hunch when i’m writing. i have to stop that. i don’t need a hump. not that kind of hump, at least.

– – – – –

I got up at 7:30 and dragged my clothes down to the laundry. If I arranged my laptop just right, I could pick up a few weak wireless signals from neighboring buildings. They were intermittent, but faster than dialup. Occasionally, I had to open the window and balance my laptop on the windowsill to get a consistent signal. Jay came home and we discussed what I should see in San Francisco. It was very strange to not have any idea, since I usually plan vacations obsessively. I paged through my road trip book. The AAA guide had a walking tour, which I’d had good luck with in other cities, so I decided on that. I had spent so much time driving, all I wanted to do was be outside and get some exercise. I finished my laundry, talked to Heather, did some actual work for my old company, and then headed out.

Halfway between Jay’s and Starbucks, I found Royal Gourmet Coffee. I quickly realized that I had stumbled upon the Holy Grail of the espresso-based beverage: Caffe Extreme. It was like a gigantic cappuccino, only better: 3 shots of espresso, a tiny bit of milk, and the rest regular coffee. It’s like this drink had been engineered especially for me.

I walked down to catch the cable car on California. I could probably have walked to Chinatown quicker (especially after figuring out that it’s much, much easier to just run down the hills in SF than walk them), but riding the cable car at least once in one’s life is obligatory. There was a little Asian man collecting fares from passengers. I heard him instructing a tourist couple not to stand in the 1′ x 1′ yellow square on the floor. They looked down at it suspiciously and the woman asked, “Why? What is it?” He replied, “That’s my office!”

I dismounted the cablecar and headed to Starbucks. To pee. You see, one thing you get good at detecting when you travel as much as I do is good bathrooms. When you find them, you stick with them. It’s restroom loyalty. In exchange for their good bathroom standards, the business gets your patronage. So: Starbucks almost always has good, clean bathrooms (except in NYC); and even though I’d already had enough caffeine to kill the weak or elderly, I got another coffee. I felt obligated.

I folded my walking map, ripped out of the AAA guide, into a tiny square and set off on my tour. I saw the swanky shopping (I was unimpressed, as I live in the land of malls), then the financial district, and ended up back in Chinatown. I resisted shopping there, since I didn’t want to haul crappy souvenirs around all day. I walked down the main street, then turned and went down a smaller street that was more real Chinatown and less touristy. Jay was correct in that I was the tallest person there by at least half a foot. The slow, meandering tourists annoyed me, but, luckily, I’m not afraid to elbow people in the kidneys whenever necessary. I turned down the half-block-long Jack Kerouac Alley and saw the home of the Beat. Then I found myself in North Beach, the Italian neighborhood. I stopped at a place called Cafe Delucci (Corso Cristoforo Columbo and Beach Blanket Babylon Blvd!) and ate the best salad of my entire life. After that, I stopped at Cafe Trieste, the first espresso shop in the country, to get myself a cappuccino. I’m not sure why I hadn’t stroked out at that point, but I was fine.

Heading off towards Coit Tower, I walked up some really steep hills, then climbed stairs. The caffeine must have been helping. I bought my ticket and took the elevator to the top to get my view of San Francisco.

On the way back down the stairs, I brushed the back of my hand against the rough concrete wall and scraped the hell out of it. My knuckles and wrist started bleeding. I subtly tried not to drip blood in the elevator, and went to the bathroom to wash my hand. It was bleeding a lot and I didn’t have anything to wrap it in, so I sat near the base of the tower for 20 minutes, waiting for it to stop. It looked pretty gory.

Finally, I got up and headed back down Lombard, then turned towards Fisherman’s Wharf. I walked past the cablecar turnaround, which was exciting in its oldschoolness. A family from Italy had just disembarked from a cable car, and I marveled that all five of them were dressed completely in denim. Were they fashion-forward or on the Levi’s payroll?

Fisherman’s Wharf didn’t thrill me. It was chock full of tourists and smelled fishy. I know, but still. I pushed my way through the crowds for a while, stopped into a couple crappy stores, and got the obligatory souvenirs. I walked down the Hyde Street Pier, which had a good view of the city and Alcatraz. I listened to a bitchy fashion photographer being a complete asshole to his models. Then I went over the Ghirardelli Square to see what the big deal was. It seemed kind of lame to me, but maybe that’s because I don’t eat chocolate. I started the long climb up Russian Hill. Yes, I could have just taken the cable car, but I felt like I had to do it, because it was ridiculous. At every corner, groups of people stood gasping and leaning against trees. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, not thinking about it. Near the top, I stopped and took pictures of the other end of Lombard Street, ‘the windiest street in America!’ I didn’t feel much like going down and then back up the stairs, so I just stood and watched cars inching their way along it. My walking tour looped back to Chinatown at that point, so I headed off in the direction of Jay’s apartment instead. I called him to see which way to go, and he told me to walk down Polk, because it had good shops. I was walking and talking on the phone as I passed Good Vibrations. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, turned around, and went in. Not only was it the famous Good Vibrations, it was the antique vibrator museum. I saw a bunch of menacing-looking devices, and was grateful for modern technology. I bought many souvenirs, including giant vibrator postcards for all the folks back home.

We went to Whole Foods, then to dinner at The Window down the block right by my new favorite coffeeshop in the entire universe, Royal Gourmet Coffee. I was worn out; apart from lunch in North Beach, I had been walking all day long. I went to bed around midnight, and decided to leave the blinds open. Around 12:30, I saw the fog rolling in, slowly creeping down the street. At 1am, the moon came up. It was unbelievable and perfect.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

man. if i didn’t drink so much coffee, i wouldn’t have this constant need to pee. i am not smart.

what would my roadtrip be without injuries? i’m all bloody. really awesome.

on the way back here, i got whistled at by the same construction workers who whistled at me this morning. or maybe it’s the second shift? do they trade off whistling?

i have bright red abrasions on my right hand to match the big blue bruise on my left. badge of honor! it’s proof that i did more than ride a tour bus around all day. man, i totally left dna evidence all over that tower, though.

– – – – –

I woke up at 6am because it was too bright to sleep. I got up and stretched and was cranky. I worked on Jay’s computer for a long time, and had to reboot about 50 times. I emailed Heather and went for coffee. When I got back, Jay was home, so I complained for a while, and then decided to walk around SF and shop. He gave me directions, and I set out.

I walked through Japantown, but didn’t shop, since it was near his house and I could go back later. On the way to the Haight, I passed my car and verified that it was still there and intact. Haight Street had all the hippie stuff I expected: souvenir shops with tie-die, sarongs, glass pipes, and trippy artwork. Also, it had a ton of little galleries, clothing stores, and restaurants. I bought myself a few things, and got souvenirs for the folks back home. I almost freaked at Kid Robot, which had pretty much every goofy toy I’ve ever wanted to buy, including those I didn’t know existed. (Seriously, check out the robot I bought.) I congratulated myself on not spending too much money; I count this among one of my most important achievements. I walked down Haight to Hippie Hill (!), then turned around and walked back. There was good shopping in Upper Haight, then a nice residential area with lots of Victorians, then more shopping and restaurants. I stopped at a cafe where they made my iced latte with coffee ice cubes, probably the best idea I’d ever heard. I ate half of a monstrous Mediterranean sampler, then stopped at the natural foods market for water. The guy behind the counter pretended to be scared of my obviously fight-induced injuries. I decided that from then on, I was telling people it was from a fistfight.

I headed down to the Castro, and enjoyed the shopping and many friendly dykes. I walked past the Mission Dolorosa, thus beginning my California mission adventure. After that, I found my way to Valencia, looking for Dave Egger’s shop, because if there’s one thing I love, it’s pirates. Ahoy!

Visiting 826 Valencia was a pilgrimage of sorts. I snickered my way around the pirate store, and bought a tshirt and a signed copy of You Shall Know Our Velocity, which Amazon had still failed to make magically appear in my mailbox.

I walked up to the Mission and was unimpressed. It was dirty and there were prostitutes everywhere; maybe I was in the wrong place? I headed up Mission, looking for a street I recognized. I found Gough and followed that. I crossed Market, then noticed Flax Art and Design on the corner behind me, so I went back. On the way out, I took Gough Street again, then all of a sudden it was Olivia, then Haight, and I was lost. I knew I was tired because I couldn’t read the map anymore. I finally stopped into a coffeeshop and asked the guy behind the counter how to get back to Gough. He pointed me in one direction, then thought for a minute and pointed me in another. I felt a little relieved knowing that even someone who lived there was sometimes confused about directions.

