Day 18. Mile 4700. San Francisco, CA.

Before leaving Mojave, I wanted to wash the truck a little. The main reason for this was to make sure that when I return the truck, nobody looks at it too much. If they do, they might find out that the roof is a little dented. I’m pretty sure that it’s not my fault, but then again, I did smash the roof of that motel back in… where the hell was it? West Virginia, wasn’t it?

There was a French couple already using the car wash station, and the wife did not appreciate my attempts to be friendly. Possibly because her English was not very good and she couldn’t understand why the hell I was standing there; possibly because she’s an asshole; possibly because she just didn’t like me; but most probably because her husband seemed to be making friends with strange men too easily for her taste, if you get my drift.

They left, I gave the truck a rinse, and apart from breakfast at the small town of Tehachapi, I didn’t stop until California.

As I entered California it seemed like I entered the place where America go to summer camp. Right at the border a bearded hippy inspected the truck: “do you have any plants?”

No, just my stuff.

"So no plants?" he seemed almost disappointed.

He asked me where I came from, and we briefly discussed the bombings in Boston. Then he greeted me with a “welcome to California, man” and I drove in. A minute later I passed a summer resort, with bungalows, boats, zip-lines and such.  I think the biggest lesson from this trip is that no matter how stereotypically America is presented to the world, the truth is much more extreme.

A few more hours of driving and I got to Mountain View where 

I met Julia. She works in the Google HQ, so she gave me a tour around campus. We went home, unloaded and returned the truck.

And so, my 4700 miles, coast to coast journey has ended. Thank you guys (all two of you) for following me. I hope you had a good time and that you keep an eye on this blog. You never know when I will once again be a

Person

On

The

Road!!!! 

(tun, tun, tuuuuuuuun!)

Day 17. Mile 4350. Mojave, CA.

I took some time in the morning to wander around Seligman. Although this town has the name of a Jewish lawyer, its character is very different.

Three or four buses were parked along the main street, and the French tourists that they brought were swarming the souvenir shops. I managed to find a shop that was relatively quiet and that also served breakfast, and after eating I went back on the road.

I drove taking very few stops, going back and forth between the I-40 and route 66, until I reached Mojave. The first thing that you notice once you enter Mojave is the insane amount of wind turbines. The second thing that you notice is that the town looks like it gave up, with many of the stores on the main street deserted.

I drove the truck into the parking of the “Best Motel” and asked the shy Chinese guy at the reception desk where I can find the best motel in town. When he was done being confused he gave me a room. I walked around the depressing town for a while.

Then I went to get dinner. There are very few place to get dinner in Mojave. I stepped into El Jefe Baja Grill. Once again, I was the only costumer in the place. The waiter was a tough, Hispanic young man. So tough, he had tattoos on his eyelids. Yes, I’m being totally serious. Tattoos. On his fucking eyelids!

Being the tough kid that he was, and being a waiter in a shitty restaurant in a shitty town, did not prevent this young man to act as if he is working in the fanciest restaurant in Paris, standing tall and contiguously calling me “Sir”. I had dinner and quite a few beers there as I was watching “Chopped” on the big TV. 

Then my phone started buzzing as it was receiving emails and it would not stop. The drama was unfolding in Boston, as the police were hunting down the two bombers, and I was getting  a lot of information in real-time through the Media Lab’s mailing lists, and when I say “real-time”, I mean less than a minute: the Media Lab is only a few minutes walk from where the police officer was shot, and in addition, some people were already listening to the MIT police’s scanner and posting on the mailing list information seconds after hearing it. Some people were actually stuck in the lab since the entire Boston area was locked down. Some of the emails were discussing where to find food in the lab in order to pull through the night. I wanted to point out to them that they can always resort to eating silk worms that  were brought recently the lab’s lobby (yeah, the lab does weird things, like putting silk worms in the lobby), but I decided to wait with jokes until everything calms down. I finished my Carne Asada and my beer, and went back the the motel to get some sleep before the road-trip’s last day.

Day 16. Mile 4000. Seligman, AZ

Before leaving Grants, I walked around to take some pictures.

It was only then that I slowly started to put together the pieces of the story of Route 66. In short, it is one of the first roads in the US highway system that connected Chicago in the east to LA in the west. It was a very significant road until the I-40 opened, which resulted in the near obsolescence of Route 66. These days the route is experiencing some renewed recognition, and being declared as a “scenic drive” by some states in which it passes.

