We’d planned on leaving at 8:30am,
but there is of course some delay.
Probably this is my fault, since I’m rarely on time for anything, and
never early. The alarm had gone
off at 8ish, and I’d heard Caitlin moving around to take a shower, but as
always I milked it for all it was worth and snoozed until the last minute. But, being a guy, I’m ready for the day
in about ten minutes flat whereas Caitlin, lady that she is, takes a bit of
time. All said and done, we about
even out, and are ready to hit the road at about the same time.
There’s the logistical nightmare of
getting the car composed again, after trashing it trying to get to all the
personal effects and necessities we’d buried in the packing. Also, Lilly must be extracted from the
hotel, and already I know that this will become a running theme of the trip.
 |
| Mad cat. |
We get the cat and our overnight
gear into the car, and decide to scope the continental breakfast. Somewhat comically, Caitlin is wildly
impressed, and sets about concocting some sort of hyper-sugared, fruit-infused
oatmeal. I prep coffee, which she
takes “platinum bimbo” - that is, heavy cream and heavy sugar. I’ve gotten so that I can no longer
stomach breakfast anymore, but a glass of apple juice settles me pretty well.
When we reemerge from the hotel,
that ominous cloud cover has manifested itself in the form of a light
snowfall. We both throw minor
fits, and seriously consider checking back into the hotel. The last thing I want to do is push the
Toyota’s limits with black ice, snow, slush, and whatever other forms of
precipitation Mother Nature can throw at us.
“But, it’s not really sticking,”
Caitlin concedes. “The ground is
too warm. Maybe we can get a
little bit of driving in, and if it’s too bad we can pull over.”
“If we got as far a Louisville and
the weather is still bad, we could just shack up at one of the places Michael
suggested, do dinner like we wanted to, and then get back on track tomorrow…”
This seems agreeable and so,
suicidally, we hit the road. Less
breakneck today, and I try and keep it around 50. Last thing we need is this already-jumpy car deciding to
catch a gust of wind and hit an ice patch simultaneously.
“Ehrm… Daniel?”
“I know.”
The flurries of earlier have gotten
a little bigger and badder, and we’re now driving through a veritable
blizzard. I’d been nervous on
I-81, but this is really stressing me out. I get behind a jeep, keeping a respectful distance. Theory here being: If the road gets too
gnarly for the jeep, then it is most certainly too gnarly for us. Canary in a coal mine mentality, that
sorta thing.
But, just when the snowfall is at
it’s worst and we’re about to call it quits on the day, the weather
clears. So our travel day is
saved, and we keep on keeping on.
And, as the road becomes less hazardous, I slip back into the rhythm of
the day before: hours at a time at a steady 80mph. Uninterrupted momentum. Sustained speed.
Westward movement.
Well, maybe not completely
uninterrupted. Roundabouts noon, I
spy a sign: Equus Run Winery. Yeah, that’s right. Kentucky wine.
And Caitlin knows my curiosity is
piqued, and consents to the detour.
So, we take an off ramp and a dirt road, against the obnoxious and
monotoned protestations of the gps.
“Recalculating… Turn left, NOW!”
If I had a nickel.
It’s a cute little place, though
are reception is somewhat cold. A
frumpy, middle-aged-plus housewife type, who Caitlin immediately pegs as a
lesbian. Yeah well, maybe she’d
know, Caitlin’s having slight tendencies herself, I gather. Anyhow, the woman does warm up, although
perhaps more towards my traveling companion than to me personally.
It’s kind of a cool set up, the
deal being five bucks for your choice of six wines, from a lineup of maybe
fifteen or so. We try and steer
Caitlin towards the sweeter stuff, a Riesling and a summer white and a dessert
wine. Some cool stuff I’m
interested in trying, as well: a vio, tempranillo, grenache. They aren’t bad but, much to my
disappointment, the barkeep discloses that at least half of the juice is coming
from Lodi, and I suspect the percentage might be higher than she’s letting
on. The last wine Caitlin
absolutely adores, one of those chocolate-infused monstrosities.
The barkeep suggests, for lunch, a
little sandwich shop just beyond the historic district of whatever Kentucky
town it is we’re near. We listen
politely enough, and she is kind enough to write out step-by-step directions
for us. But, on our way through
the parking lot back to the car, we both decide that we’re not quite hungry
enough to eat just yet.
