The Trip Inside The Trip

Marking something on the calendar has always given me a feeling of excitement, the power of adding an event to an empty day. My outlook changes when I have something to look forward to, a small, bright light, helping to break up the drudgery and monotony of life. We all need bright spots in the mundane grind of living.

The trip had been inked in for weeks although the days seemed to have come to a screeching halt the moment the ink dried. Why did the hours and minutes drag, once I made that small notation? Did hoping and wishing for something really slow time down? Or rather, did it induce a yearning deep within us to break out of the normalcy of day-to-day life, and that awakening in itself slowed time down? No matter the answer, I was ready for the wait to be over and my trip to begin.

There is nothing like a road trip to get the nomad in me roused and ready for adventure. The road, to me, is freedom. Miles of endless pavement that continually offer up ever changing scenery and quick glimpses into the lives of complete strangers. Miles away from home, friends, and family, I become invisible amongst the people I walk with. I hear pieces of their conversations, but am not invited to participate. I stand behind them in line, but I’m not acknowledged. Living in a small town, just going down the street or the gas station is an event. I am chatting and waving to so many friends and locals, the idea of quickly getting in and out never crosses my mind. On my trip, no one knows me. I am safe to move in out of the lives others completely unnoticed. Do they go home and remember me, think where was she heading, or going? I do not think so; rather, I think I am merely a blur in their mind with the rest of the endless stream of humanity that came and went through their day. I have become invisible, peeking into the lives of others completely unseen; the proverbial fly on the wall.

I have always felt that the act of getting to and coming from any destination, the trip inside the trip, as I like to refer to it, is as important as the destination and activities scheduled once I arrive. Having said this I like to make this part of the trip as exciting as possible. People watching is one of my favorite pastimes. This cloak of anonymity affords me much freedom. We live in a society where it is rude to stare, eavesdrop on a conversation, or linger too long in any one place. My cloak lifts these rules from me, and opens my eyes to the reality of life.

In the line next to me there is a woman holding the hand of a small, skinny child, waiting to pay for a gallon of milk. With my eyes open she now becomes a mother with what seems the weight of the world on her. Her eyes hold pain, disappointment and fear. The way she holds her daughter’s hand, tightly and close to her body, shows me she is protective. She knows the hidden dangers the world can inflict on such a young, innocent girl. Maybe it comes from personal experience, or perhaps from somewhere deep inside her soul. No matter the reason, the grasp on her child’s hand tells me she is aware of the danger, has felt its hot breath and knows it preys on the young. Mother and daughter share the same hair color although the young mother’s hair has lost its shine and luster. Life has prematurely aged her, taken her beauty as well as her spirit. My heart aches for both, but I am a mere spectator in their lives, catching just a glimpse of their private pain. As I am given some universal unspoken signal from the cashier that it is my turn to approach the counter, I turn, smile at her daughter, pay for my fuel, and slip back out of their lives as silently as I slipped in. People watching, is hard on the soul, but well worth the risk if you come out of the experience wiser than you went in.

I find I do some of my best thinking behind the wheel of my car. I cannot count how many times I have stormed out of a tense situation, jumped into my car and headed down the road. At breakneck speed, I work out the things I should have said, rehash what I heard, and hammer out solutions. Only later do I find myself miles from home with absolutely no idea how I got there. However on my road trip I am free to enjoy the scenery, the trees, hills, and landscapes that go by the windows of my car. I am on an adventure, the destination is not important; it is the trip inside the trip that intrigues me. As I cruise along I am suddenly reminded of a portion of an announcement I have heard on every airline; every flight I have ever taken. It always starts out the same: “We have reached our cruising altitude of…” I often wonder, do they believe I really need and want to know how high up I truly am in that thin, metal piece of machinery? To what purpose does it serve? Is it perhaps to deter someone, at the last minute, from changing their mind and opening the cabin door? I would think the steep ascent that presses you firmly back in your seat as you barrel at breakneck speeds heavenward would deter such behavior, and that such an announcement would be unnecessary. I am a firm believer that when it comes to some things in life ignorance truly is bliss.