Grants’s main street is a small portion of Route 66, which explains the large number of motels, along with the terrible condition that they’re in, like this abandoned one:

When I was done in Grants I started driving out of New Mexico and into Arizona. There were a lot of signs at the sides of the roads advertising Indian souvenir shops, and all theses signs looked the same. I stopped for lunch at a gas station owned by the Hopi. When I got back to my truck I noticed that I parked it with all the big boys, and that it looks kinda ridiculous:

Driving some more, I saw a sign directing to the “Meteor Crater”. I had to check it out. Turns out it’s a crater created by a meteor some 50,000 years ago. It’s very hard to get it all in a picture, so here’s the best I could do:

I drove on the I-40 some more, and stopped at Seligman. I know, it sounds like a law firm and not like a town, but it is - another one that has Route 66 as its main street, but this one seemed to make a big deal out of it:

 I got a room and the Romney Motel. The manager asked me where I’m from. I said I’m coming from Boston.

- “No, where are you originally from?”

- “Israel. Why? Where are you from?”

- “Israel! well, not me, but all my family lives in Bat-Yam”.

Bat Yam is a shitty city, just a little bit south of Tel-Aviv, which was really surprising and definitely amusing. His wife passed away a while ago and his only son lives with his own famiy in Las Vegas, so this gentleman was saving money for his retirement, which is coming very soon, so he can move to Israel to live with his extended family in fucking Bat-Yam. 

I went to get dinner at “The Roadkill”.

To my right, took place the most manly conversation I ever heard. Four guys were sitting at the bar, wearing working clothes, baseball caps, and they all had rough, dirty hands, with black stains underneath the fingernails.  One guy was talking about the deer he was hunting, and how it’s too expensive now to take them to the butcher. I couldn’t understand him fully because of his thick accent, but I assume he said something like “so now I have to cut them up myself” or “so now I stick my bare teeth in them and eat them alive”.

By the time I gave up parsing what he said, he was talking about a 2-inch, externally-threaded, em, something, and then the other guy said “oh, that’s what we used when we replace the motor of that old truck.” I was praying that they won’t turn to me all of the sudden and say “hey, stranger, what do you do for a living?”

Then I went to the only open bar in town, the Black Cat bar, where I had a couple of beers, nodded “goodnight” to the couple at the pool table, who were the only patrons besides me, and went to bed.

Day 15. Mile 3700. Grants, NM

I regrouped at my motel room from the previous day. I calculated that I have to drive at least five hours if I want to make it to San Francisco by Friday evening. Five hours may not sound like a lot, but consider this - I can’t  start driving until 11AM, because my body refuses; then there’s breakfast sometimes, depending on whether or not I have leftovers from the previous day; at some point I need to stop for lunch; I have to stop driving at about 7PM, because otherwise I’m stretching it on finding a place to sleep and a place to have dinner, and also,  once I’m settled in a room I have a lot of work to do: for starters, this blog doesn’t write itself, you know. Then there’s some work I’m doing for Le Laboratoire, my previous employer; Then I’m preparing for a talk I’m giving next month in Israel, and a conference…  so five hours of driving are actually hard to accomplish!

Luckily, this was a day when I had leftover pizza from the night before, so I didn’t have to stop for breakfast. 11AM and I was on my way to New Mexico.

New Mexico is beautiful. My favorite landscapes in this trip by far. 

I arrived at Las Vegas - Not to be confused with THE Las Vegas in Nevada. I drove around and got to the historic town plaza, where a few artists were working on wood carved sculptures.

I grabbed some lunch and drove on, until I reached Santa Fe. I spent a lot of time there - I started by taking a lot of pictures of myself with a “city limits” sign, to show the members of the legendary Israeli band “The Flies”. They had a song with Santa Fe in the lyrics, so I just had to.

Near the sign there were some merchants, selling wood art, decorative stones, bushes and cacti (or “cactuses”, if you like. Or just “cactus”. Wikipedia says they all work).

One of them asked if I wanted to buy one of these posts as a souvenir from New Mexico. “How am I going to carry this?”, I responded automatically. They guy pointed at my truck. Yeah… I have a truck… “Oh, It’s full… and there’s no room in my apartment… next time, I promise, next time.”

