1: Travels with...Me

Things change in increments. And when the increments are miles, things can change in a hurry. Driving out of our beloved DC area, something happens as the little numbers roll over on your odometer. The roads become unfamiliar, the land more green and arid, and the people more salt-of-the-earth. In a way, things become more real out here.

Your faithful reporter has commenced a road trip this month. The goal: the International Motor Press Association annual meeting and test days. The car: the author's own '90 Lincoln LSC. First stop: Coshocton, Ohio, in the middle of the Buckeye state, on the way to Detroit, Michigan.

Expedient it may not be, but there's nothing like land-based travel for actually seeing this land of ours. Airplanes provide quick elapsed times, but little comprehension of the nature of the land you're passing through and above. The train provides a better look, but the vista is usually limited to land America's railway companies bought and promptly devalued over the past two centuries. The bus is cost-effective, but slow and a real exercise is self-imposed depression. Best of all modes of travel, I find, is the automobile, a personal escape pod, replete with personalized entertainment and lumbar support.

About fifty miles northeast of the beltway line, changes become evident.  Land is cheaper, and houses have more yardage. Agricultural implements are in evidence, and roads become curvier and yet more anonymous. I'm pretty sure I passed a haystack museum. It's odd, but it seems that the town councils out here have run out of imagination; roads are designated with numbers and no commemorative names. There's no Johnson Street or Smith Highway--there's just County Roads one through one thousand. This trend becomes more and more palpable the further out you go; it's as if nobody worth remembering ever lived out here.

That's not the case, of course. Good people abound in the outlying areas of America. My first stop in small-town Ohio brings back memories of such folk.

Coshocton, a small factory-and-tourist town six hours outside of DC, was once home to a good friend and his family. I've spent time here in years past, in small houses decorated in a timeless turn-of-the-century style that the DC elite pays exorbitant amounts to recreate. The town square is just that, lined with small shops, bars and homey restaurants. Life here is slow and comfortable, and although it's being slowly encroached upon by strip-malls and Wal-Marts, it's still some people's definition of American Paradise.

Heading out of semi-rural Ohio, straight north to Detroit, the route is 83--maybe not the quickest, but surely the most scenic. And for those of us motorists who love a challenging drive, surely the most fun. The Lincoln is a willing partner on these smooth byways, powered by trusty Detroit-bred V8 power and stuck tight to the road via the best suspension that early 1990's America had to offer.

Of course, I'd be able to tackle the curves that much faster in a new Acura RSX or perhaps a new Mini, but that would look wildly out-of-place out here. The automotive landscape here is dominated by the home team. Chevys, Chryslers, Fords and their badge-engineered variants outnumber the probably more competent foreign competition by an incalculable number. I have a few theories on this phenomenon. First, the simple fact that most dealerships out here sell mostly American products. Second, the good people who reside in these places have a resilient, robust (and possibly misplaced) faith in U.S. products. It may take generations before the "Buy American" creed, based on blind faith, is erased from rural America's collective conscious. Asian companies are making inroads here with new products like Nissan's full-size Titan truck, slowly eating away at Detroit's dominance in heartland markets. But, it will take time.

Arriving in Detroit early on a Sunday morning, traffic is minimal. If you're ever up here, take the opportunity to cross the bridge to Canada—the land is markedly nicer there. Detroit proper has the world's worst roads, bar none--I'll never complain about Mayor Williams' sluggish response to pothole repair again. Even Ecuador's highways were easier on the suspension (and the kidneys). Otherwise, Motor City is neo-classic Americana, industrial, and boring. There are pretty suburbs and subdivisions (Birmingham is the region's Bethesda, if you're looking for an overpriced meal), typical sprawl, and gambling is legal. The ethnic communities here seem to be negligible, and the lack of diversity is a prime cause of the perceived lack of dimension here. Smaller towns on the outskirts, like Ann Arbor, seem to have more to offer. And, on a personal note, no matter how competent your writing, nobody is willing to offer you work based on first impressions.

Some things you learn on a trip like this: Your *national* cell phone plans aren't quite so national. One trillion locations or not, your Visa card may not have the worldwide acceptance you think it does. And no matter how much you drive, there are still myriad new vistas to see and new destinations to anticipate.

Next week, Chicago.

2: Fear and Beatings in the Midwest

Further and further from home, your normal inhibitions begin to peel away. So much of the person you are (or pretend to be) depends on your surroundings; and when you’re in an unfamiliar area, you just may find yourself shifting to reflect your new locale.

Scary thought.

The fading sight of Detroit in the rearview could be described only as a relief. More so with the secure knowledge that friends await in the Chicago area.

Chicago sure seems to be a fun town. Saturday night was spent at what I was assured is Chicago’s hippest nightspot, Visions. Land of 10,000 dance floors. The city itself is a real metropolis, at least measured by the quality of the food.

In truth, though, I spent more time in semi-rural South Bend, Indiana, on the outskirts of the Windy city. An odd amalgam of golf-course-communities and redneck/roughneck agricultural types, South Bend seemed to me to be indicative of the state of modern American countryside. On the surface, you see quaint country charm and bucolic farm life, if you see anything at all from the interstate. But people live here, and real-life drama is just as evident as in the big city.

