My Social Network Road Trip

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  Lindsay was very gracious about the wait and even listened to some of my excellent points about outdated bridge technology.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.”

When I arrived in Portland I parked on the street my friends live on, or so I thought (I was only one off), and didn’t grace my driver’s seat again for 2 days.  Ignoring the fact that they both work in the morning, Sean, Kate and I walked around the corner for some dinner and drinks.  But as it so often does, alcohol lead to shuffleboard.  True, that was the first time that ever happened to me but I assume it’s normal for someone.  Contrary to what I had envisioned, there was a shuffleboard table in the back of the bar.  So much to my dismay, I would not get to wield a giant stick while wearing a bad sweater, too much lipstick or talking about my grandkids.  While beer signs flickered around us and classic rock blared in the background, rivalries began, trash was talked and Kate divulged her sordid past of attending professional bowling tournaments to the soothing tones of “We Will Rock You” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWWsNE9g0PA).

Apparently, none of us are very good at shuffleboard.  Kate blamed the lack of salt.  Sean blamed our negative influence.  I blame my love of action shots which can look great but be detrimental to your game.  I did have one shining moment though.  Sean had just mocked Murder, She Wrote and my disgruntled inner-grandma produced one absurdly great shot before I reverted back to below-average.  Luckily for all youtube viewers, Sean and Kate decided to do a victory dance anyway.  To be honest, they just broke into dance in the middle of the bar for absolutely no reason.  That’s what makes this insane sight all the more pleasing… (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZ5F-50zjUY).

To further celebrate the victory that didn’t take place, we walked to Voodoo Doughnuts.  We each chose a doughnut from the rotating rack of delicacies that were covered in cereal, shaped like a person or had candy sticking all over them.  I wasn’t strong enough to try the one with bacon on it but I did ask the guy working there for a recommendation and took him up on that scrumptious custard treat.

The next morning, Sean and I got breakfast at a restaurant with a Cadillac inside it and then took the light rail into downtown.  He dropped me at Powell’s, a bookstore that spans a city block and took off for work.  After exploring downtown a bit, I decided to take the train out to Washington Park to the International Rose Test Garden.  It was filled with couples and people picnicking with young kids.  I took note of how happy all the people working in the garden were.  I assume they were volunteers.  They joked with each other and cut things off of bushes.  I wondered if I could someday will myself into being good at gardening, or even just into enjoying it. 

Back in downtown, there were Greenpeace kids on every corner.  Sometimes they even joined up with the dreadlocked kids begging for money on the corners, some playing instruments or singing.  As I crossed the street one of the Greenpeacers asked me, “If you could save a polar bear or a mountain, which would you save?”  Thinking they’d be happy someone was simply responding, I decided to open with a joke, “Can I say neither?”  The Greenpeace kid looked horrified, “You.. could.. but.. I… uh.  I hope you wouldn’t.”  Bowing out gracefully, I gave a “not interested” wave and resolved to keep walking next time. 

As I walked along the waterfront, there was a varied-age grouping surrounding a bench.  I heard the flick of a lighter and the older woman in a wheelchair coughed.  The long bench next to them was empty.  I thought about sitting down to overhear their conversations and then I saw a framed picture of a young man, placed purposefully on the opposite end of the empty bench.  I wondered how he came to be a kid in a frame and who had put out the picture.  And how long they would keep putting it out.

On the walk back to Sean and Kate’s apartment, I stopped at a mall to see if an electronics store could offer advice on my GPS problem.  As I walked in through the Nordstroms, I felt a pleasant coolness.  There was an ice-skating rink in the middle of the mall where a stand that sells sequined cell phone covers should be.  The rink was filled with little girls in skirts and tights practicing jumps and turns and black, leather chairs available to sit and view them.  That night at our Cuban food dinner, I learned two things about that mall:  that was the rink where Tonya Harding practiced as a kid and there had recently been a gang shooting outside the upscale-looking establishment.  I’m not sure which bit of information was more confounding. 