I drove around Santa Fe, which is really pretty:

And then continued south. I passed Albuquerque and turned west. I then saw a sign that said that the I-40, the road I was on, was closed. I was already on a detour after the roads closed on me the day before. It seemed as if the interstate system did not want me to get to San Francisco. I texted Julia for help, because my phone is too slow and the reception was too bad for me to handle internet. Julia found out that the road is indeed blocked, but the closure was in Arizona, about 300 miles away from my location, so I was safe. I drove until I hit Grants, a tiny town on Route 66.

I got a room, ran to the only restaurant that was open to get food before they close, took some take-away food to my room, and since I wasn’t hungry, went straight to the only bar in town - “The Outlaws”.

There were only very few people, which was a shame - the space is really cool. At some point, a huge dude came in. He had a very round torso, bleached hair, black make up around his eyes, and he was wearing shorts and a striped polo shirt. He was a human version of Humpty Dumpty, including the gay mannerism. He was setting up his station to lead a karaoke. This I have to see, I thought. I went back to my room, ate, worked and talked to Julia for a while, and went back to the bar.

There was now a group of about ten people, all in their early twenties. Two girls were enormous, one of them heavily tattooed. Another girl was a slim, dark girl with a heavy Mexican accent. One of the guys was tall and slim and he wore his baseball cap backwards. The girls were choosing hip-hop songs that I didn’t know. Then Humpty put on a Mexican song and everybody got up and danced, including the tiny bartender. I was admiring how well they were all dancing - even the enormous girls looked like were floating.

And just as I was about to leave, thinking how this whole situation is a cliche of a small, southern town, they all went outside for a smoke, leaving the guys with the baseball cap alone on the dance floor, playing air guitar and signing Metallica. 

Day 14. Mile 3300. Trinidad, CO.

The goal for this day was to cross the Rocky Mountains. Pretty soon after I left Denver, I started hitting snow. After a couple of hours it was getting pretty rough. In fact, I almost lost control over the truck at one point.

I’ve got plenty of these irresponsibly-taken-while-driving photos of the storm, if by chance you need any.

I pulled over in the small town of Georgetown for some food and rest. I got into a little coffee shop and ordered some food. The lady at the counter asked me where I was coming from, and when I said “Boston” her face took a strange expression, as she pointed to the television. This is how I learned about the twin explosion in the marathon. I immediately started to scan the social networks to learn that all my friends in Boston are probably safe. I thought to myself that it’s strange how just the day before it was memorial day in Israel, when we remember not only our soldiers who die in battle, but also the victims of terror attacks. Just the day before, I thought to myself, I was a little sad to be removed my friends as we remember our dead. And now it’s almost like it’s chasing me here, thousands of miles away. I won’t go any deeper here, but I’m sure you can imagine at least some of my feelings.

Then came in this young man and said that he heard that I-70 west, the road I was taking, has been closed. They people in the coffee shop advised me to take a room in Georgetown for the night. The weather, however, was not supposed to get any better in the next few days, and I have a truck to return. Everybody said that the weather was coming from the west. I’m not sure that’s proper grammar, saying that “the weather is coming from the west”. The storm, the winds, the cold front - these might be coming from the west, but the weather? I always thought that the weather is something that just always exists around us. If the weather is coming from the west, what is here now? another weather? or maybe there is no weather here right now, and were just waiting for some to come from the west?

- “Well, it might not end tonight, right? I might be stuck here for a few days!”

- “Yeah, you might.” said the lady at the counter

- “What is there to do here, if I stay?”

- “Get drunk every night!” said the only other costumer. “That’s what we do.”

After giving it a lot of thought, I decided not to stay. I don’t have time for this. I decided to go back to Denver, and then go south, through Albuquerque, and then go straight west. It was hard getting back down form the mountain, although not as hard as going up. I passed little pieces of weather that were just not moving east fast enough, and finally made it back to Denver.

Then I headed south on the I-25, towards Albuquerque. The view changed pretty abruptly, and the weather too - it was still very windy, but now instead of snow I was getting sand. 

I passed this impressive little mountain:

Which is much more impressive in real life. This is  Huerfano Butte, A remnant of an ancient volcano, according to Wikipedia, and an important marker in New Mexico settlement, according to a nearby sign.

