notes from roadside

Whitefish, MT - Spokane, WA... Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

2011-02-08T18:16:00.010-05:00

Rich packed up and headed back to life in the northeast. This meant I had to go back to making friends if I wanted to talk to anybody besides myself. California was my next destination where I'd be seeing familiar faces and that was still days away. And thus, the road was hit. Traveling from Whitefish, MT I would be heading through Idaho and towards Spokane, WA. Before this day would end, I would get myself involved in one of the weirder and more embarrassing scenarios of my trip. Be patient. (Or just skip to the part with the photos of tightrope walking.)

The drive was long and beautiful. If I ever make it back there again, I need to buy this...
Hours later, I found the longest train I will probably ever see.
For days, I had been eyeing these bales of hay on the side of the road and saying to myself, "These are going to make for a great picture." So eventually, you just pull over, get out of the car, and take some shots. And it turns out they don't make for great pictures. They make for boring pictures of hay. But at least I know that now. I'm learning so much out here.

Occasionally as I drive, I'll find a sign for some random monument, town, or god knows what else. Sometimes I ignore them, sometimes I go after them, can't find them and move on, and other times, I find places like Wallace, ID.

The town of Wallace - it belongs in a snowglobe. Without the snow. I wandered through quiet streets lined with mom and pop ice cream stores and antique shops. Upon reflection, I don't think there was a single retail location that offered anything other than that. I later find out that the town doesn't allow any chains or franchises to open shop here. Eventually I make my way to a once-gasoline-station-and-garage-and-now-ice-cream-parlor-and-cafe. As I'm inspecting, Jamie Baker (the man featured below, sporting boots, shorts, and an unfogettable gap toothed smile and bubbly personality) shows up on his four wheeler, loaded with several gallons of ice cream. I strike up conversation and find out that he moved here from Spokane with his wife years ago. They bought their first house in '92 for $4,000. He has since purchased several other properties - they restore them and rent them out - all historic. They purchased the gas station across the street and are working on that these days. Very friendly type who, even though working, made time to talk to me. he sat on the bench while holding two vats of ice cream. I had Huckleberry ice cream and, don't tell anyone in MT or WA, but it tastes just like black raspberry.

All good things must come to an end, and so did my time in Wallace. With a dripping ice cream cone in hand, I headed towards Spokane. Frustrated as to where to go upon arriving, I went to Auntie's bookstore, bought Adam Smith's "A Theory On Moral Sentiments" and the girl behind the counter gave more advice than I could handle on recommendations for a bite to eat and a glass of beer. I checked out some of the recommendations but it was still only 5pm on a Thursday and so the places were empty. And I hate sitting in an empty restaurant alone pretending to mind that I'm sitting in an empty restaurant alone. After checking a couple places out, (one of the places had a KISS cover band pantomiming unplugged instruments while KISS records blared through the speakers, all while a drunk softball team pretended Gene Simmons was actually there licking the air as Ace Frehley played a solo I'll never really care about).

I noticed the World's Fair sculpture and wandered into the park and towards the pavilion. On my way there, I passed a small group of guys slacklining (read: tight rope walking). I first walked by, but then came around and started asking them about it. Before long, I was on the line and we were all hanging out, joking around, and having a good ol' time. John, Tyler, and Kiel were all between 18-21. We ended up there for a few hours before going down to the river where the local power plant is.

But things didn't really start getting out of control until we were in Kiel's truck. It was explained to me that he knew several backroads where he could get his truck off the ground. So we spent the next 20 minutes bombing down random streets of Spokane, trying to reenact any Steve McQueen movie you've seen. I felt like the troublemaking kid I never took the time to be. Eventually we went back to slacklining where Tyler proceeded to attempt backflips while holding onto a cigarette in his mouth.

Things took a turn for the weird when, in the midst of slacklining in the Pavillion, a gay couple walked by us in the park. Kiel gets Tyler's attention with a whisphered, "Hey! Look at this sh-t!" He then turned to me and said, "I've never seen that before. Two guys... coupled together like that. It's like seeing a f-cking unicorn. And on top of that, it's just not safe. They're lucky they're noting getting attacked right now."

I said, "that's got to be tough" and they both looked at me, inquiring, "What do you mean?" I said, "Being gay in an area where it is so uncommon and not accepted has got to be tough for them..." They continued to stare at me. So I added, "assuming you believe it's something you're born with and not simply a choice." And while they didn't directly say it, they very clearly hinted at believing in the latter. When I said "You guys should visit New York. Gay couples are about as common as straight couples there" they simultaneously agreed aloud that they'd rather stay here in that case.

When 12:30am hit, I decided it was time to call it a night. I thanked the gang for schooling me on slacklining, took a quick photo of them, and headed back to my car. Only when I got there, it was gone.

All I could recall was Kiel's stories about the Russian mobs stealing cars all around the city. In a total panic, I called the cops to report a stolen vehicle. They said they would dispatch someone as soon as possible. I let them know that wasn't soon enough, as it was 12:30 in the am, and that I had nothing but a cell phone and a book, and nowhere to go. "Just sit put sir. I don't know what else to tell you."

Maybe I started to cry in a bit of a panic. Maybe I freaked out, trying to think of what I could possibly do besides, well... freak out. That's when I turned to my left and saw, no more than 15 feet away, my car. I had looked in the wrong spot.

Soooo, I called the cops back, told them a very apologetic story about how my friends took my keys and moved my car on me, and that everything was all set. I hung up, crawled into my car, and had one of the best nights of sleep yet.

(Kiel, who was the brains of the group, Facebooked me within 12 hours and added me to his "musical interest" portion of his page. Awww, what a sweetheart. I hope he's not reading this now.)

New York Parking Prices

Site of the '74 Spokane World Fair

The crew

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again

2010-11-10T16:41:00.016-05:00

I am usually drawn to fun/crazy/adventurous/dangerous/stupid activities and ideas. Anybody who knows me knows that. So when Rich proposed mountain biking, I was more than eager. Plus, my health insurance was in limbo, so why not fly teeth-first down an aggressively steep and rocky mountain on two wheels in the middle of Whitefish, MT.

We rented bikes and helmets ("Yeah, yeah, we've done this before." I lied to the guy at the counter of the rental office), took the ski lift to the top of the mountain, and tested our (lack of) skills on the terrain park. And I've never felt so unatheltic. And awkward.

But like any other part of this trip, I found my comfort zone after 10 or 15 minutes. What seemed like impossible hazards upon our arrival quickly settled into fun and routine feeling stunts. Rich had done this before, so his confidence in his own ability was legit. Mine, however, was a blatant lie. The teeter-totter was the most dangerous of the obstacles, so I made sure to test it until failure. Five or six times over it with no problem. "One last one - just to get a picture." That always ends the same way...

I don't know why, but I froze at the top. And that's not what you're supposed to do. And I know that. Especially now. A split second after the photo was taken, I fell off the bicycular-see-saw and collapsed into a pile, my bike tangled in my legs.

After making our way to the first aid station and getting my hands and arms bandaged up, we decided to head down the mountain. I had never realized that in many cases, mountain biking trails are no wider than a bike tire. That being said, the margin for error hovers somewhere around zero. Still, it was beautiful. And exciting. And terrifying.

With a camera around my neck and my sunglasses on, I uncontrollably navigated my way down the path, around less than comforting turns, over unforgiving rocks and logs, often veering off the dirt and into the grass. But then you hit a groove. And it feels right. And again, a false confidence buries itself in your heart and brain and you start to forget everything. You forget how to be smart. How to be careful. And you start going faster. And faster. And this goes on until you realize you're out of control. And in my case, this moment coincided with a bee flying under my helmet and into my ear. And without a thought, I took one hand off of my handlebars to swat at that wretched bee. Unfortunately it was my right hand. And in that fraction of a second that I took my hand away from steering, my remaining hand pulled the front wheel to a hard left, projecting me off the path, over my handlebars and down the side of the mountain.

While yelling a very emphatic "OHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" my bike and I completed our first summersault together and I landed on my back just in time to cushion the fall of my new worst enemy (read: bike.) For a second I thought I was paralyzed. Or dead. But somehow I didn't break anything: bones, camera, sunglasses, etc. This was the path I took:

After fighting to get the chain back on the bike and then suffer through the remainder of the eight mile suicide mission, we dropped off our bikes and hobbled back to the car, pleased that it was over. The rest of the day was spent at a lakeside bar, contemplating whether or not I'd have mobility the following day.

Glacier? I hardly know her.

2010-11-04T01:08:00.027-04:00

I don't feel much like writing at the moment, so I'm not going to. Still I'd like to share a few photos... (as always, click to enlarge)

Starting off the our first full day in the park, Rich and I did a couple 1-2 mile hikes to get acclimated with the park. Big horn sheep and mountain goats would pop up here and there. An occasional marmot would make an appearance. Referencing our map and discussion from the previous night with our camp guide, we decided to pack for the hike to Grinnell Glacier. It was a quick boat ride, a four mile hike round trip, and we'd be back long before sunset.

