>Take
One<
My best friend, Dave, rescued me. On Thursday, March 6th, he flew into Bellingham, Washington, rented a white Ford Escape, and on Friday, March 7th, drove into British Columbia, Canada. At 8 AM, United Van Lines arrived to scoop up all my belongings and were backing out of the cul-de-sac by 9 AM. At 9:05 AM, Dave strolled down the sidewalk. We packed the vehicle with three suitcases, many last minute thrown together boxes, over 200 music CDs, and dozens of bottles of Diet Cola. At the border, we sang Weird Al Yankovic songs, notably “One More Minute,” and after a moderate wait time of forty minutes in line, the U.S. Customs officer eyeballed my packing list, glanced at the disarray in the backseat, and waved us by without a hitch.
We drove into the United States of America at 11:34 AM.
Less than a mile over the border was Blaine, Washington where we ordered scrumptious fish and chips which then vanished right before our very eyes.
>Take
Two<
After an evening of fun and games, the next morning Dave and I had breakfast, and then he flew back to his home, and I set out alone in the rented Ford Escape. Despite losing four hours (one to Daylight Saving Time and another three to time zones; Mountain, Central, Eastern), I drove 3,400.9 miles in five days, covering fourteen states; Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Connecticut.
I broke into song, America the Beautiful, more than once.
>Take
Three<
I planned my trip using Yahoo! Maps and every single direction was correct.
(Dramatic pause.)
What I found the most useful was that they included not only the exit names but the exit numbers as well which was invaluable for keeping track of how far I was and how close I was getting. It turns out the exit numbers are directly related to the mileage indicators for that particular highway.
Another of life’s great mysteries solved. (I’m marking it off my checklist right now.)
>Take
Four<
The Purple Mountains’ Majesty Award goes to Boise, Idaho. About mid-morning, as I drove over a hilly crest, there stretching in all directions was a vast basin of blue-white snow and on the perimeter were glistening purple-blue mountains spanning as far as my eye could see. Second Place was Mt. Baker State Park in Washington where a six-lane highway blazes straight up the mountain and the eighteen-wheelers all barrel along at 75 mph.
IMAX, sorry, but you cannot compete.
The Amber Waves of Grain Award might ordinarily go to the state of Nebraska if the season had been mid- summer, but in early March, it was more ashen shafts of mulch.
The Tri-City Infernal Regions Award goes to Kansas City, St. Louis, and Indianapolis
which I braved all in the same day, three textbook examples of why engineers ought to be consulted when planning and constructing an inner city highway system. Plodding through Indianapolis, the cause of one slowdown turned out to be that a tractor-trailer had flipped over onto its side in the middle of a hairpin turn exiting from one highway to another.
I rest my case.
The Did I Imagine it or Was it Real? Award goes to the first 60 miles of Route 80 in Pennsylvania where, at sundown, carnivorous trucks emblazoned with iridescent demon lights, crush into the narrow two-lane highway, one lane thundering along at 86.1 mph and the other lane at 86.2 mph while the roaring behemoth behind me tailgates my SUV, averaging about a six-foot margin of error.
“Where are the police in all of this?” I silently scream.
Then I realize. There’s no room for the police cars to squeeze in.
>Take Five<
My friend, Ken, offered me the following advice. Resist the urge to eat at any food franchises. Whether it be MacDonald’s or Denny’s, all across America, they look and taste absolutely the same. Instead, seek out the local restaurants and appreciate the local color, that is, “the flavor of a locality imparted by the customs and sights peculiar to it.”
My first attempt was at The Rooster in Oregon where as a former Southern Californian I made the mistake of ordering a Cobb Salad on the presumption that it might be of the same quality as the Cobb Salad I might order at Musso & Frank’s on Hollywood Boulevard. I can assure you that it was not. The only local color I observed was the disquieting hue of the iceberg lettuce.
My second attempt
was breakfast at Molly’s in Idaho where my three once-over-easy eggs were instead poached into a single solid mass that might have had Goodyear stamped on the back side. Neither the bacon nor the link sausages were exactly as expected. Think Star Trek:The Motion Picture and the steaming remains from the faulty transporter scene. Or was that from David Cronenberg’s The Fly? I cannot remember which.
My third and final attempt was suppertime at The Horseshoe Inn in Nebraska where the roast beef dinner and celery soup and salad bar triggered an “am I food poisoned?” gurgling in my stomach that persisted all evening accompanied by an aftertaste of processed beef that lingered into the following day.
Based on this anecdotal evidence, I must conclude that Ken travels to more exotic ports of call than I.
>Take
Six<
If receiving this newsletter is as welcome as Tabasco sauce on your apple pie, click
here to cancel. On the other hand, if you’re reading this from my website and wish to subscribe, click
here.
>Take
Seven<
Oh, Canada... so long, and thanks for all the fish.
>Cut<
>Print< |