Eventually, I got to the town of Trinidad, CO, I got a room in the Trinidad Motor Inn, run by a Chinese dude who apparently studies the Talmud in his free time. After driving around I finally found the only place to eat in town that is open after 9PM - Fabilis Wings. The owner, a huge, warm Hispanic woman in her mid-forties, was talking to a young couple who was attending their three daughters: “Your baby reminds me of my granddaughter!” Yep, moving south alright.

I had a pizza and went to the only open bar in town. Trinidad, the bartender said, has a population of about 11,000. All the other bars are closed because the police is giving bars and costumers a hard time, since they attract a lot of violence.

- “what kind of violence?” I asked.

- “anything, even gunfights. A guy was shot dead last year right there.” she pointed to a spot just next to the door.

- “Gunfights over what?”

- “Drug money, mostly.”

I found that fascinating - a town of 11,000 is self-sufficient enough to have its own drug wars. I stopped drinking after one beer, because I didn’t want any trouble with the police myself, and went back to the motel.

Day 13, Mile 3000. Denver, CO.

We had a sharp deadline, which was getting Julia to the airport on time. Our first stop was for lunch at South Side Food and Drink in Limon, CO. It’s a small, southern-style diner. We even had three cowboys sitting a few tables away from us. Well, at least they had the hats.

We then drove by a sign for the town of Bovina, and we noticed it’s not on the map. We decided to check it out. Guess what? There’s a reason it’s not on the map:

Chubbuck’s Six States Museum and Wonder Tower, however, was on the map. It also had a bunch of signs directing to it:

There was no one there. We wanted to go to the bathroom, so we looked for the restrooms in the back. Ladies room is on the right. Gentlemen to the left.

We found a small note saying that the place if for sale! I wonder how much it goes for.

We decided to talk about it later and in the meantime make a list of the pros and cons of owning museum of stones and bottles in the middle of nowhere.

Then we got to Denver. We started by getting coffee in a cute coffee shop. It was full of hipsterish students working hard on their laptops. We went online on our phones. I realized then that it was the Israeli memorial day. We commemorate memorial day very differently, in Israel, than they do in the states. Let’s put it this way - we don’t barbecue.  

I was thrown off - first, I realized I forgot, which made me realize how far I am from Israel, physically and mentally. Second, I noticed on Facebook that someone mentioned a young woman who was killed in a terrorist attack about ten years ago. It seems she used to serve in my by base, at the same time I did, and I don’t remember her at all. We were a tiny base, maybe 200 soldiers. I knew everybody - everybody did. I must have known her and forgotten all about her. I’m still not sure I know who she was - after really trying, I think I do have a faint memory of her. I don’t know exactly why this feels weird. Anyway, Danit Dagan was her name. RIP.

We decided we had enough time before the flight - so we went to the Red Rocks. It was beautiful, and we got to see only very little of it. We must come back at some point.

We went to the airport, and discovered that Julia’s flight was delayed. I hung out with her in the Airport, and we had dinner and drinks and then we walked around and stared at the very disturbing murals.

I then left and got a room at a Motel 6. Here are some tips:

1. The sign outside a Motel 6 might say “Wi-Fi here”. Notice that it doesn’t include the word “Free”. There’s a reason for that.

2. If the receptionist will notice even the slightest sign of discontent, she will give you the Wi-Fi password for free. Let your inner Israeli shine!

3. The Wi-Fi password is per device. If you have two computers and your inner Israeli is on a day off, you’ll have to pay double.

4. Almost anywhere there’s a Motel 6, there’s also a Super 8. Super 8 gives free Wi-Fi for as many devices as you want and they have free breakfast. Motel 6 don’t. Just sayin’.

5. Personally, I prefer going for privately held motels. I believe it’s better for the economy.

Day 12. Mile 2600. Oakley, KS.

So we went to the Underground Salt Museum. Now that I have your attention, let’s start at the top:

We started driving north, and near Yoder we could not ignore the sign to the Underground Salt Museum. First we stopped for brunch at the Carriage Crossing Restaurant and Bakery. When Julia noticed me staring at the waitresses she said “I know what you’re thinking - they all look the same”. Actually, I was thinking that the Amish waitress was pretty hot. Now, I want to clarify - of course, I like looking at pretty women, but more than that I enjoy all those little funny thoughts. For example, there’s nothing more cheesy than a hot Amish waitress, is there? There are music videos directors that built their entire career on them. I wonder if she actually does go home after a shift, listen to Aerosmith in her headphones as she lets her hair down, in slow motion, of course. I had more of these thoughts, but they were cut off when Chris Griffin, the Family Guy kid showed up and started cleaning the tables.