We departed from the famous Many Glacier Hotel, an historic landmark built in 1914-15 as a series of chalets on Swiftcurrent Lake. It would be impossible to walk into or around the hotel without being reminded of The Overlook Hotel. A beautiful and purposely antiquated space, it seems a great place to sit for a beer or coffee, but feels too much like the Shining. ANYWAY, after a 20 minute or so boat ride, we reached our destination and faced the option of going with the group for a 1.5 mile hike or going on our own for a hike 2-3 times that distance. After being told that a group of four people or more have never been attacked by a grizzly at Glacier, we decided to go on our own.

After about an hour of nothing looking remotely familiar, we began to wonder. Several hours/miles/cliff bars/gallons of sweat later, we discovered that our trail was a solid six miles each way. Every hiker walking the opposite way would give us intel conflicting entirely with the previous passerby. "It's a another 20 minutes from here" followed by, "it's a good 45 minutes from here" and they would all check their watches as if they were positive about the figure. As if to say, "I've been timing this and I know the exact answer." Regardless of timing, they all agreed on the same thing otherwise: It's worth the hike.

And despite our fear of getting stuck in the bear country after sunset, we kept on. And (because we were so far north) the sun hung in the same place, not far off the horizon, for hours. And eventually we reached it - Grinnell Glacier. Just over six miles and another 1,600 feet in altitude, we were there. Seeing a group of weird European tourists stripping down and getting in up to their necks, I took of my shoes, stepped in, and felt nothing. For a few seconds. Then came the excruciating and nearly coronary-inducing pain associated with water below freezing. Painful and beautiful, it was all part of a memory I will never forget.

But now for the hike back.

Rich and I made friends with a couple who didn't value their lives at $50 (bear mace) and instead opted for the $1 bell you tie to your shoe to keep away bears and annoy people that hike alongside you. As we walked, jingling and constantly on the lookout for bears, Jess and Jordan gradually opened up to conversation, although I've got a sneaking suspicion they were using us for our mace, should we need it.

Eventually, we returned to our starting point. Add two more miles because we would miss the last fairy back and have to go on on foot the rest of the way back to camp. I'm not saying 12-14 miles on top of a day where we already hiked a good three or four makes me an ironman, but I don't hike much and we were pushing it.

Double waterfall.

The snowdrifts in the winter are high enough to allow this: years ago, this poor S.O.B. of a big horn sheep walked onto the roof, fell through a skylight and killed itself. It was thereafter stuffed and has remained in the lobby ever since.

That night, at the advice of my travel guru (hey, that's you Casey), we found the Cattle Baron, a steakhouse that nobody in the area could say enough nice things about. A weird and random trashy little joint, every single server/busboy/employee otherwise could not wait for us to see how good the food was. And they were right. It was delicious. And Danny, the busboy pictured below shared a story of living all over the country because his father was a drug dealer who for years now has been in prison for being caught possessing hundreds of pounds of marijuana. So it goes. Needless to say, he was stoned out of his mind.

All signs point to Glacier (Day 1)

2010-11-03T12:43:00.012-04:00

I can't recall the last time sunrise brought so much relief. And a good night's sleep in a warm sleeping back and thermals was all I needed to get fired up about another day of travel. It has been written over and over again that Montana is different than other states. My favorite quotation comes from Steinbeck:

"I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana it is love."

Rich, a good friend from back home will be at the airport by midday, which gives me seven hours to drive there and get to know Montana a little bit in the interim. And my first observation was this: Some states seemed bucolic, others lonely or desolate, while still others just seemed like they were left behind by civilization. Montana's existence as a seemingly empty but gorgeous place seems to be by choice. There are just the right number of dilapidated barns to make it picturesque rather than rundown. There are few farmhouses, but enough so that it doesn't look lonely. It feels like a different world.

And if ever there was a perfect add for drugs, it was here: a lonely brick building with no windows, a door that wouldn't open, a creepy graffiti endeavor, and nothing else around. Life after meth, indeed.

More driving...

After hours of train tracks, lakes, trees, all the rest that makes Montana Montana, I picked up my friend and we stopped for a bite at the Blue Moon Grill and Casino (and dance hall). (I don't know how it all works out here, but there are Grill/Casinos every hundred yards, some of which are the branch, Cat's Paw. It was days between seeing my first Cat's Paw and realizing they weren't pet stores, but bar/casino hangouts for the Keno-hungry and Budweiser-thirsty.) ANYWAY, the Blue Moon... taxidermy, track lighting, neon lights, Wi-Fi (of course), dirty rice ("a little dirt never hurt anyone"), and an overall aesthetic that perfectly combines a sauna with what I imagine Jeremiah Johnson's living room looked like.

Knowing full well bears would be an issue, we stopped to pick up a can of reasonably priced bear mace, fetching between $50 and $70 at the local markets. I was pleased to learn that a bear must be within 30 feet before spraying. Pace out 30 feet, imagine a grizzly bear being that close (and maybe running towards you) and pulling together the nerve to pull out your bear spray and aim for the eyes. (I also enjoyed the warning on the spray that advises you not to spray it on yourself like mosquito repellant, as that won't do anything to prevent bear attacks.)

With bear fear in high gear, we set up our modest tent and met our camp site host family. They live in Glacier all summer and help other campers with everything from extra blankets to suggestions for hiking and spending time otherwise in the park. She did nothing to ease the thought of bear attacks, instead opting to tell us about her bear encounter earlier that day. "We were hiking not too far from here and we came upon a pretty big fella. We just stopped, spoke out to him, 'Hey Grizz, we're just going to keep on moving along. We don't want to bother you, etc.'" This went on while we sat with our backs to the trees, and I continued to tell myself that if I thought about getting attacked all the time, chances are it wouldn't happen. Anyway, after 30 minutes of her pointing at a map and making suggestions (and I'll admit I listened to none of it, knowing full well that my OCD companion was committing her words to memory), I used a "burn-the-whole-bag" sack of charcoal (improperly - read the instructions next time) and nearly set us both on fire, after which we burned a few hot dogs, and called it a night. More interesting photos tomorrow, but for now, enjoy these...

Beartooth Pass, The Road From Yellowstone

2010-11-02T21:01:00.016-04:00

Well that was one hell of a hiatus from writing. Where were we...?

Ah yes, leaving Yellowstone.

I have sought out counsel from three or four particular folks with respect to living like a gutter punk whilst making sure I have enough to talk about when I'm old and decrepit. The guru of travel planning is a good friend who insisted that upon leaving Yellowstone National Park I utilize Beartooth Pass, via the northeast entrance/exit. I was told it has been described as one of the most beautiful drives in this here country. And so despite it being several hours out of the way of a direct path to Whitefish, MT, I sacked up and made the haul. What else do I have to do, right?

And as forecasted, it was one of the most surreal and individualistic things I have ever done. For the first 20 miles.

It was like this for a while...

It was so beautiful it made me do this...

And then there was a whole mess of these, which I should have known was a warning...

After the beginner's course in leaving Yellowstone, I found "The Top of the World," a trinket shop that had amassed the world's largest collection of grade-A roadside garbage to sell in addition to the most expensive gasoline I'd seen since leaving home. But being miles from nowhere and having no clue when you'll find another gas station, you pay what you're asked. Word to the wise, if you're in this predicament, take the bullet and fill up your car. Don't just buy $10 or $20 of gasoline "to get to the next gas station." I played it cheap. This comes back in to play before I go to bed.

Now I don't know how it happened, but in what seemed like the blink of an eye, this segment of the trip went from beginner to advanced. The weather frowned, the map tangled itself into a tightly wound knot. It started with this:

And that soon became this...

Consider the variables here:
- Santorini-like curved roads, twisting and cutting all around the mountain face, chock full of hairpin turns and inclines and declines, segments lacking guardrails and very little clue as to where I would go if I did steer off the road
- next to zero visability
- two-lane roads with the occasional oncoming car
- sunset somewhere beyond the mountain peaks surrounding me (read: even harder to see anything)
- cold rain best for lubing up a blind and winding path
- no idea how much longer of a trip was left
- no real idea where I was going anyway
- can't forget this:
So in addition to the fact I had no idea where I was going (nor did Janice, my Garmin), I wouldn't get there until 1:46 am AND I was feeling like a sissy for going 27 in a 70mph zone.

For 30 or 40 something miles this went on, and occasionally I would pull over due to zero visibility and paralyzing fear. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe my fear was justified, but I spend a good portion of the time wondering whether or not I was going to die by driving my car off the road and into a sea of fog and gravity. To get a good idea of the seriousness of this fog, refer to Conrad's description in Heart of Darkness. It's spot on...

"...there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all round you like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it -- all perfectly still -- and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves... The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don't know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost intolerably escessive shrieking, which stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. "

Once I got through this nebulous mind-f*ck, I met a few bikers on the side of the road who had just done the same journey I had, only on motorcycles. I therefore felt further emasculated. I felt like I was having a nervous breakdown, they were hooting and hollering and living high, ready to go back for a victory lap. I took a moment to compose myself, steal some of their energy and realize how exciting it all was. If I was a Jewish 12 year old, this could have taken the place of my bar mitzvah.

