Home again, home again.

Here I am, at my parents' computer in my summer-lovely hometown. I flew in today after saying goodbye to Eleni -- she leaves tomorrow for Greece for many months-- and I'll be here for the forseeable future. Plans, some definite and others possible:
A couple weeks counseling at a YMCA camp in the Berkshires, provided I can convince the directors I don't hate children.
A few days in Long Island with my dear Sarin.
Who Wants to be a Millionaire? in New York.
Jen's graduation from massage therapy school. (Holla!)
A Boston visit.
Rented bikes in northwestern Connecticut.
Lots and lots of fiction writing.
And, you know, maybe a job or something. For now, to a barbecue. Avast!

Merry Land

I've been spending the the last week here in Maryland with the Himaras clan. It's basically been seven days of alternate feasting and binge drinking. Oh, the parties and bars and plethora of crabmeat.
And two boxers and two pomeranians. It's a good time all around.
I'll be back home Tuesday, to either start my job hunt or put it off by visiting anyone within 100 or so miles. And auditioning for Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
Answer: Me.

Coyote face!

One more thing. A vendor at Greyfox had an open trunk, filled with furry things and marked, "Coyote faces. $5."
I call mine Susan.

From the 28th state ...

... this summer. Not bad, eh?
I'm in Maryland, spending a week with Eleni & Co. before she leaves for Greece. We should be going to Ocean City later this afternoon, or I'll be heading to D.C. to meet up with Mama and Mini Slaj, who are looking at colleges there. I keep telling Mini Slaj not to go to college. She doesn't listen.
Kids today ...
So where did I leave off? We spent Wednesday morning in (or, I guess, just outside) Nashville, looking for the Grand Ole Opry. It's hidden so far within a Gaylord convention center that we had to take a break from looking so we could eat breakfast at Cracker Barrel. We eventually found it -- across the street from an Old Navy -- and just did a drive-by, we were so disgusted.
It's a legend, and it's part of a goddamn strip mall. Oh, America.
We drove through the rest of the day and all night to get to Connecticut. Through Kentucky, through West Virginia (which, surprisingly enough after all the hick jokes I've made and heard, looks a lot like New England), through Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania and New York. We crossed the West Virginia border three times.
Delirium set in after 12 or so hours. A conversation:
"They took our jobs!"
A semi truck passes. On the back is a headshot of an extraordinarily creepy man.
"He looks like a serial killer."
"Like he killed someone and is wearing their face."
"He took our face!"
"He took our face!"
"He took our face!"
And so on.
But we made it, and Thursday afternoon drove a merciful two hours to Great Barrington, Mass., where our friend Cait works at a YMCA camp. We spent the night drinking Jack in a state park before passing out on her cabin floor.
She wants me to come work at camp for a couple weeks next month. I don't know how to handle kids, I've never been to camp, I'm not especially crafty ... but I'm sure none of that's a problem. We'll see.
And then to Greyfox, a bluegrass festival in Ancramdale, N.Y. We went and camped with the IT-type guy from the newspaper, a middle-aged guy who's been taking is family and all his friends to the festival for many, many years. They gave us food, alcohol, and access to their campsite (just a minute walk from the main stage) and their chairs (in the second and third row).
Charmed life.
Now that was a good time. It's up in the Berkshires, so it's beautiful. There are 4,000 campers (compared to Bonnaroo's 80,000), they don't search your bag or your car, and for days you hear nothing but banjos, mandolins, guitars, basses and cellos.
The people we stayed with are at least 25 years our senior, and they drank us under the fucking table. The first day I drank endless beers, a few shots of blueberry and vodka, a shot of Patron and ate a fistful of moonshine-soaked cherries.
I puked all night. I did not drink the next day.
Whoops.
But the bands we saw on stage, and the random jam sessions that went on throughout camp all night, made up for it. We saw Crooked Still, Dry Branch Fire Squad, Stringdusters, and Red Stick Ramblers, among others, and they were all amazing.
Red Stick Ramblers played at the dance pavillion Saturday night. Eleni and I danced for hours. There was much kicking and down-hoing. And not nearly enough plaid.
And let's see ... that's about all I feel like sharing for now. Oh, and I bought HP yesterday. In true nerd form, finished it today. Eleni sent me into another room when I kept gasping and getting so shocked I had to stand up and spin around.
Pretty good ending though, until the super-cheesy epilogue. That J.K. Rowling, she's a crafty one she is.
More soon. I'm sure a night or two drinking in Ocean City will yield more stories, if not appropriate blog fodder.

And she is over.