I took the Golden Gate out of San Francisco and attempted to see the redwoods at Muir Woods.  I say attempted because I drove all the way there, passed 4 parking lots that were full and decided that the scenic drive (with steering wheel movements reminiscent of a bad ’80s arcade game in the rapid back-and-forth motions) had put me in a less than nature-friendly mood.  I doubted the behemoths had changed much from when I was a kid and used that thought to make me less annoyed at my failed viewing.  Nothing however could lessen my rage at the broken GPS lady when I was weaving around San Quentin, unsure if I was heading the right way. 

Starving and a bit queasy, I reached for my trail mix.  I’d had this particular mix before but didn’t remember getting such a crazy amount of peanut brittle my last go-around.  Originally, that pinch of sweetness was why I picked this one but now I was essentially eating bite after bite of candy.  Who is taking this on a trail, I thought to myself?!  How does this nurture a hiker?  Unless they were hiking in Candyland.  Then, it would feel appropriate.

Approaching Lake Shasta and all it’s many campgrounds, I began to see the extensive roadsigns that choose to nix the words and just show items. There were colorful squares with binoculars, a shoe, an anchor, a life preserver. It was like the Parker Brothers came out and designed an outdoorsy version of Clue.  I believe the murderer is L.L. Bean, near the trail, with the hiking boot.  Perhaps the time alone in the car was getting to me.

I stopped at a hotel next to a Dairy Queen in Medford, Oregon.  The only notable event was the next morning when I excitedly walked towards the shower and turned on the water.  A good, long shower was a luxury these days and I had been looking forward to this one.  I played with the temperature knob, moving it back and forth.  I gave it time in every different direction but all I could get was burning hot water.  I even tried putting my foot in to see if I could stand the heat.  I could not.  I quickly pulled my foot out and saw a red mark form.  It was 30 minutes until my late check-out and the possibility of moving all my stuff into a new room and getting on the road in a reasonable amount of time was not good.  I bit my lip, gathered my stuff and checked out of the hotel.  On the way out, I got a Dairy Queen dipped cone and continued to the highway.  A piece of the hardened chocolate fell onto my arm while I was driving with both hands occupied.  I looked at my arm and looked back at the road.  My arm.  The Road.  My arm.  The road.  I touched my lips down to my forearm and sucked the chocolate piece right off.  Your standards can change after 3 weeks in a car.

Jason was right, it was strange how quickly things changed from the LA commotion to farmland and desert.  A couple hours outside of San Francisco, the GPS beeped “Low Battery.”  I unplugged my phone charger from the car’s lighter and plugged the GPS cord back in, but the screen soon went black.  Assuming it needed to charge for a while but would come back on eventually, I kept driving.  I should’ve known the evil GPS woman would fail me when I needed her the most.  No it’s fine GPS lady, I’d love to navigate downtown San Francisco from my scribbled notepad directions.  That would be much easier.

These pictures were from my entrance over the Bay Bridge and to truly cement my stature as a hazard to any city’s roads, I also took a brief video of coming towards the city (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5V4r5iNOVs ).

After an evening of tagging along to Nick’s various social engagements and the best burrito of my life, the next day was spent touring the sights and micro-climates of the city by the bay.  Nick and Julio took me from their apartment in SOMA (South of Market St.) to the Farmer’s Market where we perused the booths and got the ingredients for guacamole (because it’s like they always say - if you don’t come to San Francisco with flowers in your hair, expect to make guacamole for your hosts).  After taking the train to Fisherman’s Wharf where Nick was unable to tell us anything about the sea lions( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NibNWsrpypA ), we decided to fill up on In-N-Out burger and waddle towards the Golden Gate bridge ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LqHZgstrs4 this video is from the Presidio and later, driving over the bridge). 

When we tried to leave the area, we got shooed away by multiple unhelpful bus drivers.  Confused tourists flanked us and we all stared quizzically at drivers who claimed to not be going anywhere.  “Seriously, I’ll start a fight with a bus driver,” I said loudly enough that cheerful travelers inched away.  At that point, I decided to turn the anger down a bit, embrace the San Francisco way (the Hamburger Helper glove never looked irritated – why should I?).  We eventually made it back to the Castro / Mission area to a park filled with people enjoying the “extreme” temperatures.  There was a heat wave hitting the area since I’d been there and everyone I met swore that what I thought was totally normal summer heat was actually very intense for the bay area. 