Little did I know I wasn't done. Nearly two hours of blind driving only brought me into the middle of nowhere Montana. And while I witnessed the most amazing, fiery sunset I have ever seen, there was nobody and nothing around for miles. It was at this point that I started worrying about my cell phone. I had had no service for days now. It made sense that it wouldn't work in Yellowstone, but at this point I was miles and hours away from the park, and still my phone showed no signs of life or reception. I was starting to wonder if I hadn't paid my phone bill and my plan had been temporarily turned off. The magnitude of this issue was amplified by a few items:
- I had no idea (again) where I was, nor did Janice
- my gas gauge decided to stop working, so I had no idea how much gasoline I had or where I would get more
- there was nothing (and I mean nothing) around. No farmhouses, no stores... nothing. Just hills and fences for miles.
- it had been way too long since I'd seen another human or automobile - or a combination of the two
- and that's when I realized I couldn't find my wallet and it occurred to me that I may have left it at the counter of the last gas station. Was that why the folks at the counter were being so weird? Did they see me put it down and were remaining silent hoping that I would leave it? Paranoia strikes hard in these moments.
- it was starting to rain, there were no streetlights, and then...
- deer randomly darting back and forth across the road during the ensuing thunderstorm

If the driving I started on was level one, this was the last level of Battletoads. I felt like I had a better chance of winning the local lottery than defeating the elements against me. Another moment of "what am I doing here?" Just a reminder: no direction, not much visibility, maybe no wallet, maybe no gas, maybe no gas gauge, maybe no phone, a lot of surprise deer posing as whack-a-moles, and a boatload of uncertainty.

What I've calculated to be a lifetime later, I found a gas station, my wallet (between the seats), and cell reception. I made a few calls to verify my existence, and then, after getting a recommendation to sleep at a truck stop, I found, you guessed it...

Walmart in Bozeman, MT. A welcome night of sleep under some of the most beautiful stars I've ever seen. Goodnight.

Yellowstone National Park

2010-08-20T11:07:00.011-04:00

Despite my eagerness for the upcoming week of national park loitering, I couldn't help but cling to my hotel bed when I woke up in a hotel. Clean sheets. Air conditioning. My back wasn't sticking to a wrestling mat that has been serving as padding in the back of my car. I don't have open my car door to spit out my toothpaste. I'm not just going to crawl over and into the front seats, slip on my shoes, start up the car and go. Loving traveling like this doesn't have to also mean I don't appreciate a good night's sleep. This was the first full sized bed I'd had to myself in what felt like weeks and I was in no rush to leave it. I wasn't crammed in a infant sized cot or fighting for sheets with a drunk friend, or wrestling the night in the oppressive heat in the back of my car, sleeping on the slightest incline, which is just enough to keep me awake. Those nights of trying anything to fall asleep were anything but rare. Melatonin, Nyquil, wandering up and down the aisles of a 24 hour Wal-Mart hoping to either find something I forgot I needed. No, this was a bed and it was all mine, in all its bleached and sterile glory. And if it wasn't for mediocre but free breakfast awaiting me downstairs, perhaps I never would have left. But I did.

After stuffing my face with as much complimentary and tasteless bacon, cereal and coffee as possible (in a dining room that looked something like a senior center Bingo arena) I loaded into my car, wishing I could stay another day.

Driving through Big Horn Park and Shoshone it was on to Yellowstone for two days of exploration.

Upon arriving at Yellowstone, I wanted to be nervous about the thought of being mauled by wildlife, but this windown ornament prevented that from happening. And I was confused by the fact that this was supposed to be hung from my rearview mirror, as I'm uncertain as to what that would accomplish.

He didn't gore anyone. He just sat there.

For hours I drove around the park, camera in hand, snapping photo after photo. Hundreds of blurred, dull, and crooked pictures. And while they vast majority are impressively unimpressive, what I do have is a collection of pictorial moments that I can flip through to piece together the time I spent here. And that has been a struggle every step of the way these last few weeks: how can I experience this in a way that I remember it. How can I hold on to this? There's no picture that can capture the fog that swept into Yellowstone the afternoon that I got there. Or the stillness of the whole place upon waking there the following morning. There are no words that will convey the freedom of driving around for countless hours with no point other than seeing things I've never seen before. And in typical me-fasion, I drove around all day, exploring, hiking, and snapping photos putting off dealing with where I would sleep that night. So when sunset came and there was nothing to be seen, I pulled into the oasis at the center of Yellowstone - a semi-LOST community of posh hotels, white tablecloth restaurants, and bars occupied by khakis-clad babyboomers, all framed by freshly mowed, green grass.

Parking in front of the most expensive hotel I could find, I went into the lobby and, after making my way past various Judge Smails types, inquired about nightly rates at the front counter. The fact that a cabin with no bathroom fetched $90 didn't even matter as there were no units available. I was informed that all of Yellowstone was booked up.

Walking out to the hotel, I worked over some numbers in my head, knowing the nearest Wal-Mart was 50 miles away and over the mountains, not to mention in the wrong direction. Getting to the parking lot, I couldn't help but notice how perfectly my car matched the rest of the parking lot. So, I got in, slipped of my shoes, crawled in the back, and went to sleep.

roadside shower & devil's tower

2010-08-12T22:55:00.023-04:00

I have successfully continued to fall behind in the logging of my travels, and it has proved to be an interesting exercise in adjusting to this newfound freedom. As another good friend recently informed me, it seems as though my inner New Yorker has found some form of work and responsibility with which I have burdened myself. I have many times before brought my camera with me to parties, events, and the like and focused on capturing moments rather than being a part of them. I refuse to fall subject to that these days and will continue to write when I can.

ANYWAY... I have discovered a benefit to all this corn out here (and it's not malnourished chickens and cows being overfed). Every gas station I've encountered over the last few days offers 10% ethanol super unleaded fuel at a lower cost than regular unleaded gas. This means that I'm A) saving money and B) saving the environment. Well, maybe not saving it, but at least doing less damage than I would be doing otherwise.

And speaking of gas stations, I was in the midst of my fourth consecutive day without a shower when I pulled in a for a fill-up and saw this:

Immediately I parked my car, went inside and paid for one tank of gas and one shower, a combination I had never previously imagined ordering. I would have otherwise thought $5.00 is a ridiculous amount to charge for a shower. In this case, I found it to be 100% worth it and was grateful to have the opportunity at all. It looked like this
and was impossibly immaculate, smelled intensely of bleach, and was stocked with soap, shampoo, and clean towels. Still, my distrust and paranoia runs deep, so I brought my own supplies.

(The inherent irony in using a Marriot Beach Resort towel in this situation still makes me smile.)

With a clean start to my day, I purchased a cup of coffee and drove onward to Devil's Tower, in the midst of a swarm of bikers still in the midst of the Sturgis Bike Rally Week. Much like the Badlands, Devil's Tower breathed an extra large aura of wickedness due to the immense number of steel riding cowboys flocking there. Despite the sweltering heat, I've been unable to locate iced coffee, and so hot coffee has been the routine. What I have noticed is this: it is not just that I am addicted to coffee or that I enjoy the taste so much as it is the one thing that I have every day that reminds me of home. I don't have a favorite coffee nor do I know enough about any particular kinds to be fussy. A hot coffee with the right amount of milk reminds me of waking up and living life back in the east coast. And that is a comfort that can't be replaced these days. I have established that I can miss elements of home life without wanting them back right now. I miss home, my friends, and my family, but by no means am I ready to go back.

So, Devil's Tower...

Arriving at the park, I exit my car and encounter a nice little old couple and their granddaughter who is begging them to ask me where in MA I'm from. Overhearing her, I volunteer my info and the peppy little 10 year old volunteers a world of information about her visit to these national parks from eastern MA. I continue to make small talk with the group until our separation at the visitor's center, all the time appreciating their company but also looking forward to seeing the Tower alone.

I spent an hour or two wandering around the Tower, trying to recall if this is in fact what Richard Dreyfus and Steven Spielberg were trying to build out of mash potatoes 30 something years ago. Apparently it is still a place held sacred by many Native Americans, as their prayer feathers and beads and other artifacts are regularly added to the natural scenery. I can't help but feel a modicum of sadness about the fact that their sacred ground is simply a tour stop and playground for an overwhelming amount of tourists such as me. And as I walk and look up at the impressive structure before me, I see tiny moving objects coming from midway up the Tower. Climbers, only one at first and then many, appear and I tell myself that while I do love rock climbing, I'm both A) way too inexperienced to even think about it, and B) not too interested in such a feat in the first place. A little too crazy for me. I'll save that for my midlife crisis so that I still have something to look forward to.

On the drive out, a field of prairie dogs begs anyone and everyone to pullover to take pictures. And who am I to blow against the wind?

A few miles down the road, I see this and need to pull over, realizing that I am hungry and in need of more interaction.

