three is the magic number

I had some plans to, what, go west, take my time, turn around in LA. My new friends convinced me to detour to Bandelier and Taos. I did want to see Taos. Here's us outside our hostel, getting ready. Please note the mural.



Look at the road out of Santa Fe.



So in Bandelier, people used to live in caves high up on the wall. And they use ladders. It's neat, right? But did you know that they were in better shape than modern folks? The trails are easy and the views are sort of astounding. I asked The Brit, who has been traveling the national parks for 9 months, if he was jaded at all by these views. He said he wasn't.





Here is a good sign.



Here is a scene from a Robert Frost poem.



Here's a ladder going up high. We climbed a series of these, and I had to take a break. The air was so thin I couldn't quite catch my breath.



At the top the Brit gives us a historic overview of how the native people lived. He gestures thoughtfully.





I did wear my layers of clothing. And we did have a picnic of bread and croissant-type items stolen from the hostel. I introduced the idea of cream cheese and green olives. Cream cheese is called Philadelphia cheese in Europe.



Nearby is a really strange place called Los Alamos, and I'm not sure what they do there, but it involves: 1) the military 2) secrets 3) nuclear things. Lots of anti-war stuff going on.



We went through the checkpoint. The second checkpoint man gave us directions to the Black Hole Surplus Store.



Here they sell everything you could need if you were building a time machine. Motors, cables, chips, sprockets, nuts, bolts, hard hats, ticker tape machines, hot plates, magnets, tubes, coils, appliances, and filing cabinets. Also a nice basket of cassette tapes, 10 for $12. But the man let me have two tapes (an handmade mix called "Country" and The Cars) for fiddy cents. He also gave me a 60's looking timer that doesn't work. It says "NO GOOD" on the top. If all things had such a label.

One man at the store was cool and showed us a magic trick involving a magnet ball and copper tubing. Another guy told us that we, being English, German, and American, would all at one point have been killed as enemies of the state. It was pretty confusing actually. And a woman there told us to go two hours away to see Tinkertown. No one had heard of the rubber tire house.

Oh let me back up. Taos is famous for a few things. It is near a pueblo, it is near a huge gorge, and it is near a rumored land where the homes are made of tires and cans.

The gorge view was, as the book said it would be, mind boggling.



We sang "Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water." Here the Brit and the German are on the bridge, kicking snow at each other.




The Brit wanted a hotel room to watch the Grand Prix (pronounced Graynd Priks) but we never did see it. And the History channel was showing Pearl Harbor, and the German had never heard Josh Harnett's real voice, so that's how I ended up struggling to defend American culture in a Super 8 in Taos, New Mexico.

good snow

When I was driving to Santa Fe, it was snowing, but I didn't believe it. I just refused. I went south to escape the snow.

The hostel there was packed with folks. I sat in the main room while some Americans dressed like lumberjacks played guitar. I wrote in my diary, repeated sentiments expressed here such as I wish I were good at small talk, were the kind of person whom strangers talk to. Later I found myself trapped in a conversation where a worker at the hostel talked AT me and another guest, a Brit, for some forty minutes, and the irony did not escape me.

This hostel required each guest to do a chore in the morning. I swept and mopped the floor in my little bedroom, shared with two other girls. I hadn't met either, really, and I came into the room after both were asleep so I changed in the hallway where I saw TWO large spiders.

I forgot to mention how often I think about brown recluse spiders on this trip.

The next morning my car was covered in four inches of snow. The first true miracle of the trip: I somehow thought to pack mittens, a hat, and an ice scraper. I forgave all my previous lack of forethought.



In the lounge I met other people, all travelers with plans on hold. I met the Brit (the other conversation assault victim) and the German (one of the girls in my room) and we decided to go into Santa Fe together and we did not leave each other's company for the next two days.

Saying goodbye to them was difficult. I like being alone on Da Road, but we all traveled so well together. Good travelmates are sort of like good weather. Don't question it.

