On Tour

I drove straight through the day—through Delaware, along the entire Jersey Turnpike, across the George Washington Bridge (a $16 toll), through a sliver of New York and into Connecticut. I stopped in Bridgeport, a town I used to visit fairly regularly; my friend Jake went to Sacred Heart University, where the evil Bobby Valentine is the athletic director. I ate lunch at the Merritt Canteen, king of the greasy counter-service burger joints, then set out on the familiar path back home.

Slowly but surely, things came back into focus. The convenience stores finally sold seltzer; the Massachusetts and New Hampshire license plates re-emerges; other cars were cutting me off for logical reasons, instead of the arcane nonsense I endured on Mid-Atlantic highways. By the time I reached the Worcester suburbs, my radio presets were coming in. I instinctively slipped back into my usual channel-juggling, filling the last hour of nighttime driving through New Hampshire until I pulled into my driveway.

I guess that’s it. After twenty thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven miles, I’m back where I started. Time is a flat circle. I suppose I could look at this as simply a much longer reprieve until the next adventure—kind of like the idea that you never stop clapping. My life is a cosmic round of applause, mostly empty space with occasional pops of excitement. But I shouldn’t be rambling like this! I have to return to society like a good boy, and such strange thoughts will not do in polite conversation. Don’t worry—I’ll find another place for them eventually. Thanks for reading, and happy holidays.

Three days ago, I was reveling in the perfect weather of South Carolina. Today, I made a frankly insane decision and started my return home to the frozen reaches of New England. I also decided to, for the final time, take the scenic route. Instead of plowing through the mainland, I spent my morning scuttling out toward the coast.

After four hours of cotton farms and picturesque secondary highways, I arrived at Norfolk, Virginia. I took a knot of freeways through the city and exited onto the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. Twelve miles of bridge and two miles of tunnel connect mainland Virginia to the forgotten Delmarva Peninsula across the bay. Angry, grasping waves lapped up against thick concrete supports. Seagulls were omnipresent. As I climbed out of one of the tunnels, I realized this was the closest my car would ever get to swimming. 

While the Chesapeake Bay was alive and captivating, the Delmarva Peninsula was quiet and staid. The sun set as I chugged toward Maryland. I wish we still had more sunlight; I can’t see the country in the dark. I can, however, report that my bed at the Quality Inn is quite comfortable, and I will therefore be going to sleep right now. Good night.

My brother Zack graduated today from UNC Chapel Hill with a BA in Computer Science. I thought I would use today to share his accomplishments with the world. Among other things:

• Zack is a talented athlete, a skilled visual artist, and a handsome young boy.
• He was sixth in his high school graduating class of 750 students and was the captain of the varsity tennis team.
• When he was young, he aspired to be an underwear model.
• He has logged at least five thousand hours in the video game League of Legends.

• He learned how to use a microwave when he was ten years old.
• He and his friends used to hold shirtless wrestling competitions in our basement. The ensuing smell could stagger a moose.
• He has a pretty solid singing voice and is slowly growing more comfortable with it, which is wonderful.

• One year, as a very little boy, he didn’t tell my parents what he wanted for Christmas because “Santa knows.” Finally, on Christmas Eve, he informed my parents that he wanted purple maracas. Dad had to spray-paint a pair.
• He is an expert on bar code software.
• He can still wear his clothes from third grade.
• He is the kind of sibling that makes you feel sorry for only children. I am beyond lucky.

I knew South Carolina had a national park tucked within its borders, but I had completely forgotten about it until I saw the sign: Congaree National Park, 17 Miles. I figured I had time for one more. 

Congaree is an expansive stretch of bottomland hardwood forest; like the forests of the Mississippi Delta, these trees are used to occasional flooding. Unlike the Delta, this swamp has not been drained. A whiteboard at the visitor center shows the current water levels. The main trail around the park is a boardwalk, ranging anywhere from six inches to six feet above ground level. I wasn’t wearing my hiking boots, so I avoided the squelchy danger of the dirt trails and stuck to the boardwalk.

Congaree did not have the sheer scenic power of the Western national parks, but in terms of plant life, it was the most astonishing place I’ve ever seen. I consistently found myself laughing in surprise at the newest reality-bending sight in front of me. The trees seemed to stretch endlessly downward into the pools of water; it was difficult to tell where the reflection ended and where the tree began. Tiny stumps jutted out of the ground, turned into miniature Christmas trees by mosses. The word “green” was useless in Congaree—everything was green, and yet everything was its own distinct, definite color. When another color did appear, like a purple flower growing on a decomposing log, I was shocked, and my eyes had to refocus as if they had been blinded by a beam of light.

I could have spent the rest of the day in Congaree, but I had to get to Chapel Hill by the evening. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, / But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost taught at my high school for a couple of years, and by all accounts, he was an atrocious teacher. I sped through the Carolinas, South turning to North as the sun set. Two hundred miles later, coffee cups empty and snacks gone, I pulled into the driveway of the rental house and, for the first time in three months, walked in to my family.

I’m absolutely drained tonight. It probably started when I woke up at 3:30, desperately in need of a restroom, in the middle of a field of parking lots. I clambered into the driver’s seat and drove twenty minutes to the rest stop where I should have set up camp. Not a great way to start your morning. I’ll be back tomorrow.

Today felt a bit strange. My stomach decided to quietly protest for most of the day, maybe in solidarity with the New York Times staff, so I moved delicately as I tried to figure out what it wanted. This is a tricky proposition at the best of times, but I must have done something right, because I feel just fine as I write this. 

I bolted out of Jacksonville and drove the half hour to Georgia. The tropical foliage became much less prominent, and by the time I crossed the border I was wholly back in the South. The cast of the trees, the fading strength of the heat, and the return of farmland all showed the change. I turned the air conditioning off for the first time since Alabama and let the open windows cool the car. 

