Leaving Portland I realized that for the first time on this trip, I was actually on a time schedule. My friend Lindsay was flying into the Seattle airport to accompany me for a couple days and I was in charge of picking her up. This time element carried with it a major shift in mood and I must say that I did not take to the re-introduction of responsibility very well. Giving myself an extra hour, I somehow managed to be an hour late. I arrived half-mad, babbling about drawbridge traffic. That’s right, drawbridge traffic. I later found out that the cause of the traffic I’d run into was actually an accident that happened to be near a drawbridge. But when you’re approaching signs that say, “Watch for Drawbridge Traffic” and then you’re stopped for an hour, Oh how the angry, nonsensical drawbridge-rants fly. Sitting alone in my car for that hour, I railed against anything my overworked mind considered old-timey or drawbridge-related: the horse and buggy, the 1950’s for some reason, trolls, dragons, the list goes on.
After hitting traffic again in Tacoma, I finally reached the Sea-Tac airport (which also took a verbal bashing for having the stupidest airport name until I realized that it served both Seattle and Tacoma and actually made quite a bit of sense). Lindsay was very gracious about the wait and even listened to some of my excellent points about outdated bridge technology.
As we started our drive, a few things quickly became clear: 1.) Being new to the road trip, Lindsay might want to stop at some of the scenic overlooks we passed and she would assume I knew that and wait until the last minute to yell out, “That one!” 2.) That you can warn someone about Roger Clinton’s dicey attitude on hills but until your rental car is climbing a mountain and she actually feels the discomfort of a sudden, unprompted speed-surge, you will still feel guilty as you watch her face turn green. 3.) That after driving 8 hours a day in the hot sun by yourself for a few weeks, the systems and thoughts that you’ve developed in your warped, road-weary bubble can seem very crazy when another person is introduced into the equation. For example, I can’t say Lindsay was totally on-board when I threw my left-over pizza box into the sun of the back seat and my Diet Coke against the air-conditioning vents by my feet and told her I was “making lunch.”
Despite all of the above, Lindsay and I are excellent at making time pass by talking nonstop for ludicrous patches of time. This did however prove problematic when I looked in my rearview mirror and was surprised to see flashing lights. “Why are you pulling over?” she asked me, as surprised as I was that two old friends reminiscing would be expected to pay attention to speed.
“Any reason for the speeding today?” the officer asked me. I apologized and told him we were just talking and that I honestly didn’t notice I was going too fast. He walked back to his car with my license as Lindsay and I sat in the hot Washington sun. “What do you think the speed limit is?” she asked me. Shaking my head I asked her, “What city do you think we’re in?”
When Officer Macy returned, he explained that he was just going to give me a warning. “Thanks,” we both said. A second of silence passed and then he said, “Do you have any questions for me?” in an almost excited tone. Taking us both by surprise, I felt obliged to think of a question for him when I heard, “What is the speed limit?” My mouth dropped open and I turned my head quickly towards Lindsay with a look of horror on my face, “Uh, what town are we in?” I sputtered. I didn’t even hear his answer as I furrowed my brow and turned my head back to Lindsay, shaking it slightly. She shrugged her shoulders.
When we were ready to stop for the night, I pulled off at an exit with a few hotel signs. Eventually deciding on one, I went inside to check us in. “You’re from New York?” the kid at the front desk asked me when I gave him my license. ”Why would you come here?” I told him I was driving through and he began to tell me about his town. He had moved to Sunnyside, Washington from Okinawa, Japan to work at his Uncle’s hotel and go to school. He said it was a town full of farmers and there was nothing to do and nothing exciting around. “You have to drive a half an hour to do anything, ” he said. I nodded my head, understandingly. “If you want to go hunting, you have to drive a half an hour.” My head-nodding stopped. Wait, what? Not a mall or a concert venue? You’re complaining because you have to drive a bit to shoot something?
He later told me that he was going away soon to flight school. “I’m going to be a pilot,” he said. Apparently the two schools he had to choose from were in Prescott, Arizona or Daytona Beach, Florida. He chose Daytona Beach. Again I nodded my head understandingly. “When you go down in Arizona, it’s desert,” he said making his hand into a plane. “But when you go down in Daytona Beach, it’s ocean.” And again, my head-nodding stopped. I wondered how many other future-pilots were choosing their school based on when they crashed their planes. I took the room keys and went out to the car. “You were in there a long time,” Lindsay said. I looked straight ahead and rested my head on the wheel, “Yea. Yea, I was.”
Lisa..I am laughing out loud reading this. I hope you put this whole thing into a book.