Good Morning, Baltimore

I’m back on the East Coast, where the sky feels smaller, cluttered as it is with suburban trees and strip mall neon, and where Amtrak trains are delayed. My summer and this blog are coming full circle--back on the train, instantly annoyed, still feeling restless, feeling less-than-thrilled about the next few weeks, months, etc., planning the next road trip.

The last few days blew me through the south and Midwest--Oklahoma City to Tulsa (a ghost town) to a smalltown steakhouse where we stuck out like sore thumbs to St. Louis and the top of the Arch to somewhere just west of Columbus to fried fish sandwiches and red velvet cake ice cream in Wheeling, WV, and finally to Baltimore and now on to New York.

I’m not sure how to sign off, and years of summer goodbyes have proven sucky, so I’ll just leave it at that for now, hoping for the next big adventure…

Amazing things keep happening

I'm writing this from the Best Western Carlsbad, where the Blue Cactus Lounge is hopping on a Friday night (there's a bouncer and girls in the parking lot who are not staying here dressed to go Out with a capital "O"). Regardless, it ain't the Lodge at Cloudcroft, that's for sure, but it'll do for the night.

Today, we went to Carlsbad Caverns. We missed much of the caverns because we had to stop at a brewpub in Artesia to sample every beer they had. Kris says this is what we'll look like in Hell:



Nevertheless, we got the chance to see 300,000 bats fly out of a cave for the nightly feeding. With the exception of the overly chatty softball team behind us, we could hear nothing but bats' wings and crickets.

Christmas in July

For some, it's Stephanie's birthday (happy belated, girl!), for others it's the opportunity to sled on gypsum sand dunes in the middle of the desert in the middle of the summer.

Here are some photos from White Sands National Monument.
(I'm spending the night at the haunted Cloudcroft Lodge--a Victorian-era hotel in the middle of the woods.)

Pack up what you own...

The boxes are at the post office, the souvenirs are safely bubble-wrapped, our bags are mostly packed, and it's time to say goodbye to Santa Fe.

Goodbye pinon-dotted mountains, blue doors in adobe houses and blue skies, goodbye hollyhocks.

We sent Chrissy off early this afternoon and soon we'll be off ourselves, to drink our end-of-summer sorrows away. Tomorrow it's off to White Sands, then Carlsbad, then back east.

I'm not ready to settle down or settle in. Who's up for taking a trip?

How to have a wild night out, Santa Fe style

Plan A: Drive to Ojo Caliente, with a pit stop at Dandy Burger, because who doesn't like fast food logos of lunch meats dressed in formal wear? Drive home in a massive thunderstorm, having not soaked in mineral springs because of lightning directly overhead.

Plan B: Drive to the Santa Fe Brewing company to see the frontman of Amazing Larry (apparently, it's a verb) play drums with a blues band. Get turned around on seventeen different frontage roads (make sure to include a left turn that evidently brings you back to the same road you started on). Arrive at the brewery an hour after you expected. It is essential at this point to find the place nearly deserted and the band finished with their set. Increase the population of the bar exponentially by adding five people to the three droopy-looking girls already there. Engage in wacky banter with Amazing Larry, then get snubbed. (Remember, this is the summer of the snub.)

Plan C: Drive into town to try to find the last open bar in Santa Fe. Get into Willee's for the band's last song. Suffer no big loss--it's just a weird latin/hip-hop version of "Sweet Home Alabama." Get glommed on by 19-year olds who may or may not have been tripping on E. Witness a bar fight. Leave after last call, which is apparently at 9:30 pm. (Okay, okay 1:13.)

Plan D: Drive to Allsup's to find some beer. Discover that even convenience stores don't sell beer after 1:30.

Plan E: Drive home. Eat a package of microwave popcorn. Give up.

Oh my God, it's Thursday...

I haven't been actively blogging because there hasn't been much to report. I guess the pace of things has slowed down a bit, but on the other hand, the week has flown by and there is so little time left...