In Santa Fe, I did not have the memory card in my camera. So there are no pictures of that. Downtown is full of tourists and wonderfully pretentious art galleries.

The Brit made fun of my converse. They have seen better days, no doubt, but I love them. We went to a thrift store to find me the german some warm clothes. She was wearing a hoodie from one of the guitar-playing Americans, and a heavy Polo jacket, vintage 1996, which she got from some old man. And I got some new shoes.

We made ourselves pasta at the hostel, I made some failed cookies. I talked and talked about getting a green chile cheeseburger.

Sun

Here is a pic near my campsite. Look at those rocks! Dang.



I did not sleep well. But I was in good spirits. Here is a video I took after waking up. My voice in it could be described as "husky."



Amarillo is pronounced am-a-RIL-o, not ah-mah-REE-o. I got this tasty rib plate. It includes ribs (yes?), onion rings, cole slaw, potato salad, beans, apricots, and texas toast. Which is just big toast. The apricots were a mystery, almost like baby food.



The woman at the restaurant directed me to a nice park where I could picnic. But I turned the wrong way and ended up at some industrial center. And this amused me.

Amarillo has Cadillac Ranch. Obligatory pics of it.





As you see, graffiti is encouraged. I found a spray can nearby. Actually there is a whole field of empty cans, and the first one I picked up happened to work.



It probably will be there for another week before someone else covers it up. Such is.

I saw a roadrunner, I think. I mean, it was a tiny bird that ran across the road, and it looked like the cartoon.

Texas loves you

I vowed that I would not spend another night in a hotel. I would find cheaper accommodations, and since I wasn't willing to do anything lower quality than the Rusty Skeez-pile Motel in GA, I would camp.

The first failed camp attempt I learned: never go looking for a campsite with anything less than a full tank of gas. The second failed attempt, I learned: never go looking for a campsite later than 5 pm.

I'm not a moron, usually. But I think I so desperately wanted this trip to be as un-planned as possible. And I learned the price for spontaneity is $95 a night.

I aimed for Texas.

Texas is like the threatening, mysterious friend of your parents. You can't predict him. Is he going to be cool and let you play king of the mountain in the basement? Or is he going to yell at you if you knock over a glass and threaten to hit you with his belt?

East Texas, is, not surprisingly, a lot like west Louisiana. But then it slowly gets drier and lighter in color, slowly fading. The trees are replaced with stubborn-looking shrubs. It was exciting. I have been to Houston once, and that is my only experience with Texas.

I approached Dallas out of necessity. It was too long to go around it. I had heard things about Dallas--that it was not cool, that it was horrible. This is almost exactly what I picture when I think of Dallas:



The criss-crossing overpasses were nothing compared to the evil that lay in store. I noticed that the sky was beginning to look like an egg carton. From what I remembered from Earth Science, this was very bad. Clouds are usually flat on the underside.



It was seriously Biblical. The sky was sort of green, too. I turned on the radio to hear if there were tornado warnings. No, but they warned of hail.

HAIL. HAIL YES. I drove through a maelstrom. Wind, torrential rain. Traffic was stopped so I could do nothing but sit in my car and think about animals being pelted with pea-sized hail.

The hail stopped, but the rain continued for another hour. And here's the best part of travelling. You just leave when it gets bad. Raining? Drive past the rain. When I finally saw the sun peeking through the clouds, I felt a renewed sense of freedom and promise. I celebrated by going to Dairy Queen.

Turned north at Abeline, drove up and through small towns where people looked at me as I drove by. I don't rememeber what I was thinknig when I took this pic. Probably something like, "Wow that looks just like what I thought the West would look like!"



Same here.



I did pass this sign.



I found the campsite fairly easily. The book said it was free, but there was a self-serve permit station, and it cost $6 to camp. You filled out the date and your license plate on an envelope and filled it with money. Probably no one in the area does this. Probably I am the only one. But I filled the envelope with quarters, because I'm a good person. And also I was imagining the ranger opening an envelope full of quarters.