We had our brunch and moved on to the Underground Salt Museum, one of Kansas’s eight wonders (!!). Sarcastic, parenthesized exclamation marks aside - the museum is pretty cool. Over 600 ft. underground, it shows you around the salt mines. This salt is mostly used to clear snow off the roads.

Because of the dry, stable climate in the mine, they use the mines also as storage area, for anything from documents to film sets and costumes. This is one of 20 “Agent Smiths” used in the final battle scene of the 3rd Matrix movie:

We also took “the dark ride”, a cool, slow ride around the mines with a funny guide: “To your left, you’ll notice a wooden stand with a fire extinguisher. Salt is not flammable, but you know what is? wooden stands with fire extinguishers on them”.

We then drove on. We stopped by the Barbed Wire Museum in La Crosse, KS. It was closed, but there was some interesting art outside:

With one Kansas wonder down and seven more to go (but they will have to wait) we drove on, but we made the classic mistake of driving too late with too little gas and too far from civilization. We were getting a little nervous. Finally we found a gas station that I believe was actually a left-behind set from a David Lynch movie: surrounded by complete darkness, with the single light, the rattling flag post in the strong wind… the works.

We stopped for the night in stinky Oakley, KS, and I say that not because it’s a bad town. I say that just because it smells really bad. 

Day 11. Mile 2200. Guthrie, OK

During my daily morning routine of trying to recall who I am, where I am, how I got here and what the hell am I supposed to do now, I realized that I  am in Booneville, Arkansas, staying in a motel that I destroyed the night before with a rented truck. I went to to the reception and found the owner’s wife, aka “the tiny witch of the south”. I apologized again, and she seemed more placated. I checked out and got a terrible, southern-cooking-style brunch. The food down here is terrible - not only that it’s tasteless, it doesn’t even pretend to be nutritious. Every time I see a southern-American that looks past the age of 35 I feel like I’m witnessing a miracle.

I started driving, and after I crossed the border to Oklahoma, I stopped at a visitor’s center. They told me that the best activity for the time that I have is to visit Sequoyah’s Cabin.

Sequoyah was a fascinating character - a Cherokee Indian that invented  a transcription for the Cherokee language. They have his cabin intact, and they surrounded it, what do you know, by another cabin. So you go into this stone cabin, walk through the door, and inside, you’re looking at   wooden cabin. That’s where Sequoyah lived. There are some artifacts and explanations about his life and his work. I was particularly intrigued by this Cherokee typewriter:

I left and started driving towards Oklahoma City to pick Julia, who was about to join me for the weekend, from the airport. 

I saw a lot of dead animals on the road. In fact, I’ve been seeing a lot of run-over animals.  I saw dogs, cats, squirrels,  raccoon, and I think I even saw one deer. There are plenty others that I didn’t recognize. I was told that some might be prairie dogs, but I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. I also saw several armadillos. armadillos are never run-over, though. they’re broken.

I got to Oklahoma city, but I had plenty of time, so I drove some more and got to El-Reno. I got dinner at Johnnie’s Grill.

OK, let’s not call it dinner, but I did have an onion-burger or something .

OK, let’s call it “something”.

I left, going back to Oklahoma City. I stopped at some Mexican restaurant to get a beer and try to forget what I just ate. I sat alone at a table. drinking a bottle of beer, surrounded by fat families eating tacos. I left and found a real bar right at the entrance to Oklahoma City. I got another beer, and when it was time, I drove to the airport and picked up Julia. We drove north, and stopped at Guthrie, OK, where we were very lucky to find a motel that had an open office around midnight. 

Day 10. Mile 1900. Booneville, AR

Finally, I was in Arkansas. Arkansas became a big deal in this trip, only because before I started, I said to Julia that I want to go through places that I will never have a good reason to go to, like Arkansas. So Julia told this to her friends, who then sent me long lists of stuff that I should do in Arkansas.