The most exciting bit is that Caroline came in yesterday and she'll be hanging out here for the next couple of days. She took the train--rode the rails, old West style, which is pretty awesome. We're going to hit a few museums and enjoy what downtown Santa Fe has to offer. It's pretty open, which is great, because I feel like I've spent enough time here to know things and places and feel relaxed just strolling about.

For those who are keeping track, we went to Taos on Monday, mostly to visit the pueblo.





I also finally had a decent hike yesterday--got up Atalaya (elev. 9121), though I was disappointed that there was no summit marker on an otherwise well-marked trail. Does this mean I didn't really get up there? I was the tallest thing around, so let's just say I did...

Lazy Sunday

Road Trip Haiku #6, 7: No cupcakes from Magnolia, but...

Pancakes at Harry's
Flea market scorpion art
Fancy dinner: yum!

Deep fried squash blossoms
Taste delicious with goat cheese
Let's make them at home

Take a Left at Nageezi

It’s been Kris’ 2-year dream to visit Chaco Canyon, an archaeological site and National Park in northwest New Mexico. One might even argue it was the impetus for our trip to Santa Fe this summer. Finally, we brought that dream to fruition in one very long, very hot, very rewarding day.

We had been warned that Chaco was so remote that we would “die” there (I don’t think that warning was hyperbolic), so we set out on the 4-hour drive with two coolers and plenty of water and sunblock. Much of the drive was standard, but when we got closer to the park, the landscape became flat and desolate, and we inched slowly along a dirt road for about 20 miles. (I finally got that deep kidney massage I had been wanting.) Once we got there, however, we found the sites themselves very accessible—a comfortable visitor’s center, a friendly ranger who played the video for us ahead of schedule, and a 9-mile loop of paved road that gets you from site to site.

The ruins themselves are fine examples of 1000 year-old masonry, including many kivas, built by the ancestors of the Pueblo people. Why they picked such a remote location with so many environmental extremes (yesterday’s temp: in the 90s; winter low: 38 below!) is an unanswered question, as are many of the other specifics of their society and culture. We became experts by the end of the day, partly thanks to adorable ranger Matt, partly thanks to the fact that the body of knowledge is so limited, the self-guided brochures became a little redundant by the end.





We also saw many rabbits, lizards, and even an elk (elkette, if you will), and we stayed for the sunset and the night sky program, during which we learned about the (possibly coincidental) alignments of many of the ruins to the solstices and equinoxes. We even saw Jupiter and all four moons through a telescope (but the famed darkness of Chaco was disrupted by a very bright full moon and some persistent clouds).

Unfortunately, our arrival home at 2:30 am put everyone’s schedule off today, but it was well worth it.

Satan's Cat

Some time last week, we were sitting in the living room when Chrissy yelped, “Look, a kitty!” Indeed, there was a cat in our backyard, well camouflaged against our fence at dusk. But even from the window, he looked a little odd. Mange never stopped Chrissy from petting a cat (c.f. Guadalajara, 2004), so she went out to try to get a closer look, against our better advice. We could tell, even from far away, that something was not quite right, and when he disappeared into a hole in the earth (or our fence), we were convinced that we had been visited by an emissary of the dark lord himself. (Corinne and I had been cracking a lot of jokes about going up in flames.)

Today, Satan’s Cat visited us again. I am downright certain—that cat has bobcat ears. He might not be 100% bobcat, but he’s got what looks like a coarse coat, striped (ringed, actually) like no tabby I’ve ever seen, and not quite a stumpy bobcat tail, but not quite housecat tail either. I don’t think I’ll be quick enough with the camera, but I do plan on watching my back.

O'Keeffe Country

After visiting her home in Abiquiu and seeing the red rocks of Ghost Ranch, I can understand why Georgia O'Keeffe might have felt compelled to paint the same hill over and over and over again. (Once again, the colors are not quite true to life...)