They had four campsites on White River Lake. I picked the one farthest away from the road, so I wouldn't be bothered, and so no one would see me try and assemble my tent. My $20 children's tent from Walmart. I have to sleep in it diagonally.

One small lack of forethought: Lakes are filled with mosquitos. I wore my hoodie, jeans, and shoes, though it was like 70 degrees. Even still a few found their way inside.

I set up my little stove. I made my little Lipton side Fettucine Alfredo (not bad). I did some puzzles, and I tried to sleep. But did you know that ducks make sounds like braying donkeys? Maybe a mating thing.

The site was awesome, but I couldn't find a good angle. So the next morning I decided to take a video. I plan on uploading it, but I'm currently having trouble.

And one last thing. The roads were mostly empty. But when I passed a truck (always a truck), I noticed that the driver lifted up his or her finger from the steering wheel, the way you might do to say "Thank you for letting me go" or "hey there, I have the right of way, as indicated by this yield sign, which I point at for your convenience." Except every truck on the road did it to me. Finally I realized they were saying hi. What on earth. I did it back a few times.

Man I'm tired of writing on this blog. I think I know why. Here's where I left off.

Louisiana was lush. I liked the look of it, all the trees and the wet wind slapping around. It rained the entire time I was there. I drove across the northern part of it. Parts were crowded, parts were empty, but it was the same road. That's how it goes on DA ROAD.

I decided I would camp. I looked in my campbook and found a place that was 1) nearby 2) free. I planned to get there at 7. But I spent 3.5 hours looking for it. I never did find it, though again I wasn't lost. This was just like my last attempt to camp. It was dark, I was in an unknown place, it was more frustrating than anything else. (One difference here was that the campsite I wanted in Georgia was located near a Civil War memorial thing--some camp where 30,000 soldiers died horrible deaths in captivity. So maybe it was for the best that I never found it)

The rain got worse, and in frustration I just picked the first hotel I found. It was a Sleep Inn, and I found out that my UF alumni thingy allowed me a 10% discount. But the man at the front desk told me I had to make a reservation on the internets if I wanted the discount. And the room would be $95. javascript:void(0)

What happens when you are tired and when it is raining is: you spend money.

It was an absurdly luxurious room, considering the Secret Passage Dumphole in GA. So many linens--so, so, many linens. I should have taken a picture but I was lazy. And we've all been in semi-upscale chain hotels. So instead I ate tuna and watched Witness, starring Harrison Ford. I should have gone to bed but Witness is one of those movies that came out before I had consciousness, and it's like, not good enough to rent, but good enough that when you're in a hotel you watch it. Harrison Ford is great, and he exchanges so many sullen, lusty glances with the Amish lady of his desires.

I have no pictures of this day.

Whoops

The library here in New Mexico is about to close. This computer sucks. I will update later on:

Louisiana
a failed attempt to camp
a successful attempt to camp
Witness, starring Harrison Ford
Texas
a successful attempt at smalltalk in Texas
the end of the world in Dallas
western cliches come true

The man at the computer next to me reeks of soap and is probably drunk. But he did echo my sentiments:

Soap: Man it is weird today.
Me: How so?
Soap: It's really slow!
Me: I know, it is! It is slow.
Soap: It's like a woman with a headache. Don't ask me for anything! Ha ha!
Me: [genuine laughter]

grown up stuff

Oxford was fine. I had a different idea of what it would be, I think, but this is also true of most things in my life. The motel was a little shady and in the morning a man with a shopping cart in the parking lot asked me if I had a good night's sleep. Later I learned he was the cleaning man. Okay.

Oxford has a nice independent bookshop, and I bought there the new Mary Robison book. I asked/told the cashier, "She taught here, didn't she?" though I knew the answer. It was my attempt at small talk. She seemed to see through it, and she did not help me out. Being in a car is a bit isolating. When I told Wylie I was worried about getting lonely in the car, he said something about travellers attracting other travellers. I don't know; it sounded good at the time. But as I am already 1.5 weeks into my trip, I'll tell you, I think it's a little different. I have noticed that Wylie is one of those people that strangers like to start conversations with. I know this from when we would go to the grocery store late at night and crazy people would talk to him about, whatever, Hotwheels or ice cream. They never talk to me. Which is fine, about 98% of the time.