We sat down on a hill next to their wonderful friend Thomas who introduced us to the man lying comfortably on the grass near him, Boris.  Boris had recently moved from New York and we began to talk about the differences between the cities when the question, “Have you ever ridden on a Vespa” arose.  “No.  Around all these hills?  I’d be terrified,” I said.  After a confirmation from Thomas that yes, it was indeed terrifying, Boris extended his hand.  Without my purse or my sanity, I followed him to his bike for an impromptu Vespa tour of the city.  “Did they take you up there?” he asked, pointing to two huge hills overlooking the city.  I shook my head and he told me to hold on.  Atop Twin Peaks, Boris pointed out the different neighborhoods and we talked about the empowering freedom of travel. 

I arrived back to the park in one piece and it was almost time for dinner.  The cold temperatures had returned and the walk to House of Nanking was quite unpleasant in my summer apparel.  I apologized for whining after the incredible meal, now knowing that the food was worth every minute of freezing.  Still, a cab ride home was definitely in order. 

Nick has an absolute talent for showing off the food of a city and in everything, they were both amazing hosts.  (and Julio, I hope you can tell how thankful I am by my avoidance of a Me & Julio Down by the Schoolyard quip).

It would be normal to think that after a few weeks away, a person would miss their friends, co-workers or the routine of their happy lives.  Turns out, that’s not a problem for me. 

But I didn’t count on this.  I’ll admit it – I’m a nerd for NPR.  I stream NPR’s Morning Edition every day at my desk and apparently, have taken my allegiance to a creepy degree.  Despite liking all the NPR personalities, I’m distraught whenever Steve or Renee are away on assignment and find myself oddly comforted upon their return.  I assumed my love of news radio would be a bonus on my lengthy drives – but it’s been borderline impossible to get a clear NPR station for more than 15 minutes or so. 

Many times, I can barely get any radio stations at all and when I do, the choices are slim.  One time, I had to choose between a Spanish station, a spiritual talk station and what I believe was the broadcasting of a local little league game.  I chose the Spanish station.  No, I do not speak Spanish.

The next day, I listened to NPR’s Talk of the Nation for almost 5 minutes when it also turned Spanish.  I listened for an additional 10 minutes to see if it would come back.  It didn’t.  And frankly, making out “NPR.org” in the midst of minutes worth of words you don’t understand was both deflating and cruel. 

So I sign off my love letter to Public Radio as the familiar Morning Edition music plays in the deep recesses of my road-crazy head.  Ignore the mountains and fields and vast areas with no signal and come back to me soon, my friend.  I miss you.

I’m writing because your message is not getting across. When you honk at me as I’m passing by, my first thought isn’t that you’re excited to see a woman, it’s that something is wrong with my car. That perhaps being at an elevated height, you have noticed something that other drivers have not. Do I have a flat tire? Is the door to my gas tank open? Did I carelessly leave a baby in a carseat on the top of my car and then drive off? Is there something vulgar written on the top of my rental car that I never knew about?

So here’s what I propose. Next time, just make a lewd gesture. Although I’m not on board with the sentiment behind it, at least it will be clear.

Thank you for your time.

p.s. – Please tell whoever is designing the outside of your trucks that giant posters of meat – be it ham, sausage or steak – are never appealing.  It just comes off really gross and overly graphic in a meat-fetish kind of way.

The terrain changed often on the drive from Tucson to Los Angeles.  There were hills, deserts and mountains full of rocks that could’ve been taken directly off a Disney set (I’m certain the clay colored giants only weighed 2 lbs and were actually styrofoam).  As I climbed to 4000 ft, I found out something that I should’ve already known.  Much like the real Roger Clinton, my rental car does not do well at high altitudes.  I would pretty regularly drop 15-20 mph below my speed without changing the pressure on the gas and get passed by trucks, uhauls, the wheel-chair bound.  In desperate times, I turned off the AC and rolled down the windows, drawing more attention to myself in the 105 degree heat but getting a 4-5 mph burst in power.  Even 50 mph is less shameful than 45 when in a 65mph zone.

In New Mexico, I passed a series of billboards for a place called Akela Flats.  They were colorful billboards featuring a cartoon version of an old prospector, each sign featuring a single Akela Flats item.  CRAFTS.  Eh.  COOKIES & FUDGE.  Alright, you have my attention.  PRECISION FIREWORKS (the old man has strapped a stick of dynamite to a terrified cartoon donkey).  Wait, what?  HILLBILLY FIGURINE COLLECTIBLES…. Yes, you read that right.  PRECISION FIREWORKS (again). 

