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.

i feel like a luddite

Tuesday, March 17

Only because I can't work my digital camera as adeptly as I'd like. Otherwise I like technology, as evidenced by the existence of this blog. I realized I left the memory card reader at home, so this entry will make reference to photos that aren't updated yet. Update: Here are some photos of houses in Outer Banks. My future house:



Not my future house but another cool house that I wouldn't mind visiting if a friend of mine lived there:



I drove out of the Outer Banks on a road that let straight into nowhere. Literally! (That's for you, Jake.)



I drove on 64 West to Asheville, through the entirety of North Carolina. Though the road later widened into a four-lane faceless highway, it started out small and intimate. Went through a state park of some kind that had a serious nuclear fallout look going on. Also had periodic signs that reminded me that "IT IS ILLEGAL TO FEED BEARS ON THE HIGHWAY." Point taken.

I stopped in Chapel Hill for lunch. Chapel Hill is part of the Research Triangle, a title which I find impossible to take serious. Before I left, and between rounds of Ken-ken, I read about a small place that serves great BLTs. Anyone who knows me at all knows I am a BLT fiend (and a sandwich fanatic in general). Chapel Hill is an adorable little town and is extremely difficult to navigate.

I should take this time to mention my navigation system. I have a big road atlas--easy to read, though bordering on unwieldy. I also have two compasses. One suctioned to the front window and the other hanging from my review mirror. On their own, each is right about 75% of the time, so I use them together to orient myself. Also they provide a crowded, low-tech look to my vehicle which says, "This car is not worth stealing."

The compasses could not help me with Chapel Hill's winding roads. I got lost in three distinct ways.

1) Finding the BLT shack. I finally found it and they were no longer serving food. The cashier directed me, sort of, ( "behind you! No, the other way! You walked right past it.") towards a refrigerator case with some pre-made sandwiches, and this sufficed. Barbeque chicken with bacon and cheddar.

2) Leaving Chapel Hill. Proved difficult as the town lacked the normal "to get back on the interstate, turn here" signs. Once on the road again, I realized I was low on gas. I took the next exit, immediately west of Chapel Hill. You'd be wrong if you thought the next exit after a sizable town had any gas stations.

3) Finding gas and then returning to the interstate. I drove through rolling fields for 20 minutes before finding a BP. I shrieked with joy. A family man at the gas station directed me to follow another rolling country road and it would take me back. It did not. Lots and lots of dairy cows, and then the compasses were not in agreement, and a few small towns later I found the interstate. Miraculously I was 50 miles west of where I exited.

Was the sandwich worth it? Who can say, really? It was a good sandwich. To a certain degree I don't mind being a little lost, but getting lost three times in a row was trying. I will say the bacon lived up to its reputation.

The only things I remember about the rest of the ride to Asheville was that I calculated that if I go 75 mph, I can divide the distance by five and then multiply it by four to determine how much time is left. I also passed a motel sign that read: "WE'RE ALWAY'S OPEN" and that is not a typo on my part, and I thought about "alway's" for the next 15 minutes.

I have visted Felice and Ryan once before in Asheville. They are generous hosts. They also have two dogs and a cat. I am afraid of the cat because it's crazy and used to attack Felice in her sleep. I have said before to anyone who will listen that the cat is truly a sociopath. Felice disagrees but I have looked in Opus's eyes and seen nothing but the dark, silent lake of insanity there.

When Felice made up the couch for me, Opus took right to it.




I removed him but he returned a few times. Finally I let him sleep on my feet. At first it was comfortable, but he must have been hitting a pressure point which triggered a sensation I can only describe as anti-acupuncture. Instead of relaxing my muscles and promoting a sense of well being, Opus found a spot on my foot that tensed up my entire lower body and gave me an sense of stress and impending doom. At least he didn't bite my face.

Another thing of note is the series of bumper stickers that Felice has on her microwave. They are in a row and tell a sort of narrative. The first is "I voted," followed by an Obama sticker, followed by a psychedelic picture of a skeleton with a pumpkin for a head playing frisbee. There will be a picture here of it. Update: here it is.

first day

I think the first day deserves some attention. It certainly was awkward enough. I got on the road and almost immediately said to myself, "What in the hell am I doing?"

I hope later it'll feel more like second-nature.

I went for the Outer Banks. I know this of it.

1. It made popular those oval stickers with OBX printed.
2. It is like Ocean City, "but boring," said my brother when he was 13.
3. It contains a town named Duck
4. It is, in my head, a town made of sand dunes. It's totally off the grid.
5. To get there, take 95 to 64 E and so forth.

Driving south was like going forward in time. I watched the seasons change. 64 was the first road with any green on it (interstate 95 does not support life). It was a very gray, foggy day. Foreboding. On the bridge near Newport News, I saw very evil looking fog. You know, when the fog isn't an even cloud but smoky and organic. Like the illustrations in Scary Stories.

One similarity between Ocean City and the Outer Banks is the road leading there. Very unimportant-feeling, through small fields and ranch houses, and then an abrupt transition into a beach town. One difference is the dismal number of themed mini golf courses in OBX. I only saw one. There also is no boardwalk, and that means there are no henna tattoo stalls or arcades or seagulls fighting bitterly over discarded french fries.

But OBX does have some beautiful beach houses. A nice place to visit, even on a wet, gray day. Route 12 runs north-south. I drove north, through creepy green foliage, past lots of white SUVs, into a state park that said "4 Wheel Drive ONLY." Then I turned around.

I stayed at the Cavalier Motel.





Recommended. Really sweet inside. I met a mother staying next door with her two kids and had the opportunity to tell my first lie of the trip.

Her: So where are you guys from?

Oh really! You guys. Why can't people fathom a young woman traveling alone? I talked to myself and calmed down. She saw me trying to unwedge my jacket from the immense pile of crap in my car--she probably thought one person wouldn't need so much. Indeed. But I lied anyway because I never did meet those two kids of hers.

Me: Oh, we're from Maryland and Florida.
Her: And you met here?
Me: No, we met in Florida.
Her: You guys are on spring break, eh?
Me: It's complicated. I'm on spring break but he's not.
Her: I see.
Me: Yeah, it's hard to say goodbye.

What? And then I had that Boyz 2 Men song in my head for the next 40 minutes. I walked on the beach, very pleased that my feet were warm in my new Smartwool socks. I tried to think of what my purpose for this trip is. I also thought if I need a name. So far I have "Self Reliance '09" and "Quest for Dignity," and I know it doesn't make sense but it sounds good, right? But I couldn't decide on a name, and I was distracted by two seashells I found. Below is a picture of my feet and the ground, but the seashells I found are not pictured.



The beach is comforting, and here's why. You think of the ocean as alive, not as like a fragile ecosystem, but as a sentient being. Maybe an animal. It has moods, it slaps the ground and washes things up. And it really doesn't give a shit about you, in any way. This is comforting.

Staircases on the beach are absurd and great. They don't fit in, at all, and they're hulking and rigid and measured. No worn path in the ground--we need 12 stairs of equal size. Seeing a row of them really tickled me.

And here's a stupid self-picture. Not the last, I hope!!!!!



I like motels. I like a private space. I like HBO and I like not having to clean up when I leave. I ate a grapefruit and watched Terminator 2. Such a good movie, really. Though if you dissect it too much it doesn't make sense--how does the T-1000 work? He's liquid, but he's a robot? My frail human mind cannot take it. Also I love the part where Arnold says, "Now I know why you cry" and then is lowered dramatically into a vat of molten metal. Mark my words, I will go out that way.

I have pictures but I haven't yet figured out how to get them off my camera.