I found Gough again, and was less than thrilled to encounter a giant hill a few blocks up the street. By the time I had dragged my ass back to Jay’s, I knew I was done walking for a while. I laid down and took a nap.

That night, we went to Millennium for dinner. I had bbq tempeh and polenta. The food was incredible. Afterwards, I went to bed exhausted again. I intended to go to SFMOMA the next morning; since it didn’t open until 10am, it was a good excuse to sleep in.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

apparently, i look like less of a tourist than i suspect, because people keep asking me directions.

i have the stupidest sunglasses tan/burn ever.

– – – – –

I got up early again, contrary to my intentions. I got dressed and worked on the computer, which was the worst possible way to occupy myself that morning. I spent two hours on the phone with tech support, getting more and more angry. I didn’t realize it at that moment, but I was in the grips of the worst PMS ever*.

* [If you pay any attention to Sex Week on the Discovery Channel, you know the wide-ranging control of female hormones upon the fate of humanity. Now, Heather’s hormones in particular have been known to affect international warfare, the tides, and sometimes even the rotation of the earth. 2,000 miles away from her influence, I found myself completely at the whim of my own usually fair-tempered hormones. Things got ugly.]

Jay came home for a while and somehow, miraculously, survived. When he left for work, I was still hunched irritably over the machine. Sometime around 2pm, I gave up and went out. I had walked past several restaurants on Gough Street the day before, so I headed back down the giant hill in search of food. Since it was between lunch and dinner, several of the restaurants were closed. I examined the menus of the other half, and couldn’t find anything I could eat.

I kept going. At one point, I was crying and walking. Otherwise, just walking. I found myself back in the Castro, and wandered into a little coffeeshop. I got a roasted mushroom sandwich and coffee, and sat out back on the patio in the sun. Of course, I had run out without bringing anything to do, not even my travel journal, so I read People from front to back, and chatted with the guy at the counter for a while, which cheered me up a little.

After lunch, I felt much better, realizing that half my problem was that my blood sugar was so low. I stopped into a few galleries and shopped, then wandered back in the direction I had come from. Without realizing it, I had walked a lot farther than I had intended. But walking is good therapy, so I was glad.

I went to Japantown, and found my way into the mall. I was in heaven. I liked the bookstore the most, and had to resist buying all the crazy magazines and the translated-from-english novels (Stephen King! In Japanese!). I bought a Hello Kitty magazine, and the First Book of Sushi for Heather:

Miso in my sippy cup,
tofu in my bowl.
Crab and avocado
fill my California roll.

At a china shop, I bought about ten different netsuke, because each one I found was cuter than the last. The only thing that kept me from spending a ton of money there was that everything was as expensive as if it had been Japan. I sat in the plaza by the fountain and checked in with the parents. Then I went to the grocery store and bought grapes and raisin rolls. When I’m in Japantown, I know how to party.

I walked back to Jay’s, dropped off my new acquisitions, and headed down to Starbucks, where the same guy behind the counter begged me to sell him my superspecial card, and I once again dashed his hopes and dreams. I sat there for an hour and scrawled in my journal, which was quickly devolving from a travelogue into a preteen girl’s diary (see below). Such is PMS.

I went back to Jay’s after 6 and finally, finally got the computer running. I still wasn’t feeling great, but they convinced me to go to dinner. The tradition known as fratboy pizza wasn’t happening that night, so we ended up at an Indian-Pakistani restaurant nearby. It had weird clientele, good food, and awesome service, and sort of reminded me of our last night in New Orleans at the happiest Indian restaurant on earth.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

holy crap. japantown has a denny’s. that’s even better than the chinese starbucks in dc.

it’s hard to be enthusiastic about seeing things when i feel like crap.

___ is making me insane. they’re technically clueless and defensive, which is the worst possible combination. ____ called me this morning. it was so hard not to yell.

being away this long is disorienting. i know where i am, but it’s not real to me at all. i think it’s the lack of short-term memory. according to my amnesia, i now live in san francisco, which could be any city, really. i forget about my daily routine. i suspect i’m doing something horribly wrong, which will likely ruin my life. i think i have cancer. all i know how to do is walk and eat and run away when i get stressed. i’ve realized how incredibly bad my decision-making skills are when i’m pressured. i hate that feeling of panic. i’ve become ok with crying in public and stopping dead for a minute or two to collect my thoughts. i don’t bother putting on a contented look when i don’t feel that way. it’s almost easier to be a stranger, completely anonymous. but i still rely on contact with people i know. like, still having that connection to the world i actually belong in.

i can understand how sometimes people wander off and are never heard from again. however, i’m not that person. i need to feel like i belong somewhere. i need a long rope attached to something stable.

i also realize that i crave this sense of displacement and surreality. it’s like testing how much i can handle. it’s why i keep up the frantic pace, too. if i stay in one place too long, it’ll start feeling real to me. i’ve been here four days now, which is a lot. i know i’m in sf, but it’s meaningless to me. i have to keep reminding myself: california. pacific ocean. it could be anywhere; i know it as well as i know any other place except home.

other tourists are happy to take pictures and buy postcards. i do those things, and i also rush around with a blank stare, wondering where the hell i am half the time. i think this is why so many people are medicated: to stop questioning.

i’ve started to hate the question, ‘what are you going to do about it?’ because i so rarely have the answer anymore. or i know the answer is ‘nothing.’

man, this is not a travel journal anymore. it’s a paranoid’s diary. i’m a freak. i’m going to stare at californians now and wonder what’s going on tonight.

– – – – –

I got up and logged to Priceline to book my room for Los Angeles. $35 at the Hilton, which meant that I was spending more for crappy hotels in the middle of nowhere than I was for nice hotels in big cities. Jay came home with my car, and told me that I not only needed to get a replacement gas cap (the car wasn’t the performance vehicle it normally was), but my headlight was burnt out. Dammit. He was heading out of town for the weekend, so we said goodbye. I drove over to the auto parts store and had both the gas cap and headlamp installed within 10 minutes, for a total of $25. From there, I got on the Bay Bridge and headed east.

Outside Oakland, it’s all rolling hills, dry grass, and wind farms. I loved all the windmills lined up along the tops of the hills. They were cool and menacing at the same time. The farther I got from the bay, the warmer it got. It had been 50 degrees and misty in SF. By the time I exited 520 in Manteca, it was in the mid-80s.

The route to Yosemite was pretty, but slow. It winds through little towns and produce farms. I stopped at a roadside farmer’s market and bought one of nearly everything. About 40 miles from Yosemite, the mountains start. On the steep parts, I had to turn off the air conditioning, and at that point it was over 100 degrees. With all the windows and the sunroof open, it didn’t feel that bad, but my back and the backs of my legs were soaking wet.

I stopped for gas outside Yosemite. I had to pee badly, so I locked the car and ran into the gas station first. Then I came back out and went to pump gas. When I pulled on the little fuel door, it wouldn’t open. It was stuck! I tugged some more, and it wouldn’t move. I thought maybe someone had bumped my car, and indented it or something. I yanked harder and harder, and finally it popped open. My car beeped and the doors unlocked, and I realized what had happened: the little door locks shut when you lock the car. I felt like an idiot. I looked up and saw a girl sitting in the car behind me, watching. I smiled and shrugged.

While the gas was pumping, I went to wash the windshield. The squeegee had the longest handle ever, probably for big trucks. I was hurrying, and paid the price for my reckless squeegeeing: I hit myself in the mouth with the handle. At that point, nothing stupid I could do could possibly surprise me, so I finished with the window, put the gas cap back on (at least I remembered that), and got back in the car. I looked in the mirror, and my lip was bleeding down my chin.

I got to Yosemite around 11am, and congratulated myself on the fact that my National Parks pass had already paid for itself. I drove up to about 6000 feet, then down into the valley. I stopped and hiked to Bridalveil Falls. The spray was a relief from the heat. There were lots of people there, wading around in the stream, trying to keep cool. The heat made visiting the pit-toilet restrooms an endurance test: how long can I hold my breath while peeing? How fast can I run away and find someplace to wash my hands? I noticed that all the tourists there were slow-moving, although maybe it was the heat. I felt bad barging my way through them to experience America’s natural wonders, but I had a schedule to keep.