I progressed slowly, paying close attention to my stomach and attending to it with fluids and bananas. After a long stretch behind the wheel, I pulled into Savannah, which is everything that Jackson, Mississippi was not. The streets were full of people and vibrant energy. I walked through the districts, impressed by the variety of plant life that grew within the city limits. Trees were constant, and ivy occasional. Some buildings still displayed Southern Gothic flair. I was quite disappointed that I had to spend an hour at the laundromat.

Not much else to report—just plugging along to North Carolina. See you tomorrow.

Whew. I woke up exhausted. Who knew waiting in line could be so tiring? I refueled at Dunkin’ Donuts. One of Florida’s strengths is that they are approaching the proper DD/square mile ratio. In the parking lot, I surveyed my map. In order to arrive in North Carolina on Saturday, I needed to cover a shade over 150 miles each day. Completely and thoroughly achievable. I decided to allow myself as many breaks as needed; consequentially, it took a solid nine hours to complete today’s leg.

I escaped the Orlando suburbs and drove through the lovely Ocala National Forest. In many ways, it seemed to be a recapitulation of my trip. The plants included stiff pines, tropical fronds reminiscent of the desert, swampy trees coated in moss, and leaves that were changing color despite the eighty-degree temperature. The two-lane highway was of variable quality, other cars were infrequent, and both wading birds and songbirds were commonplace. It was at once new and familiar.

Outside the forest, I stopped for lunch at Zaxby’s, which is a Southern chicken chain. Very respectable food, but nothing will ever replace Popeye’s in my heart. I continued to meander my way north, thankful for the setting sun and the end of the oppressive direct heat. I decided to circle around Jacksonville instead of drive through it because, quite frankly, it scares me in a way that no other city does. Just watch this video that allegedly shows Jacksonville at its finest:

Back when I was in Colorado, the Bruins games started at 5pm local time, which was delightful. Now I’m on the East Coast and the Bruins are in Colorado, so the games start at 9. I’m sitting outside a Bed Bath & Beyond, siphoning the wi-fi and staying up past my bedtime. Hopefully I’ll make it through Georgia tomorrow.

Sorry, Uncle Dave, but have you seen the world I grew up in? Everyone needs just a smidge of escapism every now and then. So I went to Disney World.

I couldn’t find a great place to park last night, so I sleepily pulled off the road in Apalachicola National Forest and hoped I was in an acceptable spot. I woke up undisturbed and thankful. I was determined to start pushing down the peninsula, so I drove back to Tallahassee and meandered through the central drag of Florida State University. There weren’t any great places to park, so I unfortunately have no pictures of the prettiest campus I’ve seen so far. The streets were bursting with plants and trees, and the buildings were colorfully and artfully painted. The only eyesores were the banners showing the school’s mascot, a shockingly stereotypical member of the Seminole tribe. I would guess the tribe today isn’t very happy about that.

I rounded the Gulf of Mexico, switching direction from east to south. The western edge of Florida is pleasant, but quite rural. The towns I passed through—Lamont, Perry, Cross City—didn’t have the heft that other Southern towns had. Occasionally I would stumble across a well-developed downtown, all festooned up for Christmas. This deeply disturbed me. Christmas decorations and tropical vegetation do not belong together. I began to understand why the people of Florida are so very strange.

Eventually I turned inland toward Ocala, where suburban sprawl began to pick up. I haven’t seen this much continued development since Colorado. I ate at a Mexican restaurant where every patron was glued to the Brazil-South Korea World Cup match. Brazil was scoring at will, and the announcer was reveling in thirty-second-long cries of “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL”. This is the one facet in which soccer is superior to hockey. My food was pretty good, too.

I soldiered on until I reached the outskirts of Orlando. I will compliment Floridians on their tasteful holiday decorations. With rare exception, lights here are simple and clean. The weather tonight is equally beautiful; the temperature won’t dip below sixty degrees. I might even crack the windows. What a luxury! 

Holy smokes, everyone! We’ve hit one hundred days of travel. Back in elementary school, the teachers would make a huge fuss about the hundredth day of school, and we would participate in themed activities, the specifics of which I’ve long forgotten. I did not celebrate one hundred days. I’m not sure what that would look like, exactly. One hundred Diet Cokes?

I had my heart set on Martin’s Restaurant in downtown Montgomery, so I hung around the suburbs for a while, reading and relaxing. Once lunchtime rolled around, I schlepped into the restaurant and was immediately out of place in the post-church crowd. Everyone else wore collared shirts or blouses; I had my New England Patriots t-shirt and a baseball hat. I was also the youngest patron by thirty years. Go figure. The meal was absolutely worth it. I ordered the “famous” fried chicken with stuffing, greens, and string beans, and received a top-notch plate of Southern specials. The turnip greens in particular were exceptional. I suspect it had something to do with the chunks of bacon fat floating around in them.

I waddled out and settled into the driver’s seat for a long afternoon. I wound through southeast Alabama and crossed into Georgia as the sun set. I was finally back on Eastern time. The route was nondescript, but there were moments when I forgot I was in the South and felt like I was driving the roads back home. The placement of the trees, the curvature of the roads—especially once the sun had set and the sharp sunlight was gone, it felt completely natural.

Then I smashed into the Florida panhandle and the world around me snapped back into tropical focus. The palm trees were back, almost on cue. I drove into the Tallahassee vicinity hoping to stay at the Walmart, but they don’t allow overnight parking. Then to the rest stop off the interstate—but, of course, Florida only allows passenger vehicles to stay for three hours. I’m off to the forests now, hoping to find a quiet spot there. Wish me luck.