This group of old timers was cooking up buffalo burgers and beans and I was pleasantly surprised with the quality of my meal. With a little prodding and questioning, they opened right up into conversation and we discussed:
- They are a group that restores wagons like the one pictured above. They're building a shed (which they later disclosed to be a museum) dedicated to said wagons. I didn't get into how drastically different a shed is from a wagon and let them go on with their enthusiasm.
- How much different it would be to drive cross country if instead of a car, I had to take one of these wagons with some food and blankets. I confessed that if that was the case, I probably would have stayed at home.
- The group of convicts that had recently escaped prison and resorted to national parks (I was about to visit) for refuge. We all joked about how the odds were in my favor and if I was in fact murdered, it would be a result of some really poor odds and very bad luck.

I stayed with them for a good 45 minutes before extending my thanks and saying good bye. They were more than happy to smile (although pose in no other way) for a photo.

As I got back in my car with my sights on Yellowstone, I felt overwhelmed, excited, satiated, and a little tired. Over the course of the next few hours, I drove through the most empty and expansive land I have ever seen on 14 en route to I-90. With this kind of cloud formation and lighting, I wondered how someone could have lived 26 years without seeing anything like it before.

Reaching Sheridan, Wyoming I felt the loneliness that is Wyoming. All this land, all this beauty and natural majesty and so few people to enjoy it. I gave in for the first time since I left and started calling hotels. I wanted to have the second half of my day to relax, refuel, and get some thoughts written down before the moment could escape me. I was thrilled when my AAA discount applied.

There is a very specific emotion related to a treat that truly feels deserved. More than once in the past I have tricked myself into believing I deserve something. I then buy it and don't feel bad. After so many days on the road, so many days sleeping in a car, so many days of driving on to see more and more and more, I truly felt deserving of spending a half a day (and a few bucks) on a nice hotel. Internet, clean sheets, a shower of my own (I guess I didn't NEED that one this morning), and of course, complimentary breakfast. I had a Pizza Hut pizza delivered to my room and spent the remainder of my day in Sheridan, Wyoming, reflecting, typing, and relaxing. In a word: rewarding.

Roadside Wi-Fi, Tha Police, and Mt. Rushmore

2010-08-12T22:54:00.020-04:00

Despite my best efforts, I can't seem to organize today's thoughts and events in a linear manner. Stories seem to jumble up into a mess of funny incidents and odd people. What a day...

At the onset of this trip, I didn't really have much of a plan as to how I would access the internet. I was hoping to luckily find access whenever I needed it. I planned to keep notes, record thoughts into my recorder, and coupled with the photos, review my days and write out my findings. So when I started driving through states like Iowa and saw signs for "Rest Area - Free Wi-fi" I was pleasantly surprised and excited to take a break from driving to enjoy a coffee and some time reflecting on what I'd seen and done thus far. A stationary place with air conditioning where I could regroup my thoughts and process the recent days past.

Upon pulling into my first (greatly anticipated) wi-fi equipped rest area, I found it to be the following: a muggy 10' x 20' room with one wooden bench. This would be fine (not ideal, but fine), however the restrooms bookend this one-bench room. And said restrooms have no doors. So where I write from now is a small and uncomfortable wooden bench in a sweltering, bug-infested septic tank with (shoddy) connection to the internet. I'll move onward so that I can move back into the fresh air of my car.

My next destination was Mt. Rushmore and I had to make it before sunset. Now before visiting South Dakota, I had never before been pulled over before. Therefore, when I was summoned to the side of the road in Keystone, South Dakota, I became quite uneasy. First step: panic. Second step: mentally review movie scenes in which protagonist gets pulled over and determine the best course of action. (This list includes films like Terminator 2, Wayne's World 2's reference to Terminator 2, Super Troopers, Dumb and Dumber, Fargo, etc.) And maybe it's a product of my neuroses, but suddenly I feel like a criminal. Am I trafficking drugs? Are there bodies in my trunk? Am I a fugitive from the law? Gladly I realize that none of these have yes answers. Still, I panic.

But what happened was nothing like television has taught me. (And I can't say I agree in the least with N.W.A.) Maybe I got lucky or maybe that's how they do it in South Dakota, but these were the nicest police officers I could have ever imagined. Here's the process:

1) Lights behind me start flashing. I say a bunch of bad words to myself out loud and pull over.
2) Remove bandana or other articles of decor that may make me look deserving of a ticket.
3) Cop (Officer Kinney in one case, Officer ____ in another) comes to window to tell me I was speeding/running red light/not using signals/etc while I desperately search for license and registration
4) Cop invites me to get out of my car and join him in his.
5) Cop proceeds to make small talk with me ("What do you for a living in Massachusetts? How long have you lived out there? What's been your favorite part of the trip so far?") while filling out his little report.
6) I act like a nervous wreck while doing my best to sound like an upstanding citizen
7) Drug dog in the backseat freaks out any time I try and answer a question
8) I ask if the drug dog is barking because of me. Officer casually responds that he just doesn't like people, all the while still filling out his form. I do math in my head as to how much I think the ticket will be for.
9) He lets me off with a warning. I consider asking him for a picture for my blog and then decide against it.
10) I drive 5 mph under the speed limit for the next hour or so until I can be sure he's not still following me.

As I waited outside the entrance to Mt. Rushmore, I met a pack of bikers who took a break from the Sturgis Bike Rally to come see these four faces etched into the mountainside. I join in on their conversation as two of the older fellas are complaining about the fact that their disable veterans card no longer gets them free access to this national monument.

As we all stood there running our mouths, a third party shows up from Alberta, Canada with an accent that would put Terrence and Philip to shame.

Talking very enthusiastically about his 1980's Suzuki motorcycle, his broken speedometer and the mental math he does to guess his speed based on RPMs, I interrupted him for a photo, explaining that I was traveling and documenting everything. That's when the oldest of the group (it would be a shame if his name wasn't Poppa Bear) spoke up and said, "You want a picture of something good. Come take a look at this."

And so I took a picutre, having no idea what I was supposed to be impressed by. And I admitted that. That's when I got this story:
"We build these bikes custom in our garage back home. We've built six and our seventh will be finished in the fall. But this one here was my daddy's favorite. And when he was around, he said 'When I die, I want to ride this bike forever.' So when he passed away last year, we cremated him and the doctors gave me this steel rod from his leg. So now he's always riding with me on his favorite bike. We didn't clean it or anything. They took it right out of him and there it is."

The pack of us waited an hour for a Mt. Rushmore lightshow that never happened before going our separate ways. I stopped through Sturgis just long enough to be pulled over again, only to repeat the same experience from three hours prior. (Pull over. "Sir that light you ran was most certainly red." "Yes it was. You are absolutely right.") Get out of my car and into Officer ______'s car. Polite and awkward small talk. Paperwork. Nervousness. Warning. Catch and release.

Tired and a little on edge, I searched for my next Wal-Mart a good night of rest.

Other photos from the day:
Upon first setting foot in South Dakota, billboards started pushing me to visit Wall Drug Store. So I did.

Like so many other components of this trip, Wall Drug store is an experience that has no substitute in story, picture, or video. And I can not help but wonder how it has survived as long as it has. It is a:
-Weird wonderland of old photos and knicknacks (postcards, patches, pocketknives, bumper stickers, bells, whistles (literally)

-Collection of cowboy statues and mannequins (I'm noticing a strange fascination with synthetic cowboys in this state)

-Manufacturer and distributer of jackalopes, a mythical creature that is more or less a jackrabbit with antelope antlers.

A long and busy day makes nights in the Highlander a little easier.

The Bad(ass)lands

2010-08-12T22:53:00.020-04:00

This place alone was worth the drive. Any day that starts with a robotic cowboy town, is followed by this, and ends with Mount Rushmore and the Sturgis Bike Rally is ok in my book... or blog. Note: Due to the bike rally, all of South Dakota was has been flooded with motorcyles, thus making the Badlands infinitely more bad.

Click on the images below to see them in full screen.

1880's Ghost Town, Buffalo Ridge, SD and the "Perfect Cheeseburger"

2010-08-12T22:52:00.012-04:00

Dean will turn 80 in a few weeks. He is a garrulous old fella with a spring in his step and a smile on his face that I would say is painted on, but it runs deeper than the surface. The guy is jolly. And he's an American history buff, which makes sense given that he was an American history teacher until he retired 40 years ago. At that time, he says, he didn't want to just resign to fishing with all his newfound time. He wanted to do something more productive. Something to keep up sharing his love of America's past (which is obvious in the way he speaks of it.) So, he purchased a corner gas station just off the highway, the land behind it, and created his own gas station/convenience store/knickknack shop and tribute to 1880's Americana. And it was one of the more ridiculous and random things I have come across yet. I seldom use the word silly, but it was exactly that.

Upon first arriving in Buffalo Ridge to check this place out (which I read about here), I met Dean at the counter of his convenience store and asked for a coffee to get my morning going. Pulling out a 30 oz. styrofoam cup and filing it with fresh, piping hot coffee, the golden ager asked if I take milk, offering up this explanation as to why I should: "The milk is good to counter the acidity. Coffee is very acidic. You see, when you get older, you have to start going to the pee doctor, and the pee doctor, he'll tell you that milk is good to lower the acidity of the coffee. So it's good for ya. And that's important." He smiled and chuckled and my smile spilled into a stifled laugh and I nodded my head in agreement, uncertain of what to do or say in response.