Clocked in at $1,696 and 8,074.6 miles.
Now to the Greyfox bluegrass festival in Ancrandale, N.Y. Ahoy!

Dat Damn Dog Dere

Drove today from Louisiana to Nashville ... which makes this my 21st state.
Ate in a crappy truck stop, called Shady Lawn, with a giant chicken wearing a chef's hat out front. Next to -- and I do not lie -- Big Jim's Boobie Bungalow.
I repeat: Big Jim's Boobie Bungalow.
Now in our Travelodge room just north of the city. Tomorrow starts the long drive home.

Crawfish, Jack and Illegalities.

We got into New Orleans last night after a short six- or seven-hour drive, just in time to check into the hostel, change and head out into the bayou night.
One of the hostel guys told us to go to Coop's Place for dinner. Unbelievable. Marinated lamb ribs with red pepper jelly, gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice and something else amazing. Eleni told the bartender to fix us up something "fun," and we watched as he poured two glasses near full of whiskey, then Disaronno, then a little splash of grenadine. He called them red-headed sluts, then remembered they're red snappers. Must have gotten confused when looking at us.
Then to Frenchmen Street, which, said our American Spirit-smoking bartender, was the place to be. Much better than Bourbon Street, he said, which turned out to be very true.
We went to the Apple Barrel, a tiny little bar with an incredible band -- the lead singer chick played a washboard -- and lots of locals. One of whom, dressed in overalls (only one strap fastened) and a bandana with Swarovski crystals (certainly not, as I had said, rhinestones), gave us his card.
He's a fine arts dealer.
Once the band finished, and we realized that in N'Orleans we can carry plastic cups of Jack and coke around on the street, we went outside. Swarovski and some others stopped us and got us talking, maybe we did some drugs on the street, I listened to a dog rape story.
And onward, before Swarovski pulled us into a cab bound for a Bourbon Street titty bar. Another bar, this time on Decatur, where we drank more Jack and made more friends, this time the transplant bartenders, one from Syracuse, one from ... somewhere ... who've been living in the city for years.
And so on.
We made it to Bourbon Street, but it wasn't our scene. I did get my Tarot cards read. Apparently, I'm in the training stages of my profession and am scared of making mistakes. Oh, and a relationship died in the last eight months.
Two for three, and who'd'a thunk it?
Also heard one man's Southern accent that completely vindicated mine, which Miss I'm-from-the-South-even-though-my-state-didn't-pick-a-side Himaras says isn't real. So ... ha!
Speaking of the Civil War, ran into a guy who proclaimed the South would rise again, just us wait, and things about the Confederacy, he hates yankees, blah blah blah. I had to pull Eleni away before she or I threw punches.
It seems feelings still run deep on both sides. Or was that just the Jack?
And now, for breakfast and Nashville, an easy eight or nine hours from here. Then New England calls.

Correction.

Steve's apartment complex is across from an Aston Martin dealership. Last night's post incorrectly listed a different sort of horrid corporate yuppie establishment.

Giant hair jellyfish.

I'm typing next to a pool in Houston. There's a cold beer at my side and unknown bugs buzzing all around. A pizza is on the way.
I lead a charmed life, a fact pointed out by everyone on this trip who isn't leading one quite so charmed.
The rodeo was fantastic. It felt like any community event back east - except people were riding bulls and pretending to shoot small children. Eleni and I wore plaid.
Like I said, fantastic.
Right after the rodeo we said goodbye to Steve -- who provided plenty of journalistic conversation and a glimpse into my job-having future -- and began a 14-hour journey to Houston.
I thought I couldn't sleep in cars. Turns out, I can't sleep in cars without taking Percocet.
During the drive, we saw the Welcome to Texas sign ("Drive Friendly - The Texan Way. Proud Home of President George W. Bush") followed by a Don't Mess with Texas sign.
I messed with Texas. By throwing my Egg McMuffin wrapper on the ground. Can't tell me what to do!
Also saw a Bushland, Cheneyboro and Coulter Lane. A coincidence ... I hope.
We got into town about noon, hours before we expected. Houston is a giant mangle of freeways, stripmalls and sub-divisions. Our friends here -- who sold their souls to the Oil Devil for more money than I'll ever see -- live in such subdivisions. The whole place, or at least the more outlying areas that I've seen, all look the same. Drive for 20 minutes and you'll pass at least 16 Chili's.
It's my hell.
But it didn't matter, as Eleni and her pseudo-boyfriend-thing-guy (that's what they call it these days) were reunited, and I slept.
Luckily, HP is the same in Texas as the Northeast. Daniel Radcliffe is smokin' these days, and no, I'm not afraid to admit sexual attraction to a minor.
Mosquitos are working on making the rest of my trip miserable. Maybe I should have stayed in the pool and braved the floating bits of bread, pediatric pee and the giant hair jellyfish.
Maybe not.
Another friend Steve made it off his oil rig for the night, and we went and hung out at his apartment complex across from a strip mall.
Today we were determined to shoot guns. Because what else do you do in Texas? But the first place we went wouldn't let us first-timers do it without instruction (at $150) and the second -- an outdoor oasis of incredibly loud noises and a big black deaf dog -- didn't rent guns.
So we got drunk instead. My eighth and final roommate from study abroad met us with her boyfriend and we all drank a lot of Jack, tequila and beer. We also made Melinda ride a saddle for her birthday. (For those of you who know our dear Melinda, I do have video.)
We stopped at Gander Mountain, the Toys R Us of hunting, on the way home. That ... may have been a mistake. A clerk at the gun counter told us most of the stuffed animal heads on the wall, including the elephant (but minus its tusks) are real.
There were a lot of stuffed animal heads. And T-shirts with slogans like "Family, Freedom and Firearms. Welcome to my world" with pictures of the bald eagle and the Second Amendment.
Yeah. I was about to steal a Panama hat and thought better of it. They do have many, many guns.
And ... now we're at the pool. For some reason Texas is, as Eleni described it, my white whale. I don't know why, but it's always been this mythical land for me. The anti-Connecticut. Or something.
And with that, the pizza has arrived.