Bathing Beauties

This morning (well, early afternoon), we set out for Jemez Springs, which we thought would be an hour away and not unlike Hot Springs, Arkansas. We headed north toward Bandelier, first through the usual scrubby desert just outside of Santa Fe, then through mountains dotted with pinones. Soon, we realized we were on the very scenic route: the elevation started to change, the road got narrower and windier, the hills were covered with ponderosa pines and Douglas firs, and there were signs for elk crossing. If someone had told me we were in the Pacific Northwest, I would not have been surprised, especially since the weather was unusually grey for Santa Fe. Suddenly, we came upon a giant grassy clearing—a 15-mile wide volcanic caldera that is millions of years old. We had come out of the forest onto a vast valley of grass.



Getting back into the car, we began seeing signs for Jemez Springs, still 30, 15 miles away. Eventually, we began to see signs for picnic areas and scenic overlooks, so we stopped at the ranger station, still in search of springs. Apparently, we had already passed them, but the sky was ominous and thunder rolled in closer, echoing against the mountains. Just a mile south was the Jemez State Monument, the ruins of a mission built to “keep out the savage natives.” We wanted to see it, but the threat of getting struck by lightning kept us out—the museum folks warded us off. So we headed a little further down the hill into the town of Jemez Springs, figuring we’d wait out the storm over lunch.

Now, when I say town, I use the word loosely—it’s really just a few buildings on either side of Rte. 4, one of which is the “historic Victorian-era bath house” (looks more like a bungalow at the dacha). The other two are restaurants: a deli and a biker bar. One guess as to where we went. (Hint: “I’m in a suit of burgundy, deer head’s lookin’ at me…”). The rain was coming down and we ducked into a booth, order burgers and beers, and chatted with the waitress who warmed up after carding us and realizing we were, like her, from the east coast. (Well, she was from Ohio, like our friend Blythe who plans on working Sturgis this year. She--the waitress, not Blythe--came out for a man she met on the internet 6 years ago. Just married.)

*Travelogue interlude*
Los Ojos, in Jemez Springs, NM, serves up a decent burger and some darn good fries. They have pool tables, a stage, Fat Tire Amber Ale on tap, and the obligatory antlers on the walls, so it must really rock on a Saturday night. Leather vest and tattoos are optional, but I would advise against “the special” (I should’ve known better…). Instead of a cheeseburger with green chiles, you get an open-faced burger smothered in a nondescript glutinous sauce reminiscent of bad Chinese food. I’m lucky to have lived to tell the tale.

After a particularly loud clap of thunder, we realized it was getting late and we had to get moving or else the whole day would be a bust. We tried the monument again, but they still wouldn’t let us through, so we did the most sensible thing one could do during a lightning storm: head for a body of water. The springs we went to are a ten-minute hike off a barely-marked parking lot. It was no longer raining, but the air was cool and wet as we tromped through dark red clay in the middle of evergreen forest. Still within earshot of the road and eyeshot of the parking lot was the spring—a pair of cascading pools steaming slightly in the damp air and filled with milky warm water. The top pool has a tiny grotto that houses the spring source, and we soaked for a good long while, enjoying the mountain air and the view.



Apologizing for the cliché... this is one of the most beautiful, unbelievable spots I have ever seen in my life.



Reluctantly, we packed up and drove home, this time taking a more southerly route. Almost immediately past Jemez Springs, the landscape begins to change. On our right were sheer bluffs, on our left cliffs striated with a deep, deep terracotta red. I have never seen a “red rock west” of quite that color before. The further we moved along, the richer the colors, until finally we drove through the shantytowns of Jemez Pueblo, and back to our familiar desert landscape.



I am so lucky that this is my life.

July 13 Redux

Lest I sound like I'm not having a good time, let me revise yesterday's post: Kris, Chrissy, and I had a fantastic time running around the folk art festival, buying tin mermaids and miniature nativity scenes (Jesus in an horno!), followed up by a trip to Albuquerque for an Isotopes game. It was a banner day. Today, we're heading for... another hot spring.

