The Outward Journey, At Any Rate. (Day One)

            Valentine’s Day arrives, which is D-day for us.  Departure day.  I was hungover and sleep-deprived from a night of send-off revelry, which itself was a combination of the Ommegang beer dinner at Tuskies with my father and family friend Harry Davis, and closing out Payne’s with Yuengling and rail-whiskey.  Nonetheless, at 8:30am I rouse myself, and set out to pack up the last of my belongings, which will be taken to a storage unit my parents maintain in Purcellville.  The possessions are as follows: four milk crates worth of books, one trash bag of miscellaneous (mostly winter) clothing, one box of short stories, poems and aborted novels, and one box of assorted personal effects.  What I’m bringing with me on my jaunt has been reduced to my father’s old army-issue duffel and an additional backpack, plus the case of wine Nate and Sarah had pulled together, to be disposed of as we blitz the country.

            Caitlin calls, and is having second thoughts about our imminent departure.  I’d pushed for a Valentine’s Day exodus from the beginning, something about Caitlin and I being heartbreakers.  Or something.  But, she’s feeling unprepared and like she has unfinished business in Virginia and, well, what can I do?  She’s my ride across the country.  But, my old man has taken off work today, somewhat from the hangover we’d incurred together, but mostly so that he could drive me into Middleburg, and then take the jeep back to his place.
            “Well, look,” I tell her.  “I’ll come to your burg, and we’ll load up your car.  I’ll bum around town, and stay out of your hair so you can take care of whatever you need to.  If we decide not to leave today, I’ll crash at Sarah’s and we can get an early start on the day.”

The Kid, last day.

            Mom and Jen stop by as I’m finishing my packing, bearing Valentine’s cards and here to say farewell.  Jen’s actually in pretty high spirits, considering how much time we spend together and considering how much resistance she’s put up against my leaving for any prolonged period of time.  But today, she’s all big-hugs.

            But mom whispers, behind Jen’s back, that the Kid has been crying all morning.  And, as the last of my things get packed into the jeep and mom pulls out in her little Nissan, she pulls over to the side of the road, and indicates that the Kid is distressed.
            And indeed, she’s curled up in the back, and the waterworks are running.  So, we do have our emotional goodbye moment, and then we part ways.
            The trip to Middleburg is quiet, but dad and I have our goodbye, of sorts, as well.  We’ve gotten along well in the last few months, and I worry about the guy.
            We get into town, and in a few minutes Caitlin appears to let us into her apartment.  Old man and her become acquainted, and we bring my bags into the staircase commons leading to her place.  Already, her little green Toyota is packed to the gills, and we still have my bags, the wine, and whatever’s left in her apartment.
            “I’ll bet you didn’t roll your clothes,” she says.  “We can get your bag to half that size.”

             Last goodbye and a handshake for the old man:
             “Take care of yourself, stay out of trouble.”
             “You too, pops.  See you on the other side.”
             And then, the old man is gone.  Almost immediately, shakes set in, which hasn’t been uncommon lately, though this set seems more specifically instigated, while the rest have been “Big Picture” symptoms.
            “He’s not what I expected,” Caitlin says.  And then, as an afterthought:  “He’s worried about you.”
            This is true, and reciprocal.
            As we unpack my duffel and set about folding my clothes in accordance with Caitlin’s über-space-conservative technique, I try to feel out her feelings about departing today.  But, it seems that, in the two or three hours since I last talked to her, Caitlin’s done a one-eighty.
            “Dude, I don’t even care.  I need to get out of this place.”
            Seems Caitlin has decided to forego most of the farewells she’d been planning; this place has left a bad taste in her mouth.  And the ex is here, and Middleburg ain’t big enough for the two of them.
            Sarah shows, and her and Caitlin retreat to a back room so that the departee can push off excess clothing and, especially, shoes.  Meanwhile I finish repacking my duffel.  The girls finish up, still somewhat giddily talking about the dinner that Nate is taking Sarah to this evening, and we start schlepping stuff down to the Toyota.  We catch Lilly the cat who, knowing what’s coming, has been hiding under the bad.  After Sarah and I flush her out, Caitlin grabs her by the scruff and lowers her, clawing and meowing till the end, into her cage.

“It’s not gonna fit.”

“It’s gonna fit!”
             Sarah takes charge, and squeezes Lilly into the back seat, as well as the case of wine.  Somehow, small miracle, it actually does all fit.  Sarah gives her goodbyes, and relays a “Bon voyage” from Nate.