Then when I talk to the cashier at the bookstore she looks over me, not at me, like over my shoulder, like she was looking for a hidden camera, like maybe she was on a prank tv show, or maybe like she was looking for someone like Wylie to talk to. Well, a drunk Scotsman once told me I had a pleasing face, and I believe that. (For Rebecca: "My friends say I have intriguing eyes").

And so, the cleaning man with the shopping cart says hello, but those are niceties. Tonight I hope to stay at a hostel in Santa Fe, so I will make a concerted effort to talk to people in a natural fashion.

I don't remember what I was thinking when I set off, or what I had in mind. I got on some road that started big and then became small. It was an extraordinarily windy day and when I filled up for gas I imagined I looked cool and windswept, but I probably did not.

I stopped at Clarksdale, Mississippi, to get a picture of the crossroads.



The crossroads is where a young man sold his soul to the devil for the ability to shred guitar. The restaurant recommended to me by hipster guidebook was closed; a nearby place was also closed but they said they could give me food. It went like this.

I walked into the restaurant and everyone looked at me. There are some places where you will always stand out, either because it's a small town, or because you are wearing a miniskirt in Mississippi, or because you walked into a restaurant at 2:30 pm when everyone knows that's no time for a meal. "Are you still serving food? Or is there a place around here that is?" I asked. I tried to be casual, not smarmy or touristy or cutesy, but I probably was all three. "Grill's closed," a skinny man in a hunting hat said. "But he can fix you up something. Can't you?" This he directed to a tall black man who looked really scared to see me. I repeated myself and added, "I've been driving all day and I'm starving."

Hunting hat said, "We can't have anyone starving." Scared man said he could get me something and he disappeared into the kitchen. I was to follow. Is this against some sort of code? In the fridge room he shows me a shelf. I have never been in the fridge room, but isn't this where they murder people? No bodies, just tubs of things on the shelf. "Where are you from?" I said, "I'm from Baltimore." "Oh, okay. I'm Terrell." "I'm Liz." "Hi Liz, this is chicken salad, and this is egg olive, or, something else, what do you think?" I got a drink from the fountain while he made my chicken something. This time, unsweetened plus fruit punch. I was proud of myself. But it was actually grosser than sweet tea, if you can imagine.

While I waited another man said to Hunting Hat, "So I heard you were on tv last night?" He laughed and nodded. And did not elaborate. I paid and left such a big tip that a woman working there yelled after me that I forgot my change. Outside another man said goodbye. He asked if there was anything else I needed help with. "No, just passing through. Wanted to see the crossroads." "That ain't the real crossroads!" "What?" "The real crossroads is by old 49. Did you go under the train on the bridge?" "Yeah." "It's around there." "What does it look like?" "Oh nothing. It's just grown-up stuff now."

Whatever that means. I thought about it for the next 40 minutes.

The chicken salad had egg in it. And they gave me pickle slices which delighted me to no end. So happy that pickles still exist in the south.

For good measure, here's a possible contender for Most Frightening Thing on the Road:



It wouldn't have been so scary if it hadn't been creeping along at 5 mph and making a sound like a trash compactor filled with wolves.

The rest of March 23

I decided next was Oxford. I just like southern college towns, I guess.

On the way there I got mesmerized by a giant Dairy Queen sign, and went on a detour through a town that had approx. 50 outlet stores and 0 Dairy Queens.

Then to Alabama, a state I'd never visited before. The welcome center was welcoming enough, with a serene display of rocking chairs chained to a porch.