Here are some photos in and around Santa Fe:

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

I can’t believe how quickly two weeks have flown by (not to mention the 200 bucks I pulled out of the ATM). Although we still have plenty of time left to enjoy ourselves, I am already starting to get those end-of-summer pangs. I don’t know if I’ve ever had them this early in the summer before. Partly that’s because, while I’m having a great time, I don’t think Santa Fe has cured me of my restlessness. A list, to illustrate:

Thursday.
Went on a morning run, saw the Museum of Spanish Colonial Art and Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, leftovers from Corinne’s chicken throwdown for dinner, salsa at Willee’s Blues Bar. Still can’t do 3 miles without stopping—high altitude, weak cardio, there goes training for the half-marathon; put on cute jeans and paid a $5 cover to NOT dance and get snubbed by the adorable 23 year old trumpeter we met last Saturday at El Farol.

Friday.
Cooking class at the culinary school. Interesting stuff about the (culinary) history of this region—food is a great way to teach history, as it turns out. Got rained out of the gallery walks but had a hilarious game night instead. However, do I really need to nap as much as a toddler does?

Saturday.
Went on a morning “run,” drove to Taos for the Powwow, had dinner at Los Mayas and a drink at the Hotel St. Francis Bar. The Powwow had some amazing dancing and regalia, adorable children, frybread (of course), and a ton of white people with big cameras—apparently very different from the powwow these girls went to two years ago.



Still can’t make it up the hill on Old Santa Fe Trail. Yesterday, I just gave up and walked home. Last night I ate so much pollo en mole that I went to bed feeling like a python that swallowed a peccary. Yves is going to kick my arse when I get back to Equinox. I sleep 8 hours a night in a comfortable bed and I still have huge bags under my eyes every day.

Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking. I’ll just stop there…

What becomes of a dream deferred?

For weeks now, even since we were in the car dodging state troopers in Virginia, I have been hearing of Amazing Larry. It was hard to piece everything together, not having been on BLSF campus two years ago, so I assumed Amazing Larry was some crazy older dude in a Hawaiian shirt (a sort of Santa Fe Bingo Gazingo).

Today I found out that Amazing Larry is not just a dude. Amazing Larry is actually the name of a band, an earnest/ironic sometime acoustic, sometime trio of hipsters who cover Bon Jovi and Journey and do the occasional original tune about Molly Ringwald.

We saw them at Evangelo’s, a dive on the corner of the plaza made famous by the proprietor’s father—the subject of a WWII photo that became a stamp. It’s an iconic image you’d recognize if you saw it, and according to yelp.com, Nick, who tends bar in a Panama hat, persistent cigarette hanging from his lips, tells the story to anyone who even thinks about asking.

So after getting turned around by a series of one-way streets (Corinne: Oh, just turn down one of these; we’ll find it.) and taking 20 minutes to parallel park on a curve, we finally paid our $5 cover—only to find the bar filled with enough people to count on one hand and a lone bald man doing Beatles covers. We headed to the dingy basement, where at least Outkast’s greatest hits were playing (videos too). Eventually, Corinne beckoned us upstairs and I was introduced to the legend that is Amazing Larry. Most entertaining (even more entertaining than their AC/DC finale) were the lead singer’s parents sitting in a corner, swaddled in sweatshirts and slowly sipping red wine.

Right now there’s talk of having them over to the house. “Larry” (Andy) gave us his card, so we’ll see…

Tent Rocks

I think this spectacular, lava-formed lunar landscape speaks for itself.
Tent Rocks National Monument...

Is that a Mesa or a Crested Butte?

It’s a lot harder to find the answer to that question on Google than it should be (complicated by the fact that both Mesa and Crested Butte are names of towns). We’ve been passing a lot of them, and we did in particular last night on the way to Ojo Caliente to…wait, wait, don’t tell me: soak in hot springs. Really. I’m not kidding. My skin is going to fall off. Actually, Ojo was beautiful—9 pools with cliffs in the backdrop (illuminated at night, of course) and I felt full of mineral-y goodness: iron, soda, arsenic. Arsenic is supposed to be good for the skin. I don’t know—I went into the sauna, opened up my pores, and soaked in arsenic, figuring I’d wake up in the morning beautiful or dead (very Emma Bovary). Neither happened, (un)fortunately, but it was a fun night anyway, and so so dark on the way home, with lightning storms flashing in the distance over the mountains.