Having reached my cruising speed of seventy-two mph, that safety speed which is faster than the posted sixty-five but close enough to it as to not illicit the attention of any radar that may be lurking behind a seemingly innocent looking bush, I apply my cruise control. Taking in the scenery, upstate New York has majestic mountain ranges, large, cold, clear lakes, and some of the most brutal winters I have ever encountered, I begin to relax. Luckily for me this road trip was planned for late spring. Mud season was over; signs of recovery from winter’s bitter, frozen grasp were everywhere to be seen. The grass was again a soft shade of green; trees that just weeks ago looked like large, curving skeletons were once again covered in a coat of new leaves. As I drive, I notice that the sky looks different in spring than any other time of the year. The gray of winter is gone and the blinding blue of summer with its searing heat was not yet upon me. Soft white clouds rode gentle wind currents across the pale blue sky and I watched as the sun peeked in and out, casting shadows across the roadway. I had somehow managed, all those months ago, to pick the perfect day for a road trip.

I was heading south and as each mile sped under my tires, the landscape changed and the traffic increased. Going through the mountains I passed a family in a beat up old Buick. With my sunroof open I could hear the sounds of country music, children’s laughter and male off key singing. I followed behind them for a few miles and soon was engaged in a game of wave and wave back with one of the children in the back seat. Children are so easily amused. Is it because they are just full of wonder about the world? Or just maybe is it that the world has not yet spoiled their sense of wonder? When was the last time I played such a simple game just for the pure enjoyment of making a connection with someone else? The nice thing about being in control of my own destination is that when I am tired of the game I can merely wave, step on the gas and speed by. Game over.

Leaving the family in the Buick far behind I come upon a sign that says Scenic Overlook 200 feet. Having taken this route many times before, I really could not remember this sign and decided to pull off and take a look. Two hundred feet later, I was pulling into a parking space and ready to see what was so spectacular that it warranted a sign and lined parking spaces. Getting out of the car, I walked to the edge of the road and looked down. The fact that out in front of me was nothing but open space for miles, with mountains as a back drop far in the distance, I am not sure why my first instinct was to look down. Maybe it was just self preservation kicking in. Look down first to see how close to the edge you should get and just how far of a fall this might be if you slip. I do not know, but I stood there looking down for sometime before my brain kicked in and told me the real view was ahead not below.

The view was every bit deserving of the sign and marked spaces. The mountains off in the distance were jutting peaks; some green and bathed in sunlight, others purple and deep in shadow. At the base of one of them I could just make out a small lake surrounded by tall pines. I felt extremely small standing there looking out at God’s handiwork. The vast openness seemed to go on forever and I realized that I could breathe just a bit better. That closed-in feeling I got in and around buildings and people was gone and it had been replaced by a feeling of freedom. At that moment you could have told me I could fly and I probably would have believed you, I was that awe struck.

As I stood and gazed out, I heard a car pull into a space behind me. Making sure to keep my footing, I turned slightly to my left, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a man and woman walk to the edge and look down. So it was instinct, I thought. Better look where you might end up if you are not careful, before you look outward. Like me, it took their brain a few moments to adjust and remind them that the view was out in front of them. As I watched them, I tried to get some sense of these people that were sharing a first experience with me.

Firsts happen all the time but no matter what that first is, first bike ride, first boyfriend, first smell of the ocean, it is only a first once and you don’t always share that with someone else. If the looking down wasn’t a dead giveaway, the intake of the woman’s breath and the protective arm the man put around her shoulder convinced me this was a first for them also. The three of us stood in complete silence, taking in the view together. Something is only truly new for fleeting seconds and after that, the brain begins it long descent into recognition and familiarity. As my brain took this decent I felt the excitement of discovery begin to fade, and the world around me creep back in. Soon my trip was back on my mind, the number of miles I had left to go, the fact that I was feeling hungry and the sun was warming the top of my head to an unpleasant fry-eggs-on-it temperature.

