Truckin'

4:40 pm

The city of Omaha is a special place.  Em and I were taken by our host, JGo, to the suburbs (where I got my hair cut); on the trip we passed two malls in approximately 5 miles. 

Hairs cut equal goofy faces.

Upon our return, we went for falafel in a relatively “hip” part of town. There was a young man on heroin napping in the corner who had come to visit his friends (or maybe got so disoriented he did not know where else to go) as they worked their shifts.  He was well taken care of, and we later found him, with one of those friends, lovingly caressing a lamp-post that was kind enough to help him stay erect.

Back at the house, we were regaled with tales of the abandoned buildings our friends had visited (JGo had been employed by the census, and had the inside scoop on where people did, and did not, live) a few neighborhoods away, one of which had clearly been empty for months but somehow had two freshly dug, grave-sized plots of earth in the backyard.

This, and the house’s proximity to the friendly neighborhood crackhouse and a fraternity, ¹ might have led Em and I to be nervous about sleeping over, but we awoke this morning with the Whale still fully loaded and not defaced in any way. After a delicious breakfast, we set out to cross Iowa as quickly as possible and get to Missouri.

There is something decidedly surreal about Missouri. The lay of the land and highways suggests that there is a large quantity of interesting things happening—or at the very least, that there are people somewhere—and yet, from the highway, it feels desolate and confused. The roadside marks the city limits to cities that are not visible from the interstate, and the signs often contradict themselves.  I witnessed two cities alternating city limits for several miles (a total of 7 signs for the two places), which suggests either a powerful territory battle fought entirely by means of road sign or an intensely jostled gerrymandering campaign.

The exception to this empty, alien landscape has thus far been Kansas City (or rather, one of the Kansas City designees we passed along the way), which nearly killed us when semis came from on-ramps on either side of the Whale simultaneously, sandwiching us in a wind tunnel of death moving along at 75 piles per hour.  I have learned on this trip that the drag created by a semi truck at full speed is enough to send this white beast a-wobblin’ for several hundred yards.  In Sadie, this was never a problem, since she was about half as tall as the Whale, and considerably more aerodynamic.*

Kansas City.

Kansas City was our first extended pit stop of the day, even given the terror of the highway, because we could see it.  Proximity to the route is a very compelling draw when choosing stopping points.

7:17pm.  I 70 near Kingdom City

At a certain point post Kansas City, we went from being in the Midwest to being in the South.  I don’t declare this based on geographical features, or physical boundaries, or even the folks we’ve encountered (accents have been different since mid-Iowa).  Instead, there simply came a moment wherein the world was enveloped in an invisible blanket of sodden, oppressive sky.  Breathing outside has become an exercise in physical strength—both my skin and my lungs feel damp, and the air absorbs odor like milk left open in a refrigerator.  This means that freshly cut hay fields find their way into your soul and linger there. The converse of this is that cow shit does the same.

We are about 300 miles outside of Louisville, and the sun is setting.

8:33 pm. just past St. Louis.

We have reached Illinois. Getting through St. Louis was a test of Em’s mettle, but she had plenty to spare. The girl is a standard transmission driver now, quite officially.

1:34 am. Louisville, KY.

The GPS device led us around and around Kentucky in search of a hotel (once again directing us at first to a hotel that did not exist).  When we finally found a hotel, we walked in to the lobby, and were greeted with a sign that declared, in handwritten scrawls, “TOILET PAPER 1.00”; tired and confused, we took a room and wandered off in search of it. It was hidden around the side of the building, next to a room that was clearly trashed, and when we tried to enter, the door didn’t open. This wasn’t a result of the key not working, as the little light turned green. Rather, it was because the room was locked from the inside. Luckily, there had been another sign inside the lobby that announced that refunds could be given within 15 minutes of seeing a room, so I ran back and told our helpful desk person that we were going to keep traveling.

This did not seem the least bit odd or offensive to her, and she issued a refund promptly.  When I went outside, Em pointed at another room at the front of the building, the window of which held big boxes of matches, drain cleaner, and lighter fluid. We had apparently stumbled upon the worst hotel in the world.

We skedaddled as quickly as our little wheels could take us, and found, down the block, a Quality Inn.  The lobby was clean and had a large breakfast nook, the manager was helpful, the room was reasonably priced, and everything seemed perfect.

The only catch was that when we entered the room, the television was already on. We scrambled around to be sure no one was present to rape and/or murder us (the room was clear), and made ourselves comfortable. I suspect an employee was simply taking an unlicensed break in the room, and that, dear reader, is fine by me.

And on top of all this, as we walked to our room, by the pool, I realized something:

I’d been here before.

Not in a déjà vu sort of way. In an actual, literal sort of way. I was in this hotel when I was fifteen, for a pool party.  Our room is next to that pool. My mind is a little blown, and I am a little thrilled.

Tomorrow, they will make us waffles,²  we will shower in a clean place, and we will be on our way to Philadelphia.

This is the hotel pool. 11 years later. Whoa.

Notes:

* The engineer who determined that minivans ought to be shaped like large metal refrigerator boxes on wheels have something to answer for.

¹ It should be noted that these two things were independent of one another, and there was little indication of crossover between the two.

² And not, as Em pointed out, crack, like the place across the street.