I parked and walked to Yosemite Village. I shopped at the general store, which was annoyingly mobbed. I went to the deli and got the biggest, blandest veggie sandwich I had ever tasted. I picked it apart and drank my americano while writing postcards. While I was sitting outside at a picnic table, I looked up and a few tables over, a girl was sitting there with her sandwich, a notebook, and a stack of postcards, with a stuffed-full backpack by her side. My counterpart! All of a sudden, I didn’t feel so alone.

I finished lunch and took the rest of the drive through Yosemite valley, then headed back. The drive was slow and boring, and the heat wasn’t letting up as the sun went down. I distracted myself by talking on the phone, as usual. The view of SF coming back over the Bay Bridge was amazing. I was proud of myself for figuring out where to exit and how to get back to Jay’s without even looking at the map, and especially for getting a spot right out in front of his building. I walked to Whole Foods and got a tofu sandwich, which was just as bland as the veggie sandwich I had eaten for lunch. I did laundry, packed up my stuff, and loaded the car so I could get on the road as fast as possible the next morning.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

that was a whole lot of pms yesterday. i hope that goes away quick. anyway.

my nose and forehead are peeling today. my scraped hand is killing me. the skin feels tight, and i keep bumping it. also, i left my sunscreen at jay’s. i am smart.

i’ve decided the strangest places to travel alone are the national parks. they’re all family-oriented. it’s weird to see a group of fewer than four people here.

i hope my car will see me through. i worry even more when it’s so hot. me and chico, we’ve been through a lot together.

i think i want to keep this up when i get back. probably not handwritten, although my handwriting would improve. it’s too slow, but tactile, which is nice. hmm. maybe someday it’ll develop into that journal-writing project.

tomorrow night, la. i consider sf the midpoint of my trip, so that means that everything from here on out is technically heading towards home.

my pants are too big. they need a belt. go figure.

ok. i think that’s it from sf. what a strange feeling.

– – – – –

Saturday morning, I got up at 6:30. Leaving the blinds open was a natural alarm clock that I was getting to like. I had been having a dream that I was making out with Dave Matthews, and that he had some kind of weird kink I couldn’t remember afterwards. I got ready as fast as possible and went for my last caffe extreme at Royal Gourmet Coffee. Sigh. I got on the 101. It was sunny and cold in SF, and got more and more foggy the closer I got to the coast. I drove along, my stomach hurting from drinking so much coffee, thinking, “I know there’s an ocean here somewhere.”

I got to Santa Cruz a little before 10am. The rides at the boardwalk didn’t open until 11, which was fine. I walked around, took pictures, and got a cappuccino. I watched the karate classes taking place on the beach, which was already crowded despite being cold and foggy.

I took a detour from the 1, heading inland to San Juan Bautista. I saw truckloads of migrant workers laboring on produce farms in 90-degree weather. The mission was incredible. It reminded me of the ones we had seen a few years ago in San Antonio. I’m fascinated by missions; being nonreligious, I find their history pretty horrifying, but the architecture is amazing. It’s a good blend of scary and cool. I especially like the cemeteries, with their circles of stones and simple wooden crosses.

Not only is San Juan Bautista on El Camino Real, it’s right on the San Andreas Fault. I contemplated this as I walked into the little town to see the outdoor craft market. The crafts were the same kind of thing you could get anywhere. It was hot and I wasn’t feeling well. I stopped at a coffeeshop which just happened to have sugar-free ice cream, and was happy. I sat and drank a bottle of water, watched people wandering around the street, and wrote postcards. I walked some more, then stopped at a food stand where they cheerfully agreed to make their sampler plate into something portable just for me, shoving falafel, hummus, and vegetables into a pita. I walked back to the car, dripping tahini on the sidewalk.

Heading back to the coast, there was a huge traffic jam on the 101. I looked up and saw a sign that read Los Angeles: 350 mi. I wanted to cry. I hadn’t looked at my map in days, and had no idea it was that far. It was after noon, and I had hardly made any progress. I’d have to hurry.

It took about half an hour to get to Monterey. It was beautiful and sunny, so the town was crowded. I parked and jumped out of the car long enough to see the waterfront, use the bathroom, and walk down cannery row (why do all west coast cities seem to have a cannery that’s been converted into cheesy shops and restaurants?) then got back on the road. I found the entrance to the 17-Mile Drive in Pacific Grove. At $8.25, it was worth every penny of the $.50 per mile. The coastline was unbelievable. I saw the Lone Cypress. I saw the Ghost Tree. I saw how people live when they’re completely cut off from reality, and decide to charge people for the privilege of driving through their neighborhood. I saw seals! Fat and grey and lazy, they made me homesick for my cats.

I stopped at Pebble Beach to get postcards to prove I was there. Unfortunately, you can’t buy postcards at Pebble Beach. You can buy golf shirts and antiques and probably your very own custom-built servants, but no postcards. I peed angrily in working-class protest (in the restroom, of course) and exited at Carmel(-by-the-Sea! Best city name ever!). It was such a cute, artsy little town, I wanted to spend time wandering around it, but I had miles and miles left to drive that day.

I got back on the 1 and drove as fast as the narrow, winding highway and slow traffic would allow. Big Sur was desolate and beautiful. I was pretty sure it was even better than the northern coast. Every 10 miles or so, there would be a gas station that would have everything: cabins/motel, restaurant, convenience store, etc. I wasn’t picky and wanted to stop, but every time I neared one, the slow vehicle ahead of me would turn and I would think, “Hey! Now I can go fast!” and I’d speed off. I alternated between ‘performance-car commercial’ and ‘unsafe tailgating out-of-towner’.

I saw the Hearst Castle from afar, not wanting to take the shuttle bus up to it. I decided to get off the highway for dinner in San Luis Obispo, since I wanted to see the mission anyway. The city was really cute and seemed to have lots of good restaurants. I put it near the top of my list of places to re-visit when I have more time to spend. I saw the mission quickly, then went to find food. I didn’t want to take the time to stop and eat – I had only managed 200 miles in 9 hours – so I found a natural grocery and ran in. I got a bunch of fruit, and some protein bars and snacks, and got back on the 101, shoving a banana into my mouth. On the way out, I passed the Madonna Inn, which Jay had told me about months before and I’d completely forgotten about.

I was starting to worry because I still had so far to go. That was the problem with not planning. I called my sister and talked for almost an hour, calling her back whenever I’d drive into a valley and lose my signal. I passed Pismo Beach and Solvang, barely noticing. I got to Santa Barbara just as the sun was setting. I might have considered just staying on the highway, but there was a huge traffic jam anyway, so I exited. I was glad that I did, because the city is beautiful, and sunset was the perfect time of day to see it.

Santa Barbara is touristy, but in a classy way. The main drag is lined with huge palm trees all along the massive beach. I wanted to stay, but it was getting dark.

I got back into the traffic jam and almostly immediately felt sick. Something I had eaten had too much sugar in it. I slumped against the door and tried to concentrate on traffic. All I could think about was passing out in my hotel bed in LA. I switched the CD to the Foo Fighters and cranked it, hoping it would keep me awake. Luckily, it passed after about 15 minutes, and I felt my head clear. At that moment, I was passing through Ventura. The moon was full and bright, and they were shooting fireworks from the beach. It was a perfect moment.

I was thrilled driving in LA after spending so much time on 2-lane, winding highways. I loved those massive, 12-lane structures where everyone drives like they’ve got to get someone to the emergency room but quick. I was laughing out loud as I drove because my primary frame of reference for LA was The Big Lebowski. Everytime I saw an In-N-Out Burger, I thought, “Shut the fuck up, Donny!” Then I laughed even harder when I saw that there were FIVE exits for LAX. I got off at Century Boulevard and quickly found my hotel. It was 10pm – I had spent 14 hours in the car that day. I gasped with relief as I spiraled down the parking ramp. I dug clothes out of my bag (I was unsure of the weather, but figured I wouldn’t be needing my hoodie anymore), organized the car, grabbed my travel guides, and took the elevator to the lobby.

I made my way to the check-in line, trying not to stagger. I was exhausted and my blood sugar had crashed again, so I was disoriented and dizzy. I did my best just to hold it together enough to not seem crazy; I accomplished this by fixating on my phone, messaging Heather. Finally, it was my turn, and it was all I could do not to put my head on the counter while I was checking in. I got to my room and dumped half my stuff on the floor and the rest on the bed. I wanted to write and look at maps, but I couldn’t. I switched on the TV for two minutes to try and find the weather for the next day, but even that was too much effort, and I switched it off right away. I jumped in the shower, then fell into bed. By 11pm, I was comatose.