I also did a little piddling around in town today—hit the oldest church in the US (Mission San Miguel: awesome altar piece), saw a very famous statue of Mary in the Cathedral (real hair! real clothes! born in 1625!), relived an Unsolved Mysteries moment at the Loretto Chapel staircase (33 steps, 2 complete 360 degree turns, completely free-standing, and, as legend has it, built entirely with a saw and some cups of water to bend the wood by a mysterious carpenter who appeared on the ninth day of a nun’s novena and never stayed to claim his pay). I also discovered that I have no interest in most of the shops on the Plaza. I’m holding out for the flea market to buy folk art and jewelry. In the meantime, how about a shopping poll? Please guide my hand about an expensive but fabulous dress!

I’m Interested in Learning How to Box

It’s not that I want to look like Hillary Swank in Million Dollar Baby (I do, before that whole messy gangrene/euthanasia thing), it’s just that I hate crowds, and I think that maybe knowing how to throw a punch would’ve come in handy this past weekend as we elbowed our way through the plaza on Fourth of July, elbowed our way into cliff dwellings at Bandelier, and elbowed our way on the dance floor at El Farol (our neighborhood bar, if you can use that term to refer to a place with an $8 cover). Not that it was a bad weekend—in fact, it was great—but really, people, don’t you just want to stay home with your families?

In grand Bread Loaf tradition, the weekend was gin-sodden (like Kris’ shirt, when some chick in stilettos bumped her on the dance floor on Saturday night), not to mention full of dessert and adrenaline-y goodness. Chrissy’s boyfriend was here for the weekend and our Fourth of July cookout rocked (bison burgers and organic dogs: yum!). If I had some BL prof making me nature journal, perhaps I could offer up a good description of our Saturday trip to Bandelier, but suffice it to say that we hiked among some really alien-looking cliffs that used to be dwellings for an ancient pueblo. You can also climb up ladders to look inside the cliff dwellings (and knock your noggin against the cave wall). As Kris said, the humans make it difficult—fear of heights is one thing, fear of heights when some schmo isn’t letting you pass is another.



And one more word on crowds: as much fun as it was to dance to Radio La Chusma, the Latin rock/hip-hop/reggae band at El Farol on Saturday, it was made more entertaining (or perhaps more annoying) by the crowds of post-Suppressed Desires BLers. Now, the white polo and the shaggy blond hair—is that your costume or are you just coming from a photo shoot for next year’s catalogue? What about the dude in the long skirt, cardigan, and bucket hat—is he going for an homage to Courtney Cazden? So far, we don’t know anyone on what seems to be a campus full of first-years in the throes of mid-term hookups. Perhaps that’s for the best.

Road Trip Haikus #4, 5: Las Golondrinas Ranch, Santa Fe, New Mexico

Hippies at a wine fest
Peddling local cabernets
Chrissy loves Riesling

Afternoon storm clouds,
rain and dust from the mountains:
girls get adobed.

Casa del Sol

For those of you interested in checking out our digs, here are some photos of the house:

It's a beautiful adobe house with blue window and door frames, two master suites, and three bathrooms.



The upstairs hallway



The living room



A cool bench in our dining room



The wall of windows in our dining room. Note the antler chandelier. I didn't take a picture of the dining room proper because the table is covered with our crap.



Our kickass backyard.

More soon!

The Summer of the Bath

It feels like years have passed since the last post and really all that’s passed is Texas. But Texas (well, the panhandle) is vast and flat—nothing but scrubland for miles in every direction. Actually, Texas was pretty awesome. We saw a Route 66 landmark in Shamrock and then moved on to Amarillo, where we had good barbecue, for a change, and saw another cool roadside landmark, the Cadillac Ranch (we even left a permanent mark: Go Yetis!).



The "U-Drop Inn" in Shamrock, Texas.



"Cadillac Ranch" on the Texas plains.




And then it was onward to Santa Fe. The last five pounds are always the hardest to lose. Likewise, the last 200 miles… But finally, we made it amid a crazy thunderstorm over the mountains. When the weather finally cleared, we found ourselves at Casa del Sol, a beautiful adobe house with two master suites, a beautiful patio, and tons of other great amenities. (Pictures to come… internet reliability is not one of the amenities.)