I shifted gears and inquired as this cowboy town I'd heard of, was told it's available every day from sunrise to sunset. Two minutes and six dollars later, I was on my way through the gates of paradise into a time and place that never existed anything like this. The land behind the gas station was dry, barren and dedicated to this fenced in, structurally questionable little town filled with all sorts of cut and paste information boards, tombstones, plastic horses, hairy mannaquins wearing overalls, and robotic recreations of doctors, blacksmiths, gamblers, politicians, and the like, all held together with caution tape, chicken wire and invisible cobwebs. And of course a field of buffalo and sweatlodges. I've put together the below slideshow to illustrate just how... unusual the whole place was. It wasn't unlike a museum crossed with a haunted house. In fact, it was precisely like that.

1880 Ghost Town - Buffalo Ridge, SD from billy simons on Vimeo.

Dean's dedication to this project was a little overwhelming and I couldn't help but laugh to myself the entire time I wandered around this gunslinger's playground, literally asking myself outloud, "Why?" The amount of time and money gone into this (and corresponding lack of quality as its result) was mind-boggling. But he seemed like the kind of guy who pours his heart into whatever he does, be it making my coffee or trying to recreate and commemorate years past. He has that flair of an older generation American who sincerely cares about his country and how it has evolved and what those changes may mean in the country and its people. He rattles off facts and figures and stories of the US like they're his own. And I'm sure if you ask him, you'd find that he does feel a certain ownership to them by way of being American. But it's not a cocky pride or an obnoxious one. He's simply content with who he is and where he's from. Still, of all his myriad likeable characteristics, my favorite is this: when you ask him for a photo, he insists you take one together.

I said my thank yous, we shook hands, and I was off.

Billboard are everywhere out west. In many places, that's all there are. And there are usually only three of four places being advertised. Over and over and over again. So thanks to tens if not hudreds of billboards advertising it, I stopped in to Casey's Cafe in Chamberlain, South Dakota for "the perfect cheeseburger." Well, it wasn't perfect. It was good, but that's where my compliments stop. It was like every other dive-type burger joint back east. Just a little blissful saltiness in the aftertaste that makes it different. I enjoyed my lunch and a few moments of looking out over the quaint yet active lake-centric community. In the middle of so little else, Chamberlain seemed to be a fun place full of outdoor activities for families and such. As for me, I was off to the Badlands.

Des Moines, IA to Sioux Falls, SD

2010-08-12T21:00:00.019-04:00

I need to plan more. I enjoy the spontaneity of this adventure and respect the role that timing and chance play, but it's the lack of things to do, the absence of a schedule that courts loneliness into my life these days. This was the first day of travel that I found myself seriously pondering, "Why am I doing this? Do I want to turn around and just go home. I'm not even half way across the US and I've got to go the rest of the way and then back. What the hell am I doing?!" And with a few phone calls to the right people, I was back on track and realizing how once-in-a-lifetime this opportunity actually is and how fortunate I am to be in the journey.

But hey, enough of the sappy stuff; let's talk about lunch. After a late night (which turned into a late morning,) I dropped my companion off at Des Moines International and drove in a westerly direction, stopping in small towns in search of foods, only to find run down antique shops and boarded up movie theaters. Then I found Missouri Valley, IA and serendipitously unearthed this magical lil' gem: Ricky's Rib Joint. If I was going to pass up a hot spot like this, I may as well pack up and go home.

I pulled over, parked behind the attached trailer, and as I was inspecting the place from the outside to ensure Zed's motorcycle wasn't parked in back, a mustachioed man flung open the door flagged me down and invited me in. While he walked me to the counter I asked if he was Rick, to which he responded, "I'm everything... Here at least. This is MY shit hole. Yeah, I'm Ricky." Accepting that, I went on to explain my travels and told Ricky that my meal order would be at his mercy. "Whatever you recommend."

Five minutes later, this plate of barbecue ribs, potato salad and beans was delivered to my mostly clean (and laminate) table:

While I was eating, another pair of curious eyes surfaced from behind the counter and queried as to where I was from. The eyes stepped into the light and I saw that they belonged to a young and rather awkward-looking twenty-something named Don who, while he appeared the inquisitive type, didn't offer much besides some superficial curiosity. He was from Texas, here now for college, and didn't seem to have much going on. I asked what kids in college here do for entertainment in such a quiet little town. In his very subdued and polite way he paused, reflected, and responded "... we've got a pool."

Unfortunately, Ricky didn't have much to say either and though I tried prodding them both with compliments on my meal (which was surprisingly really good) and questions about the illustrious Missouri Valley, I received only one or two word answers. It seems Ricky blew his load on the welcome party and was now too spent to engage in any further discussion. Accepting my situation, I quickly finished my meal whilst enjoying the minimalist decor of metal chairs, buzzing fluorescent lights, pseudo-marble linoleum floors and chipped and faded white paint (and the one [possibly dead] guy in fly-fishing gear sitting in the corner that I didn't even notice until I left). Don and Rick obliged when I requested a photo, and like that, I was gone.
Fast forward a few hours (and many many signs about how I should feel about abortion, Jesus Christ, who He is, what He did for me and what He'll do to me later). (Does the previous period go in the parenthesis or outside of it?)? ANYWAY, Darkness has settled in and I'm driving through Sioux Falls, South Dakota when a festival of flashing neon lights catch my eye. A ferris wheel. A roller-coaster. A merry-go-round. Just beyond the ravine to the north of me there appears to be a local fair. Without a moment's hesitation I pull off the highway, manage my way around the mini gorge separating me from fate, and find this to be rather sizable event. (Hours later, Wikipedia teaches me that Sioux Falls is the largest city in South Dakota and this makes much more sense.) Acres upon acres of of land covered with hundreds of cars. A figurative zoo. This couldn't get any better, I'm thinking.

But as is often the case, I was wrong. And I realized that when this sign started flashing:

For the next hour, I walked around what looked like a juiced-up version of every town fair I've ever seen. The demographic: 14-16 year old boys who seemed to have collectively decided that shirts were out of style, 13-15 year old girls in search of the aforementioned dubious ruffians, and all their parents. And of course a good amount of chopper-riding, beard-sporting, leather-wearing, ZZ Top fans who all look like... well, ZZ Top.

I had a helluva time laughing to myself about how out-of-thin-air the the whole evening had been. I removed the last five dollar bill from my wallet, exchanged it for a batch of piping hot deep fried Oreos, considered how log I can keep eating like this before I'll have to schedule an angioplasty, and made my way back to my car/bed (with the help of this clever device courtesy of my dad) as Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill hammered on their music-making-machines and encouraged everyone to invest in some inexpensive eyewear.

With Wal-Mart a few miles away, sleep would soon be mine.

Other items from the day's drive:

Fields of wind turbines just outside of Casey, IA.

Floyd Monument. Dedicated to Sergeant Charles Floyd (the only casualty in the Lewis and Clark expedition,) this is the first dedicated National Historic Landmark of the US of A.

Naperville, IL to Des Moines, IA

2010-08-11T09:05:00.031-04:00

I would be lying if I said it bothered me to have some company on this day's drive. Leaving from Naperville, IL with our sights set on Des Moines, IA, my best bud Nick and I had but one stop prior to our end destination: The Field of Dreams in Dyersville, IA. While I was never one to take sports very seriously (feel free to replace "very" with "at all" or "even remotely"), Nick is a ball player through and through and was a darn fine pitcher in high school and college, and well, I just really love the movie. (As far as Kevin Costner goes, I think Malcolm Gladwell would agree that this is one of his outliers.) That being said, we drove the three hours with utmost excitement and were not disappointed.

Upon arriving at the field, we did what any two men/boys in their mid 20's would do:

1) Gawked at how impossibly beautiful the field is.

2) Did our best Ray Liotta.

3) Called our dads.

What's particularly excellent about the field is that it is meticulously maintained as if Costner & Co. were going to start filming the sequel tomorrow, and still, there are no entry fees or parking tolls and if you bring a ball, a bat and glove you can play all day and night. Just like the movie.

After spending nearly an hour pretending we were still 11 years old, Nick and I jumped back in the car for a four hour drive to Des Moines for more baseball. With timing again working in our favor, a mutual friend of ours who plays AAA baseball for the Portland Beavers (the San Diego Padres' AAA team) just so happened to be duking it out with the Iowa Cubs that night. The vast majority of the drive looked like this:

On a mission to make it the 7pm game time, we were barreling west on I-80 when we came across a Winnebago that had spun off the road and dumped itself upside down on the side of the highway. It was a startling reminder how quickly things can change and how careful we need to be. (This is one of those moments in which I record a fact more for my own recollection and less for the value of the story. It hit us pretty hard [bad pun] and we discussed it for quite some time thereafter.) Grateful, we drove onward.