The best truck song in the radio these days is a sad one, it is about unfaithfulness:

That ain’t my truck in her drive

Man, this ain’t my day tonight

Looks like she’s in love and I’m out of luck

That ain’t my shadow on her wall

Lord, this don’t look good at all

That’s my girl, my whole world

But that ain’t my truck

I feel you, my fellow trucker. Anyway, my first stop was for lunch at Nick’s Bar-B-Q & Catfish, in Carlisle. This marked my entrance in to the world of terrible southern food. I had a fried catfish - tasteless, greasy things. 

I drove through some small roads and hit a bunch of tiny towns.

Then I got to Little Rock. I followed the signs to the River Market, to discover a depressing, almost deserted food court. I drove on and found a visitor center. They sent me to the state Capitol, which comes down to being this building:

In my list I also had the Central High School. Now that was interesting: back in 1957, when segregation in schools was outlawed, nine black kids were denied entrance to the school and face an angry mob that went as far as threatening their lives. The police had to interfere, then the national guard, and then the Army’s 101st Airborne Division. Fun times.

I drove on to Caulksville, to find Shane’s Restaurant, that Becky, Julia’s friend, put on my list. Outside there were some sculptures of ducks.

After a minute, the group on the right started walking. The group on the left continued to be sculptures. Must be a weird feeling for the group of real ducks.

I ordered exactly what Becky told me to: Chicken fried steak and a side of onion rings. It’s just as horrible as it looks:  

That white thing is gravy - a creamy, salty, meaty sauce. Buried underneath the left pond of gravy is a fried chicken steak which is not much of a steak, does not taste like chicken, but it sure is fried. The gravy on the right side of the plate hides, both in vision and in taste, some mashed potatoes.

I finished eating and drove away. I felt really bad, and wanted to find a motel room to die in as fast as possible. I got to Bonneville and found a motel, but - and maybe because I was so concentrated in feeling bad from the food - I forgot I was driving a truck. I drove it into the driveway ignoring the low roof. The roof was exactly the height of the truck, and I gave it a nice scratch.

The owner, chubby Indian guy, came running out. After releasing the truck we went to the office and stared at each other. His wife, ugly little witch, was staring at him. He asked if I wanted a room, and asked for $45 and $20 for the damage. The wife was furious. I said - “hey, that must be more than $20 of damage. How about you take a hundred for the whole thing?” He shook my hand thankfully, as if I wasn’t  the one who just broke his motel. The wife was turning red. We went outside and looked at the damage, and we saw that it’s not that bad. “You’re biggest problem”, I told him, “is her”.

How could I forget I was driving a truck? who am I kidding? I’m not a real truck driver. I don’t even own this thing, it’s rented! for just two weeks! It’s time I faced it - that ain’t my truck.

Day 9. Mile 1600. Forrest City, AR.

After getting a decent breakfast at diner just across the street from the motel in Nashville, I started driving towards Memphis. About half an hour after entering Tennessee I took an exit to a gas station to take leak, but got distracted by a sign to the Hidden Lake. That sounded like a much better place to pee than in than a gas station. I started walking.

.

I like hiking. It makes me feel very primal. I saw a bird that was mostly blue, and I thought - I shall call it “Bluebird”! then I saw one that was completely red and I named it “Redbird”, but somehow it didn’t feel right.

I thought I found the Lake.

But that wasn’t it. I walked some more. Ah, that’s more like it.

Then I walked all the way around. This is from the opposite side:

It seemed like I was supposed to keep going around if I wanted to get back. So where the hell was I?

Then I saw this old ruined building, and this old man wandering around.

I entered the building, guessed where the bathroom used to be and peed there. I then talked to the old man and learned that the nearest town is Pegram, and that there is plenty of wild life around, like deer and snakes. There were 4 deer in his backyard just this morning. This never happened to me, I said. Deer are a very rare sight in your backyard in Paris. Or Boston. Or even Yavne. a Minute later, I saw a deer. Such a majestic animal.

I Left the hidden lake and continued to drive to Memphis, not before stopping in Pegram for fuel and to see this on a back of a car:

I finally got to Memphis and drove to Graceland. There’s nothing to see from the road. I just drove on and got to the 2nd street, where there are plenty of bars and music.

I had a couple of beers in two street show, and decided I had enough.

I decided to move on. There was a storm coming, so I just drove a little further until I hit Forrest City, AR. I got a room in a Super 8 Motel, and  went to get dinner just a a few blocks from there, at Pop’s place.

