On The Road

Denouement

2008-06-05T13:02:00.000-07:00

Bought the Ticket, Took the Ride

The trip ends where it began, Station Sushi on La Jolla Blvd. Friends and rolls and Asahi's, the big ones. Naturally, we're recounting our favorite stories from the last couple months, the conversation is light. Then Adam and I get into the what's been gained? discussion.

Well.

When I left, I thought that I might encounter truths and insights that would change my perspective, change my life. That every person met and every place visited would enhance my awareness of and appreciation for the good that surrounds; that these experiences would excite, inspire, enrich and endure, and they would therefore be far more valuable than the money spent and wages forgone. I really believed that. I went broke believing that.

But then, on the road, there's the fatigue, the wax-and-wane of moods, the relentless calls of hunger and thirst and need, the intermittent pang of loneliness, the occasional failure of faith. In order to feel something larger, I had to learn to ignore myself, to just be happy and aware. This happened gradually, then suddenly (EMH). This helped:

Why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforseen events wait lurking ot surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see? -Jack Kerouac, On The Road

Soon enough, sights and events that previously went unnoticed began to pull at my eyes. The dogged diligence of a black busboy in New Orleans who wants a saxophone. The auto mechanic in Bethesda who wouldn't accept my tip, That's my job, son, keepin' you safe out there. A couple's excited reunion at an airport terminal in Denver. A baby's staggering first steps on Malibu Beach to the laughter of his parents, waiting to catch him when he falls.

Maybe freedom from obligation allowed me to see and sense more, maybe belief did. Or maybe just the uncomplicated effort of driving from town to town -senses softened and prepared by all the physical beauty inbetween- and watching people helping one another, loving one another, was enough to enlighten a little. Whatever it was, I do feel changed, enlightened. And I think it will stick, but in case not...

A few thoughts I'm thinking now and wish to remember:

People want to help. It's incredible and uplifting and everywhere. For two months, I was highly dependent on the generosity of friends and strangers, and I was not once let down. Beds, meals, directions, advice, whatever. Amazing what you can get with a smile and a promise to pay it forward.

Go and grow. Routine is blinding, numbing. Be lightfooted and lighthearted always. Take risks, take leaps, and where there's an opening, go! Just go. There is value and virtue and poetry in the unseen. Always go. Come back. But go.

Seek thrills but also moments. Be constantly curious and aware. Seek subtlety. Allow yourself to be moved. Ask, what about this do I wish to keep? And keep it. And the biggie, recognize expressions of love, it's a beautiful thing, and it's everywhere.

Get to know yourself. Be okay with being alone. Think about your faults, or better, think about what you admire in others and how you might improve. The road offers sufficient time for this, and the evolving landscape hints at the err of stagnation and the possibility of transformation.

Set your compass, enjoy the journey. Know where you're going. Be thoughtful in choosing a path and be sure the reasons are sincere. But then, enjoy the road. Turn up the volume, see and feel everything, be open to what adventures may come, make today memorable.

About a month ago, I am flying up the East Coast, listening to Motorcycle Driveby, pointed toward New York City ...watching the long skies over New Jersey and sensing all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it (JLK)... Lost in my thoughts, high on hope, I'll never forget how it felt to be there, in that moment.

I've never been so alone, I've never been so alive.

San Diego, CA

2008-06-02T13:06:00.000-07:00

I am tearing down the 405, now the 5, now the Coast, every inch bending and breathtaking. I am burning through Santa Ana, Laguna Hills, Dana Point. What this look must like from above! A little black car hugging the edge of a coast -the camera pans out, revealing more landscape- Death Valley, the Rockies, the Great Plains, the Mississippi, the Appalachians, the Empire State Building, the Atlantic. A little black dot, hugging the edge of continent.

Outside San Juan Capistrano, the trip odometer hits 10,000 miles. I am running on three hours of couchsleep (on eight weeks of couchsleep), but no matter, I have the energy to power a city. I am negotiating curves, I am drumming at the steering wheel, I am doing the most incredible Bob Dylan impression: How does it feel!? Oh how does it feel!?? To be without a home!??

It is Saturday in San Diago (discovered by the Germans, 1904). There are beach BBQs in progress, catamarans at sea, Del Mar dads on longboards. A setting sun is glimmering on the water, too bright to look at, too pretty not to. All around, people are playing. And above, not a cloud.

I haven't given my friends the details of my arrival, figured I'd just waltz into my old apartment and surprise some folks. I go. Tattered hat, long hair, western shirt... I'm looking rather vagabond as I reach for the door. What will I say?

Locked.

I don't have a key. Doorbell, nothing. Fortunately, I know how to break in the place, so I do. Anybody home? Nope. I've made it though, I'm back at the starting point, where the idea was hatched and set into motion. I am back, and I am spent. I fall into pillow face first, and drift into a long and fitful sleep.

Sunday, backyard party with friends. We're eating tacos and mixing margaritas, playing whiffle ball and flipcup, chit-chatting and catching up. It feels good to connect. For a while there --through Colorado, Utah, Nevada, California-- I felt pretty isolated. Real conversations, especially with trusted and esteemed friends who know what to say, what to ask... that's something I don't want to be without again. That and Mexican food.

Ah, San Diego, it's good to be back. It seems people here move a little slower, smile a little more, even bob their heads a little, as though Inaudible Melodies was playing from a huge speaker atop Mt. Soledad. Laid-back and temperate, playful and innocent. If San Diego were a person, he'd have sunscreen on his nose, saying hey, forget about the heavy stuff for a while and grab a bucket, we're gonna build a castle.

Wrap-up coming. Stay tuned.

Los Angeles, CA

2008-05-31T17:47:00.000-07:00

Thursday afternoon, I drive the Pepperdine campus and stop at Alumni Park, where Brother Tom and I used to do some serious route-running. There are a few girls on beach towels. Students here? No, we go to high school in Thousand Oaks. Cool! You ladies take care. And so I spin the football in my hands and stare at the view for a while. The babyblue lifegaurd shacks, the dramatic cliffs, the zillion dollar houses, the sky. I mean, have you been to Malibu?

I drive the PCH to Santa Monica, where I meet Lauren, Andrea, Justin. I've been in LA for less than an hour and look at me: I am beachcruising to a Lakers bar on Wilshire, I am watching Kobe and the Foreigners, I am schmoozing with fashion reps...

I spend all day Friday on this beachcruiser. Down Montana, left at Ocean, right at Santa Monica Pier. Up Arizona Street, down the Promenade, to Main. Granted, I'm doing all this on a beautiful, why-live-anywhere-but-here Friday, but everyone I encounter is soo nice. A few cars pull too far into the intersection; they reverse and apologize! The waiter at World Cafe is little late with my beer; he comps it! The barista at Urth likes my new fedora (purchase validated)! A stranger on Third Street complements my beachcruiser, Nice ride my brother! Picture-perfect Friday in Santa Monica. A nice ride indeed.

And now for the drive into Hollywood. It's 4pm, could have timed this one better. Traffic is nightmarish, but whatever, I'm in Westwood, I'm in Melrose, I'm in Beverly Hills! Look at the houses, the trees, and pretty gates and shiny Bentleys. And CRUNCH. San Diego to LA (the long way) unscathed. And, today, my first collision.

It's my fault. We pull over and assess the situation. Everyone's fine, damage is minimal. The guy I hit (more like bump, more like tap) is Joshua, a nice young guy, but he's nervous because he's leasing this Beamer, typical, and is accountable for every ding. We exchange info and we part ways amicably. I pull onto Sunset two hours after leaving Santa Monica and call Steve. I'm a little flustered. Pinkberry? Pinkberry.

Later, Crown Bar in Hollywood. The kids are hip and the music very fresh, written seconds ago. So I'm walking the place, surely rubbing shoulders with future Hollywood greatness, and I'm telling my story, making friends...

Her: What's your number?

Me: 858-

Her: Okay, 310-858-

...And who do I bump into (again) but Joshua. Dude! Didn't I rear-end you today? Yeah man! How are ya? I apologize for the inconvenience and buy him a drink. I meet his friends, some curiously beautiful people in skinny jeans and gossamer V-necks. I meet a guy that I thought was Danny Masterson but is in fact a just a film editor. I meet Dom from Entourage. I meet Pau Gasol. Everyone is soo nice.

And why wouldn't they be? This is LA, the sunny 33rd parallel, where broke actors wear True Religion and drive BMWs, where the floor ain't bad and the ceiling is high. The razor's edge of cool. The good life. Why live anywhere but here?

Santa Barbara, CA

2008-05-29T21:02:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 8pm, Santa Barbara Brewery on State. Alone again, watching the Celtics game. Just had a nice drive through town, and I'm wondering, how does a town with so many great street names (Miramonte, De La Guerra, Pedregosa, etc) choose State for it's main drag? What to call the road that goes from the mountains to the harbor, past the Presidio and the Mission? Let's call it State. State. Same as Madison, which at least was the capital of one. So anyway. I'm a little disappointed by this. Okay, I'm over it.

State Street's a beauty. Everywhere, palm trees-- tall skinny ones, short stubby ones, a dozen variations between. And then the cafes, the hotels, the courtyard restaurants, the tan women in serapes, the blonde surferkids with square jaws, little Laird Hamiltons.

And then the architecture. White stucco buildings dotted with blue-yellow tiles. Even my hotel (not to brag, but yeah, I'm staying at the Holiday Inn on Haley) looks to have been designed purposefully. Mission Revival, says the concierge (receptionist). Interest piqued, I wiki that and pick up some facts. Look at that, a curved gable. Aha, now that's what you call an arcaded archway. Travel, learn.

So I'm drinking beer alone at this bar. Enter, 40-year-old woman in heels and no wedding ring, might have been a dame in her day. I'll have what he's having, she says, winking at me. I guess this is where I should ask a question, maybe turn my barstool. Nope, I just get super awkward and stare at the TV. Well, look at that. Ray Allen is having quite the game, isn't he.

I rise early Thursday, like 7am early, and get this, I go jogging. I haven't been a model of healthy living these last two months, so I really dig in. Along the boardwalk, to the end of the pier and back, past some mexicans playing 27-on-27 soccer in a park with three balls and lacrosse nets for goals. And I just keep going. Past the Mission. Past some Spanish Colonial architecture (notice the projecting eaves). At least three miles this jog I do. So yeah, calorie-wise, I think I'm good for a while.

After, I walk into a coffee shop on Figueroa. I am wearing Dri-FIT. I am wearing the hat of an eastcoast university. I am petting stranger's dogs. I am ordering the Fair Trade Blend. I am reading the LA Times.

I am in Southern California, and this is what I do.