My stomach hates me.

I just ate my third meal of New Mexican food today. I think this might be the end. So if I don't post again, you know I exploded here in Espanola, leaving blood, guts and guacamole all over Steve's kitchen.
But today was another fantastic one. I came to Santa Fe three years ago for a wedding and ate at the Plaza Restaurant, and since then I've been fantasizing about the diner's huevos rancheros. We went today, a knot of fear in my stomach as I thought it might not be as good as I remembered ... and it was better. What a meal. And Eleni, who loves food as much as I do (believe it), was there to share it.
And we saw a cat riding a dog. And Lyle Lovett. Eleni was more impressed with Lovett. Me, with the cat riding the dog.
And the Georgia O'Keeffe museum (my favorites were the blue and white Pelvises) and wandering around the plaza. For some reason we bought fajitas.
There's something wrong with the two of us. A weakness for sour cream, I think.
And then some coffee and on the road. We drove to Los Alamos and back down, and saw views that made me say, "Fuck the Grand Canyon."
Seriously.
Back to Steve's, where we drank beer on the back porch, read and waited for Steve to get out of work. Then to a fantastic restaurant -- more food, delicious and now I feel disgusting. We got the grand driving tour of the town, saw where some religious sect lives, a housing project where someone got their head chopped off, a church built in the 1700s.
This is an interesting place.
AND I convinced my half-Greek darling to put off our departure until tomorrow night so we can go to the county rodeo.
SO STOKED.
And now, to explode.

Bugs would be proud

Last night we hung a left at Albuquerque. The excitement level -- after hiking through the Grand Canyon and driving for eight hours -- was high.
Now we're about to head into Santa Fe from Espanola, and eat at my favorite place in the world. Umm .... yay.

El Rancho .... do do do!

I am sitting next to Miss Himaras on a bed at the El Rancho motel in Williams, Arizona, just an hour away from the Grand Canyon.
Updates:
I finished the loneliest road in America. No accidents, tickets, etc., just a few scary moments going down the side of a mountain. The Bu doesn't like going downhill. While turning. With large angry black pickup trucks behind her.
But we made it.
The first thing I did in California was eat sushi. I had forgotten about it, out there in the heartland, so far from the coast. Delicious.
Then a stroke-inducing drive through the San Francisco Bay fog. My dear old roommate Kyndra failed to mention the terror of that road as she took off in the mist ... but made up for it with beer and a hot tub. Next afternoon, we went into the city. We drove past that bridge, and that crooked street. We parked near Union Square and snuck into the Westin's glass elevators to see the city from above. It took some clever manuevering around a well-placed security guard. This trip has otherwise been suspiciously devoid of sneaking/stealing/miscellaneous mischeivous behavior.
This will likely change.
We wandered Chinatown, North Beach and the Haight, where we met up with a fellow NU grad for Ethiopian food. Again, delicious. And my once-angry college friend seems to be ... happy ... on the West Coast. I hear it does that to people.
Then to Santa Barbara, to stay with my aunt and uncle and their poodle Ginger. What can I say? Family time, Mexican food, wine ... Eleni got in yesterday and we enjoyed happy hour (God love it) downtown. This morning we rode rented bikes up and down the beach, got more Mexican food (God fucking love it) and headed out on the road.
Got here in record time. Eleni drove! I was in the passenger seat! Holy balls!
Tomorrow, to that big ol' hole in the ground, and set to arrive in Santa Fe by nightfall.