One thing I can say I noticed about the trek through Iowa is that (most certainly related to the endless cornfields) there are these delicate little yellow butterflies that dance back and forth along the highway the whole time. And while they appear so matterless and airy, they explode like miniature raw eggs on your windshield as you drive, making a muted clicking sound, like the snapping of gum with your mouth shut. This also makes viewing difficult as it happens every few seconds.

We made it (safely) to the game (late) and rushed to our seats right next to the (home team's) on deck circle. While we watched the Iowa Cubs get their rear ends handed to them, Nick and I made friends with the folks seated around us. It started with the non-stop chirping of a 7 year-old pacing aimlessly around us (think Max from the tv series Parenthood). When I turned around and smiled at the old man sitting behind me, he showed a big smile under his camouflage hat and said, "That there's my grandson. He's a smart kid but he don't ever shut the hell up." I soon discovered this to be true; this little wind-up toy was a something of a wiz-kid. He knew every NASCAR driver, his number, and who his sponsor was in addition to knowing more about baseball than I do.

The older couple to our left were the most devoted AAA fans I've ever met. Their son didn't play for either of the teams we were watching, the husband wasn't a former ballplayer, but still, they drove seven hours from Chicago just to see these guys play. Their exact reason: "This is where the Cubs are born." They're just big fans. They spit out facts, oozed over certain plays players had made in certain games, and had endless comments on each player. That saucy lady next to us (see below) had a particularly interesting fascination with one of the players, and when we asked if she thought they'd call him up (to the majors), her response was, "Oh I'd call him up any night of the week." Nice.

It was a great night. We made some new friends, enjoyed a few more hot dogs, saw Jake the Dog (Iowa's canine bat boy [who actually isn't named Jake, as he is a replacement for the original Jake who is currently in the midst of a long dirt nap] who in addition to picking up bats between batters also brought the umpires towels and water bottles between innings), and our good ol' pal Baxter went 2 for 5.

Our night ended in an Embassy Suites Hotel with Baxter, Nick, and me devouring a few (of) Domino's (new) pizzas and drinking a few (cheap) beers while we talked to Baxter about life on the road as ballplayer. Shortly before we called it a night, he confessed that while his existence is living in hotels, eating in hotels, playing ball a few hours a day, and traveling on a bus, he's lucky to have the privilege. Still, that luck doesn't make the struggle any easier.

oh, this also happened in Chicago.

2010-08-11T09:00:00.009-04:00

Click on the image to englarge.

Chicago, IL

2010-08-11T00:13:00.019-04:00

This part of the trip wasn’t so much “roadtrip” as it was vacation. Lady Fortuna spun her wheel in my favor, as the days I was planning to be there just so happened to be Lallapalooza and two of my best high school friends (and their significant others) were planning to be in the area at the time. (Well, one lives there, but still.) I think the best way to address it all is by topic: Activities first and then food

Lollapalooza & Living Large
Three days of non-stop music. Highlights of the festival, in descending order: Green Day (I can’t describe how good this show was. And I’ve had quite a few days to think about it), Lady Gaga, Arcade Fire, Mute Math (I’d never heard of them, but they rocked. And probably still do). As is often the case when traveling with a larger group (there were between four and six of us at any given time), we didn’t end up seeing all the bands we had planned on. However, we did acquire VIP passes that, throughout the weekend, gained us access to VIP tents full of free VIP food and VIP beverage in addition to VIP seating. And VIP golf carts to take us from stage to stage if we so desired. Which we did. The corresponding jewelry was a burden I was glad to bear. A special thanks to Alex for hooking us up with these!

The Arcade Fire closing out the weekend.

Green Day converting the masses. With Kiera's help.

Buckingham Fountain at the center of Grant Park. Yes, that is the one from Married With Children that shuts off as the theme song ends.

Cubs at Wrigley & Harry Caray
I grew up going to Fenway Park, so to me, that’s what a baseball stadium should look like. But I’ve got to say, this place is pretty magical in its own right. Sitting in the bleachers (why bother sitting anywhere else?), drinking overpriced beer and eating freakishly delicious hot dogs (more on that later), I couldn’t have asked for anything more. Perhaps the highlight of the game was the kid behind me, calling the game play-by-play in a dead-on Harry Caray voice. “Look at that couple over there sitting behind home plate. Can’t keep their hands off each other… He kisses her on the strikes, and she kisses him on the balls!” He had everyone within earshot in stitches for hours.

John Hancock Building’s 96th Floor & Our Special Cab Drivers
After a long hard day of watching baseball and listening to live music, we all showered up and headed for the John Hancock Building’s 96th Floor where there is a beautiful restaurant and bar with 360 degree (I don’t know how to type that little degree symbol) view of Chicago and the square mileage that surrounds it. If you end up in Chicago, I highly recommend stopping by and checking out the space. If you don’t want to, here’s what it looks like.

While this was good and fun, what was ultimately and infinitely more memorable was the means by which we arrived at the Hancock. You see, we were staying at the Congress Hotel which is right on Grant Park (and is also disturbingly reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel from the Shining). Very convenient location for the festival. The problem is that about 75,000 other people were in the immediate area as well. This makes finding a cab rather difficult. So, after wasting a solid 15 minutes trying to obtain a cab, and walking several blocks in the process, we asked a car stopped at a red light if they’d take us to the Hancock for $20. They agreed. Meet Joe (left) and Seneca (right). Absurdly friendly brothers who scoffed at the thought of going to Lollapalooza and were just going out to “meet up with [their] ladies”. We certainly bonded in those 10 minutes that the four of us were crammed in their back seat and I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t hoping/partially expecting them to waive our $20 fee, but alas, a deal is a deal and we paid, very happy with the customer service.

Hangge Uppe & The Importance of Washing New Clothes Before Wearing Them
Because all of that wasn’t enough for one day, three of us headed over to Chicago’s biggest, most frat-tastic dive bar, The Hangge Uppe. (It’s just pronounced The Hang Up). With a line stretching around the block, a member of our pack started talking to a girl at the front of the line. They did a little Discovery-Channel-hosted-by-Sigourney-Weaver-mating-dance, we joined them in line, and shortly thereafter the girls left, tired of waiting in line. Two hours of waiting line avoided.

The only story I’d like to share (remember) about that place is this: Once inside, you drink, dance around like a maniac, and sing along to every song they spin, all the meanwhile pouring sweat from every pore. I happened to wear a new (unwashed since purchased) white t-shirt. I don’t know if this is common, but as I started to sweat, the shirt started to stink. Subtle at first. Gradually it achieved the most foul, mildewy, damp, disgusting towel odor I’ve ever encountered. The bar tender told me they just sold their last “Hangge Uppe” t-shirt, and I was destined to spend the rest of the night as a walking stink-bomb.

Food
Everything I ate in that city was delicious. I'll do my best to keep it condensed:

Hot dogs seem to be very important in Chicago. There are Chicago Dogs and then there are Wrigley Field hot dogs. All I can say is A) They are the most intense hot dogs I've ever eaten, and 2) My "Hot-Dogs-Consumed to Days-Alive" ratio is higher than I'd like it to be.
This crazy looking thing that looks like a Ninja Turtle was hit by a drunk driver is what Wrigley Field and the Chicago Cubs call a hot dog. Who am I to blow against the wind?

Rockit - This place has the most over the top, ridiculous Bloody Mary bar I have ever seen. A $5 bloody mary gets you a vodka and tomato mary, and a full bar of nonsense to put in it: pepper, three types of hot sauce, horseradish, cajun shrimp, four types of olives, salami and cheese, sundried tomatoes, celery, jalapenos, caper berries, those hot, water filled little peppers that come in your salad at the Olive Garden... the list goes on. If you're in Chi-town on a weekend morning, go there. You'll be happy you did. We sure were.

Artists Café - On the park and open late, which isn't common. Had a killer late night grilled cheese with basil and bacon and lots of grease, if you're into that kind of thing. Legit late night snack.

Lou Malnati’s Pizza - A Chicago institute, Lou Malnatti's is your traditional deep dish pizza. And I don't care if you're from New York and like thin pizza. This is a tasty way to spend your lunch.

A special shout out to my buddy James for hosting us this weekend. Love you buddy!

Cleveland, OH OH OH

2010-08-06T10:25:00.017-04:00

I haven't had much access to the internet these last few days so I'm scouring the midwest looking for an internet connection to catch up on my notetaking. It seems that in addition to restrooms, gas and food, a lot of rest areas now include wi-fi. So here I am, sitting outside a roadside restroom, facing an aerial assault of flies, gnats, and mosquitoes, hacking away at my keyboard. Here goes...

Waking up just outside of Cleveland in a pool of sweat (and tears), I was able to get an early start on my checklist for the day before heading off to Chicago. A little fresh-up time in the men's bathroom of Walmart and I was off. The beauty on Walmart territory is the access to anything you might need upon waking up.