Highway One

2008-05-28T22:51:00.000-07:00

We merge onto California Route 1 without much ceremony. No welcome signs, no palm trees, no 1991 Patrick Swayze ripping waves. I guess I thought maybe the Equinox would to turn into a red convertible and Phantom Planet would come on. This did not occur.

In fact, for a while there, the so-called Pacific Coast Highway wasn't even coastal. So, there we are, Mom and I, expectations soaring, on the California 1, and everywhere we look, just flat, scrupulously organized rows of, I dunno, wheat? I'm thinking, that Anthony Kiedis was full of shit, man.

Okay, maybe I made a wrong turn at Gilroy. Next exit, I'm turning this thing around.

And then.

Mountains Left, Ocean Right

Looks a lot like this for from Monterey to San Luis Obispo.

Incredible views and hairpin turns. Takes a real pro behind the wheel

Monterey Bay Aquarium, Cannery Row

The ultimate irony here is that you can watch, learn, and read about all kinds of marine life at the aquarium, then walk down the street and eat it for lunch

Carmel-by-the-Sea

Memorial Day at the beach. That little golf hole? Pebble Beach

Windblown Cypress, Carmel

So this a golf hole... if the wind does this to the trees,

what does it do to my ball?

Hog's Breath Inn, Carmel

Mom and me, and some six o'clock beers.

I think I end up drinking both

Carmel to Big Sur

One of many Okay-This-Is-Unbelievable-Let's-Pull-Over moments

Big Sur

So I've read about it, seen pictures, watched documentaries, and still

I'm standing there thinking, 'you've gotta be effing kidding me'

Post Ranch Inn, Big Sur

Sunset and cocktails on the water, except 1,200 feet above it

San Francisco, CA (2)

2008-05-26T16:37:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, I meet Mom at a hotel on Sansome and we walk through Financial to Union Square to Market Street. This side of San Fran is different... feels like New York. Transamerica is the Chrysler, Union Square is Bryant Park, Market Street is Park Ave. Everywhere along Market, hustle, bustle and havoc. A little overwhelmed, we cab it to Cafe Divine on Stockton, where Bike messengers pedal by. Asians are doing yoga in the park across the street. We order tea. This is more like it.

Sunday morning coffee in Sausalito, then we head to the dock to meet some friends for a sail (those Topsiders I bought in Hyannis are actually getting some use, who would have thought?). We motor out into the bay, and in no time, we're pulling this rope and tying that one, rigging, keeling, tilling. We are sailing baby! Flying! Every bit of 15 knots! By skylines and giant bridges and maximum security prison islands (click). And it's thrilling. I nearly spill my Dos Equis.

Late-afternoon, we're making our way back to dock, gawking at the Golden Gate as the fog rolls in from the West. Soon the bridge is invisible, nothing between The City and Marin but us and thick white cloud. How does a mile of red steel disappear? I try not to act too surprised, something tells me this is common.

Mom and I do a late dinner, Italian in North Beach. We agree that we could stay here for days, weeks even, and barely scratch the surface of all there is to see, do, eat, drink, purchase. We finish our gelato and realize, it's probably best we get going. I pull out the superphone and check the way to Monterey. Market Street to US-101 to California 1. How's that for a route?

We step out to the rolling basslines and crowded cafes that line Columbus Ave. Love the vibe. All arty and smart and fresh and outdoorsy and bohemian. My kind of town, would love to stay a while. But it's not that kind of trip.

San Francisco, CA

2008-05-24T23:41:00.000-07:00

I arrive Thursday night after the long haul from Vegas. I'm not gonna glass-half-full it here, that drive is awful. The first eight hours are a hard fight versus gale force winds, dust clouds, eighteen wheelers and boredom. The only reprieve from the maddening highway comes when stopping in one-horse towns like Barstow, Bakersfield and Modesto for petrol at $4.29/gallon. It's a sad stretch of America, I recommend flying.

But about 20 miles East of Modesto, everything changes. That's when the sky goes ocean blue. That's when things when things get lush. That's when you know...

I suddently realized I was in California. Warm, palmy air-- air you can kiss. -Kerouac

We're in California! All is New! No rules! The Future! - Eggers

Green hills, palm trees, Range Rovers... I must be close. Past Pleasanton, Walnut Creek, Berkeley, traffic is flying. I'm listening to Everclear, the Sparkle and Fade album. Bumper to bumber to bumper, but everyone's doing 90, around sharp bends, down steep hills. I climb onto the Bay Bridge, and there's San Fran, beyond it, the Golden Gate, beyond it, the Pacific. I've made it. 48 days. 9,300 miles. Coast to coast to coast.

Over the bridge and onto Embarcadero. I scale Nob Hill via California Street, weave through the Presido, pass the Haight, wiggle down Lombard, then cruise Columbus past City Lights Books and Kerouac Alley. No question, San Francisco is beautiful. But it's also completely insane. Dave Eggers describes it pretty well:

Of course, there is no logic to San Francisco... A city built with putty and pipe cleaners, rubber cement and colored construction paper. It's the work of fairies, elves, happy children with new crayons. Why not pink, purple, rainbow, gold? What color for a biker bar on 16th, near the highway? Plum. Plum. The light that is so strong and right that corners are clear, crisp, all glass is blinding. Stilts and buttresses and turrets--the remains of various highways--rainbow windsocks--a sexual sort of lushness to the foliage. Only intermittently does it seem like an actual place of residence and commerce, with functional roads and sensible buildings. All other times, it's just whimsy and faith. Even driving to and from the Castro is epic, this hill and that hill, this vista and that, always the hills, the curves, the maybe our brakes will fail, maybe someone else's brakes will fail--it's always kind of an adventure in faded technicolor, starring a vast cast of brightly dressed losers: homeless people wearing bathing suits and doing headstands on the sidewalk, activists throwing bagels at police in riot gear...

Dave Eggers

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Thought that was apt. Anyway. I'm writing this on a Saturday. I've done nothing particularly interesting for the last couple days. I've had a few solid naps. Hung out in Marina coffee shops. Bought a $42 t-shirt that I didn't need terribly. I've met up with a few friends, we've had some casual beverages, some stimulating talk. The weather is not particularly good. Umbrella weather. Tomato soup weather.

The thing is, I'm really enjoying myself. I am in San Francisco, in the Marina, no less, and therefore, I am "with it", I am "in the know"... These cheap shoes, this old-ass jacket? On purpose, both. It's called fashion. This computer, yeah, I chose it over the MacBook Air. It's really a question of capacity. And yes, I am blogging. I keep a blog. And I'm thinking of starting a startup, a social networking thing, I'm looking for a venture capitalist. This coffee is a bit blah, did you grind the beans today? Like, this afternoon? And may I have a heated ceramic cup? Ah, merci. Geez, Peet's is really falling off. Oh, you're from Manhattan? What streets? Actually, my friend is having a thing, just some friends and some new wine he just found out about, so I think I'm just gonna do that. Not really into the BarNone thing anymore. Yeah, I know a ton of people that went to Dartmouth.

All things I've either said or overheard on Union Street in the last 36 hours.

Here for a few days. More anon.

Las Vegas, NV

2008-05-23T10:54:00.001-07:00

Driving through the Nevada dark, hour nine of ten. I have to admit, I'm feeling more Jon Favreau than Vince Vaughn at the moment; I just want to get a nice room and a good meal, maybe gamble a little, hit the sack.

But thirty miles outside Vegas, the sky starts turning from black to purple to red, and the the Strip comes into view. I'm thinking of all the Bugsy Siegals and Hunter Thompsons that have descended on this bright city before me, and all the energy and possibility down there. I exit onto Las Vegas Blvd, pass the famous sign, and cruise the strip. I turn on Shadowplay by The Killers, local boys, and give it a little volume. Okay, getting pretty fired up now.

I take LVB all the way to the less glitzy, more historic end of the Strip, past several tuxedo shops/wedding chapels, and park it near Fremont. I find my way to a Binion's blackjack table and sit between a country singer from Austin and a straight-faced businessman from Tokyo. We three are an odd bunch, but the dealer keeps busting, we keep winning, and friendships are born. I take my handsome profit back to the strip and get a room. Ever heard of Bellagio? Yeah, my hotel is right across the street: Bill's Gamblin Hall and Saloon, home of the $29 all-you-can-eat surf and turf.

I clean up and jaywalk the Strip to Bellagio. Ava Maria is playing and fountains are dancing as I stroll in. I am Danny Ocean. A burly man in a suit welcomes me. Thank you, sir, I'm gonna rob you blind.

It's midnight on a Wednesday, but the place is packed. Conventioneers in name tags, bachelorettes in heels, poker players in sunglasses. I settle into another blackjack table, and I'm following all the rules. Hit that, split those, vary the bet. But at a critical moment, I break rule #1: Don't bet more than you can afford to lose...

An embarrassingly high percentage of my net worth is on the table, and I'm dealt a 7-5. A fucking twelve. Dealer has a queen showing.

Hit. Ace of spades. Thirteen.

Sign of luck, right? I tap the table. Hit. Dealer flips me a card, it tumbles in slow motion...

Eight of hearts. Twenty-one. I gather and stack the loot. I'm rich. I'm Floyd Mayweather. I'm out.

Two-in-the-morning and it feels like 8pm. I find a bustling sushi bar inside the Bellagio, grab a table facing the casino, and order a $18 seared ahi roll. Miso, edamame, saki? Sure. I've got cash for days.

I'm looking out at a row of expressionless gamblers feeding slot machines, pulling the arms mechanically. Cocktail waitresses, failed actresses perhaps, in high skirts and low shirts. Cigarettes dying in ashtrays. Relentless beeping and blinking and the false sound of coins hitting metal, coming trough a speaker. This is really an awful place, manipulative, depraved, garish and godless. I need a friend, a shower, a church.

I hop in a cab at 3am. Spearmint Rhino, please.

The house always wins.

Road to Vegas

2008-05-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

Wednesday morning, southwest Colorado, I'm at Durango Coffee Company mapping the day's route. There's a lot of desert highway between here and Vegas, about 600 miles, almost all of it non-interstate. Which means two-lane traffic and 55 miles per hour. Which means I have long day ahead. But with Monument Valley and Zion National Park along the way, there will be some unique photo ops, which I'm pretty stoked about. I charge up both cameras, grab an Americano for the road, and hightail it into Utah.

Monument Valley

The landscape in lower Utah is flat and rugged and resembles the surface of the Moon, dusted in orange-red chalk. Not much life here. No wildlife, no trees, no powerlines... just me and the dusty road. Cue Where The Streets Have No Name, U2.

Moving quickly South, toward Arizona, I begin to see plateaus peeking above the horizon. Hidden only by the curve of the Earth, the formations grow taller as I approach. I can't help but accelerate: 60, 70, 80. Soon the view is too much to continue. I pull over and walk into the middle of the desolate highway. And there it is. Looks like a postcard. Click.