Bact at the motel I noticed the desktop computer in the lobby that had three A4 signs around it that said “Absolutely no one under 18 near this computer”. If it was up to me, no one under 18 would be near anything at all.

Day 8. Mile 1300. Nashville, TN

I woke up in Kenova, and it took me a few minutes to recall how that happened. Then I checked out from my room. Did you know that more than half of the motels in the US are owned by Indians? The ones from India, not the other ones.

I started driving into Kentucky. The landscape changed as soon as I crossed the border. I was now driving through farms, endless green fields and many, many cows. They were walking around freely and happily, just waiting for their day to partake in Wendy’s glorious enterprise.

Then I saw a sign on a fence of one farm that said “used cows”. This made me quite upset. I mean, that’s not very specific, is it? If it says “used car” or “used toothbrush”, I have a very good sense of what that means. A cow, on the other hand, can be used in a variety of ways - was it milked? maybe they harnessed a plow to it?  I don’t think I should be forced to stop the car, back into the driveway, look for the farm owner and start asking questions that make me look like a maniac just to find out that the cow has been used in fashions that prevent me from making use of it in the future.

But it’s really pretty, and green, and wide open. 

Then I found myself in Paris, KY. It’s a cute little town. I stopped for lunch at the Grey Goose. The manager told me that the whole area is home to cattle and horse breeding businesses, and many important horse races are taking place, one of the biggest ones at that very moment. 

I left Paris, again (ha ha) and drove on to Nashville. I got a room at the Savoy Motel and left to the city, to get food and beer and music.

Parking my truck was not easy, but then came Walter. tall, black, very nicely dressed young man who jumped in front of the truck and spent long, long minutes helping me to get the truck parked right. When I got out of the truck came the story - he’s a veteran, his wife is giving birth as we speak in the next town, he can’t get there since his car is in the parking and he’s eleven dollars and 72 cents short. And he was crying.

You know those times when you know you’re being fucked but you feel like it’s just your destiny?

Oh, you don’t. Well, I do. I gave him the money. Well, he did help me with parking, and if he made that story up - he was a very good writer, actor and producer. They should start giving awards to hustlers. I nominate Walter.

Then I saw five middle-aged women holding their out-of-control friend to the ground. a few feet from there, another one smashed her own head into the streetlight pole. Ah, America, I missed you

Then I went to Broadway street, which as I later discovered is also referred to as “Honky Tonk Row”. This is where the best shows are in Nashville.

All the bars have free music shows. At some point one of the band member will come down to the audience with a bucket and ask for tips. Taking the word of one of the performers, this is how they actually make their living.

I spent the rest of the night hopping around five or six clubs, getting beer and listening to some really good bands. I might have even slipped a “amen” or a “yeehaw” every now and then.

Day 7. Mile 950. West Virginia, border of Kentucky

I mostly drove all day, with no adventures at all. I did start getting used to driving a truck, and realized, naturally, that a truck is not just a vehicle, but rather a way of life. So I scanned the radio from some country music, so I can listen to the same music my fellow truck-drivers listen to.

Country songs are either about the small town - memories, friends, family; about the wife, which was usually met back then, in the small town; and trucks. Every song I had listened to had a truck in it. Well, I understand their jealousy. After all, I was once one of them, Until I chose the way of life of the truck driver.

Trucks songs are amusing, I have to admit - this is one of the biggest hits these days among us, truck drivers:

Where there’s biscuits, grits and gravy and the waitress calls you baby

And the starlight’s like a streetlight on a summer night.

We say hell ya and amen, yeehaw, and y’all come back again

And pray that our boys come home alive

And when Old Glory flies, we still hold our hands over our hearts

Where there’s more trucks than cars.

What else can I say, other than “yeehaw”? well, I could say “hell ya”, I guess.

Otherwise, I’m starting to like country music. 

I drove all day until I hit Kenova, WV. There’s nothing in Kenova besides Kenovians. There’s a small, cheesy Mexican restaurant where I sat to get dinner.

I ordered the “dinner special” without reading further and got two giant plates with one of every possible Mexican food. I ate most of it anyway and went to bed in the Kenova’s world famous “Hollywood Motel”. Y’all come back again, ok?