I promise not to make any jokes involving the words "Sweet Home." I have too much respect for Alabama for that. But I will say they let me down with this overcrowded signpost. Make yourself clear, Alabama:



So far I've traveled backcountry roads in almost every state. Alabama was different. The small houses and stores I passed seemed sadder and more neglected than in previous places. And that's something. I saw confederate flags, to be sure, and propane tanks. It wasn't all that. It was something else.

Here's a list of the top automobiles to be found in Alabama

1. Gray pickup trucks
2. Red pickup trucks
3. SUVs
4. Kias

And here is a picture, somewhat blurry, of an entry for the Most Frightening Thing on the Road category. If you can't see it, it's a giant black pickup with a confederate flag on the tailgate. And filled with black trashbags.



Beyond sadness and pickup trucks, Alabama likes bingo. I saw a five mile stretch of road home to no less than six bingo places.

And beyond sadness and pickup trucks and bingo, Alabama is beautiful. Even the interstates are beautiful. I thought about taking a picture of the sun setting over the hills, but I just thought it wouldn't come close. It was indescribable. You have to know. And I think living here, yeah, even an athiest like me would feel the presence of something larger. Back east, it's hard to find spirituality in Target and Chilis. When the hills are large enough and the colors so vivid that you feel the size of a walnut, it's something else.

I stopped in Oxford, Misssissippi for the night. And here I am, at the Oxford public library.

Here is another contestant for the M.F.T.O.T.R. Can't remember where I saw this, but it scared the dickens out of me. It's a semi being towed by another semi. Imagine seeing this in your lane.

Point taken, Macon.

I didn't think it was possible, but Macon, GA is a cuter and more southern than Savannah. And the municipal vehicles are more weirdly European. Quick, though--I didn't get a picture.

I went there for the Cherry Blossom Festival. Macon fancies itself the cherry blossom capital of the world. They also have a very good hot dog shop. If there's anything I like more than hot dogs, it's towns that declare themselves the (irrelevant thing here) capital of the world.

Everyone and everything is pink during the festival. Lots of elderly tourists are in town, too, and so it was sort of like Valentines day at the old folks home.
The lady at the tourist center (pink sweater in a wheelchair, with, I THINK, pink ribbons tied to it, though I didn't get a good look) told me that some dude came into town and decided to make Macon known for its cherry blossom trees. So he planted a boatload.



The blossoms are crazy. And the bees are just having a good ole time. The trees are densest in the affluent areas, and each little Belle Reve had its own pink wreath tied to the mailbox. Some cadillacs had pink flowers painted, too. Some other people might call it overkill. But other people are usually wrong.



There was some crazy festivities going on in the park, like moonbounces and free samples of coca cola. But I wasn't having the parking fees, so instead I drove around until I found some weird old graveyard on a hill, behind a warehouse. I took my own picture with some trees. I'm not very good at self-pictures.



Downtown Macon is small enough that finding the hot dog place was easy. It is called Nu-Way Weiners. So delicious. What was the old way? Who cares? I got a chili cheese slaw dog, all the way (mustard and onions). And a sweet tea. If that doesn't sound delicious to you, you're probably a vegetarian. Or a weirdo.



Usually sweet tea is so sweet it verges on undrinkable for me. This was no exception and I carried around my jug of sweet tea for an hour until it got warm and gross and I had to come to terms with the truth: I AM NOT A SOUTHERNER.

Way back in the visitor's center I picked up a great brochure about things to do in Macon. Lots of Little Richard stuff and sports and blah blah history but then, in the corner, a totally random picture of two little boys sitting on an Otis Redding statue! I hope to include the text that went along with this picture, because it was so powerfully written that it convinced me I had to find this statue.

Also, if you know anything about me, you know I am 1) a sandwich fanatic 2)an Otis Redding devotee. I found the statue at the end of a path that was unreachable by car. To my great surprise no one else was around--what?? Why? Probably at that cursed Little Richard memorial--so I could not take a picture of myself sitting on Otis's lap.



But I did get to take a picture of this sign. It has some great typographical errors, forever immortalized for the world to see.



