My Saturn Ion, aka Monaco, aka The Rostanmobile, has now topped thirty thousand miles, and is now right back where it started…the driveway of my home in Boardman, Ohio.
Less than twenty-four hours after my last blog post, I picked up my father at LAX and together we drove almost 2,500 miles in two and a half days, pausing only to eat and, in Richfield, Utah and Omaha, Nebraska, sleep. (In Richfield, we stayed at a Fairfield Inn after the Hampton Inn farther away from the freeway was booked solid. Can someone explain this to me?)
Last Food Ever Consumed in Los Angeles: a coconut-with-Oreo Pinkberry
On the Stereo: Various local FM and sports talk stations, the Indians beating the Tigers 5-4 after nearly blowing it in the 9th, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan (Dad had NEVER heard Blonde on Blonde all the way through before, despite it having one of his favorite Dylan cuts ever, "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again,"), Camera Obscura, a little Elton John, and of course, Harry Chapin with the Bottom Line Shit-Kickin' Country Choir and Us!
In the Car: Two men who had one disagreement which made the current driver recall the day when the other was teaching him to drive and used some strong four-letter words in the process, but mostly talked about life, school, women, politics, books, and God in a way where they felt a little closer to equal than they had before, and with plenty of love in the front seat. Behind them, an entire life's worth of material goods packed so well that nothing shifted or broke and the hats and posters stayed unsmushed. Thanks a Billion, Kal!
Reading Material: The Bible (Gospel According to Luke and Ecclesiastes) and the new Vanity Fair, with reporting on Sarah Palin's psyche (somewhere I DON'T want to be), the financial collapse at Harvard (kind of glad I'm not there…Chicago appeared in great shape back in April), and the one man who may have triggered the entire financial crisis (exaggeration?). Plus bits of Jack Kerouac's On the Road, which is pure poetry but right now is too repetitive for my immediate wants and needs. A little later…
California: Bid it a fond farewell with a final shoot through the Mojave Desert where I learned you should not attempt to sell Powerbars in the Mojave Desert. Still as spectacularly desolate as ever.
Nevada: Passed Las Vegas and after an ill-advised exit in Glendale (which is like Oxnard but even more dingy) we ended up in Mesquite, chomping on terrific steak sandwiches and chili in a 24-hour casino/restaurant.
Utah: Entered at night, and all I could tell was that there were lots of hills and a cloud formation the likes of which I'd never seen: incandescent and illuminating miles around us, the moon passing through like a marble flicked through a hoop. In the morning, a clear-as-a-saltless-lake day, Utah became as intoxicating to drive through as New Mexico, with cliffs, rocks, and vistas all of near-Monument Valley proportions. After a few scenic area signs, we stopped at one in Spotted Wolf Canyon, deep and wide and ideal for pictures…which will follow.
(Passed briefly through Arizona, but nothing to write home about.)
Colorado: Heavenly to drive through, especially when you're right by the river close enough to see the faces of the people rafting the rapids even though you're going sixty, and when you're passing the tree-covered mountains of Vail and that magic kingdom called Aspen, but hellish on the car. HELLISH. Upgrades, downgrades, having to press pedal to the metal (which I didn't do once in L.A.) and bear with the engine making horrid noises simply to keep at the sufficient speed necessary for traffic flow. We entered the Roosevelt Tunnel and saw a sign for 11,168 feet elevation, and I thought, how did we get up this high? I drove all morning and Dad took over in Denver, at which point the mountains DISAPPEAR. Colorado also tries to be funny in their signs warning truckers about 6 miles of 6% grades. ("Don't sleep yet!" "Almost there!") They're not funny.
Nebraska: In Esquire's last Meaning of Life issue, Conor Oberst said that Nebraska is what you make of it. Lots of cows, lots of country and Christian stations…but in Kearney, grandpa's Steakhouse, a classy, old-school (1952) establishment with as tender a filet mignon as you'll find anywhere.
Iowa: Defeats Arkansas for the title of "Most Boring State in the Country." Although the Mississippi crossing was as majestic as ever.
Illinois and Indiana: Quite frankly, by this point we were so ready to get home we didn't care about what was going on, although Dad did miss the turnoff for the Indiana Turnpike and cut across several lanes of freeway from 0 to get there. I would never have had the nerve.
Ohio: Home again. Dad lost the keys, found them, found they were bent, and rejoiced when I had the spares in my backpack. After being very picky with dining options we ended up at a Burger King. I got misty on the inside turning onto 224 in Canfield, and after one last stop to wash off the dead bugs who'd been slamming into me the whole time, we came home, and Mom had beer waiting for us, and I slept. And once everything was unpacked the next day and I had done ten laps around the neighborhood, I slept even better.
Richfield to Omaha was 1,007 miles. We ignored weariness to get there.
And we were exhausted on Saturday to the point where we were singing along with "I Honestly Love You" at the top of our respective lungs and Dad was ready never to do this again…but one thought, best expressed by Michael Buble, kept us going…
"It'll all be alright/We'll be home tonight/We're coming back home."
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