In areas like these, a significant portion of the population is dependant on the government for a portion of income. And many recipients supplement this meager income with various semi-legal activities. Combine that fact with the knowledge that there’s little to do out here but get hammered, and you find a community in which the stagnant economic pool consists of a bunch of people swapping cash for dope and back again, with a trickle coming in from the government and going back out to bars, fast-food joints, and the like.

By all appearances, out here, having kids is almost a prerequisite to graduating to the drinking age. While conventional wisdom decries this behavior, allow me to postulate that this may be the saving grace of the heartland. With nothing better to do, a child can be a real stabilizing factor. I met a number of folks whose lives revolved around their children. Born to young parents, such children might not have the best opportunities handed to them, but some of these near-adolescent parents work tirelessly to provide for their offspring.

And then again, some don’t. With all the drinking and drugging that takes place in the center of our country, there’s bound to be some accompanying depravity. I witnessed no fewer than three fistfights in as many days. As I’ve said, drugs abound, in forms you’ve likely never even imagined. Ever thought about snorting horse tranquilizers? Of course, the county jail is almost a second home to some denizens.  Some people seem to be as inexorably (and fatefully) drawn to violence as the moths are to my headlights flying across I-94.

I’m writing tonight from a hotel room in Bismarck, ND, courtesy of Aunt Dayle. This is the area my Mom’s family is from, but I doubt if she feels much more of a connection to this state, chock-full-of-nothin’, than I do. The people are awful nice, and the climate, for at least this week, is agreeable. But otherwise, this is relatively unremarkable country. One thing you notice out here, about cows: good for eating when dead; not so appetizing to the olfactory senses when still prairie-grazing.

What else can I say? Wisconsin has great bratwurst and cheese, Minnesota has, well, lots of lakes. And a car museum; I have pictures. Otherwise, I can’t wait to hit the Pacific Northwest.

3: Westward, Ho!

Escaping the dreary North Dakota badlands into Montana gives you a feeling akin to taking a deep breath upon arriving at some tropical paradise. My northern route meant I did miss the famous Wall Drug in South Dakota, but I was able to catch the not-so-famous Wall of Insects that forms an informal barrier between the badlands and the northern hill country. Once stopped for gas, I spent more time scraping carcasses off my now-opaque headlamp lenses than I did pumping petrol. Nevertheless, Big Sky Country is breathtaking; a real gem in America’s goodie-bag. I spent the better part of an afternoon racing a freight train across an amazing tableau of the American West. Sunset was a revelation. Once I hit the Rockies, and the terrain became treed and green, I could only marvel at the beauty of the earth we’re given. Once you hit the peak of the peaks, you’ve crossed into the Idaho panhandle, and you’re greeted by a visage of none other than stern Smokey Bear. The descent is a letdown, once past Lake Coeur de Alain (likely translation: “Cur of Alan”), and into arid eastern Washington. After two hundred miles of flat, brown land, the reward comes in the form of the Cascade mountain range, as beautiful as the Rockies and the gateway to Seattle.

Seattle! Unofficial motto: “It gets kind of annoying after a while.” I have close friends in the Emerald City, and was thrilled to spend three days there. Most of the daytime was spent at the annual music and arts festival, Bumbershoot, watching local music acts and comedy performances in an atmosphere of liberty and liberalism. It was fun, but something about it all seemed a bit contrived. It took a day or two before I realized what it was: the city itself, and the inhabitants. Seattle is like San Francisco Lite; chock full of hipsters and dare-to-be-different kids that all seem the same inside. You’re lucky to spot a person of color, and everyone has money; even the streetpeople. I was solicited for change numerous times, by so-called bums with suede sneakers and iPods. Hey, voluntary unemployment can be boring; could you begrudge a homeless person his 80 gigabytes of pirated mp3 files?

So, on Sunday, I hit the road again, joining the throngs of BMW pilots Seattle’s southbound freeways, headed for Oregon. Had dinner with family south of Salem, in a bucolic little locale full of farms and good people on front porches. I pressed further southward that night, and made camp at the base of Mount Shasta in California, expecting to awake to the beautiful vista I remember from childhood camping trips. Awake I did, but the mountain was all but obscured. The locals said the air was dark with wildfire soot. Obey Smokey, people! After a shower and a quick swim in the lake, I headed towards San Francisco and family.

You all know me, and you’ve all heard me ramble on about the merits of northern Cali. I’m not going to repeat myself here, except to say that if you’re blessed enough to live within driving distance of the Golden Gate, thank your stars and, well, let me know if there’s any job openings.

4. Through the Desert in a Lincoln I Never Named

Some say that Las Vegas is Paradise, and I can at least attest that the road there is long and hard. I-5 to the 15 and then angle back up north through the hills—eight hours out of S.F., and you’re there. It is an oasis in the dry desert, I’ll grant it that. You crest that last hill, expecting to see nothing more than the topographical tundra you’ve grown so used to, and suddenly, you’re greeted by the New York skyline, the Eiffel Tower, pyramids and sphinxes and somesuch, and it does almost seem like a mirage. The funny part is, it only becomes more surreal once you settle in.

