A day I went many miles.
The 7th of August 2011. I traveled the vast majority of its waking hours (10 of them), by myself. Somehow the solitude I have been seeking has not been satiated on the road. I think this largely in part due to all the consideration I must pay to others (on the road) and that I must focus the vast majority of my visual attention on mundane concrete before me.
I started my travels that morning by foot in a mist of rain that quickly saturated all of my layers leaving me with goosebumps and trails of water dripping down to my poor choice in footwear. This leg of my journey was done in the company of two friends who aided in lifting my spirits, carrying my bag at times, and encouraging the purchase of ice cream, goldfish crackers, a candy bar, and a yogurt shake for breakfast. I left the island by ferry. It’s not often to have no choice but to take a ferry and I stopped to marvel at the general oddity of my morning’s travels and its inefficiency. The ocean was capped in white and chock full of large swells— I was seasick the whole way. This experience was then further accentuated by a cattle shoot full of misbehaving dogs and their owners which led from the boat onto an overcrowded bus of soggy patrons. I arrived at my parking lot and landed ankle deep in mud puddle upon exiting the bus, this phased me very little as my shoes had long been ruined and I had only barely dried off at this point. When I first saw my car I felt the kind of relief that hits upon your first real glimpse of a summit— the trek is not over, but so much has already been accomplished. As I got situated in my car and cleaned off my legs and feet, the mist was quick to coat the left side of everything near to my door. Slamming it shut was coupled with a sigh. I then wound around towards the exit where I, for the 3rd time that day waited in a line; this one came with impatient road enraged people who slid through the mud to cut in line. Entitlement continues to be one of the most unattractive qualities I so consistently see in people. Reaching the parking lot pay station was merely the end of phase one of my travels: get off of Martha’s Vineyard.
I headed from there towards the roundabout and bridge that separates Cape Cod from the mainland. These two obstacles proved to be a complicated feat for those leaving the peninsula (island?) and its incumbent critical thinking resulted in much traffic and frustration-induced poor driving decisions on the part of my surrounding company. I sat, in the same lane, a good car length (when I was allowed it) away from the car in front of me, enjoying a candy bar, tuning out my music and instead opting for my thoughts. With the Bourne Bridge came freedom, came driving over 10mph, came more tangible progress.
Massachusetts might have the worst drivers possibly anywhere; not that its drivers are FROM Massachusetts (especially thick into tourist season) but that the state itself is full of them. I hated driving in you Massachusetts. Catching up with mom and dad while I drove, having someone else pump my gas, and stopping for that really bad and yet still incredibly appreciated cup of coffee, was its saving grace, kind of.
Then came Connecticut full of its beautiful rest stops and an ease in traffic that allowed me to generally zone out and let the hours breeze over me. My body chose a stop in Old Lyme (rather than the much more convenient roadside rest areas) due to a coffee-induced need to pee and the fatigue associated with it wearing off. The gas station’s restrooms were out of order and my sense of urgency increased from having gotten out of the car, thus I ran across the street to the neighboring grocery store. My eyes were darting along its walls until I finally found someone to ask and direct me to relief. It was at this point that my current surroundings moved into focus. I was at one of those customer service oriented grocery stores, the kind with multiple employees down every aisle eager to offer their help and say hello (all things foreign in the North—sad, true). And so, I talked to a lot of people there. First it was the woman with the utilitarian wireframe glasses behind the prescriptions counter, then it was the man with the neck and knuckle tattoos who had a friend from Greensboro restocking the yogurt, followed by the man behind the side dish counter that had a countenance similar to that of Cillian Murphy coupled with a bashful smile, who offered me directions to the aisle with the boxes of plastic spoons before his coworker handed off the single plastic spoon I actually desired, and finally the teenage girl emblazoned with facial piercings and a haircut that told the familiar story that she cuts it into a new style when she’s bored with herself. And then there was me, covered in a film of travel grime with hair tangled by the morning’s rain and just enough time with the windows down, coming off of hours of silence with a thick southern accent. Each one of them looked at me first with an expression of shock and then with a smile of comfort and humor. I was a spectacle, but also curiosity-inducing as I felt the stares of those not speaking with me as well. I didn’t mind their gawks and grins though, it was nice to talk to someone. I left with 2 blackberry yogurts, a coca-cola, a pack of gum, and social interactions to dissect and marvel over.
I wound my way down into New York (City) from there. And the thing about NYC is, if it’s not the destination, then I’d prefer not to see it. With its skyline and bridges came traffic, quick turn-offs, and the return of aggressive drivers. As my music swirled around me, I began to look at myself from the outside, and the songs became a soundtrack while the passing lights reflecting off of my cheeks told a story. I traveled over a bridge that shook from the booms of fireworks going off at eye-level. I gagged down a 5hr Energy drink arguing about it internally until I actually felt the desired result of being much more awake. I called to tell my destination I would be late.
New Jersey came when I was long past ready to be done for the day. The glare of the green and white turnpike signs flashed in my eyes, coupled with the red running lights of the cars to my bow and the latent glow of headlights at my stern—among a vast sea of black in every other direction. A friend I was past-due catching up with called. We talked intermittently between the toll booth stops, happy to be in each other’s company even if it was just over the phone.
And then I made it to my destination city, Philadelphia Pennsylvania. My navigation system, usually such a trusty steed was thrown off by Philly. It told me to turn on one way streets and eventually led me a pep boys parking lot saying I had reached my destination. I chuckled and got on the phone to receive directions the old fashioned way, verbally. Soon after, I found myself rolling down the correct street to the voice on the other end of the phone standing before me, pocketing their phone without saying good bye as I parked and leapt out for a hug.