The couple next to me had not taken that descent yet so I watched and waited to see what outward signs would signal the event. It didn’t take long. The man reacted first, his arm came away from her shoulder, he followed some airborne insect with his eyes, and soon he was stretching in a bored, I have had enough of this manner. Much to my surprise the woman did not immediately take in the man’s cues. She lingered in her state just a few seconds longer than the rest of us. Perhaps trying to hang on to some long ago memory or feeling; whatever it was it allowed her just a few seconds more of that wonderment, and I envied her.

Back in my car, I pulled away from the overlook and got myself back up to my cruising speed. As I sped along, my thoughts turned to lunch and what little out of the way place I could find to try. I have never really liked the fast food industry with their square, flat hamburgers, drive thru windows and ‘would you like fries with’ that mantra. Give me a small diner, in the middle of nowhere, Flo yelling “Kiss My Grits”, and I’m in heaven. I came upon an exit with the town name of Hauge. I have always said that the only way to find someplace out of the way is to go, out of the way. I took the exit and waited to see where it would take me.

A few miles up the road a large white chicken, the height of a two-story building, rose in the distance. Well this is a first, I chuckled to myself. It reminded me of something out of the fifties. The towering Michelin man, the obscene rotating donut, except it was a white chicken, and smack in the middle of nowhere. As I got closer I realized it was sitting in front of a small country diner. Dwarfed by the huge chicken, most of the diner was in the shadows. I pulled in and decided if it had a huge chicken out front they must at a minimum serve food, and if it turned out to be a chicken packing plant, well, I did get to see the largest chicken I had ever seen so all was not lost.

I walked through the screen door and smack into a row of stools at a long, straight out of Happy Days counter. Not seeing a sign telling me to wait to be seated, I took the door to the right and was surprised to see the room open up into two small, cozy dining rooms.

The first had a fat potbelly stove in the corner, and two neat rows of six tables with checkered tablecloths. As I walked through the crowded room I stepped into the back dining room. Tables lined one wall of windows that over looked a fast rushing river. I chose a seat closet to the window and watched the water race over rocks and fallen trees. Peaceful was the only way to describe the scene. Again, the chicken crept into my mind and I laughed, trying to put the two complete opposites together. The cozy, quaintness of the dining rooms and the gaudy, commercialism of the mutant chicken just did not fit. I only hoped the food did not side with the latter.

The waitress wore jeans, blue t-shirt, sneakers and a red apron. She looked comfortable, friendly and completely at ease amongst the crowd of people all vying for her attention. In another life I had thought waiting tables might be a good way to make a few extra dollars. That turned out to be one of the many stupid ideas in my lifetime. Waiting tables takes more than skill; it is a gift if you will. Handling large amounts of information, heavy trays of food, and balance that I just did not, nor ever will, possess. Moreover, the personality of a saint and the guts of a bouncer, this girl had it all. As I watched, she flowed between tables, tray high overhead, delivering food and drinks all the while smiling, and laughing. She was a born waitress. If someone heard me say this, they might think I meant that in a derogatory sense, but it was a pure compliment. If I had said she was a born pilot no one would take offense, but change one word and right away, you have a negative connotation.

I admire anyone who is good at what they do no matter what their profession. If you work, earn a living for you and your family no matter what the job, you should be proud.

I began to think about jobs people are ashamed to admit they do while I waited for my lunch. The obvious came right to mind, garbage men. I have never understood the shame in this profession nor do I understand the person looking down their nose at them. I wondered, would I really want to get up early in the morning twice a week, load my garbage cans into the back of my car, and drive to wherever you take garbage? Would it be a landfill or a dump? Would I wait in a long line of other poor souls like myself waiting to unload their cans of trash? Then what, unload it into the landfill being careful not to mix my glass, plastic, or newspapers? Who knows how much I would be charged for this twice-weekly ritual. Then home to change, shower, and head to work. I was exhausted just thinking about it. I knew I would never be able to keep up that schedule for very long. I had a renewed respect for the garbage profession. They come early in the morning usually before I am even up. Taking everything away, they send me a bill once a month. An amount so small, I am almost giddy when I make out the check. Moreover, all they ask of me is to take my cans, which are on wheels, to the curb.