The first car to pass is a black Jeep Grand Cherokee, almost identical to the one that was supposed to make this trip. Click. I'm a little late on the shutter, but still, it's easy to imagine myself in that little car against that big beautiful world. I think I'll pin that one up somewhere.

Zion National Park

Several hundred miles of uneventful Arizona desert later, I'm back in lower Utah, entering Zion. The $25 fee seems a bit steep, but it's really the only way through to Nevada. I pay with a $20 bill, two crumpled ones, nine quarters and some other loose change. So that's my financial situation.

Around the first bend, the scenery takes a turn for the dramatic. Suddenly I am descending into a deep canyon, hugging the curves of a too-narrow road. Cars weren't meant to go here, but thanks to some clever engineering and some arduous, indeed expensive human labor, here I am. And it's incredible. $25 seems light, actually.

(Note: In the interest of safety, I did not photograph the road which I describe above. My quick risk/reward calculation caused me to 10-2 it all the way to the bottom, where the following shots were taken. While I regret not being able to share with you and my future self, I'd say it's one of those 'gotta see for yourself to understand' things anyway. Like Monument Valley. Like Napoleon Dynamite).

Continental Divide

2008-05-21T23:35:00.000-07:00

Let's say two raindrops fall on Colorado, one inch apart. Say one raindrop falls to the East of a particular ridge, and the other drop falls on the West of it. Now say that the Eastern drop flows down a mountain, into a stream, to a river, to a bay that feeds into the Atlantic. The Western drop, let's say, flows the other direction, into different streams, rivers and bays that lead it to the Pacific. That ridge then, would be the Continental Divide.

How geographers determined the exact ripple of North America that constitutes it, I'll never know. What I do know is that it weaves down the center of Colorado, and that no matter which side of it a raindrop may fall, that little guy has a scenic journey ahead.

Denver, CO

2008-05-21T07:28:00.000-07:00

I call Juan from Rapid City and let him know we're headed South toward Denver. He drops what he's doing, and when we arrive at 5pm on a Monday, he's left work early to show us around. What a guy.

We drive by the Colorado Capital, past a few architecturally ambitious museums, to Washington Park, around several stadiums, to 16th Street Mall, to Lower Downtown where we get out and walk. A few observations from the tour:

-Wash Park, wow. I've never seen so much concentrated physical activity. It looks like Olympic training facility rather than a public park. Kayaks, mountain bikes, and crazy devices that look like bobsleds with bicycle wheels. The airspace is crowded with volleyballs and footballs and a few of those hot pink frisbees that go really far.

-The Colorado flag has always struck me as odd; it looks like it should belong to Colombia or Costa Rica. I think it should be replaced with the Colorado license plate, which is wonderfully descriptive, and makes me want to move here and ski a lot.

-The good people of Denver clean up after their dogs, drive hybrids, wear comfortable clothes, recycle. Very wholesome. I think I'm going to start eating organic.

We make our way to a rooftop restaurant near Coors Field. The place is appropriately populated with a nice happy-hour crowd in jeans. From our table, we can hear the crowd next door at the Rockies game, and see the sunset over the warehouses and condos of LoDo. Denver on a summer Monday. Really an authentic moment. The kind that makes this crazy trip seem worthwhile and right.

We move to cozy bar on 17th Street, order a few drinks, and sink into big brown leather sofas and catch up. Katie shows up and lends her local perspective, "The best thing about Denver is that it is surrounded by the rest of Colorado". I can see that; Aspen, Vail, Telluride, Boulder are all pretty great. But I think Denver can stand on its own. Sports, scenery, music, art, food, industry, what more could you want? Sunshine? Pretty girls? Check and check.

Scott and I do Tuesday lunch on Josephine. Judging by our facial expressions, the road from Chicago has taken its toll. We're running on bar food and limited sleep. Our backs are sore, clothes dirty, wallets thin. Scott flies home today, but if I'm gonna make it to San Francisco this week, I'm gonna need an kick.

I drop him at Denver International, make the long drive back into downtown, and start flipping through On The Road...

I drive to 27th and Federal ("Our battered suitcases we're piled high on the sidewalk, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life") then down Larimer Street ("Beyond the glittery street was darkness and beyond the darkness, the West. I had to go").

Energized, I point the Equinox toward the Rockies. Durango is not close. I'm going to have to drive really fast or improvise, and right now, I'm up for either.

Andalé West

2008-05-19T23:03:00.001-07:00

Sparta, Wisconsin

Fairmont, Minnesota

Rock Rapids, Iowa

Keystone, South Dakota

Cheyenne, Wyoming

Milwaukee, WI

2008-05-19T00:11:00.000-07:00

Chicago, IL

2008-05-18T22:31:00.000-07:00

Friday, Big Windy. The cab ride to Wrigley is classic: Over the river and down Michigan Ave, through a canyon of skyscrapers, under the L, and onto Lake Shore Drive. Lake Michigan to the East, vast and choppy. Beside it, the Hancock Tower, all iron and steel. It's far from glamourous, but impresses nonetheless. Not unlike Chicago.

Left on Addison, and boom, we're in Wrigleyville. Not quite noon, but there is some heavy consumption taking place. Streets are mobbed, people selling jerseys, people scalping tickets, people slinging bratwurst. This is insane. This is a weekday.

Today's game is an inconsequential, early-season contest against a faceless, punchless opponent (Pittsburgh), but North Chicago has basically shut down for it. Wrigley is full, so are the all the bars, so are the outfield rooftops. Fathers and sons. Cuties in Cubs hats. A sea of red white and blue. Soriano goes yard, and 40,000 Cubs fans spill beer on their neighbors.

Kent says today is the nicest day in Chicago since August. I take a look around. Might be the nicest day anywhere ever.

Mike: HEY JOHN! If the moon were made of barbecue spare ribs, would you eat it? I know I would!

Cubs win! and the crowds spill into nearby bars and beer gardens. I've had a few beers in America over the last six weeks, and can say that in Chicago bars, the girls are friendlier, the music is better, the beer tastes better. Really a great town for a cold one.

Later, Bobby and Brooke join us in a Lincoln Park pubs. Around 2:30am (wait, what?!) our crew of five rolls to a dive on Division. Old familiar faces are popping up, fancy seeing you here's are exchanged, toasts are made. I have no business ripping jaeger at 4am, but that seems to be the norm around here. When in Rome.

Saturday wake up call comes too soon. Back in the Equinox, Scott and I drop Mike at O'Hare and head toward Milwaukee. Gotta love Chi-town in the summer, but for the sake of my health, it's time to move...

South Bend, IN

2008-05-17T02:28:00.000-07:00

Ann Arbor, MI

2008-05-16T08:48:00.000-07:00

Stopping for gas in Detroit is a mistake. The cashier is behind bulletproof glass, and with good reason. There are some shady characters in here, buying do-rags. We fill up fast and get the hell out of town.

Thirty miles outside Ann Arbor, the streetside muffler shops, billboards, fire hydrants turn to blue and gold. No mistaking it, we're entering Wolverine country.

Jayme and Ryan put us up and show us the town. Undergrad bars, grad school bars, locals bars, the first Borders, and one huge football stadium. We grab a few local brews on Liberty St and get to talking.

Turns out, Michigan has seen better days. The automotive crash has hit hard. The Pfizer plant outside town was shut down. Seems fitting that in mid-May, it's still cloudy and cold. But Google has come to town and employs many. UMichigan seems to be thriving, new buildings abound. Rich Rodriguez is coming...

Thursday morning, the sun comes out. We grab sammys for the road at Zingerman's, turn down the windows and turn up the iPod (Especially in Michigan, Chili Peppers), and rock all the way to South Bend.

So the state motto goes, 'If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you'. But I prefer the sign near the Indiana border: You Are Now Leaving Michigan: Great Lakes, Great Times.

Niagra Falls

2008-05-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

Niagra, NY is little tourist trap of a town, filled with gift shops and motels and thick mist, drifting in from the West. Whatever's up there, it's big. We cross Rainbow Bridge into Ontario, park it, and walk to the overlook.

Shock and awe. This is bigger, more violent than I anticipated. The wind is whipping hard. Sunglasses are necessary to block the spray. Millions upon millions of gallons of water running to the edge and falling fast, like lemmings, like a liquid avalanche. Sublime is really the only word.

Me: So whattaya think?

Mike: I think I gotta take a leak.

Me: You're tellin me...

We grab a quick lunch at the Burger World at the Niagra Falls visitor center and head west, further into Canada. This freeway system is incomprehensible to our American minds. We just got on a one-lane road called the QEW, crossing fingers that this leads us to Michigan...

Ithaca, NY

2008-05-13T23:35:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, 4pm, finally some sunshine. I park it at the Cornell football stadium and Mike and I toss the pigskin for a while. We take turns playing QB and calling out plays from Corona del Sol playbook.

Down the hill to Ithaca Commons, a pedestrian mall where one can find bums collecting pennies, hippies playing hackeysack and 'Ithaca is Gorges' gear. Mike gets a shirt, I go with a mesh hat, and we take a seat at an outdoor cafe on Aurora.

I'm a little concerned that if we stay here tonight, we won't make it to Ann Arbor tomorrow, a full 500 miles away. I express this to Mike, who tells me I'm being a little uptight for a guy with nowhere to be until August. He has a point. I put down two margaritas and we check in to hotel with a hot tub.

We rejuvenate and meet friends in Collegetown. Strangers dig our story and buy us drinks, strong ones. Flip cup ensues. We get bounced from Johnny O's and join the red-clad Cornell kids for 2am pizza.

Wednesday morning, we stop at Taughannock Falls to see what the hype is all about. Our first gorge, quite a sight. We are in accord, Ithaca is gorgeous. Cornell girls? Not so much.

Scranton, PA

2008-05-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

Lunchtime in Scranton. Yes, we're here for some Office-indulgent site seeing.

Mike and I roll to South Side Bowling Alley to grab a brewski at Poor Richards. Closed. Dammit.

I google 'Chili's Scranton', but there isn't one. We settle for the food court at the Steamtown Mall (which has a mildly creepy shrine dedicated to Dunder Mifflin).

Mike: This food court blows.

And it does. Taco Bell is the best thing going (Sushi in Scranton? No, thanks). We order, eat, walk around. Every mall in America looks the same, San Diego, Scottsdale, Savannah, wait, where am I?

Back in the Equinox, Lackawanna Boulevard. We drop a few Michael Scott lines, take a few photos, and merge onto the 81 North, toward Ithaca.

Just in and out, but well worth it.

That's what she said.

Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish

2008-05-11T20:32:00.000-07:00

Graduation day in Chapel Hill. The caps and gowns are out, as are the dads in sportcoats and moms in sundresses. Sunshine and breeze, then torrential rain, then sunshine again. A local tells me, if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes.