I guess the assumption is that at this point, people have been roasting in their cars for so long that their brains can only respond to the language of Crazy. 

At the second of the 3 border checkpoints I drove through without ever leaving the country, the man did not wave me on like at the first.  He stopped my unattractive car and asked, “What’s your citizenship?”  The question was so unexpected that I stumbled and eventually said, “uh, American.”  Eyes squinting at me, his lips parted slightly showing two rows of braces, “Huh.  Go on,” he said.  I wasn’t sure if he was disgusted at my stupidity or if he suspected I was lying.  At the third one, I thought I was more prepared but then he asked me where I was coming from.  A wave of the 7 cities I’d been in in as many days washed through my brain.  “Tu..cson,” I stammered.  This man also shook his head sadly and waved me on.  I spent the rest of the day mentally preparing for the next checkpoint which never came.

After changing in a parking garage in Long Beach (I’m classy), it was time to meet Bill & Derek for dinner.  Actually, time is all relative when you get there an hour early, beg them to arrive sooner and then somehow end up making them wait for 15 minutes.  Sorry again, guys. 

The next day, Matt picked me up and we spent the day lounging in Redondo Beach where an ocean casualty is turned into a knife fight as soon as I pulled out the video camera.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09Yq1m9xaX8  Someone pick up this talented man’s animated pilot!!! 

Heading down to Culver City that night, I met Shari, Karri, Didi and Sweta for a happy hour at the Alibi Room.  Truth be told, it had nothing to do with drinking and everything to do with the fact that they served food from Kogi, the Korean BBQ taco truck.  Thank you ladies for introducing me to this portable delicacy.  After stuffing myself, Sweta took me on a driving tour of LA where our adventures quickly turned into a Laurel & Hardy routine.  Click here for a compilation of Sweta foiling my interviewing attempts….  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYffZ2GavTg   After sampling every exotic flavor at Mashti Malone’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream, I was safely dropped off at my car where I argued with the GPS lady the whole way back to Redondo Beach.

Arriving back at Monica & Jason’s, they told me about the fires that were all over the news.  South of there, a reserve in Palos Verdes was burning.  We climbed up one floor to their roof.  A pink and orange cloud hung over the night sky and white specs moved above it in the distance.  “You can see the news helicopters,” Jason said.  We stayed up there a while and talked about how the threat of fires and earthquakes becomes normal.  It seems like these terrifying things become commonplace but each time nature finds a way to impact you with its size or scope.  A year before, they had awoken to find a layer of ash coating their car, a sign of the disaster happening somewhere else.

The next morning, I made a stop in Century City on my way out of town.  The sun shone brightly as Christina and Sweta showed me around the Fox Studio lot.  The size and optimism of the area was a strange juxtaposition to the smoke that covered the road as I drove North of the city, where more fires had begun.

As I drove through the rolling hills of Southwest Texas, I couldn’t help but find the landscape interesting.  Green freckles spotted the massive heaps, sometimes consisting of a single palm every so often.  They looked like a defective Chia pet.  It was as if I grew those hills with the best of intentions and then forgot I planted anything.

Driving along, I passed a place called Torndillo.  Being in the car by yourself for this long can take a toll on your mental state – and your sense of humor.  For some reason, I couldn’t stop picturing a cartoon armadillo getting sucked into a tornado and landing with its hair standing on end (yea, it had hair – it’s a cartoon).  It occurred to me that this could be a good name for my car.  Sometimes the color looks darker and it’s similar-enough in shape.  But it didn’t feel right.  That would make it a sympathetic, lovable character – and this brute of an engine just ain’t that.  Roger Clinton remains.