Vegas bills itself as a tourist town, but some locals in the know verified an observation—more than half the folks you see strolling the impossibly long blocks from casino to casino; or huddling intently inside, in a haze of smoke and liquor; are regulars. One of the surprises on this road trip has been the proliferation of legalized gambling in states east, west, and central, but the hardcore still flock to Nevada.

The allure isn’t hard to understand, once you hit that first score and you’re up twice what you came in with. Of course, the House knows that that’s when you’re really hooked, and you’ll stay on that line until your luck runs out.  I felt the tug a couple times, but I’m lucky enough to be poor, and once I found myself ahead by a couple hundred, I could pull out with no regrets. Some in my party (not to name names), had more trouble letting go, and enough money was lost at least to cover a new set of DJ turntables (did I give it away?). Still, the flashing lights, the neon, the fountains and the not least of all the free drinks conspire to lend the town appeal beyond easy money. Vegas does have my gratitude for those couple wins, however. Thanks to Bally’s, I’m pretty confident that I’m going to return home with at least 48 cents—Canadian.

Arizona was a bust. I had anticipated a great reunion with an old friend, who, as it turns out, has become something of a hermit. Is reclusified a word? The state, though, is one of the most surprisingly beautiful territories I’ve covered since Montana. The Grand Canyon is, well, grand, but in my estimation, maybe not as scenic as the rest of ‘the Grand Canyon state.’

Took a quick side trip through Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, only a few miles across the border from El Paso. Since I spent some time a couple months ago in Cabo San Tourista, I thought I’d get a closer look at the rest of the ‘Gran Pais.' The burned out cars just over the Santa Teresa border, looking to have been shot directly off the road during some wild midnight chase, made a sobering welcome. The city was bigger and more sprawling than its Texas sister city, but clearly flatter too, and probably about equal in population. You can only stack cardboard, plywood, and aluminum sheeting so high, but there seems no limit to how densely you can pack such a city.

Does anybody in America have reason to complain about anything? I think not.

Otherwise, the drive through Texas was a droning 36 hours of nothing. Some observations, when there’s nothing else to observe:
I’m pretty sure Gatorade is loaded with vitamins and minerals, which is good, seeing as I can’t remember having a vegetable in about a month.
Discovered a new CD—if anyone besides me was crushed by Bradley of Sublime’s premature passing, pick up the Long Beach Dub Allstars. Nuff said.

More to come, in the land of southern hospitality.

5. South of Eden?

East of Arizona, east of Texas…well, son, there ain’t much. It’s a dead drive, so to speak. Best to tackle it in a hurry—get it over with before you realize you’ve started.

If you’re lucky, you’ll end up in New Orleans, with a friendly place to stay, as I did. The concept of Southern Hospitality is not a joke there. It’s a breath of fresh, if somewhat thick, air. Everything’s so colorful, literally and figuratively.

Perhaps it’s all the humidity, but things move slow (everything but the traffic, that is—I’ve seen more polite motorists in prison motor pools). Nawlins food is sublime, Nawlins people are friendly, and the city itself is awash in history. Walk the French Quarter, and you’ll likely find yourself throwing up beads to a party girl standing on the balcony of a building once used as a slave exchange. Or, maybe you’ll find yourself just throwing up. Both events are equally plausible, in Nawlins.

Spend a little more time, and walk the rest of the city. It’s a port town, and fortunes rise and fall with the seas. Once-stately mansions sit, divided and divided again into apartments for longshoremen. Unwashed shacks share block space with what could be the city homes of plantationers. And nobody seems to mind.

Nobody, that is, but Mother Nature. Situated four feet below sea level, the city seems constantly at war with itself. There’s a constant struggle to keep vegetation from reclaiming yards, porches, and roofs. On the plus side, there seems to be plenty of work for carpenters and housepainters.

Bidding a fond and regretful farewell to the city of mufalettas and po’boys, the next, quick stop is Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I’ve got family there, a happy group of Bible-belters. I’ve spent some time in other areas of Tennessee, and was, let’s say, less than impressed. My family fed me well, however, and explained the benefits of the town to me. It’s an arty town, it seems, also with a multitude of churches.

Okay, I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Then, a last, mad dash back up north. That was the last scheduled stop, on the way through home to the International Motor Press Association’s Annual Meeting and Test Days. If you want to read about my time there, check www.asianfortune.com for regular columns. Or, buy a subscription, for cryin’ out loud.

It’d be easy, and expected, to end this multipart travelogue with some sort of sappy statement, like, ‘but, through it all, I’ve learned that the best place to be is…home.” And, in truth, I fully expected that that would be my conclusion, no matter how trite. Now home, though, I’ve had a change of heart. I can’t wait to hit the road again. My horizons have been painfully, and perhaps forever, widened.