A few families gather for brunch in downtown Raleigh, which has gone more Buckhead than you'd expect. Condos and wine bars and chic boutiques. Raleigh, folks. And so America progresses. Five friends pose for a picture, five friends who will be in five different cities come July.

Cocktail parties follow and with them come several introductions and Amstel Lights. I meet a few professors, and find myself discussing portfolio theory, the Dutch economy, China's GDP. Not my wheelhouse, but I manage okay, even despite scarfing hors dervies the whole time.

Rain being ever imminent, the ceremony is in the Dean Dome. Number 23 is hanging in the rafters, and it's easy to draw 'greatness begins here' parallels. There are audible cheers, inaudible speeches and genuine chills when tassels are moved.

Brother Tom walks the stage, I shout Atta Boy! and catch a glance of Mom and Dad, beaming. I take a look around, eyes are welling, as they are in auditoriums across the country. Tomorrow, a few hundred thousand college graduates will take to the street and attempt to make their mark.

And so America progresses.

Miami, FL

2008-05-09T16:02:00.000-07:00

Friday morning, South Beach, cafe con leche at News Cafe on Ocean. The scene is very Miami... Palm trees, art deco, linen. Spanish and samba in the air. And my god, is it humid.

So this is detour. And I didn't drive (Equinox is resting in the JFK longterm lot). Here because Brother Mike has been floating around the world on a cruise ship for the last 109 days and arrives today into Port of Miami. I go.

The ship arrives (Born in the USA is playing) and several hundred kids disembark. Families welcome them with signs and hugs and tears. It's a quite a moment.

Michael Bolton walks by, swear.

Me: Okay, that was definitely Michael Bolton.

Dad: What's your favorite song of his?

Me: I guess I sorta like em all...

Dad: You know I'm the same way! I celebrate his whole collection.

We each find this uproarious.

Mike is back and has stories to tell. Carnaval in Rio, skydiving in Cape Town, snake charming in Chennai, bullet trains in Tokyo. Pretty insane. I'm a little overwhelmed by the bigness of the world and all there is to see. I'll get there, in due time. I'm still trying to get my arms around America.

Dinner at Devito, and the stories keep coming ("So I'm at this bar in Kuala Lumpur..."). But for all the adventures abroad, he's glad to be back stateside, enjoying family and free enterprise, English menus and iPhones.

Thousands of miles from our respective addresses, we toast to home.

The West End

2008-05-07T23:18:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 4pm, New York City, I'm drinking sangria at The West End at 114th and Broadway.

In 1940-something, Jack Kerouac, a 25-year old Columbia grad student with a literary bent, would often drink, write, and observe life at this very bar. This fact segues nicely into a little commentary on inspiration...

Summer 2003, so about five years ago, I'm in an English bookstore in Valencia, Spain, sifting the shelves. The volumes offered are limited and prosaic-- Harry Potter, Jurassic Park, Jane Eyre. I randomly pick up a book whose title entices me for no apparent reason: On The Road by Kerouac. I have never heard of it or him, but buy it anyway. A few days later, I'm on a bus to Sevilla (on the road, as it were), and open the book to pass the time. By page eight (mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved...), I am deeply moved and am pretty sure I finish the thing on that bus.

I really truly believe I've been a different person ever since. Hard to explain how or why different, but something involving greater awareness and appreciation for places, no matter how random; people, no matter how different; and unexpected events, no matter how derailing. In fact, the randomness, the differences, the unexpected... that's where the the poetry is! And we encounter these things in large measure when we travel...

And so, about five years ago, I resolved to hit the road, a la Sal Paradise, wanting to experience more fully the beauty and the grit, the randomness and the reality of the world and times we live in. And for the last five years, greater priorities got in the way.

When I left a month ago today, I told myself that when on the road, when cares oppress, when fatigue dampens spirit, when shit hits the fan... to be unflappable, to remain optimistic, open-minded, observant and interested, always. And if I could do that, that would be much. That would be growth that would surely find a place in life hereafter.

Now, having crossed the country, having faced more than a few derailing obstacles, and having been educated, enlightened, inspired, and humbled, I can say I'm getting better at this. I've become increasingly aware of the subtle but meaningful sights and moments that lend powerful reminders that life is grand, that love is real, that beauty is everywhere. No doubt, the universe is unfolding as it should.

So far, it's been an perspective-changing, life-enhancing journey. And I guess that's why we travel. I guess that's why I'm here, drinking, writing and observing life at a random New York bar on a Wednesday.

Outside, the workday is ending and the streets are coming alive. I throw my headphones on (Kids by MGMT) and hop the two train, downtown bound.

(the universe is unfolding line above was borrowed from The Desiderata, an uplifting prose poem that is worth a read)

Providence, RI

2008-05-06T21:37:00.000-07:00

Outside Providence, a loud bang shakes the Equinox. I check the rearview, no cars back there, but my rear windshield appears to be cracked. What the hell? A mile later, I hit a pothole, and the window shatters into a million little pieces.

Next thing I know, I'm at a gas station in Swansea, Rhode Island picking glass out of my trunk. Did not see this one coming.

Well. Okay. It's 8pm, I'm starving and was looking forward to a big bowl of pasta at Paragon, but plans have changed (as they tend to do). I pull into downtown Providence and check in to a hotel (student discount, chicka chicka yeah), and start working the phones. Providence is shut down. I start dial New York shops. On the eleventh attempt, jackpot. David in Manhattan can fix it tomorrow. Done. Sign me up. I don't ask how much. I lace my Chuck's and hit the street.

Downtown, nightfall, and the surrounding steeples and domes are becoming silhouettes. It's really a beautiful sight, and already Providence is exceeding my (admittedly low) expectations. Good night for a walk. I ask directions to Thayer Street, which I have heard is both fun and far. This woman looks at me like I'm high, and points up a very steep hill, I take the hike. At the top, Brown University, and the associated bricks and archways and shaggy-haired lax players and tie-dye academic types. I follow two guys in frat hats who look like bar-goers and soon I'm on Thayer.

I find a central barstool at Paragon, where the bartender is friendly, the beer local, the penne pomodoro solid. I get to know my bar-neighbors. Tomas, Art History professor from Paris. Derek, chef from Boston. Derek knows a lot of folks in town and insists on giving me a guided pub tour. I'm not really feeling up to it, what with the cold and the windshield, but I go with it, and soon I'm taking Patron shots at KartaBar with a bunch of Boston guys I've just met. Derek's friends are cool and connected, they manage local bars and restaurants and and have cute girlfriends and throw cash around. I gather this is where Boston people go to be big fish.

A friend/Brown alum tells me that I have to get a late-night hotdog at Spikes, a hole-in-the-wall joint on Thayer. I sneak out of the bar and into Spike's, then make the trek down the hill, across the river and into downtown, dog in hand. Best on the East Coast, I am told, and I have no basis to disagree.

Hyannis, MA

2008-05-05T23:00:00.000-07:00

Crossing Bourne Bridge into Cape Cod is exhilarating because 1) the bridge is so tall at it's center, I think I saw Provincetown, and 2) the descent from the highest point back to ground level is something like the final seconds of Splash Mountain (steep, fast). I shoot into Hyannis, find my way to Main Street and pick up a lobster roll. Today is Cinco de Mayo, Corona's are $1, so I go for one. Okay, two. The subsequent buzz tricks me into buying a pair of boat shoes.

After, I find the dock and go talk to a nice old timer, Bernie, who sells the tickets for the ferry to Nantucket. We talk for a while about the Cape, then and now. Turns out Bernie's uncle and John Kennedy were golfing buddies at the local country club. Bernie suggests I go check out the JFK museum in town, then catch the 3:15 to Nantucket. I go with it.

The museum is mostly old black and whites and I get totally lost in them. One is JFK and a young John Jr. in the back of a sailboat making silly faces for the camera. The caption is a Kennedy quote: "There are three things in life which are real: God, human folly and laughter. Since the first two are beyond our comprehension, we must do what we can with the third."

Walking Hyannis on a cloudless 70 degree day, it seems this would be a good place to laugh, unwind, and forget about the heavy stuff (say, the ever present threat of nuclear conflict with the Soviets) for a while...

I lose track of time and miss my ferry.

Boston, MA

2008-05-05T06:10:00.000-07:00

Friday noon, Harvard Square, wicked smaht kids in North Face are late to class, Becca and I are late to breakfast. Can't seem to find a place serving. I finally find Finagle A Bagel, but the place has moved, downsized, and really fallen off since last time I was here. We settle for lunch at Cafe Crema and discuss the day ahead.

Duck Tour, gotta do a duck tour. Freedom walk, Faneuil Hall, Newbury Street. Definitely. We leave lunch excited, but the pouring rain causes us to reconsider all of the above. And so we hurry into the Harvard Bookstore and read. Pachelbel is playing. Very academic, us two.

We get in the Equinox (two parking tickets) and I now regret my complaints about New York. Driving Boston exponentially worse; exits aren't marked, streets don't have names (or have two), traffic is unrelenting. After a few near-collisions and illegal u-turns, we arrive at the Hotel Marlowe and check in. A fire's cracking, and Alex behind the counter hooks it up with an upgrade, a view, and reservations at Bacco. The day's looking up.

I run a little five-on-five at the Sports Club/LA on Boylston (upset about my Suns, the rain, the traffic, my nagging cold... I have a chip on my shoulder, and am playing a little rougher than my competition, it's cathartic).

We clean up and head to the North End, an area that is either well-preservered or poorly-renovated, depending on your mood. Designed to resemble a bowl of spaghetti from above, the streets are cobbled and curvy and wide enough for two bikes, just. It looks, feels, smells like old Italy, and every corner is occupied by a Giavanni's or Giacomo's or a Cafe d'Italia. Very authentic, albeit a little hard to navigate (don't even attempt to park). We do pasta dinner at Bacco, which I would describe as robust, and go to a bar to watch the Celtics game. They lose. They're not supposed to lose. The bar patrons file out, cursing Doc Rivers, Joe Johnson, Eli Manning.

Saturday brunch at Sonsie on Newbury, then we go searching for a good table to do some internetting. Not easy to find, you'd think there were 100+ universities in this town (wiki'd that, there are). We find a two-top, at a Starbucks regrettably, and get some work done. I book some flights, pay some bills, arrange accommodations in San Francisco, and then walk Newbury Street from top to Common.

Taylor and Corey meet us at Fenway. The place is classic, and by that I mean the seats are unbearably hard, there's a pole obstructing my view, and there's one bathroom. But the crowd is great, totally in it. In the 5th inning, a 'Yankee's Suck' chant breaks out. In the 6th, the wave. The Sox get a hit, so we do it again, and again, and it works everytime. At least seven times this happens, it's remarkable. The Sox thump the Devil Rays, it's not even fair, and all is well in Bean Town.

