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January 14, 2005

Road Trip

Every road journal I've read recently from some other young writer usually regurgitates the same wanderlustful murmurings of the baby existentialist in all of us - the Kerouac syndrome. When I began my 1816 mile drive from Mundelein to Moscow I made it clear to myself in inner dialogues that I was decidedly not On The Road. No, the romance of the road wouldn't seduce me.

The time progressed much quicker than I at first thought it would. Once past the Mississippi River, the bleakest of bleak winter landscapes poured past my window until I entered the Rockies hundreds of miles later. However, I was armed against boredom with some dry historical books on compact disc which were both nerdishly and perversely fascinating to me. Drowsiness usually stopped in for a visit in late afternoon and I'd switch John Keegan for Iron and Wine or U2. I had brought along plenty of music for the trip, something I didn't exactly plan out, but which I was immensely thankful for in afterthought. A January South Dakota at dusk is dangerously hypnotic. The wind pushing the wisps of blue snow around the road ahead as far as you can see. The barest, flattest plains angling out from your peripheral vision until the horizon meets the grey sky. There is no movement - no other car in sight, no trees tilting with the strong wind, nor even any sign of livestock; there is only you, alone, with the greyness outside rushing past like some uncatchable thought or idea or future which you don't even know you really want.

So I'd turn on my compilation disc trying to give my mind something to counteract the lulling quality of the dead terrain outside. Nodding to Bono's journeyman backbeat, or cringing as my voice weakly raced to catch up with Elliot Smith's falsetto, I'd find myself thinking far too much.

When night came I'm sure the scenery outside hadn't changed at all. I was almost thankful that the heavy clouds above blocked out the stars and moon so that I didn't have to see anymore of the dreary roadside. But it was dark. So very dark. It reminded me at the time of Lewis' description of the Dark Island in Voyage of the Dawn Treader. The darkness seemed more of an active force, as if it were trying to swallow up the little perimeter of light my tiny Toyota Corolla drive lights was providing.

Everything seemed so empty. Looking out any window, I would see absolutely nothing - no shadow or dusky remnant of the world outside. Looking straight ahead I could make out the shining reflectors by the roadside flashing by in time-bound increments. Another vehicle would only very rarely drive swiftly past in the opposite direction, and when it did an insane moment of glee would pass by as well. It was similar to the feeling I had while visiting Tokyo when I would actually hear some caucasian speaking English at the fast-food counter, or see some young American tourist walking through the eight-story watch mall. There's someone I share something with - we understand one another. It's very absurd. If I had seen the same person in my hometown mall, it would mean less than nothing. And if I had found out that same person had voted for John Kerry or lacked the moral judgment to enjoy ketchup on his macaroni and cheese dinner, wouldn't I feel some sense of disappointment? Maybe. But the dizzying crowds of Tokyo and the vacuous darkness of the Dakotas change all that. No, the road changes that. The journey. Really, that is the root of affinity more than anything else. It is not the static which inspires likes and dislikes. If I find someone who writes fiction and short essays, I find myself immediately interested. But what is it that causes this interest? Certainly not the fact that he or she has written, but that he or she desires to write. It is a shared object of desire. A destination which draws us both. It's the common pilgrimage we all want to make.

This sense of desire for what is common, the lust for the journey we'd like to make unalone - I've known good friends take this same trip at the same time in the same age. But they haven't found what they're looking for. Or they don't think so. The road is disorienting, I know. I began longing for the hypnotic desolation of eastern South Dakota when the blizzard hit near Rapid City. I was forced to slow down to the crawling pace of 40 m.p.h. in order to avoid a nasty spill. The road ahead was covered under a heavy, trackless burden of snow and ice, and gusty winds shot torrents of the hellish white stuff at me - an innocent caught in the middle of some Dakota temper tantrum. With no road to follow, I finally - after two decades of life - understood what the reflectors on the side of the road were really for. Even though two-thirds of my windshield was iced over, I could still make out the lights going slowly past on either side. The weather at last did me in around Wall, South Dakota. I took shelter in a Motel 6 with scratchy shower towels, cheap coffee, and even cheaper nightly rates.

The next day was no more than deja vu, except for a very welcome respite along the Wyoming/Montana border. The snow had let up for the morning and early afternoon of my second day on the road, and with an open sky I was at last able to enjoy the scenery of the eastern Rockies. The way the sunlight sheened off the blindingly white mountains reminded me of an Alan Lee sketch of Tolkien's city of Gondor, the White City.

After Butte, I decided I was going to try to make it all the way home: something I calculated would take me through the relatively early hour of 1 a.m.

The weather didn't comply. Everything I said about the first blizzard goes for the second as well. Pride did me in: no way I could complete this long journey in January in two days. Idiot. For punishment, when snow forced me to take shelter at some shack hotel in Superior, Montana, I flipped through the TV channels, something I don't think I've done since we briefly had cable in our house when I was nine years old. This night I got a refresher in the utter repulsive inanity of American culture from the world of reality TV. I am so very glad that most Americans I know are nothing like this. Some masochistic urge led me to watch part of an episode of ElimiDate, which has to be the stupidest of the reality shows - that's saying a lot, but I'm sure anyone else would agree if they ever had the misfortune of watching an episode.

I finished off the trip next morning, trekking through Coeur D'Alene, all the small hamlets southward, and arriving in Moscow mid-morning.

It's good to be home. The journey was what it was; it might even be considered enjoyable. But I know if I had to live in that journey every day, it wouldn't be a journey anymore. Everything has a destination; even endless travels find their ultimate end. I wonder what the road could do to someone who wanted to desire too much the lesser things. What if they did share the road with others, found solace and friendship, but didn't know which exit to take. Wanting Jesus on their own terms, they keep going, searching, careening from side to side not realizing what they want is already behind them. They missed it when the blizzard struck. But maybe they could know others have made the same trip. Would make it again for their sakes if only they'd stop and see where they are.

So, yeah. I'm home. Thank you for your prayers. And as I said at the beginning, the romance of the road never could seduce me. Nah, I'm no romantic.

God, every road takes us farther from home

All these men that you made
How we wither in the shade
Of your trees, on your wings
We are carried to the sea

God give us love in the time that we have
    - Iron and Wine

Posted by Davey at January 14, 2005 05:22 PM

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Posted by: Alex at January 14, 2005 09:55 PM

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