To our pleasant surprise, the house is literally paces (150 was the over/under) from Santa Fe’s famous strip of galleries, Canyon Road, and we had awesome tapas at El Farol for dinner last night. Today, we got ourselves oriented—determined the closest walking route to the Plaza, bought groceries, and planned our calendar for July. I almost died running uphill to St. John’s College (it’s only about a mile, but at 7000 feet, that’s a lot), and then made it back around toward our summer home.

We topped our day off with a trip to Ten Thousand Waves, yet another natural spring spa in what promises to be a summer of soaking in hot tubs. It was a rotation from the tub to the cold plunge to the sauna, and now we are all too blissed out to move.

The next couple of days should be full of Santa Fe museums, 4th of July festivities, hiking in Bandelier, and the Santa Fe Wine Festival. More pictures and stories soon…

Taking the Waters in Hot Springs

After a confusing departure out of Memphis last night, we finally wended our way through dark wooded roads to arrive in Hot Springs, Arkansas, home of Edwardian-era bathhouses and healing mineral springs. We couldn’t leave without “taking the waters,” despite the fact that our next destination was nearly ten hours away, in Texas.




As much as the old bathhouses hearken back to a bygone era, filled with the charm of bustles and ascots, the interiors recall a less palatable chapter in wellness history—that of the sanitarium. If you’re expecting lavender oils, Tibetan bells, and softly whispering attendants, skip the 1200 mile trip to Hot Springs and just get on the NR to Soho Sanctuary. What we have here are the austere tiling and stainless steel of many an asylum. Nevertheless, the friendly attendants and communal bathing atmosphere take the edge off a bit, and although you’re wrapped in a sheet (“like a Roman emperor,” says the informative but impossibly low budget video guide) and completely at the mercy of the rigidly timed bathing procedure, it’s impossible not to giggle a little bit about the whole thing and soak in the joy of being (institutionally) pampered.

*Travelogue interlude*
There are four operating bathhouses in Hot Springs, and the procedure is essentially the same at all of them. The Buckstaff has been in operation since 1912 and they don’t take appointments, which is actually a boon if you’re off-season and don’t have a lot of time. For $50, you get can get the works—a whirlpool bath with loofah, sitz bath, steam cabinet, shower, and massage. The procedure has been standardized since those nineteenth century quacks first determined the healing powers of water. Not following directions (impossible, with an attendant) could probably result in heat stroke, or so suggest all of the signs. But if you listened to the signs, you would probably never take a shower either.

Bathing guide 101:
1. Soak in warm whirlpool bath for 20 minutes. The water comes straight from the naturally heated springs (104 degrees which they adjust down to 90), but my attendant also told me that Hot Springs has good city water, so this might all be an elaborate moneymaking scheme.
2. Watch for the high water mark on your hips after the sitz bath, which is really, let’s face it, just an ass-bath. If not for the toga, I would look like a baboon. In heat.
3. Try not to pass out as super-hot towels are applied to your body. Other baths wrap you like a mummified burrito so that, literally, none of your pores can breathe, but I was happy to just have a few towels on my knees and back, to avoid the feeling of being buried alive.
4. Rinse off the mineral silt in the needle shower (not as painful as it sounds).
5. And, finally, try to forget the sound of your shoulder blades popping over tendons or cartilage as you wind down with a pretty standard massage.

What followed? A LONG drive through Oklahoma (dinner: the K-Bar in Okemah, where they were out of pie, cake, and fried chicken, but they served some mean chicken strips and mashed potatoes drowning in white gravy, and where the locals looked at us like we had just landed from Mars) and a Best Western in Shamrock, Texas. Yeah, Texas. Yeah, Route 66.

Tennessee Only Seems Like it Lasts Forever

Road trip recommendations
Holiday Inn Select, I-45 and 1-70: Cedar Bluff Road exit:
Best lavender scented hand soap
Best hairy eyeball on a concierge
Best hotel bar wannabe gumbatas (“They’re like the extras for the extras on The Sopranos.”)