I was awake by 5:45, but laid there until 6:30 when the phone rang for my high-tech automated wakeup call. A computer voice read me the breakfast menu, and I hung up on it. I scribbled a list of notes about the previous day so I wouldn’t forget anything, then looked at my travel guide. Daniel had given me a list of the must-see items in LA, and I decided to focus on those, since he had my main interests covered: Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, shopping, overlooks, good food, Santa Monica. I tore a map out of the book in the hotel and was on the road by 8am. I had the whole monster freeway to myself. I drove up to Mulholland Drive and headed west. It was another winding mountain road, but it had good views of the city. I found the overlook and finally got my first view of the Hollywood sign. Unfortunately, the picture didn’t turn out because of the smog, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Facing the other direction, I looked down on the Hollywood Bowl, Hollywood, and downtown LA in the distance.

I drove down the hill and parked near Hollywood Boulevard. At 9am, there was already a huge line outside El Capitan waiting to see The Pirates of the Caribbean, and pirates crawling all over the place, swashbuckling and such. There was a film crew on the street filming something that looked especially unimportant. I gave a guy the pen I took from the hotel that morning so he could get autographs from a bunch of people I wondered if I should recognize.

I bought postcards and went across the street to Starbucks to write them. I had the feeling I should wait a bit before walking around, because everything just seemed to be waking up at that hour.

I called Heather and watched a guy pressure-washing the walk of fame. She swore that people bought their own stars, that they weren’t awarded. Then I walked down to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre to see the handprints. It was hard taking pictures with tourists standing all over them, but I managed. Not being a huge fan of mainstream movies and TV, I was mostly unimpressed, so I took pictures of the ones I thought were funniest.

The strange thing was, I’m not that into Hollywood at all, and yet, I was loving it there. The whole scene was so surreal, I had the impression that LA was not a real place, but made up for my amusement.

While I was on Hollywood Boulevard, I talked to the Incredible Hulk. I watched a second film crew setting up down the block from the first, and I suspected maybe they were in competition as far as trying to look professional without having a clue about what they were doing (which looked to be filming tourists outside tacky souvenir shops). Especially for Heather, I had my picture taken with Fat Elvis. I gave him a dollar, he asked me where I was from and method-acted like he cared. I made sure to use his name in every sentence: “Can I get a picture, Elvis?” “I’m from Minneapolis, Elvis!” “Thanks, Elvis!” I walked back to my car, giggling.

I drove down the Sunset Strip, having a million Big Lebowski moments. I laughed every single time I saw an In-N-Out Burger or Ralph’s. I drove into Beverly Hills, and pulled off on a side street so I could write postcards and mail them right away. I imagined that I was parked in from of some second-rate actor’s house (I think Kirk Cameron was the star of choice), and that he was going to come running out in his underwear to yell at me. I considered buying a star map, not because I cared about stars’ houses, but because I liked the idea of supporting an industry that makes them uncomfortable in their exclusive homes.

After some creatively-executed u-turns, I found my way to Rodeo Drive. It was 11am, and the shops were just opening. I parked and wandered. As far as the shopping, I was unimpressed – it was either stuff we had at home (Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma), or stuff I’d seen on Madison Avenue, or Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Yet it was somehow even snootier, even though 95% of the people shopping there were tourists who just walked around gawking. It was in the mid-80s, but so humid it felt much hotter. I was getting hungry, so I headed back to the car. As I got there, I noticed activity around the corner and went to investigate: it was the Beverly Hills Farmers’ Market! I drooled over the fresh produce, then stopped and bought a sweet corn tamale with tomatillo sauce. You know I hate to exaggerate, but it was the best thing I’d eaten in my entire life. I sat on the curb in the shade and ate, while listening to a reggae band and watching the rich old ladies stuffing zucchini into their purses. Behind me, there was a kids’ fair going on. I wanted to go pet the ponies, look at the goats, and talk to the firemen, but I decided against it, since I didn’t have a kid with me as an excuse, and I hear that borrowing one without permission is a felony in California.

The car, having sat in the sun for less than an hour, was already a million degrees inside. I sat with the doors open and the A/C cranked, and stared at the map while I waited for the car to cool down. As I looked up, I saw Lisa Kudrow walking down the other side of the street, carrying a parasol and market bag. She looked put out.

I drove down Wilshire Boulevard towards La Brea Avenue. It’s called the Miracle Mile, so I was on the lookout for anything miraculous. I saw two McDonald’s, an IHOP, and a Sizzler. Then I saw the miracle: it was double-coupon days at Ralphs! Of course!

I drove past art museums (almost as good as going in), and the La Brea Tar Pits, which have metal statues of prehistoric mammals. I thought, “This is something Heather would appreciate.” I myself was in search of shopping. I swung past the Warner Brothers Studio and parked near Melrose. I had noticed a few spots along the way where there were parking lots full of what looked like piles of clothing and furniture, with people swarming all over them. I wanted to check them out, but was scared of getting trampled in the mad rush for a discount. I walked down Melrose and got my shopping on. Exercising remarkable self-control and frugality, I only bought myself one tshirt. Everyone I encountered had such an attitude, and I saw at least 10 Britneys. I looked at a lot of menus, and saw nothing good. I stopped at Starbucks (because caffeine is a temporary substitute for food), and asked Starbucks boy if he knew of any vegetarian restaurants in the area. He didn’t, but offered up the Starbucks veggie sandwich. I politely declined.

On the way back to the car, I encountered a hipster couple with their three decidedly non-hipster kids. The hipsters were probably in their mid-twenties, definitely younger than me. As I passed, hipster-boy was whining, “But can’t we just find a sitter? Me and you need to go out tonight!” I said a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that I don’t have kids. It’s a prayer I say probably ten times a day, but it bears repeating.

I drove over to ‘restaurant row’, which I decided should more accurately be named ‘steakhouse row’. I was disappointed. But then I noticed a sign for a place right near the Trashy Lingerie store: Real Food Daily. I didn’t know what it was, but the name was promising enough to get me inside and seated at a table without even looking at the menu. When I did get the menu, I opened it to discover it was vegan, and I was the luckiest girl in the world. I ordered a soymilk latte and a club sandwich (breaded seitan, tempeh bacon), with a caesar salad. I was in heaven, as long as I ignored all the film-industry people around me. I sat for a long time and caught up on my travel journal. I used their bathroom twice. They loved me there, I knew it. They had to. While I was eating, I did the California thing and talked on my cellphone. Heather pricelined me a hotel room in San Diego. She rules.

I drove back up Wilshire Boulevard, and experienced the miracle of double coupons once again. This time, I headed into downtown LA. It was nothing special. I was excited driving through Chinatown, more excited in Little Tokyo, and beside myself with amusement in Koreatown. I don’t know, I just really liked the signs on all the shops. I realized I was managing to have a really relaxing time in LA, despite running around all day. So I did the next logical thing: I went to IKEA. Yeah.

There’s something comforting about IKEA. I went to the store in Carson, and was there for a total for 20 minutes. I bought a pillow for Heather ($6.95, on sale!) and two sets of potholders ($2.99 each). Having satisfied my IKEA jones, I got back on the 405 and exited just north of my hotel, in order to take a picture of a 3-story donut. I drove west to Highway 1, which at that point was officially the PCH. I went north to Venice Beach. Traffic at the beach was insane, so I propped the road atlas against the steering wheel as we crept along, and tried to plan the rest of my trip. When the road angled away from the beach, I turned left so I could stick to the oceanfront. It was ten degrees cooler there, so I turned off the air conditioning and opened all the windows, feeling like a Don Henley song. I got to Santa Monica and parked strategically between the pier and the 3rd Street Promenade, a big pedestrian mall with shops and restaurants. The stores were OK – I stopped into a few – but mostly they were just Gap and Urban Outfitters. The cool thing was the promenade itself. All down the middle of the street, they had these large fountains with dinosaur topiaries. There were also a hundred street performers (the favorite being Mini-Elvis), and a thousand people begging for cash.

Once again, I was in search of decent non-meat dining, and meeting with yet another challenge. A server at a Greek restaurant offered me a salad, but I was really looking for protein. I was tired of protein bars, and even more tired of worrying about my protein intake. I walked in circles for a while, then finally found a restaurant/deli with the magic word on the menu: gardenburger.

After dinner, I walked down to the Santa Monica pier. Everyone said it was best to see it at night. It was 8:15 and still light, so I went and sat on the beach and called home as I watched the sun set over the mountains. Once the sun went down, I put my shoes back on and climbed up to the boardwalk.