Pulling out back onto the road, I
glance at the rearview mirror, and am startled to see Lilly’s feline face
taking up my entire field of vision.
Somehow, the cat had sprung herself free. Jailbreak, as it were.
Neither Caitlin or I have the energy to get her back in the crate while
the car is moving, and anyway we figure it’d be good for her to stretch her
limbs. Lilly stalks about the car,
and this gets comical and then dangerous when she decides to crawl into my lap,
up the steering wheel and across the dashboard.
After another hour or so of
driving, having toasted another tank of gasoline, we pull off at one of those
combination fast food/gas station affairs. The latter is a Shell, and the former is a White Castle, which
Caitlin is extremely excited about.
“Isn’t that a, like, stoner thing?”
White Castle is, indeed, a stoner
thing. At least for our
generation. We get out of the car,
thwarting an escape attempt from Lilly, and quickly realize that this place is
not as lovable as Hollywood has made it out to be. It’s populated by the most miserable of people: A pink and bearded, real pederast
looking type, wearing just coveralls.
A pair of seedy Latinos. A
miserable looking elderly couple, who I suspect may only keep breathing out of
spite for each other.
We order food, but Caitlin insists
on going back to the car to eat.
“Too many hairy eyeballs,” she sez. Dumb me, I hadn’t noticed. Probably should have, and fought someone. But, anyhow, this gets us on the
subject of the Cold War Kids, and I try to recall a pertinent line.
“Ehrm… Every man I fall for, something something something… When other men pass by blinkin’ their
eyes at me, he always picks a fight.”
We blow that particular popsicle
stand, keel perpetually pointed westward and into the setting sun. We’ve burnt through much of the CD
collection, and are at this point digesting the Last of the Mohicans OST pretty thoroughly. I can’t help but narrate to “Promontory.” The chase, the death of Uncas, Cora’s
suicide.
“Dude, we have to watch this movie
tonight.”
“Affirm, little lady.”
 |
| Caught nappin'. Sleeping like a dead man. |
At some point we decide to switch
off driving duties. I milk it for
what it’s worth, whittling the gas tank down to damn near empty before pulling
over at what is probably the last gas station for 60 miles on this particularly
desolate stretch of Kentucky. I
step into the station to relieve myself and, on my way back out, notice Jack
Daniels and Coca-Cola in a bottle.
Immediately, I want it.
“Caitlin, they have whiskey-coke in
a bottle here.”
“You want it?”
“Aw, I dunno… With us driving and all?”
“I’ll drive, and I don’t mind. Get it!”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice,
but she does yell “Chapstick!” at me, because she’s lost several on this trip
already. As I pick out my poison,
I take stock of the rest of the store: POW and “Don’t Tread On Me” flags,
Confederate memorabilia, knives and Zippos for sale at the counter… No chapstick though. Until the clerk, who does not check my
ID, points them out, next to the knives.
Thus, with me warmed body and soul
by my whiskey, and Caitlin appropriately lubricated from the biting Midwest
elements, we get back on the road.
Caitlin drives for a bit, taking us through St. Louis and over the
Mississippi, which is worthwhile just for the novelty of the experience,
although we both fall in love with the bridges, these huge iron structures
channeling us across the water.
And we both have a good laugh at the KFC “YUM!” convention center
because, well, this is Kentucky and while that seems fitting it’s also completely ridiculous. Caitlin
catches me napping as we cross the state line into Kansas, and I miss much
after this.
We’d been hoping to make Kansas
City, and do the downtown hotel bit as well as visit a speakeasy later in the
evening. Alas, after maybe twelve
hours of driving, we call quits, and fall short of the goal. Lilly hasn’t eaten or gone piddle all
day, and it is another 90 miles to the city. And, after this long haul, Last of the Mohicans is sounding pretty inviting. We decide to shack up for the night,
and start scouring the area for a hotel.
“We must find a place with an
indoor pool.”
I nod, in emphatic agreement. I like the idea, but I know Caitlin is
downright stuck on it. The Hampton
from last night had had a pool but, alas, it was out of commission. So, as we circle a Holiday Inn and some
other, seedier hotel chain, Caitlin decides to call the front desk.
Perhaps she should have utilized a
little more tact, but that is neither here nor there. First words out of the girl’s mouth are: “Hi, do you have an
indoor pool?”
Affirm, but only for registered
guests.
“Oh, okay. Do you have any vacancies?”