Just don't mention Eli.

New Haven, CT

2008-05-02T11:25:00.000-07:00

Leaving Manhattan by automobile is so incredibly difficult I don't even want to talk about it. But being the master of navigation and defensive driving that I have become, I make it out alive, through Greenwich (this is Greenwich?) and into New Haven.

Driving into town, it's pretty evident that this a tale of two cities. Yale is beautiful, chapels and quads and courtyards and kids sharply dressed. On the edge of campus, parks and repertoire theaters and preppy shops and au bon pain. But elsewhere in town, very rundown houses and commercial buildings and roads that have probably been here (without renovation) for a couple hundred years.

I meet Ben for a quick lunch on Chapel Street and a walk through the Yale Architecture building. Twenty-somethings in rimmed glasses are working away building and drawing and downing Dunkin Donuts coffee (big in New England). Frank Gehry is here, listening to a student defend the experiential aspects of a beaux arts auditorium. If the models and renderings in this room are any indication, architecture is about to get all Bilbao on us...

I hang for a bit at Book Trader Cafe, it's a bookish crowd. Everybody's reading. The place doesn't even have WiFi. I doodle on a US map for a while, figuring my route. I talk to the guy next to me. Princeton undergrad, Yale Law, interning this summer for Justice Souter. We wish each other luck in our endeavors, he gets back to Torts, and I get back on the road. Meeting cousin Corey in Cambridge at seven.

New York City

2008-05-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

Feeling a little under the weather, sleep deprived, hurried... and thus, I'm having trouble conjuring clever editorial things to say about New York City. That, and it seems anything I could or would write would be either a cliche or a sweeping generality. Suffice it to say, I've been walking the streets for most of the last 36 hours and am still in thrall. Seems there's always something else to see, do, experience, photograph. It's all very stimulating, energizing...

I awake at nine on a Wednesday...

-17 Bleeker St.

coffee

times

internet

-Walk I

tenenment museum

chinatown

bret and jermaine's apt

wall st

ground zero

battery park

-Lunch

falafel sandwich off a cart

hummus

baba gannouj

-Walk II

tribeca

soho

west village

chelsea

midtown west

still walking

subway to NoLita, meet brian

-Night

times square

dinner, brian, ryan, nobu 57, miso cod

bar, Johnny Utah's, rode the bull

-Sleep

toss

turn

sirens

Hence the fatigue.

Few shots from the walkabout...

DC to New York

2008-05-01T08:42:00.000-07:00

I fly through Maryland (crabcakes and football), pass Philadelphia (where sports fans throw D batteries at Santa Claus), cross Delaware (Hi, I'm in Delaware), hop on the New Jersey Turnpike and stop at a Burger King to grab a drink, use the facilities. A raspy Bryan Adams ballad is playing too loudly. There's a line. I am one of eight strangers waiting to pee in a tight hallway at a Burger King in South Jersey. It's awkward, and kinda hilarious.

Not in Manhattan 30 minutes before I have a cop on my ass, siren blazing. I pull over to the side of 10th Ave, amid rush hour traffic. There's no shoulder, I'm blocking one of four very precious lanes, and thus, am the subject of every cab driver's horns and middle fingers and foreign vulgarities. License and registration. Something about no cell phones while driving in New York.

I've been in six states today, Officer, 16 this month, it's hard to keep track. He looks at my California ID, shakes his head in disgust, and takes his time writing my ticket.

Me: You don't do warnings?

Cop: You violate New York law, you get cited.

Me: Well, I'm violating about ten more laws by just sitting here while you write my ticket.

Cop: Want me to write you ten more tickets?

Me: No

Cop: Well consider this your warning.

Got me.

Washington, DC

2008-04-29T18:57:00.000-07:00

Driving through the District can be frustrating (wait, 17th is Connecticut? I can't drive in this lane before 9:30am? I can't park here ever?). Still, It's worth it. The Monuments, White House, Capital, all in plain view. Helicoptors circling overhead. Six consecutive Suburbans zooming down Pennsylvania. Flags waving, signaling embassies. Distinguished gentlemen shuffling down Maryland Ave. Cruising Constitution, waving to TJ, crossing the Potomac, I can't help but feel like I'm somewhere.

Monday 9am, Saxby's Coffee on 35th and O. Pouring out, and there's a fire going in here, so I hold down my table by the window, watch Georgetown kids hustle by under umbrellas, and catch up on DC's layout / history for a few hours before meeting friends for lunch on 17th (Connecticut).

After lunch, The Newseum, an impressive space paying homage to the world's journalists, photographers, and newsmen who bring the world's events to its people. We learn this can be arduous, indeed dangerous, work. The whole museum is compelling (including sections of the Berlin Wall, WTC 1), but when I walked into the Pulitzer Photo exhibit, time sorta stopped. Next time you're in the District, check it out.

Around 7pm, rain stops, alas. Chris and I hit the street and jog from Iwo Jima to Memorial Bridge to Lincoln Memorial to Kennedy Center to Georgetown to Key Bridge. Either I'm a hell of a runner, or these things just happen to be kinda bunched together (the latter).

Dinner with Chris and Tyler on the edge of Foggy Bottom / DuPont, so we're near a few hotels that might suit a diplomat or a delegate. Looking around, it seems we're surrounded the by educated doers of the world, the people who are making things happen. If I feel like I'm somewhere, it's because I am.

Charlottesville, VA

2008-04-28T06:32:00.000-07:00

It's late April, Foxfield Weekend, which means the masses descend on Central Virginia for horses and carousing, mostly carousing. For UVA alums, its a chance to relive the reverie. Everyone's back and enthused. And Charlottesville rises to the occasion, offering constant reminders of the affection we all had for the place as students. The pillars and brick, trees and leaves, people and bars. Good to be back.

Friday night on the Corner and bars are filling up fast. I pop into one of the smaller ones on Elliewood and Tiki is in the building. I offer a handshake and some light praise, soon we're chattin. He's totally articulate, sincere, really an active listener. We talk for a few minutes, it's like talking to a (really smooth, famous, rich) friend. What are you up to? What brings ya to the Ville? He crosses his arms, nodding, totally in it. What do you plan to do with an MBA? I tell him real estate. Turns out, Tiki's interested, knows some movers and shakers in the city, and has a project going in Virginia. He offers up his email address, suggests we chat more in New York, and we part ways. Tiki Barber, really a cool guy. I take my excited mood to Buddist and celebrate with a few hundred friends (maybe not that many, but it felt that way).

It never rains on Foxfield, despite meteorologists consistent predictions to the contrary. So when rain is forecast for Saturday, everyone dresses up in their seersucker and pastel anyway. And three hours into the event, thousands have gathered at the downs, the sun is out, and people are standing on truckbeds, consuming excessively. There might have been horses running around, too. But before things get out of hand, which typically occurs around 4pm, an announcer gets on the PA and warns of a violent storm headed our direction. Everyone looks up to see what the fuss is about. Almost as if on cue, lightning flashes in the suddenly ominious sky, and just like that, exodus.

Sunday brunch, and several old friends gather on the Biltmore patio to download all that's transpired and say farewell. Three enjoyable hours click away, and soon it's time for everyone to get to their plane, train or automobile. As we all disperse to our own corners of the continent, the inevitable question arises, Coming back next year? Play it by ear. And we all know what that means.

Charlottesville, VA

2008-04-26T04:31:00.000-07:00

GREAT night. I'll explain later...

Friends, Friday, Buddist Biker Bar.

Blue Ridge Parkway

2008-04-24T06:41:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 3pm, I pull into sketchy gas station near the Virginia-North Carolina border to grab a map and a Perrier for the ride. The downhome woman behind the counter warns of fallen trees and the perils of driving after dark. I thank her, take my change and hit the Parkway.

At first, just a lot cabins and cows grazing. Pretty scene, but having just read the all the superlatives in Lonely Planet and Wikipedia, I'm a bit underwhelmed.

And then.

Soft bends become hard curves and I'm climbing. The grade is steep and the Equinox is showing it's first sign of weakness. But he's a trooper and we summit, no problem.

Now I'm weaving through the trees like through a greenlit tunnel. The sunlight coming through the leaves is creating a strobe effect, I'm listening to Two Step. This is pretty surreal.

On my left, a clearing, and there's the view. Treetops and pastures and distant peaks. Dark blue and light green and every shade inbetween.

I continue on. Clearing to the right, there it is again. Bright yellows and reds, purples even. And above, rolling mountains dissolving into blue sky.

This highway runs the crest of the Appalachians, a fact that my two-dimensional maps failed to convey. I was expecting to be looking up at mountains, not the case. I'm on top of them.

I stop at a westward-facing overlook. Feeling very Alexander Supertramp, I climb onto the roof of my car. Sunset. I resist my urge to move, or to take a picture, and just sit there and breathe for a while.

The landscape is varied and alive and sublime. Hard to have a worry, or an ego, or a small thought here. In the distance, Roanoke. I can see tiny buildings and the roads connecting them. Surely, people there are hustling and fretting, as people do everyday everywhere. A line from a book jumps to mind...

"And to think that all along, hidden from sight, our lives were that small: the world we live in but never see, the way we must appear to the hawk and to the gods..."

-Alain de Botton, Art of Travel

Some kids pull up in a convertible Mustang, blasting Biggy, and they spark a joint. Like I'm not having a moment, like I'm not even there. Interrupted, but having gotten what I came for, I start up the Equinox and weave down Mt. Roanoke to Buchanan to Interstate 81.

The odometer hits 4,000. Wednesday night, 10pm. Charlottesville's not far, I could probably make it out tonight.

A few shots from the parkway...

Chapel Hill, NC

2008-04-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

I hit the Research Triangle Monday late afternoon. Took a while from Charlotte due to weather (sunshine, rain, repeat) and Carolinians not knowing how to drive. But anyhow. Brother Tom is a grad student at UNC. Here's our evening:

5-6pm: Capital Markets class. Heavy. I get it, sorta. Some kids are taking copious notes, others drifting. Professor is young, sharp, Australian.

6-8pm: He's Not Here (bar with great patio) for socializing, Carolina BBQ and huge babyblue cups of beer. It's a cultured crowd, I get tips on where to live in Manhattan, when to go to Stockholm, where to eat in Hong Kong, etc.

8-11pm: Bowling with classmates. Monday night Dollarama. Some Dukies are a few lanes down, words are not exchanged. Beers flow like Lebowski jokes.

Good to be back in academia.