Cleveland Museum of Art - Unbeknownst to me, this is on Case Western Reserve's campus
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame - Cleveland, OH
Ralphie's house from "A Christmas Story"

The Cleveland Museum of Art was beautiful, inside and out. And free, which makes it even better. Housing a collection of artwork from the 1800s through modern and contemporary periods, I can confidently say it was worth my time. My interest revolved around their pieces from Picasso, Van Gogh, Pollack, Rothko, Monet (who I still don't care for, but can appreciate his importance), and Miro (see comments on Monet). I never really understood the important of Jackson Pollack until seeing his work in person. Now I (think I) get it: it's a display not of an image or idea, but of a process. The textures, colors, and layers and their contrast allow you to see how the piece was composed. ANYWAY, in an otherwise tumultuous time, life made sense for a few moments when I found myself standing in front of side-by-side Rene Magritte and Salvador Dali paintings. This was a great start to a day. And as with any decision making, these two paints made me feel as though I had made the right decision in spending my time here.

After stepping out and walking through the gardens surrounding the museum, I found a park bench with this inscription, which I found to be unnecessarily appropriate.

As for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame...meh. I'm not so sure. It was interesting to see so many pieces of memorabilia from so many people I consider to be hugely influential, but paying $22 to see a bunch of the Rolling Stones' elastic pants and the Beatles' jackets seems a little steep. Maybe that's just me. I don't know what I expected, but on a 1 to 10 scale, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame gets a 5-6 in my book. Still, the architecture is cool and if you're in Cleveland it's not a terrible way to spend two hours.

I'm sharing this below picture with you because it was the last one I was able to take there before my removal. (Worth it!) If you do visit the RnR HOF and are asked to put your camera away (somewhere in the vacinity of 4-5 times), you should do that... unless you'd like to be (very politely) removed from the building. While I thought I was doing a good job of discreetly taking photos, security disagreed.

On my way out of town, I stopped by 3159 West 11th Street, better known as the house from "A Christmas Story". While I found Cleveland's downtown area nicer than I had anticipated, this area was a dump. An "I don't necessarily feel safe here or ever want to be here again" kind of dump. That being said, I drove by and sniped a photo of the house (and the lamp, of course). I was excited when I discovered that the actor who played Randy (Ralphie's little brother) has been living in the house this year and conducting tours. I was disappointed (but not really) when I found out he wasn't there the day I was. So it goes. Good bye Cleveland!

More photos from the road between Cleveland and Chicago alternating between 80, 90, Rt. 20, and Rt. 6.

Iglesia San Miguel in Cleveland.

The beginning of what has turned out to be miles and miles and days and days of cornfields.

Some of my cattle friends in western Ohio.

day one: Ludlow, MA to Conneaut, OH

2010-08-05T06:56:00.018-04:00

After a big homemade breakfast courtesy of Mom and Dad, I took off around 11:30am and headed west, leaving behind a waving family of parents and grandparents. Taking I-90 through Massachusetts and New York State, I stopped in Buffalo for a coffee with an old friend and kept on my way. The driving hours flew by and I would imagine a large part of that is the excitement of it being the first day.

As 9:00pm came around, I crossed the PA/OH border, leaving Erie and entering Conneaut, OH. With dinner on my mind, I passed up Velvet (which was very clearly open, though I'm not sure for what) to check out its neighbor down the street: The White Turkey Drive In, a local institution known for their root beer floats.

Pulling in to the parking lot and sitting at the counter, I felt more American already. Open since 1952, this place was straight out of the movies. While doo-wop and Elvis hits were pumping out of the radio, I breathed in the most amazing smell of greasy food, and took a seat/stool at the counter. Almost as if on queue, a muscle car pulled into the driveway just to rev its engine and then peeled out and blasted down the road, as everyone within earshot stopped everything and just gawked in silence. I chuckled and a 40ish year old in line or takeout flashed a toothless smile, mumbling something I just pretended to understand. Joe, my server, welcomed me and I asked him what he recommended to a cross-country traveler who may never be back here again. After hearing his suggestions, I ordered a Large Marge (pulled turkey sandwich with bacon and cheddar and covered in bbq sauce and hot sauce). My neighbors, overhearing my questioning, were quick to suggest the chili cheese fries, which I had to order.

While taking in a blissfully coronary-inducing meal (which eventually also included their famous root beer floats), I got to learn a good amount about my neighbors, father and son duo Bill and Dave from just over the border in PA. They admittedly love coming here, and tend to save it for special occasions. There was a really comfortable dynamic between the two. Dave could have been anywhere from 18 to 30 and was very proud of all his hobbies and jobs (which he listed one after the other), but in a very humble way. Bill shared this pride, but in a much more subtle way. He had a very pleasant demeanor, very serious, but still very polite. I dropped an F-bomb mid convo and immediately apologized and he smiled and softly laughed, not caring much at all. After my mentioning driving cross-country, Dave wasted no time letting me know he had visited every state east of the Mississippi except Alabama. Additionally, he builds catapults (or trebuchets) that throw everything from pumpkins to bowling balls and microwaves up to 200 yards. I wouldn’t have doubted him, but still he showed me video proof on his iPhone. When I asked if that was a common hobby around here he grinned and admitted that it wasn’t. His librarian got him into it.

I didn’t ask who got him into tapping maple syrup, his other hobby, but he was quick to mention how good he was at it. Again, not bragging, just proud and happy to tell someone about his accomplishments. It was this point that Bill pointed out that his son was a machinist and he a paramedic. Although with the Amish nearby, he makes some extra coin helping them transport bails of hay. I guess that lack of technology has its drawbacks. I admitted that I hadn’t inquired about their occupation because so many people back home don’t seem to like their jobs and talking about it is almost trivial. Not these guys – they take pride in their work. And said so with a smile.

They seemed eager to talk and to give advice and I was more than happy to listen. Once or twice I let the conversation trail to make sure I wasn’t interloping on a father-son dinner, but they kept finding different routes to suggest or stories to share.

After the two left and bid me farewell and safe travels, Joe came by to check on the progress I was making on my meal and assured me that not everyone around here is like them. But I’m not so sure. I was then very politely interrupted by another couple who suggested that I go into Cleveland to see the USS Cod, the submarine (right next to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame) that has been turned into a museum.

Joe: Part time teacher, part time server at the White Turkey Drive In

Dave and Bill: Bill was nice enough to take his hat off for the photo

I thanked Joe for the food and convo and headed on my way to Ashtabula (pronounced ASH-ta-BYOO-lah or just BYOO-la by the locals), a few miles away. In the parking lot of a 24-hr Walmart, I set up camp in my car and wrestled with sleep. Probably the worse night's sleep I've ever gotten. Waking up to rain in the middle of the night, I was forced to close my windows, making the heat infinitely more oppressive. I’ve never slept in a humidor before, but I would imagine it would be just like this.

it's the final countdown

2010-08-03T22:21:00.002-04:00

Only a few weeks ago, everything was status quo. It was another Tuesday night which meant nothing out of the ordinary. Come home from work, unwind, and prepare to get up tomorrow and do it all over again.

But tonight is different. Tonight is different because work is no longer a constant. Tonight is different because tomorrow doesn't meant getting up, showering, putting on a tie, and heading into the office.

Tomorrow I will get up and begin on a trek that will last the next eight weeks or so. Tomorrow I will get up and start driving west and that idea exhausts, excites, and invigorates me. It is a step in the direction of "I wish I could" or "I wish I did". It's a step in the direction of "Are you out of your mind." It's a step in direction of "WHY?!".

It has been a very effortless and relaxing two weeks. It has reminded me of my summers as a kid away from school; drinking iced tea, laying by the pool, not doing much and being okay with that. Helping Mom with dinner (marginally), watching a movie with Dad, and going to sleep whenever I felt tired, be it 9pm or 5am.

But tonight is different because tomorrow is different. Tomorrow is the first day of an adventure that will ideally be with me for the rest of my life. Tomorrow, this moment of writing will be a moment of envy. While I'm curled up in my car, sweating, wondering if I'll ever fall asleep, I'll be thinking, "Wow. I had it good last night." And that's the reality. Luxury is merely having a nice place to go to the bathroom and take a shower. So tomorrow holds no luxury. Tomorrow is the first step. Cheers to tomorrow!

people shuffling their feet. people sleeping in their shoes.

2010-07-28T16:43:00.006-04:00

Departure day is a week away. And while my sleeping accommodations for various nights throughout the trip are figured out, night one is still a variable as are many others. I've discovered several interesting options. Upon arriving in Cleveland, I shall see which one fate has in store for me. I hope to use all of these before my travels end:

- Walmart Parking Lots: Many (but not all) Walmart locations offer their endless ocean of paved acreage to campers, travelers, and all kinds of vagabonds. If these types of people shop there, I can't imagine who is sleeping there. In addition to being free, these campgrounds are monitored by 24 hr Walmart security. Call the Walmart you're planning on visiting and ask if they allow camping. It's that simple. Plus they have bathrooms when you get up in the morning. It's not the Ritz Carlton, but remember, you just slept in a car.