The pier wasn’t terribly busy, which was nice. It had typical beach stuff: fried food, tacky souvenirs, your name on a grain of rice. I walked down to the end of the pier to take pictures of the shore. There were several musicans and other performers, and a large restaurant. Also, a bunch of old ladies fishing. Strange. I started to feel a little lonely, what with all the couples down there being in love.

I walked back to the car, still feeling a little melancholy. Heather didn’t help the matter by sending dirty messages while I shopped for postcards. I stopped at Wild Oats Market for car food, then went back to my hotel, packed up my stuff, and went to bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i’ve been called ‘sweetie’ or ‘sweetheart’ three times already this morning, and it’s only 9am.

i hate the girls at the table next to me.

1: i think i’ll have a salad and a side of brown rice.
2: brown rice??
1: yeah. the thing is, i usually eat cheese for lunch.
2: they have cheese here! get cheese!
1: no, it’s VEGAN. it’s FAKE cheese.

hate.

today @ the b.h. farmer’s market, i saw the most perfectly-formed pair of man-breasts ever. they were firm and perky. i was jealous.

there are entertainment-industry women at the table on the other side of me. rage.

i think i was born to drive in la. at least on the weekends.

my hotel is right by the herbalife building. that rules, and i’m not sure why. also, la (especially hollywood) = scientology.

i really hate this humid dampness. i feel smelly.

i was buying heather a trilobite just as she was messaging me that she was watching jurassic park. the store was called ‘jurassic’. weird.

i wonder how many of other people’s photos and home movies i’m ending up in?

i have a 4″ leg tan – from the bottom of my capris to the tops of my running shoes. goofy, to match the rest.

injury list:
– left hand, bruise.
– palm of left hand, bruise.
– right hand, big scrapes on knuckles and wrist. ugly and painful.
– both knees, bruised from pressing against the dashboard.
– right shoulder, big bruise. don’t know why.
– left shoulder, bruise from carrying this bag. dammit.

ok. time to walk and notice my aloneness and english-speakingness.

natural foods stores are cute flirty boy magnets wherever you go, except possibly arcata, california.

there’s some super-formal event in the hotel lobby tonight. i love looking like a slob.

i’m feeling like home would really be nice right now. i’m dying to tell stories and look at pictures.

p.s. i think i could live in california. not down south, though. the heat hurts.

– – – – –

I left LA at 7:45, hoping to avoid traffic. The 405 was clear for a while, then became a parking lot for about 20 minutes. I finally found KROQ on the radio, and Stephanie was right – it’s a good station. When they’re playing music, at least.

I got to San Juan Capistrano shortly before 10am. I stopped at Starbucks, and they directed me to the mission. It was the most impressive one I had seen so far, even compared to the missions in San Antonio. It was a huge complex with incredible gardens: cactus, flowering plants and trees, palm trees, and water gardens.

I went to the Tamale Museum, which was indeed about tamales. They had a great Dia de los Muertos exhibit, which is probably one of my favorite things in the world. I visited the bathroom, the cemetery, the gift shop, and the chapel, in that order – I had my priorities.

At the gift shop, I bought some awesome Jesus souvenirs under the watchful and somewhat suspicious gaze of the old ladies at the counter. They could smell the atheism on me, and didn’t seem to like that I was buying holy water bottles and a bible-on-a-keychain. I went to see the church, and stepped into a chapel off to the side, one of those where you pay $1 and light a votive candle and you get your wish, or something. There were hundreds of candles burning, and the chapel was well over 100 degrees. I’m pretty sure Jesus winked at me, or maybe I just imagined it.

San Juan Capistrano was so great. I loved being able to appreciate the fascinating combination of beautiful and creepy without the annoying filter of religion getting in the way.

I left the mission and crossed the street to the non-mission-sanctioned gift shop. I stopped to take a picture of the sign about the swallows. Proof that I’m still completely juvenile: I turned into Beavis. I thought, “Swallow. Heh heh.” Since all the jokes have probably already been made, I’ll spare you. But, still. Swallow. Heh heh. I think I saw that story on the internet somewhere.

I got back on I-5. It was only in the 70s, but it was so humid it made me squirm. It was hazy and I could hardly see the ocean even though I was driving right alongside it. I was doing 85-90 with almost no traffic. Then I raced the Coaster, and the Coaster won.

I arrived at the San Diego visitors’ center by 10:45. I like visitors’ centers because they tend to offer maps (it’s a fetish) and clean bathrooms. In this case, I was wrong. The women’s room smelled worse than the pit toilets at Yosemite. The women at the counter were less giving directions than they were selling hotel and restaurant discounts. I got directions into downtown on a big sheet of paper that was 5% map, 95% advertising, and a trolley schedule.

I drove into downtown San Diego and found the waterfront. I saw huge naval ships and the cruise ship station. I saw the famous Santa Fe Depot. I drove past the Embarcadero twice, and thought maybe I was missing something. It looked like a big parking lot to me. What the hell is an embarcadero, anyway?

I followed my giant ad sheet to the Gaslamp Quarter, the old part of town with shops and restaurants. I parked in the mall ramp (the vegetable half – I was on the onion level, even though I’d have preferred avocado). On the way out, I walked through the mall, which was outdoor, in the sense that it was just like any mall I knew (and, being from Minnesota, I know malls), except it was topless. Um, roofless.

I started my usual wandering and looking for lunch routine. It was 11:30, and there were a ton of restaurants in the area. However, hardly any of them were open. I was confused. It was Monday, but the restaurants didn’t open until noon. Back in the friendly midwest, we often go to lunch at 11:30. Hmm. Anyway, there also seemed to be some sort of city ordinance that any menu had to consist of at least 95% meat. I was irritated. I stopped into Starbucks and asked for restaurant advice while waiting for my americano. The cute british boy behind the counter yelled at me for being vegetarian. He had no idea.

I wandered some more. I called Heather and talked about two Nates and Utah. Finally, I settled on a Mexican place with a few vegetarian dishes, figuring that since I was in San Diego, I should get some local-ish food. It was a mistake, as it was essentially the Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville of Mexican dining. All the servers were blonde and cute and seemed to really care about sports. They were also playing the worst music ever.

I rushed through lunch and walked back to the most confusing outdoor mall in America. I had to buy something to get parking validated. Something, anything, so I decided on postcards. But then I looked up, and way up at the top, there was a Hello Kitty store. Getting there proved to be a challenge, however. The mall was a series of ramps, half-staircases, escalators, and full staircases, that all seemed to spiral upwards but not in any logical way. I’d go up a level and find myself on the wrong side. I’d walk around and go up another half-level and be on the right side, but only able to go back down. I’d see the store, head that direction, and lose sight of it again. Finally, I realized the problem: the mall was designed by M.C. Escher (if you think he’s a DJ, you are incorrect). Having figured that out, I found the store easily, and I had no problem spending money to get my parking validation stamp.

I got my car and drove up to the transit station north of town. It took a while to figure out how things worked, because the station served all the buses, as well as the trolleys, the regular commuter trains, the Amtrak, and the Coaster. I found a kiosk and bought a round-trip ticket to the last stop on the line: San Ysidro. And then I boarded the Tijuana Trolley.

It was about a half-hour ride on the trolley. I figured I’d get a good tour of San Diego by riding the whole route, and I was correct. I was pretty unimpressed, having just seen SF and LA. San Diego is a fairly small town, and didn’t seem to have much going on. Near the last few stops, the trolley barely creeps along. I saw a huge military complex. Once we got near Tijuana, we could see the city on a large hill in the distance. The pollution was unbelievable. A giant Mexican flag flies over the city, way bigger than any flag Perkins has to offer. I was excited, but nervous about crossing the border by myself. I wasn’t that concerned about my safety, but still figured I had to be careful.

When you exit the trolley at San Ysidro, you’re immediately funneled onto a ramp that brings you to an overpass where you can look down on the border crossing. I wanted to take pictures, but there are a million signs warning you not to do so, and that you were being videotaped and monitored. I was really glad I wasn’t trying to cross the border in my car, as it looked nightmarish. Also, who wants to park a Saab in Tijuana? Not me, muchachos. So I walked.