Yes, so it's been a while ...
I'm writing from Martial Arts Family Fitness in Santa Babara. Eleni and I (she's here!) are leaving for Arizona and the Grand Canyon, and from there Santa Fe, then Houston and N'Orleans ...
San Fran was beautiful and we just rode bikes around the beach here .... more later, friends. I'm alive and the road trip continues, now with two in the Bu.

The College Years

Also, TBS is on and Zack and Screech are planning a rave. A jock just tricked Screech into stealing nitrous from his chem lab.
Might have to put off my departure ...

Woooeee!

So here I am, at the Historic Hotel Nevada in Ely, Nevada. I drove 12 hours yesterday from Boulder, about three and a half of them on Route 50, "the loneliest highway in America." Really, that's what it's called. I didn't know that when a middle-aged man in an peach polo advised me against taking it in Salina, and driving 150 miles out of my way along the interstate to Salt Lake City. But checking in here -- among the slot machines and stuffed mountain lions -- I saw T-shirts proclaiming "I survived the loneliest highway in America," complete with a donkey shooting a gun, which I think is the hotel's logo. I might buy one.
And it is the loneliest. Two lanes undivided, any cars going the same way just black dots in the distance. But it's the road you think about when you dream of road trips. A big wide plain surrounded by high blue mountains. Some cattle, a few signs for camping spots miles away. Nothing else.
But I've had Jack Kerouac to keep me company with On The Road on tape. More accurately, it's Matt Dillon ... but it's great. I have 5 and a half hours of book left. Sal and Dean are in New Orleans. When I started the book, in the Rockies, the characters were following me -- going to Council Bluffs, then Denver, and then they passed me and got to San Francisco first.
Looks like I have another 12-hour day ahead of me, about six of them on Route 50. It does make me nervous, all that open space and a wavering cell signal. Bu has been good to me though, incredibly good, and I think prayer might count double outside the heretic Northeast.
Just kidding.
She did not like the Rockies, however. Uphill was a struggle and downhill -- I really thought I was going to have a heart attack. My left arm hurt. But we got through it.
And eventually I got here, to the Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall. I did not expect this place. The first floor is packed with slot machines, neon, cowboy statues and sullen, smoking locals. A row of motorcycles stands in front. But the people here have been nothing but nice. Got me a complimentary margarita, a little thing I found out later would cost 99 cents. But it got me downstairs, where I met some nice folks (there's no other way to describe people out here, is there?) and gambled away a couple dollars. The 21 dealer taught me how to scratch the table, etc., and probably thought I was an idiot.
Considering this loneliest highway idea, she's probably right.
And now, to San Francisco, and California, and the promised land.

Boulder!

I got to Boulder last night. We immediately drove and hiked to the top of a mountain to watch the sunset and look out over the city.
I'm in love.

I must have saved a baby in a past life ...

Because I have incredible karma.
Driving yesterday from Minneapolis toward Boulder (by way of Omaha) was pretty brutal. Boring on the interstates and frustrating off, because I kept making wrong turns and having to backtrack. But as I drove toward Omaha, wondering how I was going to spend the evening and where I might run into Conor Oberst, my luck changed. I had the radio on, a station that seemed to purposely alternate good songs with frighteningly bad ones, when the DJ announced a concert, starting in 30 minutes: 311 and Matisyahu. For $25. Tickets at the gate. Free parking.
What?!
I called 411 to try to find out where the venue, Westfair is, but the woman had no idea. So I called my sister, who through the magic of Google found the venue and directions. It was about 40 minutes away, in the direction I was heading, in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
Yeaaaaaaaah.
Matisyahu was fantastic. I saw him last year at Bonnaroo, but I didn't get very close. This time, I could see everything. He ran out into the crowd and climbed a tower, then ran back and brought a little boy on stage to dance.
This venue was a stage in the middle of a field. Surrounded by corn.
And 311 ... one of the best shows I've ever seen. Top 3, definitely, if not Number One ... but I'm not ready to make that commitment. It was insane. Those Nebraskans...
After the drummer did an absurdly good solo, the stagehands put out four more drums - one for each of the other members - and they all rocked out together. And there was dancing, and people bloody from moshing and crowdsurfing ... which, turns out, is pretty dumb when the area in front of the stage is paved with concrete. So when they fell - and fall they did - it was a bad scene.
During the third song of the encore, fireworks went off behind the stage. And beers were $3.
We won't talk about how it took an hour and a half to get out of the parking lot. But it was fucking worth it, sitting in the Bu, sweaty and tired from driving and dancing.
I wanted to sleep as soon as possible, so I found a pretty nice motel at the next exit. Heartland Inn. Paid too much but slept in a KING SIZE bed. Spread eagle. Waste not, want not.
And now I'm leaving for Boulder. I hear driving across Nebraska is horrifying. But we shall see.
Westward ho!