Lastly, here is one of my favorite signs thus far. And I've seen a few (including the oxymoronic "Hunting Preserve" and the haunting church marquee "VICTORY IS SWALLOWED BY DEATH"). This sign is simple, to the point, and yet also hopelessly vague.



That will conclude my entry on Macon, GA, though the day was not over.

A motel to avoid, if possible

The mint lemonade was one of my best ideas, ever. Wylie will agree. Ten minutes before I left I realized I had no pictures of Gainesville so I took this of Wylie sweeping his porch. Actually I thought it was a picture but it was a video, because I can't quite work the camera.



I ended my stay in Gainesville with a plate of huevos asheros from my favorite good-timey old family restaurant, The Top. But I didn't get on the road until 4 or so, and then I took some amazing backcountry roads instead of 75 (which might actually be worse than 95, only for the constant "DISNEY WORLD COUPONS...FREE OJ!!!" billboards. This is all to say that it got dark really quickly and I wasn't close to Macon, GA, my next planned stop.

But here is a beautiful road going through an idyllic small town.



The AAA camp book said there was a good camping site in Anderson, GA, near a Civil War memorial, but to get there, I'd have to take some lonely farm roads in the dark. Now listen. I never got lost, never. I always knew where I was.

But it all took longer than I thought, and by the time I reached the CLOSED camp site, I was almost out of gas. Well, all right. I kept on, hoping for either gas or lodging. I found lodging first at the Budget Inn in Montezuma, GA.

I won't say how much I actually paid, because it shames me, but I can say how much the room should have cost: $8. The sheets had some impressive cigarette holes, there was tape around the bathtub. And the trashcan said "Holiday Inn." I'd love to know the story behind that.

Here is a picture of a secret door that was in the closet, and by closet, I mean a large recess in the wall sectioned off with a curtain on a rope.



And here is a picture of the kitchenette. I didn't use it, but its existence was the only reason I valued my room at $8 and not $3. It was greasy and the stovetop had saucers on the burners. Is that a southern thing?



I did not sleep well, but it wasn't because my sleeping bag was way too hot or because I was worried about being attacked. It was because the motel was 20 feet away from the train tracks and a train went by at least twice an hour, throughout the night. And also everytime I heard a car start up I was convinced someone was stealing my car. In hindsight that was a silly worry, because there was NO ONE AROUND FOR MILES AND MILES.

The next morning the motel manager shook my hand when I checked out. I didn't have the heart to tell him I fantasized about burning his establishment to the ground.

Gainesville is good, really

March 20-21

Has Gainesville always been filled with good-looking people? Yes, probably. Wylie, my host and very good friend, made banana pancakes this morning, and they were the banana-iest pancakes either of us had ever eaten.

Now we're in the library at my alma mater. The weather here--well. I don't think the locals appreciate it enough. I don't think I did, when I lived here. It's sunny, it's warm, there's a breeze, everyone is smiling. I wear my contacts and my sunglasses.

Later today we will probably sit on the porch. I want to make some mint lemonade, so I may do that. Though I have a tiny cut on my hand, and I could see this becoming a problem.

Because it was 30 degrees when I left Maryland, it didn't occur to me that packing chocolate chips in my trunk would be a bad idea. Luckily they are all in plastic bags.

Someone left her computer open at the library. She left her backpack, which is unwise. She also left while surfing facebook, and if she's not careful, I may go over there and write embarrassing things on her friends' walls.

My friend Jake encourages me to move on from Gainesville, not to dwell. I am a dweller by nature, but I promise him and I promise you and I promise myself, I will move on.

I might need a bib

Thursday March 19

I left at 7 am for Savannah, GA. I had the privilege of driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Every time I see or say the words "Blue Ridge" I get a song by Fleet Foxes in my head.



And here is a great picture of French Broad River. Anyone else remember the "old French Whore" skit on SNL?