Day 6. Mile 600. West Virginia

We woke up slowly in the Edison Motor Inn in Edison, NJ, and went to get breakfast in - that’s right - the Edison Diner. We were eating slowly because we were supposed to meet up with a couple of friends, Dan and Lyla, as they were driving along the same route in other direction, and we have been discussing this random meetup for a few days. When we felt like they were getting closer we started driving towards them, but since neither of them carries a smartphone, or even a map, they could not tell us where they were. We gave up the idea and continued driving towards Maryland.

We got to Baltimore, where Julia’s sister, her fiancé, and their dog live. We got all our remaining stuff there - this time it was the real deal with the heavy boxes, our bikes and stuff. When we were done we still had the truck pretty empty, which made me happy, because I don’t like the feeling of having a lot of things. I had a lot of things before I left for the states, and now I’m much happier, at least about this part. and some other parts. anyway, this is not what I want to talk about right now.

The in-laws (see what I did there?) made us some pizza, and by the time we were done it was time to drop Julia at the airport. 

From the airport I just started driving into West Virginia. When it was dark and I decided to find a place to stay I was already too deep into the  Virginianess of America - there was nothing around. not even gas stations, and I was running low on gas with a truck on top of a fucking mountain. 

I found gas eventually. An hour later - a motel with no vacancies. Half an hour later - a motel with an old lady with only one room left. Do they have wi-fi though? “have what?”

Internet? In-ter-net?

"Son, I don’t understand what your saying!"

Have a good night, Ma’am.

The last motel was closed - it was already 11. I realized that it’s too late now for the small motels to have someone at the desk - I need to head to a bigger town. The map (yes, map. there’s no reception in WV) took me to Keyser, WV, where I got a room in a Mircrotel - kind a fancy Super 8.

Day 5. Mile 280. Edison, NJ

Julia flew in from SF to start driving with me, and it was really great seeing her after two months of doing the long distance relationship thing. She got  to Boston earlier than expected, so we got some breakfast at Lyndell’s, the coffee shop next to our old home, where the sandwiches are great and staff is retarded and went to get our truck.

Everything went extremely smooth. After getting the truck we went to my host Andy’s apartment and got my bags. from there we went to our old apartment to “steal” our stuff which we hid in the basement. I made duplicate keys before leaving Boston, so there was no problem getting in. Just in case, we let one of the neighbors know what we’re up to, so in case we get caught we can say they let us in.

I forgot how much useful stuff we had there - our bed, an art table, my keyboard stand… we got everything pretty quickly and started driving towards New York.

We got distracted by a sign to the “Hill Stead Museum” in Farmington, CT. It was the residence of the rich Pope family in the early 1900s. Today it’s an art museum with mostly French impressionistic art, which we didn’t get to see, because you have to join the one-hour-tour, and we were impatient. We walked around the grounds, which are pretty nice.

Tip: If you want to watch the art without being on the tour - there’s an “open house” every first Sunday of the month. Just keep that in mind next time you’re in Farmington, CT.

We moved on and got distracted again by a sign for the “Carousel Museum” in Bristol, CT. Now that we had to see.

For $6 you get a guided tour in the awesome museum, where you get to learn all about the history and mechanics of carousels. Mostly, you learn about the horses and other animals - carving styles and methods, and plenty of stories and anecdotes:

Do you know what the glue for these horses was made of? horse’s hooves

Do you know what their tail was made of? sometimes, real horse tail

Do you know how they used to power the carousel? sometimes, with real horses

Dude, isn’t it easier to just ride a horse?

Last, I bring you a little automatic music band by no other than Wurlitzer:

There’s also a small “History of Fire” museum with lots of fire fighting equipment, and that’s a part of the tour, and of course - you get a carousel ride!!

So we spent there two hours, and had to move on.

We drove to Yorktown Heights, NY, this is where the parents of John, who’s the husband of Kim, who’s a friend of Julia, who is my girlfriend - live.We had some of stuff stored there - long and boring story.

We stopped for dinner at Sprain Lake Golf Course and Drive Range. Wouldn’t you?

We got the stuff and moved on, trying to gain some millage. However, it turns out that the state of NY has all these weird rule about trucks not being allowed to drive on anything that’s a “parkway”. Seriously! I think you also can’t drive a truck if the person who is sitting in the passenger’s seat’s name begins with a T. We got yelled at until we left the parkway, and thus finding ourselves exactly where we did not want to be - inside NYC, with a truck. After two hours we finally got out, drove on to Edison, NJ where we found a motel and finished the day.