(somewhere in idaho)
this time last year, we were on the road. we were wondering if we were going to make it. this time last year, we were contemplating what our new life might be like out in the great pacific northwest. this time last year, our lives were sort of up in the air.
on our way out of atlanta, I decided to keep a different kind of journal-- one to hold the small, more forgettable details of our days on the road, one that would give gas station food and fluctuating grouchiness as much attention as the majestic nature of the mountains we'd no doubt soon all be oohing and aahing over. something about this decision liberated me. I didn't feel pressure to document every profound moment. instead, I wrote about spicy guacamole pringles, strange roadside signs and the music we listened to. I wrote about the way some hotels smelled like chlorine (and how much I loved that) and the advantages and disadvantages of sleeping fully clothed. because I'd given myself permission to write whatever and whenever I wanted (or not), I suddenly wanted to write all the time. and that's what I did. if I wasn't messing with the camera, I was writing stuff down. one year later and I've had more fun reading these entries than I could have ever predicted. which inspired list-making, of course. almost everything in my life seems to lead to list-making.
(gas station in tennessee)
(somewhere in utah)
not missing:
gas stations that smell like burnt coffee
sleeping through the night fully clothed (denim skirts especially not recommended)
thinking you're going to see the
world's largest prairie dog when, in fact, you are not
pimply, distracted teenage restaurant workers who pretend they are listening while they are taking your order
children who want bacon and ranch-flavored pringles for breakfast
entire towns that smell like dog food
toys that wedge themselves into the tight spaces between seats inside cars and cannot be retrieved, no matter how ingenious the retrieving contraption is
gas station bathrooms that destroy all faith in humanity
missed opportunities, i.e. deliciously odd roadside attractions that look like old wooden dutch mills and boast views of six states
crusty old men who give your son a penny and then tell him to go 'buy himself a beer'
sharing tiny hotel swimming pools with the splash-happy twins
incorrect apostrophe usage on roadside billboards-- most notably, the porn shop in the middle of nowhere called PASSION'S
bad songs that get stuck in your head and won't go away because, you know,
it's hard out here for a pimp
book lights that do not illuminate the desired reading area AT ALL
hotels that look nice in the picture but then feel inexplicably creepy once you check in
waking up in a dark hotel room at three in the morning to the sounds of high-pitched screaming and the shattering of glass, wondering what to do first-- call the police or pack up and flee
toy gumball machines that absolutely do not deliver anything even remotely close to the goods
meltdowns in laramie, wyoming
(on the road in kansas)
(ava in the great state of oregon)
totally missing:
so many freshly opened boxes of crayons
enormous bundles of balloons that break free and escape from car dealerships
kitschy gift shops that cause you to lose all reason and purchase totally unnecessary souvenir items
listening to sufjan's
come on feel the illinoise while driving through my home state of
illinois
finding
four leaf clovers at the
base of the st. louis arch
friends that lovingly make you home-cooked meals and let you crash at their house for the night
the permission to: eat mcdonald's hotcakes every morning, buy as many trashy gossip magazines as necessary
wide open turquoise-colored skies
walmart greeters that wear hats made of feathers
made-up stories about freddy and fern and the bicycle that goes nowhere
traveling along the
original route 66
the sharing of
pink frosted cupcakes with one 96 year-old birthday girl
bare feet propped comfortably (and permanently) up
on the dashboard
traveling on roads that feel as if they were dropped from the sky into the narrow crevices of magnificent mountains
the tails of stale
marshmallow peeps
jared's good morning (and good night) mixes
outstretched arms, windswept hair
views so scenic you have no choice but to put down your book and stare out the window (DARN YOU, UTAH)
extra-fine black pilot pens
late night dips in
illuminated indoor swimming pools
ripping into
mystery care packages put together by family and friends
freshly filled buckets of hotel ice
things worth excitedly pointing out:
shoes hung like christmas ornaments on trees, one very slow moving tumbleweed,
the world's largest pair of underwear,
spectacular snow-capped mountains, entire lengths of trains, wind farms,
moss (like supernatural chartreuse carpet) covering absolutely everything in sight,
fantastic waterfalls
waking up in a dark hotel room at three in the morning to hear the sounds of family sleeping soundly, deeply
the crossing of each and every state line
