cactus instead of moss

When I sleep in my car my breath condenses inside, and my sleeping bag becomes wet and cold. There's a certain smell that is always the same but which I could never begin to describe.

I drove to Tucson, up and through roads that have no business being roads. Upright cactus every few feet, some held up with pieces of wood. I saw a mountain covered with the cactus, and then I saw more. I took a breath and I did think, this is why I came, I think.

I did a long stopover at a rest stop. I've become fond of highway rest stops. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I sit in my car and put on a little face powder, not because I'm a vain little belle; my powder has spf 15, and my face has taken on a tan that is both beguiling and unforgiving on my skin.

I drove up towards the Phoenix area looking for an In-n-Out. I read about one in Chandler, AZ. Oh, and I stopped at a CVS to buy a disposable camera. Sad to put the digital away, though occasionally I still turn it on to see how it's doing and nod in disappointment when it reports that yes it still has a lens error or some other eye infection.

In Chandler, AZ, I sat in a parking lot under a small amount of shade and talked to Wylie on the phone for an hour. Meanwhile the sweat collects in the small of my back. Then I got my double-double burger at In-N-Out and a Neapolitan shake (all three flavors), a secret menu item. I found a radio station in Chandler, AZ, that seemed to only play T.I. and 50 Cent, all right with me.

I wanted to visit the world's smallest museum in Superior, Arizona, but it was closed. Next time. I did go to the Bryce Thompson Arboretum State Park, which sounds dorky, but that's one of the beauties of traveling alone. You can indulge your dork. The park is quite nice, lots of lonely, secluded paths that in the East might prompt caution. But since I was the youngest person there by about 40 years, I wasn't worried. The park was selling cactus, and I bought one. Tiny. Stayed in my trunk the rest of the trip.



And here is a fairly horrible picture of a hummingbird.



And a much better picture of the desert section of the park.



They had a tropical palm section, and yes, I did miss Florida a little. Hummingbirds were everywhere, as were the elderly. I kept my camera out of use, for some reason. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to just take it in.

The road to Tucson was another ridiculous mountain road. I drove in 3rd gear. They had something I'd never seen before, and something that qualifies as the day's Most Frightening Thing on the Road. It was a sign that said "Runaway Truck Area Ahead." Then the road branched and a big stretch of sand, like the long jump pit -- if the long jump was 60 feet. I guess if you are a truck and the steep downgrade is too much and your brakes fail, the state highway system has a plan: just steer along, keep calm, and then veer off into this giant sand pit. But, really, the phrase "Runaway Truck"?? Great and terrifying.

In Tucson I got to play the "If my life had gone a different way" game. I was accepted into the U of AZ writing program and didn't go. But of course spent much time thinking how things might be different. People I wouldn't have met, for better or worse, whether the dry air would have been better for my mood than the wet. How I would have done without spanish moss.

Tucson was a city I planned on visiting. When I got there it was empty. I parked and walked by some houses with homemade lawn ornaments, signs on the porches about parking, cats everywhere, music and incense and cactus flowers. And I parked my car for a second to look at the book, and I suddenly heard "I'm Proud to be an American" coming from behind, and THIS drove by me:



Which, if you can't tell, is a man wearing a cowboy hat, driving a Rascal with a flag on the back of it. And music was playing from somewhere.

I stayed at the hostel in Tuscon. I met another girl doing the same kind of trip as me. Instead of books, though, she raised money by selling her expensive yoga clothes. She was going northish, aroundish, towardish yellowstone.

I wanted to make cookies so I went to the best-named grocery store in the city, FOOD CITY. A mexican grocery store, too, so next to the Ramen noodles are 50 different kinds of garbanzo beans.

I bought cactus again. Delighted to think I could try and cook it again, after my last attempt was doused in gasoline. I bought one cactus pad, one container of shredded oaxaca cheese, one container of pico de gallo (heavy on the cilantro), one pack of little flour tortillas. Altogether it was delicious. The cactus has got punch, sort of lemony but very green. Here's my cactus soft taco. The green strips are cactus.



Then I made my oatmeal cookies and that may have gained me some friends.

One friend I did not make was the older lady sharing our room. She went to bed at 9 pm when the other 4 girls in the room were still up, coming and going and getting things from our bags. Old lady rolled around and groaned when we made noise. She was on the top bunk, so was I. We were alone up in the stratosphere and by the time I hoisted myself in she was nearly hoarse from the theatrics. Oh to be put out by these young assholes!

I thought she was an alcoholic, because, why is anyone with a full head of gray hair in a hostel? But in the morning she was talking (about young people, politics, and the spirit, and our lack) and I understood that she wasn't an alcoholic, she was just an aggressively self-righteous new age hobo.

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.

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.

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.