- Hotels: Hotels cost money to stay in. You know what doesn't? Their parking lots. One friend advised me, "don't park too close to the back of the lot, or too close to the front. Right in the middle with everyone else. You'll blend right in." That idea combined with another friend's practice: "Go to places where they offer free breakfast with an overnight stay. Just walk into the dining room in the morning like you own the place, ask for more mix for the waffle iron, and you're all set," takes care of sleep and sustenance. Two birds, one cheap, shameless stone.
Consider the following: Holiday Inn, Hampton Inn, Courtyard by Marriott, and the Hilton Garden Inn.

- Residential areas. Just park on a side street where homeowners park on the side of the road. Who's going to notice one more car? If you're worried about looking suspicious, buy a FOR SALE sign and hang it in the window. This to me seems a little sketchier, but that doesn't mean it won't work. Note: Make sure you're not accidentally parked near an elementary or nursery school. Cops probably frown on that type of activity.

big wheels keep on toynin'

2010-07-22T12:02:00.001-04:00

This is what I look like when I'm buying a car. I know... too eager.

And this is what I look like standing (ever so casually) next to a car that I just bought.

I knew nothing about buying cars prior to this. I probably still don't know much. Still, these two or three pointers should be helpful.
- CarFax. Make sure you get one. Owner history, repair history, etc. The dealer often has it on file, but if they don't you can get one here for about $40.
- On your test drive, take the car to another mechanic nearby that you trust. Have him check it out. And ask if he knows anything about the dealership you're buying from. If he's local and been around long enough, he should have some sense. In my case, he had nothing but good things to say.
- Don't forget to test it on the highway.
- Check Autotrader in addition to Craigslist and Ebay for comparable deals in your area.

If you ever happen to be in Ludlow, MA and in need of a used car (weirder things have happened) the guys at Ludlow Auto Sales are terrific. They've sold my family a few cars in the past. Really nice guys, really nice cars on the lot, and a pleasure to deal with. This was my first car purchase and it couldn't have been better or easier. This is of course assuming the product is good and that I don't end up stalling out and uncontrollably barreling down a mountain and off a cliff. Buckle up.

training for the road

2010-07-19T21:11:00.000-04:00

In my planning, I have realized I'll be sleeping in a number of places that aren't my bed at home. This could mean a tent in the woods, a friend's couch, the back of my car or the driver's seat while doing 75 on I-90, etc... As fate would have it, when I went to visit my brother and sister this weekend, I discovered a recent addition to their home; a hammock. Outdoors. So after a long days work of hanging out, eating fresh veggies from their wonderful garden and watching Zombieland in the outdoor theater we built on their porch, I took it upon myself to do some self-testing/preparation and slept two nights outside in the aforementioned hammock. While it wasn't the most comfortable sleep I've ever had, it also wasn't the worst. What's odd is that 24 hrs later it still feels like I'm in one whenever I sit down.

may the 4th be with you

2010-07-06T10:29:00.001-04:00

AUGUST 4th is the date I will depart, barring any sort of unforseen mishaps (a broken arm, monsoon, TB, an Arrested Development reunion mini-series, etc). That gives me just about 4 weeks to get my act together, finish up my planning as much as possible, and head west.

I've moved out of my NYC apartment today with the help of good ol' mom and dad, who at this point have moved me somewhere in the vicinity of 20 times. Saints they are. With gigs here in NYC, Cambridge, MA, and Pleasantville, NY, I'm only a few days from being completely uprooted from Manhattan.

In other news, a few items that will change my course:

- Touchdown Jesus burns to the ground after being hit by lightning. I would say "What are the odds?" but apparently they're pretty good.

Before planning my trip: After planning my trip:

- Lollapalooza is possibly thrown into the mix. Until my tix pull through, I refuse to spend any more time getting excited about it.

- I have registered for CouchSurfing.org. Check their site out if you're not familiar with it. My dear friends at the Today Show ran a segment on it recently and have verified that it will:
* drastically decrease my expenditures on nightly accommodations whilst in cities not inhabited by friends and family
* hypothetically give me some more great road stories to share with you here (read: severely increase the total amount of awkward moments in my life)
* only marginally increase my chances of being abducted and skinned in the middle of the night and made into a lampshade.

- Despite Enterprise Rent-A-Car's advertisements of "unlimited mileage" anywhere in the continental US, my phone representative, Nancy, informed that "That's just not true." So, I'm in the market to buy a car. More to come on this...

the route is coming together... right now... over me

2010-06-24T15:07:00.001-04:00

I have found the planning to be more frustrating than I had initially thought. I have started at least three different Google maps tracing out my route, only to find each time that I have missed some essential step and need to start over, for organizational purposes. And as I spent the first 14 years of my life doing everything by hand, I have resorted to that. The more you plan, the more you find, the more you want to plan... and this results in having to reroute.

With a path heading through OH to IN, and IL, I’m then heading northwest through IA, SD, WY, MT, WA and then down through CA. Click on the below map to enlarge it and get a better sense of what I'm thinking.

getting started... a few references

2010-04-26T10:47:00.002-04:00

I thought I'd share a few resources I have found helpful in my early stages of preparation. If you're thinking about getting out there and seeing America, take a few moments to look into these. Each is tremendously helpful, and will serve a different purpose.

Friends

Send out status updates, ask around, and find any friends or friends of friends who have taken on the road. If they've done it, the probably enjoyed it and will be anxious to give advice, recommendations, and a whole slew of do's and don'ts.

Planning-Fun-Road-Trips.com

This is a rather in depth site that covers everything from routing to road-recipes and planning to packing. There are also all sorts of calculators for figuring out your gas mileage and other expenditures. It's a good start.

AmericanSouthwest.net

If you're interested in the southwest (if you're not, maybe reconsider the trip) check out this site. It is the mecca of educating yourself on one of the most (seemingly) beautiful parts of the country. They have information on hotels, maps, and specific guides for each individual state. (The thought of returning from a 3 month trip and realizing I've missed something monumental in my travels haunts me regularly during my planning.)

Travels with Charley: In Search Of America - John Steinbeck

At the age of 58, Steinbeck found himself itching to go out and see America. For someone looking to travel alone, this brief sub-300 page book provides a considerable amount of mental solace. A million thanks to my cousin John for recommending this fine piece of American literature. He begins,

"When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assure by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked."

I find myself in a place where, just like Steinbeck, I have not "heard the speech of America, smelled the grass and trees and sewage, seen its hills and water, its color and quality of light. I knew the changes only from books and newspapers." And Google.

Littered with introspective thoughts and observations about all the people and places he sees, Steinbeck comforts any soul preparing for an adventure like this.

He too just wants to go. And knows that the feeling won't go away. Regardless, he hopes for something to delay his trip the sooner departure date gets. From the onset, he recognizes that everyone he talks to about it wants to go, regardless of where he's going. Perhaps most heroic - and literarily romantic in the American sense - he refuses to take fall into the "sweet trap" that is the comfort and safety of everyday modern American living. One of my favorite passages is as follows:

"Who doesn't like to be a center for concern? A kind of second childhood falls on so many men. They trade their violence for the promise of a small increase in life span. In effect, the head of the house becomes the youngest child. And I have searched myself for this possibility with a kind of horror. For I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I've lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment. I did not want to surrender fierceness for a small gain in yardage."

Other autobiographical travelogues that have been strongly recommended, but remain mostly unread and on my bookshelf:

On The Road - Jack Kerouac

Blue Highways: A Journey Into America - William Least Heat-Moon

in search of america

2010-04-25T19:46:00.001-04:00

At the ripe ol' age of 26, I have decided to take on America in a solo cross country expedition. Inspired by too many stories of "When I drove cross-country," and so many more of "I wish I had done that when I was younger," I have whole-heartedly considered and embraced the idea of taking on such a feat. I'm not completely naive - there is still much to be planned and it's by no means a sure thing. As with any whim of out-of-the-blue passion, prior to any concrete commitment comes waves of excitement and over-eager disillusion. And until I have purchased the appropriate automotive, it will be merely a daydream and a good conversation piece around the water cooler.

Much like Steinbeck notes in his Travels With Charley, I've discovered that the vast majority of people are wildly fascinated, many times to the point of jealousy, with this endeavor. Especially members of any generation post-baby boomer. (They just think I'm a little nuts. Which I may be.) It seems that people don't necessarily care where they're going - they just want to go! I think there's a certain comfort with the idea of stepping out of the expectations of the masses and into the mind of the wayward. Execution and submersion are the tricky parts. In William Least Heart-Moon's travelogue, Blue Highways, he comments, "A man who couldn't make things go right could at least go." Of course, he took his trip right after being laid off and going through a divorce. Hats off to new beginnings!

After some very infant stage planning, I intend to leave the first week of August. My initial route covers some 10,000 plus miles, should take circa 8-10 weeks and looks something like this:

This experience, should it transform from vision to reality, will be logged here in detail; preparation for the road, cities, towns, and monuments visited, strangers befriended, foods encountered, etc. Please feel free to come back and visit from time to time as I explore these amazing united states of ours. See some of the wonderful and unusual things I hope to see without leaving the comfort of your own home. If you have any comments, advice, or any of that good stuff, let me know. I'd love to hear it.