So, when you first cross the border, you walk through this really nice brick plaza with modern sculpture and murals, and a tourist information booth. It’s clean and friendly. Then you go through a rotating iron gate which makes this loud clacking metal noise that I will never, ever forget. It was menacing. Through the turnstile, and you’re in Mexico. Only it’s not really Mexico, it’s this little plaza that’s built specially for tourists who want to dip their toes into Tijuana without getting in too deep. It’s called Viva Tijuana Plaza, and it features ‘pharmacies’ selling roofies, viagra, valium, hormones, and painkillers over-the-counter (in Tijuana, your American driver’s license is as good as a prescription), and crafts: sarapes, sombreros, beadwork, piñatas, aluminum artwork, and anything you can put a Corona logo on. Every shop sold the same thing, and each one had two or three guys standing outside, utilizing various methods of enticement: beckoning, calling, yelling, haranguing. I was vastly amused at first, because this was what I expected. I stopped at a booth with a particularly endearing shopkeeper, who assured me that I was his very good American friend, I was beautiful, and that he would give me a better deal than anyone else in the plaza. I picked out a Mexican wrestling mask, and the guy talked himself down from $25 to $10, while I just stood there laughing. I asked him for $8, but paid $10 anyway, because it was worth it for the entertainment. I rushed past the rest of the booths, and every single vendor said ‘hi’ or ‘hola’ or beckoned me in to see their fine wares. I was very happy to be wearing sunglasses, which made it much easier to not make eye contact.

On the other side of Viva Tijuana Plaza, there’s another pedestrian overpass lined with booths and people begging for change. This brings you across Rio Tijuana, which is a river in the loosest sense of the word. From there, you descend into the real city of Tijuana. I quickly became aware that it was at least 20 degrees hotter there than in San Diego, and had to be pushing 100. The sun was glaring, and the smog was visible even at ground level. I walked a few blocks past street vendors, and was called ‘girl’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘baby’, ‘lady’, ‘sister’, and ‘señorita’. The noise and chaos was charming for about 20 minutes, then I was irritated. I stopped smiling and saying ‘no thanks’, and just kept walking.

At Revolución Avenue, there’s a giant arch welcoming you to Tijuana. The wind made a cool noise as it whistled through the wires. I walked around, disappointed with the ugly crafts and tired of being yelled at. I realized the lone American woman was just asking for it, so I tried to be nice and hurry past. I found my way to what was apparently the largest tourist thoroughfare, based on the number of pharmacies and margarita bars blasting the crappiest dance hits of the mid-90s. I walked into a big shop, and realized that all my tacky-souvenir needs had just been met in one place. I bought a bunch of loterias, a mirror edged with tile and hammered aluminum, some metal ornaments, and lots of dia de los muertos stuff. They wrapped everything up for me carefully, and joked about the giant loteria showdown I was obviously going to organize at home. I was happy.

My Mexican souvenir needs completely satiated, I stopped quickly for an iced latte at a cigar shop, then headed back to the border crossing. It was so painfully hot, and the sun was beating down on me, the man with the donkey painted to look like a zebra, some mariachis, and hundreds of drunk fratboys in semi-offensive tshirts. My bag stuffed full of everything I ever wanted from Mexico (not a single roofie amongst them), all I wanted was to get the hell out of Tijuana. I was sweaty, dirty, and cranky.

I followed the signs showing a determined-looking man walking back to the USA. I went back through fake-Tijuana, and kids kept running up to me, trying to get in one last sale before I left the country. They offered candy, bracelets, or wanted to show me a trick, like juggling. All of them shouted, “A dollar! A dollar!” I walked faster. A little girl, probably 4 or 5 years old, ran up and caught me off-guard:

her: (holding up a beaded bracelet) a dollar!
me: (rushing past) no thanks!
her: (running to keep up) a dollar!
me: no thanks!!
her: si!
me: no!
her: si!
me: no!
her: si!
me: no!!!
her: loca!! (runs away)

My entire life, summed up in one word by a little girl in Tijuana. Sigh.

At that point, I decided I needed a new tattoo. You know those Latino gang tattoos in the elaborate gothic letters? I’m getting one on the back of my neck: gringa. I kind of like the idea.

I walked back across a different pedestrian overpass. The border crossing leaving Mexico was way less elaborate than leaving the US, and there were people with begging children everywhere. Right at the border, there are several last-chance pharmacies. Don’t the border guards watch those? Anyway. I went through a metal detector, then stood in line for 10 minutes, waiting for customs. The guard looked at my ID, asked if I was a citizen, and what I was bringing back with me. Then I went through a second metal detector, and was back in the US. And, yes, I felt a huge sense of relief.

Worth noting, by the way: what’s the first and last thing you see at the US border? McDonald’s. It’s wrong.

I got back on the trolley to San Diego. The ride took much longer this time, and I was tired and hungry. They made us exit at Santa Fe station and wait for another trolley, so it was almost an hour and a half later, around 6pm, that I finally got back to my car.

I took I-5 south to the Coronado Bridge and crossed to the island. Apparently, it’s where the rich people hang out. There were lots of nice restaurants there, so I parked and set off to find dinner. I had really come to see the Hotel Del Coronado, the original Hotel California (Don Henley! Again!), which I expected to be a little motel or something, not this giant castle. I walked around the cute downtown, realizing that the island was also subject to the 95%-meat rule. I picked another Mexican place and had an OK salad, having been warned against their veggie burger. The restaurant was playing Heart on the overhead. I sat near the patio, and it had finally cooled off enough to be comfortable. The sun was setting, and I could see the beach from my table.

Leaving Coronado Island, the view of San Diego was impressive. I should have seen that when I first got there, and maybe I would have liked it more. At several points along the bridge, there were signs with the number for the Suicide Hotline. I called Heather about my plans for Vegas the next day, and talked to her the whole way up to my hotel, which I overshot by 10 miles or so. I called them for directions, turned around, and headed back. I cheered silently when I saw the Starbucks just a block away from the hotel, which meant I’d be fully prepared for my drive the next day. The super-nice girl at the counter got me checked in, then wrote me directions to the nearest Ralph’s (double-coupon days!), so I could get food for the car – since I was driving through the desert, I wasn’t expecting to find much in the way of vegetarian dining along the way. I ran my stuff up to the room, threw it on the bed, and left again. I knew that if I spent too much time there, I’d pass out. I was exhausted and shaky, and I clutched the perfectly-handwritten directions in my hand against the steering wheel the whole way to the store. I thought about the strange things you find comforting when you’re in a weird place. Like coffee shops. IKEA. Text messaging on your cellphone. Good maps. Your travel journal. The pen you got at the Glacier Gateway Motel. Really friendly people you meet along the way.

At Ralph’s, I bought a protein bar, bananas, an apple, veggie chips, two giant bottles of Evian, and 4 Red Bulls. I thought, “If these Red Bulls don’t last longer than tomorrow, there’s something wrong with me.”

Cashier: Do you have a Ralph’s Club Card?
Me: Nope!
Cashier: Do you want one?
Me: [Tiniest pause as my head says ‘YES!’] Nope!

I have to get over the Big Lebowski thing. But I can’t, so as I drove away, I thought to myself, “I shopped at Ralph’s in La Jolla.” I said it over and over: Ralph’s in La Jolla. Go on, say it. It’s funny, right? La Jolla!

I knew I was tired, because I could barely remember how to get back to the hotel the way I came. I went up to my room, got my email, booked a hotel room for Vegas (my criteria being 1: cheap and 2: oldschool, none of that new-hotel crap). I took a shower and used almost the entire bar of soap while I daydreamed about what I was going to do when I got home. In this order:

1. Take the longest shower of my life, so I could wash the western half of the US from my body. No, wait! The western half of North America! Yeah!
2. Sex.
3. Sleep.
4. Repeat steps 2-3 as desired.
5. Dig through souvenirs.
6. Wash clothes.

Also, I realized the thing about doing stuff like going to Mexico alone: the very fine line between brave and stupid is simply a matter of whether you make it out unscathed. And it’s only in retrospect that you know for sure. With that, I made my pillow nest and went to bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

there is way, way too much long blonde hair here. are they playing motley crue?

did i mention i love the freeways in la? at one point, it was 16 lanes wide. slamming on the brakes. insane.

they’re playing ac/dc now. i hate this place.

why do i keep asking starbucks baristas about vegetarian food? there is obviously some incorrect association in my mind, because i’ve yet to receive a single helpful suggestion. there are less vegetarians in the universe than i suspect. however, my oldschool starbucks card makes me an instant celebrity. i guess that’s the tradeoff.

there are some restaurants who are cool with alone-diners and some that are not. at the good places, the servers always spend more time talking to you, and pay more attention to you than they do to other people there. at the bad places, they look at you funny when you say ‘one, please’, and then ignore you once they take your order.

