bad snow

Oh reader, so much has happened. I have left you in the dark on purpose while I decided what to write about. First.

When I woke up in Gallup, NM, in a Walmart parking lot, my car was covered in snow. At first I thought this was great because I could change clothes in privacy. But then I tried to drive on the roads and it was nasty, a solid sheet of ice. We crawled along the freeway at 20 mph. It wasn't slow enough, and I slid around, spinning three times before gently bumping into a guardrail. I sat in shock as an SUV drove past me. The driver looked at me, a blonde woman, and I looked back at her. We said with our faces,

"I just spun around three times."
"I know."
"It was so scary."
"Should I pull over?"
"I don't think you need to."
"I would probably just crash into you if I tried to brake."
"Yeah I understand."
"Okay, little girl with the Maryland plates. Good luck."

I got out and my car is a miracle beast. Some scratches, a new shape to my license plate, the front bumper a little lower than before. I got back in and drove away.

I thought, no need to tell anyone, because they would just worry, and I probably called that. I drove west, determined to reach Los Angeles by evening.

I stopped in Flagstaff, which is one of my favorite towns thus far. Everyone was so incredibly friendly. And of course it's beautiful there. But it's beautiful everywhere out here. Even dump towns have mountains as backdrops. I wish I could have stayed longer in Flagstaff, or Arizona in general. The German had yelled at me for driving with such purpose, not seeing the Grand Canyon or anything except the road to Los Angeles. It's true, I should have stopped and seen something. But I figured I could always see the G.C. when I'm older and have a family and I take my children on a miserable car trip, if cars are still around.

As I neared the California border I went south, taking the road to Lake Havasu, which is just about the weirdest town around. Here Arizona looks a lot like how I imagined CA would look, and I kept thinking I was there. The town is on a bright blue lake, the color of what-the-hell. Everyone there is a bad driver, reckless and entitled, which worked out all right for me as it gave me practice for California. Lake Havasu also has something called London Bridge, which as far as I could tell is a fake London Bridge going through town.

I drove through Parker, AZ, where I picked up some jerky for Adam. I got three kinds: sweet & hot, teryaki, and teryaky. I called him to say I was in Parker AZ, right near the border, and would be there soon, and he let me down quickly by saying it'd be another four hours or so. I called him from a scenic overlook, near the Havasu dam or something or other. picture here.

At the California border the agriculture police took away my macintosh apples (fruit, not computers) and then I drove through a giant cloud of bats, so yeah, welcome to California.

The sun set and I tried to get a photo but the camera insisted on focusing on the salt on my windshield. I drove over a hill and suddenly a glittering--no, really, it was glittering--city lay before me. Los Angeles! The city of angels. Actually it was some other town but it looks good. And this kept happening. I'd go up through some dark winding hills, and then at the peak the view of a city, feverish, plugged in. My jaw would drop, I'd claim, "Los Angeles! The city of angels." And then I'd see a sign that said, "Bumdiddly Fark City Limits."

The driving got more aggressive, slowly. I didn't notice it at first. The car was doing fine but I noticed that at high speeds, the steering felt off somehow. Or the car just didn't feel the same. No noises, no smells. I had concerns but I kept them to myself, which worked out fine, because I was alone.

Adam is a frequent commenter to the blog and my host in Los Angeles. He lives in the city, proper, and gave me directions to his gated community. I felt safe and secure. When he met me on the street I practically fell out of my car: After one near-death-ish experience and 14 hours of driving, 3 hours of which were in the greater LA area, I was ready to take a good shower and collapse on the floor, all the while mumbling gibberish. He let me do so, and I even borrowed his conditioner, which was coconut, the standard of excellence in hair care scents.

Also, I passed through a town, can't remember the name, and it was the Flagstone capital of the world. And as for the most frightening thing on the road, the winner that day went to the road itself, for covering itself in ice and bullying me around.

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.