Negative. All booked up.
Wellllll shit… We’re somewhat deflated here, now, and
take a moment to contemplate out next move, car still running and stopped in
the middle of this access road.
I do one of my sharp inhales, or
guttural clicks or whatever mannerism it is that signifies that I’m about to
speak, and that Caitlin has picked up on of late, making me hyper
self-conscious about it. She gives
me a moment. Then, laughs, and:
“Spit it out, Daniel!”
“I feel like they do still have
rooms available, they just didn’t want some punk kids pool hopping on them.”
Caitlin ponders this, is slightly
miffed and becomes slightly indignant over the implications, but we pull into a
parking spot, and it is decided that I will go parley with the concierge.
Minutes later, I return to the car
and get back in the driver’s seat, shit-eating grin on my face.
“Well?”
“Two rooms available. Queen’s suite, smoking…”
“And…”
“And king suite. Non-smoking.”
“King’s suite, of course!”
We grab our night gear, and walk in
like we own the place. Caitlin
makes arrangements, giving the desk clerk the evil eye the whole time, this
despite me telling her not to blow cover.
“Here are your cardkeys and your internet
password. And the pool and hot tub
are open to guests until eleven.”
“Oh, they are?”
Scathing sarcasm, feigned surprise.
Again, there’s the smuggling
operation with the cat. Wine is
brought in, too, and we set about drinking, trying to kill a few of the opens
we have lingering about. I get
sent down to procure takeout menus.
Turns out we’re in a pretty dry stretch of Missouri, and the only places
delivering are Pizza Hut and another Chinese restaurant.
And so, pineapple pizza and wings
it is.
She whispers at me, who’s on the
phone: “Get the wings extra mild!”
Well, this feels silly, but: “Uh, can we get the wings, uh… Extra mild?”
Caitlin’s been casing the joint,
and reports in, irritated, that the pool is occupied. We decide to sit down and watch a few episodes of It’s
Always Sunny. This is good television to drink to, and a good way to kill
time, both until pizza arrives and until the pool empties out.
Also, I suddenly learn why Caitlin
was slightly offended by the time I described her as being “birdy”: “Shut up, Dee. You look like a bird.”
Pizza comes, and Caitlin develops
an immediate and lingering crush on the delivery boy, aged maybe nineteen. Such a cradle robber.
We lay out the spread, and it’s
actually exactly what we needed.
Or what I needed, at any rate.
We cue up Last of the Mohicans,
and tuck in. But, the AC unit is
too loud for the tiny Macbook speakers, and we’re getting drunk and restless,
anyway. It’s close to closing
time, too, and so we decide to get in the pool while the getting’s good.
All I have are running shorts,
although Caitlin is well prepared with a bikini. Down at the pool, a group of four, two real meathead-types
and their nearly retarded girlfriends, have staked out the hot tub. A line is drawn in the sand, and
Caitlin and I take over the pool.
I’m a very weak swimmer, having
never developed the necessary breathing technique and being unable to stand
having my eyes open underwater. I
propel myself, blindly and in a single direction, blowing air until I’m no longer
buoyant enough to float and sink to the bottom, to come bursting up for air at
the last moment.
Caitlin is my foil. She is graceful in the water, can turn
herself on a dime and effectively evade me in any of those aquatic games that a
boy and a girl will play when alone together in water.
“I’m a water baby,” she sez.
 |
| Mohawk: a generous scalping patch. |
At first, I assume this means that
her mother, who I know to be a holistic practitioner, had given a natural birth
to Caitlin, one of those rituals where the baby is born into the water. It would make sense, then, that
children born in such ways would have an attraction, and easiness and a comfort
in the water.
Caitlin laughs. No, she only loves the water, and her
connection to it was not instilled at birth, but in some other way.
The gorillas abandon the hot tub,
and Caitlin and I move in for the requisition. Perfect timing, as the chill was starting to set in.
I love hot tubs. Love sinking in up to my neck and
letting all of those back muscles loose themselves. Love the nostalgia of my collegiate, athletic days that hot
water harkens back.
We stay in the hot tub, which
Caitlin, weirdly, keeps pronouncing “tot hub,” until I’m sweating like I just
woke up from a night terror. Then,
as we’re about to leave, someone turns out the lights on us. Naturally, we have to linger, for the
sake of breaking rules if nothing else.
Sneaking around with the lights out and up to our neck in hot water, it
feels like Nam.