2:15 and i’m waiting for the trolley to tijuana. that would be a good song title.

i’m never going to tijuana alone again. i mean, it had to be done. and 45 minutes was enough. but as heather pointed out, i’ve covered all the countries in north america on this trip. i rule.

inside the trolleys, there are signs reading, ‘this is a high-performance vehicle. please hold on.’ i need that in chico.

holy crap, i’m going to vegas tomorrow. i’m so unprepared. i should probably book a hotel.

– – – – –

I got up at 6:30 and ran to Starbucks before heading out. My car was covered in what could only be described as humidity dust. It was in the mid-60s, but still insanely humid. I got on I-15, going the opposite direction from the rest of the traffic. They were going to work, I was going to Vegas. Suckers.

About halfway to San Bernardino, all the traffic on the interstate had to stop for inspection, even though it was a good 40 miles north of the border. The guard waved me through. I realized that this was a new potential career. Next time I go to Tijuana, I’m loading my trunk with illegal immigrants. So, like, never.

As I drove, I realized I was tired and sore. Not just sore, but sore everywhere. I had gotten used to that state, but it seemed a little more extreme that day.

Las Vegas hadn’t been on my original non-itinerary, because I figured I could get there anytime. However, having just read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I kind of wanted to go. Specifically, I wanted to take that drive from Los Angeles, going through Barstow and Baker. It’s a thing. When I realized that I could take that same route heading up from San Diego, it was decided. So I got past Riverside on the way to Barstow, and it was starting to turn into desert. It was about 95 degrees and a steep incline, so I had to turn off the air conditioning to avoid overheating. My car paranoia was already in full swing, based on my track record and the intense heat. I figured that driving through the Mojave Desert would be the biggest test of Chico’s stamina to date. I wasn’t sure I was up to it, either.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the temperature display, which kept climbing upwards. All of a sudden, I was in road construction, on a narrow 2-lane highway with a concrete barrier on my left and a wall of semi trucks on my right. I panicked. I was having trouble seeing. I had to keep reminding myself to just breathe, because I was worried about passing out behind the wheel. Even though I was doing 70, it felt like this slow-motion creep uphill. I had never been so scared; I was convinced that I was going to die alone in the desert.

I think part of the problem was that I had gone from almost 0 to 4000 feet elevation in about 10 minutes. I knew I had had trouble with that before. Also, because of my weird eating habits on the road, I was on a blood sugar rollercoaster. I was honestly freaking out about my safety, so I grabbed my phone and called Heather, and asked her to talk me down. And she did.

When I got to Barstow, I pulled off at a truck stop, like she told me to do. I got out of the car and the backs of my pants were soaked through, dark green stains down the backs of my thighs. I was beyond caring. I went and sat in the bathroom for ten minutes or so, trying to calm down (which was an indication of my mental state, that I would prefer sitting in a truck stop bathroom). I bought a pop and commented to the girl at the counter that my hands were shaking because I was terrified of driving through the desert. She laughed and said that a woman had told her the exact same thing the day before. She asked if I had a cellphone, and told me not to worry, because I would be safe.

I felt a little better, having survived the first leg, and knowing I only had 200 miles to go to Vegas. I ate a banana and felt less shaky, so I got back on the road. Since I was past the big uphills, I turned the air back on. The engine temperature needle hadn’t budged the whole time, so I relaxed a little. I was going to make it to Vegas before 1pm. Apart from the freaking-out part, I liked the desert. I saw Joshua Trees and salt flats where they race cars. I couldn’t believe people lived in Baker, out in the middle of nowhere. I saw Primm, Nevada, one of those cities trying to make itself a mini-Vegas. I saw a huge waterpark complex that had closed, with some of the slides starting to collapse. I came over a rise and saw Vegas, and regretted just a tiny bit that I wasn’t approaching it at night, and seeing the neon. Instead, I saw smog. But, still. It was Vegas!

I called the bellhop at my hotel to find out which exit to take. I went to the north end of the strip, turned at Circus Circus, and I had arrived at my perfect oldschool casino: the Stardust. Home of the Wayne Newton Theater! I walked through the lobby, intending to go ask when check-in time was, but a sign told me I could do so at noon. Awesome. I checked in and ran to the car for my bags. Another cool thing about Vegas: free parking. My room was great, especially since it was so cheap. I grabbed the things-to-do magazine to look up shows, because I really wanted to see something while I was there. I briefly considered Wayne Newton, but then decided against paying so much money for a joke. I finally picked Jubilee!, and called to reserve my ticket. The guy on the phone said, “You know it’s topless, right?” It better be, dude. I hung up and flipped to the dining section of the magazine to examine my options. MGM Grand, featuring no less than 82,000 restaurants, seemed like a safe bet. Plus, it was at the other end of the strip, so I’d be able to see everything in between.

I fixed my hair, changed into something a little less ‘I’m-in-the-car-all-day-so-I-could-give-a-fuck-what-I-look-like’, and headed out. I got probably the best iced coffee ever at the little coffee counter in the lobby, go figure. When I walked out the door, I ran smack into a 115-degree wall.

I started walking. It was fine for two blocks, if a little surprising. After three blocks, my contacts had melted to my eyes. After four, my eyeballs had melted to my brain. All the ice in my coffee had long since melted. The passing buses gave off waves of heat that were physically painful to walk through. The wind was dusty. Thankfully, it was hazy, so the sun didn’t come out very often. I walked as fast as I could, but when I had to stop at intersections, I could feel the heat of the pavement through the soles of my shoes. I had never, ever felt heat like that before. It was miserable.

Also, things in Las Vegas were a lot farther apart than I had expected. I know now that the strip is 3 miles long, and I wish I had known that when I was walking it. However, it was fun to see all the casinos, and I stopped to take lots of pictures. Lots of them had water misters and giant fans set up near their entrances, so those offered a little escape from the heat. Walking past the doors was like torture, though, feeling the air conditioning blasting out into the street.

It took me almost an hour to get to MGM Grand. I had a headache and was feeling fuzzy. I walked in and immediately felt 100% better with the air conditioning, until I realized I was now completely damp and freezing cold. I started following signs pointing to restaurants. Rainforest Cafe? No. Maybe Spago – but it wasn’t open yet. I went past ten places, checking menus. There wasn’t even an attempt to have vegetarian food – even the salads were meaty. I was willing to settle for anything, since it was 2pm and I was hungry, but I could honestly find nothing. I walked the whole length of the casino, which appeared to be about the size of the Mall of America. Then I wandered back to the one restaurant I had intentionally ignored – Emeril’s. I had avoided it for two reasons. First, it was a seafood restaurant. Second, Heather’s deep, burning hatred for Emeril had rubbed off on me. I recalled the time we were driving down St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, past his restaurant, and Heather spotted him standing in the front window. She let out a string of expletives that surprised even me. So, yeah. We hate Emeril.

They sat me at the back of the restaurant at a table immediately next to another couple, even though the place was almost empty. It was one of those restaurants that tries to act really upscale so you feel funny wearing Old Navy clothes, but then you realize you’re in a casino, it’s tacky by nature, and everyone else there is dressed like crap, too. They pull out the chair and put your napkin in your lap for you (which creeps me the hell out, actually) just so they can justify charging $35 for an entree.

I decided on the portobello-blue cheese burger, but then got suspicious, knowing the tendency towards meat in Vegas. When the server came to take my order, I asked him: it’s just a grilled mushroom, right? No actual burger? He seemed offended, and assured me that it was 100% prime-grade beef. He seemed to be drooling, reveling in its meatiness. I shuddered, and ordered a salad instead. I ate almost the whole basket of bread while I waited. They served me Diet Coke in a champagne flute. The salad was OK, not great. Emeril can go to hell.

The guy at the next table started talking about the food, because they were vegetarian, too. We thought it was funny that they put the vegetarians in the back corner together, probably to make it easier to ridicule us from afar. We exchanged stories – they were from Bermuda, in Las Vegas for their anniversary. They were appalled by the heat, too. We talked about food, travel, and having kids. He and I laughed really hard about Starbucks, and our mutual love of it: it’s not good coffee, but it’s consistent. Wherever you go, it’s exactly the same. He confessed his love for their raisin scone, which he pronounced ‘scoon’. I was charmed.

Just as I was finishing my meal, they started talking about their business: they were Herbalife salespeople. I took this as my cue; I wished them a very happy anniversary, and escaped before they could hit me up.