Tuesday. 10am alarm bell. Coffeehouse, WSJ, workout. Tom goes to class. I skip it, grab a bite on Franklin Street. Mid-afternoon, I meet Erika at Top of the Hill (bar with great view) for some hefeweizen. Clouds are moving fast above the chapels and trees of Carolina as if in time lapse. Sunshine, rain, repeat. Weather here's a bit fickle.

Hadley and Justin join us for dinner at Tyler's, a cozy restaurant in downtown Durham that's been converted from an old tobacco plant (what would we do without the vision and ingenuity real estate developers?).

Rain subsides in time for the Durham Bulls game. Our group takes half a section along the third-base line. I shake the hands of the folks I've not met, high five or fist pound the ones I have. Friends and fresh grass and beers and footlongs. I have no idea who won the game.

Wednesday noon, I'm at Cafe Carolina on Meadowmont, checking email, weather, directions to Charlottesville... Blue Ridge Parkway to Skyline Drive. Shenandoah. Appalachia. Nostalgia. No where to be for 36 hours, I think I'll take my time on this one.

I depart, rested and ready, leaning forward into the next crazy venture beneath the skies...

That's a little Kerouac for ya.

Tar Heel Country

2008-04-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

Franklin Street, and Chapel Hill's namesake.

Old Well, Carolina Icon

Charlotte, NC

2008-04-21T08:10:00.000-07:00

We arrive in the Queen City a little beaten up from the night before. Thankfully, Courtney and Harlan, gracious hosts, have our remedy...

Price's Chicken Coop is discreet, but if you live in Charlotte, you know about it. The hole-in-the-wall on Camden Street has been here forever. Cornwallis probably ate here, maybe even the Cherokee. Anyway. Fried chicken is the only option. Ordering goes something like this: Quarter or a half? Hushpuppies or hash browns? Cole slaw or beans? Sweet tea?

If it's authenticity I'm after, I'm getting it. No way a place like this stays in business west of the Mississippi or north of Mason-Dixon, but here... one the most popular spots in town. And I have to admit, the meal is pretty damn good.

We let the grease settle, watch some hoops, pack a cooler and head to a backyard BBQ. The yard is well-manicured and there's a nice fire going. There are many wines and cheeses from which to choose. There is also a keg, which I man for a while and meet some friends of friends.

As a general statement, I would say the people of Charlotte are active and educated, friendly and family-oriented, interested in real estate and down with Jesus. This makes for a friendly, welcoming, small-seeming community. Sure, there are a few banks around, but I don't buy this 'New York of the South' talk...

After the BBQ, we take the light rail downtown to Dale Earnhardt's new bar. I'm not sure I could pick the guy out from a crowd of two, but he clearly carries some weight in this region, and his rep and financial investment have made Whiskey River a pretty fun place to spend the silly hours of a Saturday night. I test out some dance moves. They are well received.

Sunday morning, I go for coffee. On my way, I pass a few young couples walking their labradors and toddlers down idyllic Tremont Street. Last night's rain lingers on leaves. Today is overcast and cool and quiet and beautiful. Seems even the birds are sleeping in.

At Dilworth Coffeehouse on East Blvd, I thumb the Times, watch passersby, write a bit. The clouds begin to part around noon. Our crew of seven piles into cars and heads to Lake Norman.

Okay. So I've snowboarded, wake-boarded, even surfed a bit in my day, but wake-surfing is a new endeavor for me. Water's a bit choppy, but what the hell. I jump in the water and Harlan throws me board and a rope.

Attempts one through six are utter failures, seven through thirteen are a little better, but still end in faceplants.

Water is frigid, bones are sore, muscles are spent. The boat is looking inviting, warm, safe. But my friends aren't having it....

You're thissss close! You've totally got it!

And I persevere.

On maybe the 16th attempt, I have lift off. Knees are a bit wobbly, but I find balance, plant my back foot, pull the rope..... and friends, I am surfing the hell out of that wake.

A minor athletic triumph, but by the reactions of my friends on the boat, you'd think I just won gold.

Dixie Pics

2008-04-20T15:54:00.000-07:00

Amelia Island, FL

Whitaker Street

Old Savannah, GA

This is Atlanta: Mercedes Coupe, Caribou Coffee, High-Rise Condos and Construction.

The Equinox Leaving Georgia

Interstate 75

Greenville, South Carolina

Athens, GA

2008-04-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

Friday 10pm and we're watching night unfold from a patio table at East West Bistro on Broad St.

Foot traffic is picking up. Live music is pouring out of bars. Underclassmen are crossing College Ave in hordes. Athens is abuzz.

First bar has a Mardi gras theme. Beads adorn the walls, it's unclear if they are decoration or last night's mess. Lots of Polo and khaki and New Balance. Natty Lights are $1 (Brian buys the first round with a five spot, this amazes me). We're feeling talkative and make a few new friends. Freshman from Augusta, freshman from Macon, freshman from Charleston. We head to the next bar.

Sideways is the quintessential college dive. Pretty girls negotiate the crowd in stilettos (a little overdressed? I ask Jonathan, our all-knowing guide. "Lot of competition here." Agreed). Guys in raggity bar hats are making aggressive advances. People are drinking with reckless abandon. A cover band is busting out frat anthems, breaking strings on their stratocasters. Everyone in the vicinity of the stage is holding up a fist, squinting, screaming. Whooooaaa.... we're halfway there! This is awesome. This is exhausting.

Onto the next place. En route, we pass at least 30 bars, all at capacity. We buy pizza from sorority girls raising money for a cause. I attempt an athletic maneuver that rips the back out of my jeans. It's that kind of night.

At 8E's, another classic dive, I'm feeling a little self-conscious dancing to Journey with my wardrobe situation and decide instead to observe the scene from the corner. These people are partying. I estimate that no one in this bar has any plans before 1pm tomorrow. And I realize, neither do I. Robby comes over and we line up a shot.

To college. To life. To Athens.

Atlanta, GA

2008-04-18T16:40:00.000-07:00

Two pm on a Thursday and I'm jogging through the tree-lined trails of Piedmont Park, breeze at my back. The park is green and hilly and teeming with bike-riders, stroller-pushers, frisbee-throwers... the energy is tangible and springs my gait. I'm running like the wind, like Michael Johnson, I am the fastest man in this park right now. In this entire city...

I clean up, grab a smoothie (peach), take a walk down Juniper, and six o'clock comes quick. Josh picks me up after work, we go north to Buckhead and have a few beverages in a bar overflowing with professional types in skirts and ties (the ties could have easily been removed, but it's that kind of place). It's happy hour and Atlantans are a thirsty bunch. Long week, says Josh. Good week, I add. And we have a good chat over guac.

Robby and Brian join the fold and give us second wind. We make our way to a pub near Virginia-Highland, grab a booth, order pitchers. Female strangers surround, introductions occur. We are unemployed vagabonds from San Diego. We are real estate entrepreneurs from Montana. Cowboys from Arizona, pimps from Oakland, something about an emerging maple syrup conglomerate. We are drunk.

Atkins Park, Atlanta, GA - April 17, 2008

I run into folks from UVA, UGA, Emory. We play the name game and agree it's a small world after all. Robby takes over the jukebox (I've got soul but I'm not a soldier) and it feels like Friday night... except it's not. Soon, the bar is empties, the pizza joints close, and we crowd into Josh's living room for a little Sportscenter and sleep.

Friday noon, brunch behind us, and the park looks enticing. We need a football to toss around. Robby, Brian and I cram into the Equinox and go looking. Nothing on 10th, nothing on Monroe. Traffic's a bear. My know-it-all navigation lands us in rough part of town. This is a goose chase. I get on the I-75.

The interstate splits, straight to Atlanta, right to Athens. I click over.

Atlanta Pre-Noon

2008-04-17T08:07:00.000-07:00

I wake up on a couch in Midtown and am giddy to get out. Not really enthused to see the World of Coke or Olympic Village or the Georgia Aquarium... but the Atlanta where people live and interact. Google and guidebooks are not particularly helpful in this regard.

Caribou Coffee, 10th and Piedmont. I really dig the log cabin theme and take a table by the fireplace. The barista is a sweetheart and gives me refills for free. Maybe that's the program here, but she makes it seem like she's sneaking them for me, furtively looking both ways before refilling, and I appreciate this.

So by 10am I'm thoroughly wired and talking to strangers. The guy to my left (28, caucasian, presumably gay) despises the AJC (the local daily), Starbucks, John McCain, real estate developers... unoriginal but vehement in his cynicism. I comment on the midtown neighborhood, really a hip area...

Too many straights, he says. Something you're gonna have to get used to, I say, and find myself a little offended. I'm wearing checkered vans and a fidel hat and am blogging away on my MacBook and feeling rather hip, thank you. You see this shirt? Thrift store in Savannah.

Two homeless men walk in, one black one white. The place gets edgy, the innocent little barista braces herself. A quarter is dropped and fought over. Loud cursing and pushing ensues. In a very United 93 moment, two large male customers stand up and control the situation, pushing the bums out the door. I've never seen anything like it. Seconds later, bums are gone, Norah Jones is playing, and everything's peaceful pleasant again.

Almost lunchtime, I ask the cynic where I can get a good sandwich. I figure someone so critical of everything must have discerning taste, right? Alon's Bakery on Highland. I go.

Place is great, the turkey avocado baguette amazing. I sit an outside table, people are are eating croissants, birds are chirping. Mercedes coupes come and go. I casually thumb a book I brought, Steinbeck. I study maps of Atlanta, Manhattan, America. I YouTube 'fainting goat'.

Noon on a picture-perfect April day in Atlanta, and I've done virtually nothing today. I should go exercise or something.

Savannah, GA

2008-04-16T08:03:00.000-07:00

I'm checking into a hotel in Savannah when I get the call.

The Police.

It takes a minute for the officer to introduce himself and explain his business with me. In that minute, I recall every mildly illegal thing I've done in the last week. I'm busted. For not paying parking tickets, for stealing wi-fi, for driving 100 mph through New Mexico, for all of the above. It's been a fun ride, but now it's coming to a screeching halt...

So it's a relief when he tells me he's with the San Diego Police Department, and they've located my Jeep. This is good news, though at the time, it's a bit inconvenient. I need to call my insurance company, the DMV, the tow yard, and a friend in San Diego to pick it up (which will require a signed and notarized letter, a copy of my driver's license, my keys, $229). Problem is, I'm in Georgia, dog tired. I've just walked 20 blocks into the wind and I just want a hot shower and a nap.

I put my cares on hold long enough to get some rest, then hit the town again, looking to pick up some espresso, poach some wi-fi, make some calls. A short while later, my life is neatly stacked again and there's a city to see. I walk onto Broughton, through the Historic District, down Bay Street to the river. The Warehouse advertises 'the coldest, cheapest beer in town', which lures me in.