Finally, we have to go. Due to the massive dehydration effect
of the hot tub, combined with my generally high intake of diuretics like
alcohol and caffeine, I develop a splitting headache. We slide into the pool
real quick to cool off, and this is actually not as bracing as I would have
thought. We dry off, and make our
way back to the room. We guzzle
water and Caitlin, holistic and caregiver that she is, is nice enough to give
me a temple massage, which massively alleviates my pounding head.
We put ourselves down for the
night.
* *
*
We’d decided to take an easy day
from travel, after such a marathon drive the day before, and so sleep in on
Saturday. We plan on going into
the city, hitting up a few museums and that speakeasy we so wanted to visit,
and then head west to visit my Uncle Dan and Aunt Ann in Kansas, who I hadn’t
seen in some time. I’d mentioned
that part of the Callan clan lived in Lawrence, just west of Kansas City, and
both Caitlin and her mother had insisted we detour to see them, much to my
relief. So, at eleven or so, after
having dragged ass all morning and eaten leftover pizza for breakfast since
we’d missed the continental, I put in a call to my Uncle Dan. He gave us some ideas for places to go,
and we tried to coordinate a rendezvous for later in the evening.
Caitlin is on a CD burning tear,
which is infectious. We’ve been
relying solely on her CD player; she doesn’t have an MP3 hookup. And, after two days on the road, most
all the discs we’d brought with us from VA have been massively overplayed. So, we burn more. Lots more. In fact, on this trip music is imperative for survival, and
we’re burning as many CDs as we are burning bridges to our enemies, which is
saying something. Especially for
Caitlin, who’s picked up and moved on and left every last one of them
behind. Well, excepting me, who
she’s inexplicably picked up, too.
We’d meant to do it the night
before, but had been too tired to get around to cutting my hair. So, we take up scissors, and set about
giving me a mohawk. This was partly
inspired by Last of the Mohicans; something about Mohawk Indians leaving a
“generous scalping patch” for their enemies. Hence, the “mohawk” hairdo. Only Caitlin doesn’t quite grasp the concept, and cuts off
the back of it. So, basically I
just end up with a bad haircut. We
make a mess, and I suspect I’ll be itchy all day
Eventually we get the hint; the
maids keep knocking on the door and asking us when we’re leaving. And so we make our escape.
Caitlin thinks she will literally
die if we don’t eat before we get to Kansas City, ETA 2:30pm. So, we pull into a Wendy’s drive
through, and deliberate for a moment until Caitlin becomes ecstatic upon
realizing that oatmeal is on the breakfast menu, and she continues her cereal
kick. I order up a lemonade, but
am disappointed when it tastes overwhelmingly of aspartame.
Back on the road, this part of
Kansas is as gray as Missouri, although not the endless expanse of “nothing”
people so often warn against to those of us driving across the country. Again, this is a stretch that we can
haul ass through, and I’ve become not just used to but indeed fond of state
sponsored speeds of 85mph.
Uncle Dan had said that Kansas City
barbecue was a must while in the city, and that Arthur Bryant’s was the cream
of the crop. Blindly, we let the
gps lead us into Kansas City, into a part of the metropolis that seems more
like Detroit or Baltimore than it does an urban center of Kansas. It’s urban decay all around, and very
close to ghetto status. I am
somewhat sketched out, and Caitlin is quite seriously sketched out, but we find
the barbecue pit, and there’s no turning back now.
“You should take off your bandana.”
“What?”
“It’s red. Someone might think they’re gang
colors.”
“Oh… Should I bring my knife?”
“I think you should bring your
knife.”
 |
| Almost made it. |
We lock our doors, and double check
to make sure they are locked, then head in, not knowing what to expect. Actually though, the place is fairly
crowded, and has a pretty congenial vibe to it. The ordering system is a little confusing, subsisting mostly
of a line up to a set of windows, behind which a bunch of kids are haphazardly
cutting meat and making sandwiches.
I get pretty excited though when I see the British chip system put into
play: to-go orders are rolled up in simple brown paper, greasy as all
hell. After standing around for a
minute, Caitlin somehow attracts enough attention to place an order for some
ribs in. I place an order for a
pulled port sandwich, but the guy I’d ostensibly ordered from promptly
disappears for ten minutes. Just
when I’d about given up on ever seeing my food, a plate full of fries and the
sloppiest pulled pork sandwich I’d ever seen appears.