Arizona has signs up that read, “Dust Storms May Exist.”  The strange wording of this was pleasing enough and then I passed a few mini dust tornados off to the side of the road and was even more intrigued.  I caught a few seconds of one…  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3P0rhQhY78

Driving into Arizona, I could see a storm in the distance.  I took pictures and remarked to myself how beautiful it looked.  I pulled over at a rest area and when I emerged from the weird shack of women’s room, I saw the storm getting closer.  As I got in my car and merged onto the highway, I had the distinct feeling that I was being chased by the daunting stream shooting from the dark clouds.  I picked up speed and didn’t look back.  I outran that stalker-storm but as the sun set, I could see another in the distance in front of me – it really is amazing…  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_LuvjDcxZw

I arrived in Tucson and joined Landi and her daughter Nora at her friend’s house (who was nice enough to feed me and let me crash their get-together for a bit).  Landi and her husband Ayman live in an adorable ranch house with a cute garden and lots of light.  I sunk into their soft couch and didn’t move an inch until the morning when Landi, Nora and I went for breakfast.  The coffee shop sold individual banana bread slices with no nuts (a rarity in the banana bread world and a personal favorite).  I bought one piece at first and then went back and cleared them out – I could tell the girl behind the counter was holding in her laughter at the 5 pieces of bread I was obviously buying for myself – but I didn’t care.  I’d happily feast on those for the next 3 days.

To check out Nora’s thoughts on her new book… ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFKWTUVtjjU ).

Before I left for LA, I drove through Tucson’s downtown and up to the park.  I wondered how long it would take to consider seeing that many cacti in one place, ordinary.  I also reveled in $2.25 gas, the cheapest I’d found on the trip so far… I joy that would be quickly taken away when I paid $2.99 that evening in California.

I left Austin late but knew I’d be staying in a hotel that night so my arrival time didn’t matter.  I quickly realized that the I-10 I’d been cursing from New Orleans to Austin changed its colors and became a vast emptiness with an 80 mph speed limit.  The disappointing lack of lunch choices and radio stations was far outweighed by the freedom of being virtually alone on the road.

When night fell and the road still glowed with the setting sun, I noticed a man walking to the side of my lane.  He approached a dark lump and threw it over his shoulder by what looked like a leg.  Despite the creepiness of its feel, I assumed he hit something with his car and was getting it off the road.  I searched frantically for a car.  I checked in my rearview mirror, side mirror and eventually turned around looking on every side and off in the distance.  There was no car.  This man was not bringing the legged thing to a car.  I turned back around and saw that some letters were lit up in red on my dashboard.  Really, car?  Now?

I was about 30 minutes from where I wanted to stop – Fort Stockton, Texas.  Basically, it was one of the destinations on the mile marker signs and I would get there around the time I wanted to call it a day.  I found out that the lighted TPMS on my dashboard was a recently new addition to most cars and could mean that you had a flat or that the tire pressure was a little off.  For some reason, Fort Stockton was crawling with garages and car part stores, so I resolved to go to Auto Zone in the morning and buy a gauge. 

I chose my hotel and drove around to my room, feeling that the two guys outside with beers and a creepy look in their eye at the sight of a woman were a pretty solid sign that this was, what I like to delicately call, a shithole.  After at least 10 attempts at opening the door with my below-average room keys, I was able to push it open.  I could not have been more wrong – the room was beautiful and clean with a huge TV and new furniture.  I called for a late check-out and congratulated myself on my excellent choice.  Waiting that night at the Pizza Hut down the road in striped pajama pants and a descending ponytail, I talked to a lovely girl who told me about the 10pm shut down time for everything in the town (including the IHOP – scandalous) and recommended a couple good Mexican dishes that I’m sure I would massacre upon pronunciation.  I agreed that she shouldn’t major in Nursing because everyone else was and re-assured her that she could move wherever she wanted and yes, New York was awesome.  (Let me know what you end up choosing for school)

When I finally got back on the highway the next day, I was refreshed and ready for Tucson.  A couple hours into my drive, I saw flashing lights far behind me.  Hmmm.  As it became obvious that these were for me, I started to think.  That day while driving, I had eaten Raisin Bran out of a giant styrofoam container that didn’t quite fit between me and the steering wheel.  I had taken lots of pictures out my windows and at one point, I took video of me pushing Scan on the radio because it only went to 2 stations ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oFGuaLCVWpI ).  I also had hit speeds of 100 mph.  This had the potential to be very bad.