A few cold, cheap beers later, I'm deep in conversation with a Gulfstream pilot from Munich who explains to me the differences in aerodynamics between the Leer, Citation, Falcon and Gulf Stream, the latter being the Rolls Royce of the sky, manufactured right here in Savannah, Georgia.

On my way home, I pass a street musician who is playing the harmonica, drums and guitar simultaneously... with a kitchen pot on his head (Mr. Pothead is his stagename, and he introduces himself as such). I applaud him, tip him, and he expresses fatigue. "Wanna play one of these?" Absolutely.

He hands me the guitar, we jam for a while, Petty, Marley, Dylan. Then he teaches me his hook, The Mr. Pothead Song. It's actually a catchy tune. Crowds shuffle past, laugh a bit, tip. The crowd gets up in the 10-15 range a few times, and I feel like I'm playing Woodstock. This goes on for an hour, and it's a blast. A thank Mr. Pothead for allowing the cameo, and get on my merry way.

Mr. Pothead and Me

This morning, I'm back on Broughton watching the good people of Savannah walk to work. Tonight, Atlanta. I realize that it's a few hundred miles in the wrong direction, but friends and kicks are there, and I don't have anywhere to be for awhile.

North Florida

2008-04-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm standing in a stranger's backyard in Gulf Breeze, Florida. The owner of the house is trying to yank a rubber chicken from the mouth of a shitzhu. A peacock is on the roof of a toolshed flashing his feathers. A fainting goat (youtube that) is nudging my leg. How in the hell... did I wind up here?

Well, dad and I are on a little trip down memory lane. He grew up in Gulf Breeze in the 1950's and hasn't been back since. Earlier, we mapped his old address and here we are, taking pictures of the tree he used to climb as a kid. We drive around Gulf Breeze and see where he used to go to church, elementary school, little league practice. It's a touching afternoon for father and son, one we'll long remember.

And the goat, who could forget the goat?

Later, Bo meets me at a dive bar in Pensacola Beach and we get to talking. He and I each grew up in Arizona, attended college in Virginia, then moved to Southern California, so we share a few sensibilities. However, at 25, we find ourselves on two very different paths. Me going to grad school and pursuing a career in business, and him in the thick of Naval training and headed toward a career in aviation.

But we're both learning, and growing up a little, and pursuing something that is challenging, exciting, and important to us. Knowing the difficulty, we congratulate one another for discovering what that is. Bo does a good job describing the military model and mindset; talking to him teaches me a lot. I share a few thoughts about my travels and plans after. We part ways, glad for the paths we've chosen, and glad for friends who have

chosen different ones.

Lunch in Tallahassee is a cultural experience. Around noon on a monday, we stumble into the Creole Cafe on College Ave. The walls are covered in Nascar memorobelia. Competitive fishing is on the television, and people seem to be watching it, glued to it. Dad orders a fried grouper po boy, I go for the gumbo. Students in frat gear shuffle in and out. Was I that unkempt in college? God I hope not. Dad wants to ask them what's wrong with FSU football, but I dissuade him. We slow cruise through Tallahassee, and the place is impressive. Bricks, columns, tree-lined streets, parks named after generals, monuments. But after an hour, we've seen most of it, and get back on the 10 East. Three hours later, Jacksonville.

Seven days and 2,600 miles gone by, and there's the Atlantic...

New Orleans, LA

2008-04-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday 5pm when we exit Interstate 10 and enter the French Quarter. The narrow streets are teeming with tourists. I navigate the mob, through Bourbon St, onto Canal. This is no place for a vehicle.

On Bourbon, college kids are crowding balconies, jazz is seeping into the streets, and police are patrolling the scene on horseback. This is not unlike New Orleans in 2003, the last time I was here.

My dad and I check into a hotel on Poydras, eat at Antoine's, and take a walk down Decatur... all are packed, as they were then, and we're pleased to see it. Five years and one Category Five later, the place really seems to be as it was... on the surface. Underneath, there's an edge.

Every boarded building lends a reminder. Waiters are conspiracy theorists. The feds and the insurance companies, public enemies one and two. Cabbies know the death toll (1,704) and the number permanently driven from the city (165,000).

In general, New Orleans has lost the levity that made it the party capital of America. Debauchery seems out of place, disrespectful, frivolous. Still strongly in place though, and more appreciated now, are the elements that made New Orleans so unique and celebrated in the first place: architecture, food, music and culture. It seems the prospect of loss has regenerated, even enhanced our esteem for the place.

Sunday morning, we tour St. Bernard's Parish and the Ninth Ward. The destroyed houses are mostly gone now, a little debris here, a rebuilt house there. But it's mostly just tall grass, waving in the shadow of the levee that holds in the Mississppi, or is supposed to anyway. It appears to me that the emotional and financial damage here will long outlive the physical.

On our way out of town, we drive St Charles, along the trolley line to the city's outskirts, a beautiful drive if you've never done it. Near Tulane, we pick up a couple po boys for the road. I don't wanna gush, but it's the best sandwich I've had in a long time. Dad agrees.

Hell of a city, I say.

World class, says Dad.

And we're quiet for a while.

I wonder if people are saying that about Las Vegas?

Bourbon St at Toulouse, French Quarter. Untouched, though not unaffected by Katrina.

On the left, The Mississippi. On the right, the Ninth Ward. And separating them, the levee that famously broke in August 2005, spilling the one onto the other.

Where homes stood, St Bernard's Parish. "The water covered the street signs..."

Into the Bayou

2008-04-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

Chevron Station, near the Texas/Louisiana Border. Dad picks up some fried catfish for the road.

Did you know that at LSU, a huge, fierce-looking bengled tiger lives in a habitat in the middle of campus? One day soon, you will hear about a frat prank gone terribly awry in Baton Rouge.

Entering Bayou Country. Dad picks up my iPod, "Got any Credence on this thing?" We jam to Proud Mary as we cross the Mississippi.

Houston, TX

2008-04-12T06:45:00.000-07:00

I meet my dad at hotel on San Jacinto. We're each a little travel weary, and decide that a walk and a beer will cure what ails us. We take to the street, a bit muggy for us Arizona boys, but we saunter 12 blocks, scalp a pair of Suns/Rockets tickets, and find a bar to loosen up and cool down before the game.

The bar is empty, the service slow, but it really doesn't matter. My dad and I are in our own little world, talking about life and times and the road ahead.

The conversation continues well into the game, which the Suns lose, but I don't let that kill my spirits. Dad retires and I hit the Four Seasons lobby bar to see if I can conjure up some excitement. It's Friday night, there's gotta something going on Houston.

I talk to the bartender for a while, a polite, but not terribly talkative kid. I meet a nice couple to my left, nothing compelling there either. Thankfully, some friends drop by to say hello. We have a cocktail and a nice chat at a dimly lit fourtop. It feels downtowny, haughty, later than it really is. I catch a ride to my hotel, certain there will be some action in the neighborhood. There is not.

I find a bar on Prairie Street and chat with the bartender for a while, Nick. He's my age, a lifelong Houstonian, and he is mildly apologetic for the weather, the crime, the absence of young people around here. He wants to move to Austin. Someday.

The kitchen is still open and Nick tells me the shrimp tacos are unreal. "Fried?" I ask, hoping their not. "You betcha."

What the hell. I order some tacos and another beer and Nick and I shoot the bull for a while. I tell him that while Houston may lack some of the action and affluence of Dallas, the food and hospitality are the best in the state of Texas. And I can't describe to you how proud he is to hear it.

Dallas, TX

2008-04-11T08:44:00.000-07:00

After days in the desert, I approach Dallas wired on coffee and high expectations. The city is big and colorful and alive. I drop my stuff with a friend near Victory Park and set out to have a big time here. I have 24 hours. It goes something like this....

-Tex Mex lunch in Uptown among well-heeled bankers, accountants, lawyers. Outside tables are packed. The day's a beauty.

-A long walk down McKinney, passing fly-fishing shops, Primo's, freshly-minted condos, pretty girls in boots.

-Spend some time at the 16th floor pool deck at the W (I'm sneaking not staying) looking out on the skyline and suburbs. The temp and breeze are perfect complements to one another. It strikes me that this would be a nice place to hang my hat for a while.

-Bud Lights and Blue Moons with locals (Scott and Machir, each representative of the young, classy, educated population here; each ambitious and busy, but quick lean back and enjoy the beer and the company).

-Dinner at an outdoor table on Thomas Ave, watching the young and affluent mingle and flirt and work their blackberries and cheer on the Mavericks (Nowitzki wins it at the buzzer, place erupts).

-The Loon, where I realize I've been in California so long that I've forgotten the joys of a smoke-filled bar. Despite the initial discomfort, the aura is suspending. I nestle in, catch up with old friends, make a few new ones. I start off drinking rum, and after some awkward looks, graduate to whiskey.

I awake at 11am, having drank too much, slept too little, and having to be in Houston in five hours. I splash some water in my face, grab a jolt, and soon I'm southbound, I-45. Big, bold Dallas in the rearview.

Driving and Striving and Hugging the Turns

2008-04-10T11:35:00.000-07:00

Audiobooks don't work on me. I get annoyed by the narrator's over-annunciations and pauses and accents.... So this morning, I'm charging through the West Texas desert (again), restless, anxious for a city, and I just want to rock out. I put the iPod on shuffle (kinda over my Country kick), and the thing rattled off some unexpected road anthems too good not to mention:

The Distance - Cake

One Headlight - The Wallflowers

Desperately Wanting - Better Than Ezra

Omaha - Counting Crows

Mission - Dispatch

Confessions of a King - The Killers

Disappear Here - Bloc Party

Suggestions are welcomed and appreciated!

Phoenix to Dallas, Almost

2008-04-09T20:37:00.000-07:00

The drive to Odessa was an uneventful but pleasant 700-something mile trek that weaved between tumbleweeds and cacti and some interesting Next Exit signs (Tombstone, AZ; Truth or Consequences, NM). It went fast.

I had some witty commentary prepared about the charms of New Mexico (cleaner than regular Mexico) and what items can be purchased at a West Texas gas station (leather chaps, fishing rods, ammunition) but much has happened since I encountered all that.

East of Odessa, the wind picks up and suddenly I'm driving through a thick dust cloud. The horizon starts to flicker. Lightning.

Thinking little of it, and not about to wait it out at a gas station that sells ammunition, I continue on.

Near Midland, the storm picks up considerably. Lightning is coming in big, violent branches now. Left, right, in front and behind. And the thunder booms, scattering cattle. I call Scott in Dallas, a little concerned. We agree that, given the remoteness of the area, a car with rubber tires is a reasonably safe place to be. Only danger is powerlines, trees, tall stuff.

Funny thing is, I'm now in Midland. Surrounded by oil rigs, which have towers associated with them, which are tall. If I were lightning, I would come to Midland, cause some trouble.