We grab some seats, sauce up, and
tuck in. Uncle Dan had been right,
it was damn good grub.
“You’re not allowed to look at me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because. It’s messy.”
And she is. I try to avert my eyes out of deference
to the young lady’s modesty but, even so, I can tell. Those ribs are messy.
After eating until bloated, and
with meat still stuck between our teeth, we drive a few blocks, to where gps
sez the Boulevard Brewing Co. should have their facilities, and a free
tour. After some difficulty we
realize, duh, that a giant obelisk or smoke stack or something, emblazoned
“Boulevard” on the side, marks the location. However, we are thwarted, and the tour is overbooked. We decide to try for a backup plan:
aquarium.
 |
| "Trust the tube." |
Well, again, thwarted. The line to get into the aquarium is
stupidly long, and it is bitingly cold out here. Final straw comes when a man drags his kid out of the line
to go find someplace for the boy to take a piss. In passing, he tells us they’ve been there for an over an
hour.
We’ve not got time for such
nonsense. Instead, we decide to
take a stroll around the block, to find some sort of modern art display we’d
passed by earlier, which we assume must mean there’s an art museum nearby. After a few minutes, we find the
sculpture, and Caitlin snorts dismissively at the plaque explaining that this
thing was a representation of Shiva.
Somewhat disappointed by the losing streak we’re on, we try to make our
way back to the parking deck where we’d left the car. Instead, we end up in some sort of strange blue tube thing, which somehow connects several of the buildings in
the vicinity via these over-street walkways. It is confusing, and we are seemingly surrounded by
wheelchair-bound persons. It is at
this point that we develop hysterics and start cracking up at nothing and
everything in particular, probably some combination of travel fatigue and the
fact that we get along so well.
Anyway, after a bit of silliness
the tube finally dumps us in the parking garage, or near enough to it. Then there is, of course, the
limbo-esque experience of trying to locate the car, and after that the
navigation of the subterranean prison that is any parking deck. Really, the whole thing plays out kinda
like that Seinfeld episode.
The day is salvaged, however, by
the Kemper Contemporary Art Museum.
We knew we were on the right track when, just outside the museum, we
came across a row of grotesque sculptured heads and then, even more exciting,
one of Louise Bourgeois’s giant spider sculptures, which guarded the entrance.
We kicked around Kemper for an hour or so, impressed by some of the exhibits
and underwhelmed by others. On a
whole though, it was quite good, and we left Kansas City on a high note.
We’d arranged to meet the Kansas
Callan’s at a sports bar in Lawrence at around 7pm, and made all haste to get
there. Kansas University was
playing that night and, Lawrence being a rabid college town, the populace had
turned out en masse to support the hometown heroes. I spiy Uncle Dan through the crowded bar, although it takes
him a second to recognize me.
Which is fair, since it had been years since I’d seen him and I’m sure
I’ve grown up quite a bit since then.
And, similarly, I barely recognize Samuel, who’s built like a bull
anymore, a far cry from the scrawny kid I’d probably last seen when we were
both still children. I find Aunt
Ann tucked away on a bench, waiting for our hostess to seat us, and Sadie is
there with her baby boy, Pearson, who I’m just seeing for the first time Also
here is Sadie’s husband Michael, who I’ve not yet met.
We finally do get seated, and it’s
a good time, catching up with everyone, and I even get a bit caught up in the
KU game, what with the infectiousness of the crowd’s enthusiasm and Kansas
stomping Texas and all. Sam’s older
brother Matt even joins us for a beer, partway through the evening, and it’s a
full on family reunion. We shoot
the shat, swapping family gossip and relating the recent happenings of the clan
members. But it’s growing late and
we have road in front of us so, all to soon, it is time for Caitlin and I to
move on.
We put rubber to pavement again,
and I find I can’t drive any slower than 70mph anymore. My foot just takes over. I even freak myself out a bit, when I
come out of my little road hypnosis spells and realize that I’m doing 90 in the
pitch black dark.
After maybe two hours of driving,
we hit Junction City, and scour for another Holiday Inn, having had such a good
experience at the last one. We do
find one and, though it isn’t as nice as the one we’d stayed at in Missouri, it
fits the bill. After going through
the chore of fishing out our nighttime necessities from the car, along with the
cat, we turn in. I’m too tired to
even get drunk, and we just hit hay.
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