The State Trooper approaches me from the passenger side door.  With my seatbelt still on, I leaned over to roll down that window.  As I’m furiously cranking, I look up and see him shake his head slightly at the pathetic sight he’s witnessing.  We exchanged pleasantries and he said, “Got you doing 89 in an 80.”  I quickly stopped myself from making this sound, “ppbfffff” and silently celebrated.  “We take our 80 mph speed limit seriously here in Texas.”  I apologized and said it was hard not to fluctuate speed without cruise control.  He took my license and said he was going to give me a written warning.  He brought back what looked like a detention slip and I thanked him and looked down at it, “Texas Department of Public Safety… Race/Sex: WF… Make: Kia… Model: Rio… Color:________.”  That’s right.  He left the car’s color blank.

The traffic in New Orleans added two hours onto my trip so I still had a couple hours to drive as the sun began setting over Texas.  When I crossed the state line into the lonestar state and started searching for a radio station, the first audible song was Conway Twitty’s “Hey Darlin.”  It couldn’t have been more appropriate.

Between Houston and Austin, there was little around.  It was the kind of situation where you still have a quarter of a tank of gas but you’re holding your breath that you’ll even pass a station in the next hour.  Luckily, I found one cozied up to the side of the highway in between two fields.  The only other building in site was a bar / restaurant called “The Old Frontier” directly across from it (pictured on the left below).  I wondered if the clientel were locals and if so, where their houses were and how far they had to journey to stumble into the Old Frontier.

When I arrived at Kate’s apartment, she pulled out cartons of freshly purchased Whole Foods delicacies.  We ate fruit, cheese, vegetables and hummus and drank a glass of red wine.  She apologized for not having “real food” but at that moment I couldn’t have been more fulfilled with eating something that wasn’t handed to me through a window. 

The next morning I asked Kate what I should see or do with only an afternoon in her city.  She recommended a Duck Tour (a bus that converts to a boat) as a quick way to see a lot of things and get some good stories about Austin.  Perfect, I thought.  I walked up to the bus/boat at 10:50am as they were pulling up the portable wooden steps leading onboard.  I looked at the four people on the otherwise empty bus and asked if I could still buy tickets.  “Not once the stairs are up,” the man said.  Really, Duck Tours?  There are 4 people on your bus and you don’t want my money because your cheap, wooden stairs are up?  The bus then proceeded to sit there for ten minutes doing absolutely nothing – but with no stairs touching the ground.  Every day in New York as I walk the block from the subway to my office, I pass a Duck Tour bus and a guy in a giant duck suit.  He’s constantly standing in the worst possible location where no one can get around him and I’ve had to restrain myself from punching him on more than one occassion.  Well, no more!  No more will this Austin tour bus’ duck-brethern be safe from my morning wrath.  There’s a giant, furry duck suit waiting to be punched back on the east coast and I’m just the girl to do it.  You’re on notice, Duck!

In a much calmer state, I decided to take my own walking tour of downtown Austin and try one of the free tours of the Capitol building (stopping to take video and pose with some of the monuments on the grounds… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W7Q_WINXjKY ).  Inside, our tour guide told us interesting stories about an underground addition, made possible only by extracting obscene amounts of limestone which are now crushed into our highways.  We saw all the unique touches that enhance a building like that, like 8 lb door hinges that say “Texas Capitol” and the outline of the state imposed on columns above your head.  Even though Austin’s calling card is being the city that doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the state, it still knows how to rep Texas with the best of ‘em. 

After the tour I stayed for a half hour or longer, talking to our guide Mattie about her own travels and residencies around the nation.  She’s pictured below and is going to email me next time she comes to NY – that’s not a request, Mattie!

After walking and driving around downtown, I checked out the areas that various new friends recommended to me - the vintage stores on South Congress, Barton Springs pool, the trailer park eateries – and topped it off with a lunch at Chuy’s Tex-Mex where I talked to the bartender about being born and raised in Austin as well as the restaurant’s Green Chile festival.  I opened the menu in front of him and said, “tell me what I should have.”  His Chicka-chicka-boom-boom enchilada recommendation was mind-blowing.  I knew I shouldn’t eat a huge mexican lunch without a nap planned (and definitely not before a 7 hour solo drive across southwest Texas) but I couldn’t stop myself.  Now that I know I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel in a satisfied food coma, I can honestly say good call Justin – very good call.