And it does. The strikes are relentless, each one bigger, brighter, closer than the last. I tense up and hug the wheel every time. This is a minefield. I continue on, faster now.

But the lightning only gets more frequent, violent, blinding. Past Midland, the rain comes, and comes hard. Scott calls and informs me there's Tornado Watch in Big Springs, and that the storm is coming from the east. Which means I'm in it.

Take cover? Turn around? I'd love to, but there's nowhere to exit. And I appear to be the only car on the road at this point, which lends a little legitimacy to my concerns. I continue on, scared shitless now.

Thirty minutes of this feels longer than the eleven hours that preceded it. Texas is raging tonight and I've been warned by several bumper stickers not mess with it. So I exit at Big Springs, and from the overpass, see at least two structure fires in the distance. The scene is seriously apocalyptic.

I park at a Motel 6 and hustle in. Place is booked. Comfort Inn, same story. Quality Inn, one room available.

JL: (soaked, flustered, relieved) I'll take it.

Front Desk Guy: It's the Honeymoon Suite.

JL: What's the rate?

FDG: (looks outside, fires blazing, lighting crashing, rain pouring. Smiles. No response.)

JL: Hundred bucks.

FDG: (dramatic pause) Very well sir.

And so it went. Day Three ends at The Honeymoon Suite at the Quality Inn in Big Springs, Texas.

You can't make this stuff up.

1000 miles to Dallas

2008-04-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

Here goes... long day ahead. 15 hours of charging, solo, but in the company of Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on audiobook, and a nice little West Texas playlist I just threw together (mostly Garth Brooks, Roger Clyne, Pat Green)....

Car is packed (and still in the driveway!). Time to hit.

Home Sweet Home

2008-04-08T21:41:00.000-07:00

It is Tuesday in Phoenix. This is familiar territory for me, having spent my first 18 years here and countless weekends since.

Arizona is beautiful, it really is. Purple mountains, long views, perpetual sunshine, the occasional cloud. Every building has either been built or re-stuccoed in the last five years. People have money, and hybrids, and vacation homes, and spare time.

Which is why today, at 2pm (Tuesday remember) I could not for the life of me find parking at the Scottsdale Mall. If this fact is any indication, the housing crisis, the financial crisis, the war, the flailing dollar, etc etc etc.... have not yet hit the pocketbooks of Phoenicians. Or perhaps they have, but so resilient are we in our habits, that our consumption continues despite them? I am a little concerned about this, it seems reckless to buy a pair of shoes in these uncertain times, let alone a Bentley (saw several as I parked). But as I stroll into Nordstrom, intent on doing some serious damage (forgive me, but I am for the moment cash rich and clothing poor) I am feeling rather patriotic.

The local high schools appear to have adjourned, and every non-athlete, non-thespian, non-musician in this town has decided to come to the mall today. Couple things about these kids, they are trendy (skinny jeans, ties, torsos) and they like pretzles. Line at PretzelTime is 20 deep (2:30. Tuesday). Astonishing. Elsewhere in the mall, I see people buying Louis Vuitton loafers, trying on polarized Maui Jims, making custom teddy bears. What economic crisis?

Later, I go to the Diamondbacks Dodgers game with Mom and Dad. In the first inning, I wait in line for 10 minutes to buy a $9 beer, and feel like a chump for doing so, but then repeat the process two more times. But the game is a genuine good time... I see some familiar faces, talk a little trash to Joe Torre, high-five a peanut vendor, and catch up with Mom and Dad. We talk throughout the game in excited tones about next week and next year, about friends and travel, about Denzel Washington and Bruce Springsteen. We laugh a lot.

Sure, we're concerned for our country and our well-being. Yes, we know what's going on. We've just chosen not to dwell on it too much. Whether or not this is the right approach, it certainly made for a pleasant evening under the Arizona stars.

New Camera

2008-04-08T15:51:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between Yuma and Gila Bend, Arizona - April 7, 2008To get the shot, I pulled to the side and ran into the road as cars flew toward me (quite a thrill, try it sometime). Just my luck, one of these cars was Border Patrol, who turned on his siren and pulled up behind me. "Let's stay in our cars today, Sir..." Yessssir. But I'll be getting out again tomorrow....

Working with a Sony a200 DSLR now. Sucker can take a picture, no? More to come.

Leaving California

2008-04-07T23:48:00.000-07:00

Today is Monday, departure day, theeeee day....

Yesterday: Great day and night at the apartment, at Beaumonts, by the pool, at Station Sushi (best in San Diego, btw, and go talk to Chris at the bar, guy cannot refuse a saki shot, also ask for the Chef's Special, not on the menu, but I digress...)

Even managed to pile nearly all my belongings into the Jeep (thanks Adam) in preparation for a early start. All in all, a very good day. I am thankful, excited, ready.

Wake up Monday, intent on saying some tough goodbyes, grabbing an americano, and hitting the dusty trail for Phoenix, where friends and family and birthday dinner await. Brian and I walk downstairs to cram a few things in the Jeep. Except the Jeep isn't where I parked it.

Stolen.

Let that sink in for just a second. Today is departure day, theee day, my birthday, day one of a sixty day trip that has been in planning for over a year, and suddenly, I am without my horse and carriage. Probably in Tijuana by now.

I blink a few times, car really is not there. Not in a tow zone. Not a prank (though I wouldn't put it past you, Marsch). Gone.

What follows is a flurry of phone calls to towing companies, police, insurance adjusters, rental car companies, parents... all friendly and concerned...

Insurance guy: Any personal belongings in the vehicle?

JL: Yes. All of them. Everything.

Insurance guy: Geez. Some people have all the luck...

(unclear if he is sarcastically describing my position, or seriously describing the thief's. I do not probe).

Another...

Cop: I'm gonna need your date of birth

JL: Four Seven Eighty Three.

Cop: Geeez. Happy Birthday.

Soon I have an army of individuals lending their particular expertise to my little issue, and this makes me feel very good about humanity, America. Yeah, they are people doing their jobs, but there is a concern and empathy in their voices that makes this easier on me. This isn't a catastrophe, it's a blip, a curveball. I'm making it to Arizona today.

After lunch with Becca (hi, thanks) and after two hours of haggling with rent-a-car companies (can't leave California, can't have an SUV, mileage caps, bla bla bla), I discover that for a mere three grand, National will rent an SUV for sixty days and I can drive it anywhere I damn well please, "but stay out of Mexico, please" terms to which I gladly agree, and I'm in business. Brian drops me at airport lot. Counter guy asks my age, to which I respond "25" for the first time (luckily, 24 would have been a dealbreaker), has me sign some stuff, and says I can take my pick of any SUV on the lot, there are many, this is fun. Insurance pays.

I load my brand new Chevy Equinox (black, looks a bit like my late Jeep, in fact) and hit the Interstate 8. It is 3pm, if I haul ass, I'll make it Phoenix to see family, friends, birthday dinner and the Kansas-Memphis game. I like that my priorities are back where they should be.

Somewhere, a car thief is rummaging through my stuff disappointed. No iPods, computers, cameras, TVs, cash (still have that stuff, btw, whew). Just a bunch of clothes and books. Good luck with all that, bro. Hope those suits fit for that job of yours. Hope you enjoy Atlas Shrugged, you lowlife.

As I drive, this thought somehow gives me comfort and I'm laughing out loud. "I'm Ready" by Jack's Mannequin bumping in the Equinox. 360 miles to Phoenix, and I am as light and worry-free and fired up as I can ever remember being. Crisis averted, I am on the road. Finally.

On The Verge

2008-04-06T14:04:00.000-07:00

Today is Sunday, my last day as a San Diegan, and I'm spending the 9 o'clock hour in a familiar spot: one of those shitty little wobbly tables in the sideroom at Cafe 976.

Last day because Monday begins not only my 25th year, but also a 2-month American Road Trip through Phoenix, Dallas, Houston, New Orleans, Pensacola, Jacksonville, Savannah, Charleston, Atlanta, Athens, Charlotte, Chapel Hill, Charlottesville, DC, Baltimore, New York, New Haven, Boston, Cape Cod, Ithaca, Buffalo, Ann Arbor, Chicago, Madison, St Paul, Keystone, Cheyenne, Boulder, Denver, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Carmel, Big Sur, Santa Barbara, LA, and Newport Beach, San Diego....

If you live in one of these places, and you're down to say hello, show off your town a little, drink a little, chat a bit (ya know, friend stuff)... please please contact me! I will certainly need friends, directions, companions, dinner recs, and places to crash.

I will come bearing gifts from highway gift shops (yay! the randomest shit ever!) and stories (just wait) and goodwill (beers, anyone?), and will at the very least promise to pay your friendliness forward...

Anyway. 976 is a little coffeehouse in Pacific Beach where locals and tourists, students and grandparents, emo kids and surfers eat acai bowls and drink coffee and read newspapers and sometimes play Connect Four (kid chess). Aside from the shitty tables, which are small and wobbly, place is great. The coffee, food, staff, and music... all on point.

And the scene is so unmistakably SoCal. Outside, BMW's are looking for parking. Guys are riding bikes with longboards under their arms (tried this once, ate shit). Inside, waitresses wearing t-shirts and Vans. Jack Johnson is on the stereo, acoustic. Etnies entrepreneurs (my term, meaning business dudes in surfer gear) working their laptops, blackberries and WSJs.

There's Ryan Dunn (beard guy), the bus-boy / beach bum / philosopher who always makes a point to say hello and drop a deep thought on me. There's a group of three girls, all with MacBooks and Kappa Kappa Gamma hoodies, laughing at what must be inside jokes. There is a mom feeding her baby oatmeal, baby is not a fan.

I could sit, and have sat, at a table such as this for hours on end, reading, writing, watching the day unfold. People are chatting, laughing, relaxing, enjoying life and freetime one another. Gotta love Sunday in San Diego...

My nostalgic moment is interrupted by a text telling me that Brian and Robby are doing breakfast at Cantina (next door, rich man's 976) for breakfast in 5. I'm in.

As I'm leaving, Hunter J walks in, we exchange hellos, weekend updates...

HJ: When do you leave?

JL: Tomorrow dude.

HJ: No. Seriously? (looks around outside, perfect day out, wonders why in the hell someone voluntarily leave this)

JL: Seriously dude (look around, wonder why in the hell I'm leaving tomorrow when school doesn't start til August).

HJ: Road trip man, that's... (tough? stupid? what people did in the 50's, like before commercial airplanes?)... that's great.

BOTH: All the best / keep in touch / see ya soon / have a blast.

We hug it out, and I head next door.

Tomorrow, the mountains and desert and asphalt. But today, friends and food and a little sun on my face. And why not? It's Sunday in San Diego.