I was in a daze through South Carolina. I pulled over at a rest stop and took a brief nap, not thinking to avoid parking in the direct sunlight. When I woke up 20 minutes later, I was yelling. I don't think I've woken up yelling since high school.

I hope when I get further west (and have less people to visit) I'll avoid major highways. They really all do look the same, more or less. 95 is the worst, of course. Other highways have few distinguishing features. I did notice in South Carolina a beautiful stretch of trees all beginning to blossom in different colors. It was like fall in the north, except pastel. I took a photo but it's not the same.



I also saw a vehicle on the road that prompted me to create a feature which I will tenatively call: The Most Frightening Thing on the Road. The vehicle in question was a truck filled with hay bales. The driver was thoughtful enough to cover the hay with a giant, ill-fitting yellow sheet of nylon. I think it was nylon. It was tied in a few different places, but driving 80 mph it was a terrifying sight. Really almost like a deflated Thanksgiving day parade balloon undergoing a seizure. I took a pic but again fear it's not the same.



In Savannah I was determined not to spill anything on my shirt, as it was my 4th day on the road and I was 4 for 4. I knew it was futile as I had plans to find a BBQ shop.

When I got my sandwich -- pulled BBQ pork with coleslaw on top -- I sat in a nearby square and ate it. It was such a beautiful day, as a man missing three teeth pointed out to me. Savannah is a unique city, very liveable, very comforting. This applies to the historic district only, I'm afraid. Outside this small area, Savannah is a bit scary. But inside, ohhh. Huge trees, historic houses, squares, gardens.



It has a definite European vibe to it. Not just the history and old buildings, which is a large part of it, but the traffic layout. I couldn't put my finger on it until I saw this ridiculous car-thing, belonging to the city, in a parking garage. That's so Europe.



I didn't spend as much time as I'd like there. My legs still hurt from my mountain trek the day before, and the city was filled with tourists and art students and I somehow felt out of place. I think the city would be better traveled with a friend. The sandwich was delicious and that's important to me. I did spatter a few drops on my shirt. I hope no one saw me whip out my Tide-to-go pen. (Did you know they make a mini-Tide-to-go? Really? What is the point?)

I drove to Gainesville on route 17, which I heard a lot about. Maybe too much, because I wasn't that impressed with it. Earlier in the day I drove a short stretch on US 15 in order to avoid 95. This tiny road went through some nice southern towns, one of which did not have a single chain store in sight. 17 was a nice alternative to 95, yes, and I saw much spanish moss, but I guess I was expecting something crazy, from all I'd heard about it. Don't listen to me. It was beautiful, and I am jaded.

This one will be shorter.

Wednesday, March 18

Asheville is a great town. Normal feeling but surrounded by mountains which impose a sense of importance. But then the people are incredibly laid back, so it all combines in an interesting way.

The sun rising over the mountains woke me up. "Hello, Liz," the sun said, "I'm so picturesque it's absurd!"



Felice and I left the animals at home and visited the Folk Art Museum. Surprisingly less dorky than it sounds, though Felice and I were the youngest there by a good 30 years. The featured exhibit was lace-making in progress.



(This is a pic from the internet.) Lace is made by maneuvering strings around different pins. The strings are attached to marked dowels. We were impressed. Then we saw one display that had unmarked dowels. Like, oh, you're so good you don't need marked dowels to make lace? Who do you think you are?

We took a long walk through the hills. It made me wish Asheville was flat and just surrounded by mountains. The walk felt like, I don't know--10 miles? It was probably only 1.5. I wore my converse and only got one small blister--a huge testament to the smartwool socks.

We passed the tiniest, cutest pomeranian puppy in the world. It squeezed through a 4-inch hole in a chain link fence. Felice put it back but it squeezed out again so she had to patch up the hole with a metal grate. I do not have a picture of it.

I made burritos for dinner, including an impromptu batch of I-hope-Chipotle-style rice. I remembered Rebecca's rhyme for successful Chipotle-style rice: "a little more time, a little more lime." Or it might have been "less." Or "more time, less lime." Whatever.