Wasted in the Twin Cities.

And off I went toward Minneapolis. Since I was so far out of the way, back roads were the only way to go without passing through Milwaukee. The route I took was the best driving part of this trip yet -- red barns and silos, trees separating fields, small towns and unincorporated intersections, the sun shining and Johnny Cash on the stereo. I was a happy bunny.
In Minneapolis, my second Italy roommate took me to dinner on the river and then out to bars downtown. It was pretty insane, the streets in the bar district packed with all sorts of people. What I remember is a good time.
Chelsea makes strong drinks.
In the morning, we went to her parents' house just outside the city for breakfast. Pancakes, fresh fruit, bacon and a big glass of milk ... oh, yes. Glorious.
And on to Boulder!

Recaps Recaps Recaps

It's been a few days and four states since I've written. The rundown:
Friday morning, before setting off to Chicago, I did some Googling to see what to see. And lo and behold, Friday was the first day of the ten-day Taste of Chicago food festival. It's huge. A hundred times the size of Taste of Boston. AND it's in the lovely Grant Park, not the sin-ugly City Hall plaza in the Bean.
But first I had to get there. Turns out, I ain't Sacajawea. My plan was to park at a southern stop of the commuter rail and take the train in. After getting lost a couple times in and around South Bend, I was cutting it close for the 1:26 train. A combination of speeding and praying for a late train got me to Gary, Indiana, just in time ... but the parking lot was full. I circled the nearby blocks a few times before finding a parking garage. Just in time to see the train pull in as I waited to turn at a red light.
Great.
So I decided to drive to the north of the city, park and take the el in. This was silly.
Silly, or fucking retarded.
I drove through Chicago, possibly the biggest clusterfuck of all time. I naively thought that 2 p.m., the middle of the afternoon, wouldn't be too busy. Right. All told, it took me five and a half hours to get from my motel in South Bend to downtown Chicago -- a distance of about 100 miles.
But Chicago! I was there for just a few hours, and stayed in basically a three block area, but wow. I'm a big fan.
The Taste was monstrous. Tons of people, tons of booths, a ferris wheel. I hadn't eaten yet and was ready to gorge myself. But, disappointingly, I only got down a slice of stuffed spinach pizza and five pierogis before my stomach cried Stop!
Boo.
So I walked just down the park to the Art Institute, hoping it was open and admission was cheap. Standing below one of the bronze lions, I read a sign that told me a ticket was $7 -- but, it didn't matter, because the museum closed at 5 p.m., just 20 minutes or so before.
Another disappointment, until I noticed some people walking in the front doors. I looked up again and only then noticed a giant banner announcing that Thursday and Friday nights from 5 to 9 p.m. are .... FREE.
Score.
Best museum I've seen in the states. Absolutely amazing collection of modern and contemporary paintings, and a whole wall of Monet's haystack series. Yay. Wandering the galleries, I turned a corner and saw ... get this ... Picasso's Old Guitarist. My favorite painting of all time, which I didn't know was in this museum halfway across the country, which just happened to be open and free at the time I was there.
Um .... score! This will sound lame, but in person, I couldn't breathe. No words. I swear I heard music, a lonely strumming.
I kept walking, eye-flirted with the faux-hawked guard, and left. This is when I nearly had a panic attack, having not spoken with anyone for about 30 hours. But I was rescued by Robert, a gas salesman from the South Side who struck up a conversation and gave me his number, in case I'm ever back in Chicago -- and don't have a boyfriend.
Then back to my car, which I thought would be simple, until I realized the purple line stops running downtown at 7:30. It was 9:30. I had to talk to two cops and three CTA employees before I found one who could tell me how to get back to the Bu.
I did, and after driving deliriously for an hour I stopped at an awful motel - the Adventure Inn, of course - near Six Flags. Basically clean, but shitty and full of people who talked outside my door in foreign languages and drank in the parking lot until 3 a.m. Bah.
Next post, Minneapolis.