Thank you garbage men of the world, please never quit the wonderful service you provide me and I will never stop appreciating how important you and your profession is to all of us.

My lunch of soup - no, not chicken - and half a sandwich, came so quickly I didn’t even have time to muse over other much needed, seemingly embarrassing professions. The soup, tomato, was perfect. Made with milk not water, the way it should be. Cream of anything implies a dairy product does it not? Cream of tomato then should have at minimum milk if not actual cream. Growing up, I was always given cream of tomato made with water. I never understood this. I remember asking my Grandmother one day, “If it is called cream of tomato, then where is the cream?” She tried to explain, in that way adults do to children. That it was, somehow mixed in. All that was needed was water to turn it into cream of tomato. I must tell you, it did not sound right at five and it does not sound right now at forty-five. As I got older and was able to read the ingredients, I realized I had been lied to at a very tender age about something as mundane as soup. My soup and sandwich lived up to my belief that out of the way places have the best food. I cleaned my plate, paid my bill, left a generous tip, as I believe a waitress values her skills by the amount of her tips, and walked to my car. Before getting in, I looked up at the large chicken, thanked him for guiding me to such a wonderful place to eat, told him to keep up the good work, and sped off back to the highway.

It was well past noon, the sun was hanging low in the sky. As I drove, music playing in the background, I had to squint to keep the sunlight from blinding me. Pulling the visor down and donning a pair of sunglasses, I be-bopped to the music and let my mind wander. I wondered what my co-workers were doing at that exact moment. I had planned this road trip months in advance, and had requested the time off from work so there was no need to call in feigning illness. Everyone at work knew I was on my road trip and I began to wonder if they envied me my freedom while they were trapped indoors being forced to work. Work for an adult is a lot like school for children. We have set days and times we must be there, we are required to follow the rules, do as we are told, and our free time is lunch and breaks. If we want a day off just for the simple fact that we wake up and just cannot bear the thought of going in, are we allowed to call and say “I’m just not coming in, no reason. I am an adult and I have decided I do not want to come in today.” No, of course not. What are we forced to do? Pretend! Cough, sigh a few times, sneeze, and snuffle as if we are children playing hooky. Everyone can see right through it, we spend the rest of the day chained to our home in fear we might run into someone from work who will question our illness. Upon seeing us they will run back and tell everyone, that in their professional medical opinion, we are faking and playing hooky at forty-five.

I go to work so I can earn a paycheck. This pays my bills and allows me to do things like this road trip. If I do not go to work and pretend I am sick, I am able to use a sick day and will not be fired for it. If I call and say “I just do not feel like I can do this today”, they are under no obligation to pay me, I lose a day of pay, and if I do it often enough could be fired for it. They have essentially told me, don’t tell us the truth, we would rather you lie. As a reward for your lying we are going to pay you. To be honest I would rather call in and say “I am taking the day off! Yes I know I will not be paid. I do not mind. It is beautiful out, I want to go to the beach, and lay out in the sun. Move about freely through town without fear of being caught. And for all this I will be in tomorrow in a much better frame of mind. I will be sporting a great tan and ready to get to work.” I guess they just cannot handle the truth.

As I continue to drive, I see my exit up ahead. I have finally made it and right on time. The sun is just starting to set as I pull into my driveway. My house sits in front of me, small yellow light spilling out from between the curtains, welcoming me home. My road trip is done; I have made a full circle, felt compassion for a stranger, shared something new with someone else, laughed, worked out some problems in my head, ate well, and saw God’s beauty. You may think my road trip led nowhere; I hate to say it but you would be wrong. My road trip was never about a destination it was about the trip inside the trip.

Word Count: 3910