I stopped at one of the fifty or so Starbucks in the casino, bought coffee, and sat at a table to do the writing I would usually be doing during dinner. It was 4pm, and my show was at 7:30, so I decided that I would wander back towards Bally’s, touring all the casinos in between. Also, I’d try to scope out a place for a very late dinner, because I knew if I ended up looking afterwards, I was just going to be angry.

From MGM Grand, I crossed to New York, New York. It was pretty cool inside, but I got lost trying to get back out the other side. I was hoping to be able to work my way up the strip mostly staying indoors, and out of the hellish heat. No luck; I ended up walking a few blocks outside anyway. I stopped into CVS and bought a giant bottle of painkillers for the pounding headache I had since I had started walking earlier that day (as Heather pointed out, I was dehydrated, and the coffee was just making it worse. Of course, I didn’t realize that at the time). I crossed to the Aladdin and went into the shops entrance. After walking around for a while, I decided that this was my favorite casino. The shops were laid out in a big circle with the casino in the center. I thought that was kind of ingenious, as it allows you to buy souvenirs and window-shop while making your way from one entrance to another, without having to deal with the casino insanity. Also, it’s divided into four sections, each decorated in a different middle-eastern theme. I liked the giant couches for lounging and the simulated thunderstorm, which was mildly entertaining. From there, I went to Paris. It was one of the better casinos, too – the legs of the Eiffel Tower inside the casino were cool. I went into a couple shoppes and used les toilettes.

I was wandering and abruptly found myself in Bally’s, quicker than I had expected. I stopped to pick up my tickets for the show, then decided I needed more coffee, and still had an hour and a half to kill. I crossed to the Bellagio. It was swank, but in that ridiculous Vegas way – so overdone that it’s obscene, and incongruous because all the tourists are still Bob and Ann from Omaha, and Bob is wearing a Hawaiian shirt. The lobby was amazing, and they were piping in flower scent. I was confused about the giant liberty bell, though. Why is it there? Weird. The Bellagio offered me no coffee, nor did Caesar’s Palace, or the Flamingo, or the Barbary Coast (ha). I decided to go back to Paris, because I had passed a coffee shop there where I could sit down for a while. I wound my way through the maze of escalators and moving sidewalks back to Bally’s. I had noticed a trend on this type of public transport, by the way: I radiate impatience. I must, because every time I would be standing behind someone on an escalator or moving sidewalk, they’d turn, look chastened, and move out of the way with a quickness. Sometimes, I was just standing there, being calm and trying not to curse them for being slow, and they could still tell. It’s funny.

I found the patisserie and got an iced latte. I sat and wrote for 10 minutes, then used les toilettes again, and headed over to Bally’s for my showgirls show. I went into the theatre and watched all the funny people finding their seats. As for Jubilee, there’s a lot to be said. If your fetish involves feather plumes, sequins, rhinestones, and impossibly-large hats, this is the show for you. (I was going to add ‘boobs’ to that list, but everybody likes boobs.)

So, the show opens with the big typical showgirl-style revue. There are breasts, and lots of them. Most of them are fake, and too many ribs are poking out beneath them. The men in the show are super-queeny, and it’s hard to buy them singing about how all they want is hundreds and hundreds of girls. The music is cringe-worthy, as is the choreography. All the musical numbers are those montage-style bits, really overdone and cliché. I’d think the show was making fun of itself, but I doubt that was the case.

Act 2 is the Long Twins. They juggle and contort themselves. There’s a too-long section where they wriggle in and out of garbage cans.

Act 3 is Samson and Delilah. In my opinion, this gem should’ve been saved for the finale, it’s that good. All the guys are dressed in leather-and-studs quasi-bondage gear, including those exaggerated banana thongs. When they dance, all I can think of is Party Boy from Jackass. There’s lots of simulated sex that’s supposed to look like dancing. Samson is a huge hunk of a man who stands at the side of the stage and flexes his pecs absently while watching the writhing. After Delilah seduces him and chops off his long, lustrous hair, the scene evolves into this bizarre S&M dungeon-type thing. It ends with Samson re-enacting King Kong – he escapes, knocking shit down and starting things on fire. Then he scales the gigantic bull sculpture, as smoke pours from its angry red nostrils. It starts breaking into pieces and collapsing very, very slowly, with Samson riding it all the way down.

At this point, I couldn’t hide the fact that I was in hysterics. Everyone else there seemed to think it was pretty damn good. When I looked at the program, I noted that the last part was labeled Scene VII – Cataclysm. You got that right.

Next up, act 4 is called ‘Fuzion’. It’s a very athletic, very aryan couple getting into various poses to the beat of German industrial techno. Their strength and balance is impressive. The fact that they’re doing a slo-mo ‘robot’ isn’t.

Act 5 is the Titanic, and it’s the pinnacle of cheesy. I was giggling before it even started. The costumes are terrible. The men wear candy-colored suits with giant white piping. The women have huge, overgrown muffs. (Ha! No, it’s only topless. Really.) They lipsynch really poorly. I was wondering if they were going to show tits again before or after the ship sank. The Titanic’s crewmen are putting on horrifying British accents, saying things like, “I say, old chap,” and “Jolly good.” There’s a song about French lingerie, accompanied by a fashion show (no, I have no idea, either). Then there’s a boiler room gangbang, and after that the ship sinks. And the really funny thing is, it sinks in exactly the same way as the temple fell down vis-a-vis Samson: breaking into pieces, falling slowly into a pit. You know, cataclysm. In the program, the note reads, ‘Nearer my God to Thee.’ Um. What?

Act 6 is Stoyan and Dmitri hanging onto sheets and flying around overhead. It’s not great, since they obviously once had hopes of making the Olympic team on the rings. They failed.

Act 7: The Finale. What can I say? It’s exactly what you would expect. Huge, feathered hats that make up 95% of the total outfit. Lots of boobs. A topless wedding ceremony. Some of the girls appear to have become trapped in chandeliers. There’s even an especially-painful standards revue sandwich: montages of pieces by Cole Porter, then Jerome Kern, then George Gershwin. The montages don’t work very well, because they do two or three lines of every song before moving to the next: it’s Broadway for the short-attention-span crowd. Or more accurately, to satisfy the audience’s belief that they came to see real entertainment, and not just to see a bunch of nipples. So, yeah. The show was over, and we clapped. I applauded the few apparently non-surgically-altered breasts onstage. You can tell by the jiggle, and their unashamed less-than-perfection.

I left Bally’s and headed back toward the Stardust. I cut through the Barbary Coast and Venetian. There were way, way more people in my way at that time of night. I couldn’t believe the number of people out, and the huge variety. It would’ve been excellent people-watching, but I wasn’t in the mood. Also, I quickly became irritated at the amount of drunk ogling. Everyone was drunk. Creepy guys making too much eye contact. I wanted to push my way through just to get away. It seemed to have cooled down a bit outside, maybe even under 100. All the lights were on on the strip, but I wasn’t noticing most of it. I just wanted food and sleep. I wandered through Treasure Island and found nothing, so I went back to the Stardust. It was nearly deserted, totally unlike the casinos farther down the strip. It was actually a relief until I encountered the crowd exiting the Wayne Newton show; they were probably the slowest people I’d encountered yet.

At the Stardust, I found a restaurant with food I could eat. So, of course, they had just closed for cleaning as I got there at 11pm. So I went to Tony Roma’s (Your Place For Ribs). Yeah, I know. It was sheer desperation, and I was determined to find something. That ended up being a side caesar salad and an order of mozzarella sticks. I was sure they would make me sick, but I didn’t care. I was in Vegas, the city where people do really stupid things. After dinner, I dragged my tired ass up to my room, wrote for a very short while, and went to bed, determined to sleep in the next day.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

california drivers hate letting people switch lanes. they speed up. assholes.

on mira mesa boulevard, a booth that has everything you could ever want: coffee, smoothies, cigarettes, and lotto tickets.

on the interstate, i saw a dumptruck with the message: happiness is a good dump.

road sign along I-15:
las vegas 76
salt lake city 526

holy crap! i ran out my glacier gateway motel pen! i want to die! moving on to the la hilton pen. ha.

at this point, i’m surprised i’m able to stop walking. it’s all i do lately.

people here walk so fucking slow!! aaargh!

why do i notice the heat on my eyes the most? is it the contacts? it’s bizarre.

the waitress just came up and said, ‘gosh, you write fast!’ ha.

being by yourself in vegas during the day isn’t weird at all. at night, it sucks. it’s the crowds and the drunkenness. you feel like meat. i don’t regret not being out wandering around the strip right now. i’d probably end up throwing punches.

– – – – –