Caitlin had worried about a breakdown while leaving the state, so I’d offered to drive the first leg of the trip.  She lets me get comfortable and situated in the drivers seat while she takes a jaunt around the corner to say goodbye to her friend Lauren.  No go, though, Lauren is out.  And Caitlin doesn’t want to stick around any longer.

A quick stop by the post office, where Caitlin has Valentines waiting from her mother.  Minor delay as Caitlin, as directionally-challenged as women tend to be, tries to direct us eastward.

“Uhm, I’m pretty sure we want to go west…”

“But, isn’t 66 in Fairfax?”

“But we’re picking up I-81, out in Winchester.  And we can pick up 66 out here.”

I head west anyway, as Caitlin powers up the gps, which confirms my inklings.  Already, I have fulfilled my duties, overcoming the first of our orientation challenges and ensuring that the girl arrives safely in Boulder.

Caitlin does pretty well, though, and there are no hysterics.  Instead, she feels good, and it is good to leave Virginia in this way, through the most scenic parts of Loudoun, Fauquier and Clarke counties.  I reminisce about my younger, more formative years as we pass through my old stomping grounds, and Caitlin plays copilot and passes me twizzlers and a glass orangina bottle.

The Slamdance Kid takes the wheel.

But, all too soon, we head south on 81, a 110-mile, nerve-wracking experience of dodging towering, hulking semis at 80mph.  Doubly dangerous, the Toyota at these speeds gets blown around the road by the wind, and on top of that it’s pulling to the left.  I have daymares of us getting sucked under one of these monolithic rigs, our little vehicle getting chewed up and spit out by those eighteen wheels.  But, heedless, we tear down interstate, listening to French café music which, weirdly enough, Caitlin and I have both taken quite a shine to.

Latter half of 81 is gorgeous, all Appalachians and the Breadbasket of the South.  The tractor-trailers thin out, as does the rest of the traffic, and soon we’ve got the road almost to ourselves.  The weather’s in the 50’s and goddamn idyllic, perfect travel weather.

I’m getting comfortable with the prolonged, higher speeds of the interstates.  I’ve always been a fairly law-abiding character, and have never had a speeding ticket.  So, with speed limits of 75mph, and me willing to push it 10 over that, we're covering ground just about as fast as I’ve ever traveled in my life.

By the time we’ve turned west on 64 and burnt half a tank of gas, we’ve noticed weird sounds coming from the back of the car.  We decide to pull over and scope it out, taking the opportunity to refuel as well.  Turns out, the little Toyota is so overburdened that the tires are rubbing against the inside of the wheel wells.  Nothing to be done about that, and we decide to press on.  Before we pull out, Caitlin gets a call from Sarah.

“You have news?  Good news or bad news?”  This is followed by an ear-piercing scream, especially when contained in the confines of the car.  Many of us had long suspected it would happen, but it seems that Nate had proposed.  Much congratulation is circulated, and then we continue on our way.

Plan had been to press on till Louisville, grab a hotel and do a nice dinner at a place that Michael, a friend of Caitlin's parents, had suggested we check out.  But, it is Valentine’s Day, and seems like everyone is shacking up at hotels for the night, and there’s no vacancies downtown.  Since we’d had a late start on the day, we decide to check in at a Hampton outside of town.  We sneak Lilly, in her PetTaxi, in through a side door, giddy with nervousness and James-Bonding our way dawn hallways and up staircases to our room.  And, instead of going out, we have Chinese delivered.  We have a lot of muscato, which seems ideal for a Chinese take-out dinner.

Caitlin points out a number of spelling and grammar errors on the Chinese food menu.  “I don’t know if I trust this place.”

“What are you talking about?  Spelling errors on the menu are a sure sign of an authentic Chinese restaurant.  In fact, I’m going to have whatever dish has the most butchered description.  Hmmm… Sesame Chicken: Chunked of chicken in brown sauce.”

Chinese food and Kung Fu flicks.

It’s an ungodly amount of food, when it shows up.  Hot and sour soup, General Tso’s, dumplings and, on a whim, Chinese donuts.  It’s all delicious, but the donuts are surprisingly good, just these flash-fried little balls of dough covered in powdered sugar.  And we get ten of them for $3.50.

To round out the night and compliment our Chinese food, we decide to watch kung fu flicks, à la Yojimbo and Afro Samurai.  It’s a good time and, all in all, it ain’t a bad way to spend Valentine’s.