Days are a mix

The man at the Honda dealership directed me to a body shop where they could better look at my car. He even printed out directions, so, thank you, man with your Honda button down tucked into your khakis.

The directions led me to a main drag in San Diego, not downtown, but where lots of things were happening. The body shop had four or five broken down cars in the parking lot, but it looked fine. By broken down, I mean totally dismantled. The man was super friendly. I did my best to articulate what felt wrong in my car. We took it for a test drive. I sat on top of piles of maps and discarded In-n-out straw wrappers.

The drive was enjoyable and I was surprised that I didn't feel as shy as I usually do. He said the car was fine, and what I was probably feeling was a change in the shape of the car. Specifically, the bumper is a little lower and pushed out on the sides, by like 1/2 inch. Also there is a small gap where the hood meets the car, but he assured me the hood would not fly up. He looked at the engine, looked at the tires, and declared it all right. He charged me nothing, said I looked like a smart girl, and shook my hand the way I imagine men shake hands.

I drove with a renewed sense of purpose. I visited Balboa park, which is a gigantic urban park, housing musuems, sculpture gardens, exhibits, the San Diego Zoo, fields, trees, gardens, restaurants, and thousands of school children wearing matching shirts. One group of children had tags around their necks, like, furniture tags on cotton string. Love it.

Parking is free, the trolley around the park is free, and so is the botanical garden that I had read about. It supposedly had an amazing orchid exhibit. But it was closed on Thursdays, so I had to settle for a picture of the exterior.



Here's a sign to ponder. "Don't Abandon/Dump Any Animals in the Pond." What is the slash there for? Is it possible to dump but NOT abandon an animal in the pond? Like, if I took my pet fish to Balboa Park and dumped him in with the intention of picking him up later? Someone wrote this sign. Someone thought about what to write.



I did visit the museum of photographic arts, which was empty and great. I do love good photos, especially since I can't take them. Here is one, and I hope posting it isn't illegal. It's called "Sea of Hats"



When I visited the rose garden, I found it difficult to get "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" out of my head. Then I went to the desert garden and had to wrestle out the mutated version I invented: "I Never Promised You a Succulent Garden." Desert plants are creepy, and I took some photos, as well as a brief video.



My brief video tour of the succulent garden.


The rose garden was lovely, as expected, and some of the names are better than the flowers.



And here is a brown recluse spider, one of the thousands I saw on my journey.


The free trolley featured a wonderful, lively, androgynous driver named Kathy. She told us all about the history of the park. I got in my car and drove east, eastbound and down, homeward, through the mountains. The views were absurd.



Here is a woman walking a sheep. Hello!


I took a detour to Julian, CA, a weird old westerny town that is famed for its apples. A recommended bakery served a crazy delicious slice of apple cherry crumb pie.

The main drag through Julian. And a specialty store!


Cats, cats, cats and more? What possibly more could you offer? OR NEED?

The detour to Julian went on a winding road upwards, and though I felt comfortable with my car, I did not feel comfortable speeding on turns posted as 15 mph. A black pickup full of Mexican teenagers tailed me the entire way down the mountain. I talked to them as I drove. "Boys, I am not speeding here. I am going to fly off the road. I know it's possible. You'll just have to hold on. I know you want to add a few inches to your manhoods. You'll have to find another way." They didn't and instead passed me, on a double yellow, on a tight curve around a mountain, going at least 50 mph. I had some brief high horse fantasies involving coming across their crashed pickup and dialing 911. Yes, I am standing here at the crash site, no one looks seriously injured, though I can confirm that they are not smart people, even for teenagers, and you may need to slap their parents in the face."

One of the mountain roads to Julian, up so high. The woman who gave me pie assured me that the town was not on fire. It was just a cloud.





Happy chug a lug, and then right at the exit for Jacumba, CA, my muffler fell off, solid gold.

A gas station was less than 500 feet away. I stood there thinking about what to do. Parked across the street was a tow truck, and the driver just sat there. I walked up to him and said, "Hi, my muffler just fell off. I was going to call AAA." He said, "I have a call I gotta go to. Here's my business card. Call AAA and give them this number." The card was black around the edges with car oil. Okay, so, let me get this straight? You have a call to make and the reason you're sitting at a gas station is?

I called AAA and the nicest girl I have ever spoken to got me a tow truck, the very same company. I hoped whoever they dispatched would not be sitting idly somewhere, killing time. The tow truck came quickly and the man let me push the lever, the one that pulls my car up onto the ramp, while he held my muffler up into place.



We had an awkward ride, 45 miles to El Centro. We listened to pop music, so let me be the one to tell you the oddness of riding with a man who does not know where Baltimore is while lisitening to the Fray and Beyonce.

He took me to an Econo Lodge where the parking lot was full of pickup trucks equipped to carry sheets of glass, you know how they look. The man at the register was unnecessarily creepy--like I could tell he was amping it up. Why do old men do that? I even wore my hoodie and stuck my neck out like a raptor, so I would be less attractive (damn my good looks). It was nighttime, so I washed my filthy feet and went to bed.

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.

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.

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.