Honorable mentions:
Best sign on an eating establishment (“Waffle House, LLC values diversity and invites everyone to eat at our restaurants.”)
Best roadside enigma: Perdue Wellness Center (Chickens in therapy? “Hey Doc, I think the sky is falling.” “All my children keep disappearing.” “I have this recurring dream that I can fly.”)
Best Jim Crow era souvenirs and Jesus t-shirts: Loretta Lynn’s Kitchen
Best brisket sandwich: Mustang BBQ
Best rest stop: Memphis Welcome Center

Razzies:
Least impressive meal in disguise as the “best BBQ in Memphis”: Blues City Café
Least accessible highway on-ramp: 40W out of Memphis
Least terrain: Arkansas (“The Natural State”)

No Sleep till Knoxville

Despite Corinne’s most vehement doubts, Kris and I did manage to get ourselves out of bed and (mostly) dressed by the time Corinne pulled up the long drive to the farm (“look for wheat fields in the middle of suburbia; make a right at the three pine trees”). It took a little while to make good decisions about what should go in the trunk: plastic trident? Yes! French press? Maybe. Pink boa? Sadly…no.



Then it was the long haul through part of West Virginia (wild, wonderful) and, as Corinne put it, the “hypotenuse” of Virginia. Ah, Virginia, sainted land of chicken fried chicken and Foamhenge. Both of these things seem too good for this world. Or at least too good for unsuspecting Yanks bamboozled by the charms of “y’all” and a gratis potato bar.

Incidentally, I was told I look like Justine Bateman. Call her what you will, I don’t think she would be hanging out at the “Country Cookin’” off route 81. That’s too B-list even for the B-listers.

Road Trip Haiku #3: Wytheville, Tennessee

Davy Crockett Tavern
So sad: no ‘coon-skins or beer
Just a covered wagon



Famous last words: "We thought it was going to be a bar!"

“Once again, we apologize for the inconvenience…”

I’ve had ants in my pants for a week. Well, a couple of weeks. Okay, let’s face it, it’s been the whole second semester. In the past few days I’ve developed a love for that expression—“ants in my pants.” I think it has something to do with my nasal Long Island iteration of the assonance: I have eyants in my pyants. Also it reminds me that “pants” in England means “underpants.” (Ooh!) So anyway, I’ve been squirmy, restless, itchy, whatever you want to call it… No visitors to the Writing Center? I’m over it. The uninhabitable desert that is Match.com? Done. Office drama? As old as last week’s mystery Tupperware in the department fridge. Ugly Betty reruns? I’d rather read Dostoevsky. Sitting around my desk, twiddling my thumbs, and waiting for graduation? Get me the hell outta Dodge!

In my head I’ve processed all of this, Wonder Bread over processed, probably. I’m bored; I have emotional ADD. But regardless of how I diagnose my petty whining, I’m already excited that I have no clear and definite picture of what the next few days, hours, weeks will bring, or what my re-entry to Long Island will be like. It’s unpredictable and exciting, and the fact that I am sitting in pitch black on an already-delayed train does not make that any worse. (That should wear off in about 13 seconds.) Remind me why I didn’t fly?

So anyway…it’s 6:29 p.m. on the 6:20 Amtrak train to Baltimore. We’re currently reversing back into Penn Station. Seriously. The train is going in reverse. Not only did I have to elbow my way to a seat, hoisting my luggage overhead (thank you, Yves, for all those reps with the Bosu), but we are already delayed. I mean, we actually got about two feet out of Penn before we had to backtrack. At least they apologize for the inconvenience.

Alas…no lights, no AC. Just the glow of my laptop as a beacon of hope to southwestern sunsets to come. And unfortunately, in the crush to board, I left my headphones and books in my backpack, which I can only access by o’erleaping the middle aged gentleman currently snoozing to my right.

More from Tennessee.

PS—6:41 and counting.

Road Trip Haiku #1: Seacaucus, New Jersey

Factory ruins—
an ancient fort, summer’s haze,
shore birds in still waters.

Road Trip Haiku #2: Seacaucus remix

An egret’s white neck
A yellow summer evening
Brown windows like broken teeth