Spokane!

I can’t write anything, and I don’t know why. I have no idea why. I thought moving across the country would open my mind and give me new adventures to draw from. Forget imagining stories; I’d live them, live them like Kerouac did, and write about them later. A road trip journal, full of my thoughts and the people I met and the places I broke down, yes, and it would be my best story ever, because it really happened.

And now I’m here in a Starbucks café, In the Mood playing over the speakers, notebook open and pencil ready…. But the only thing I’m in the mood for is watching passersby and listening in on their conversations. I’m alone, I have all Saturday night to myself, yet I seem to be unable to put story to paper.

And it’s not like my road trip lacked adventure – it was everything I could have wished for. A three thousand mile move, from my old home in New Hampshire to an apartment in Spokane, Washington, just me and my ten-year-old Golf and all my earthly possessions. It’s one of the longest roads through the states, I-90, my route. It curves around the Great Lakes, then back up again through the plains and the Rockies and ends in Seattle. East Coast to West Coast. Before I left, I had never driven farther than Connecticut by myself.

Friday, the day I left, it snowed. All day long, through New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, and Indiana. I counted 11 accidents in New York alone. Four of them were semis. I prayed all day long, 700 miles and 15 hours of prayer that the snow would stop or my car would see me safely through the blizzard.

I reached Ohio that night, leaving the snow behind somewhere in Indiana. Enjoying the clear roads, I drove to Toledo before finding a hotel. I told a friend on the phone: “I’m never gonna be afraid of driving in the snow again. I’m used to it, now.” He laughed and said there were 19 inches in New Hampshire and the snow hadn’t stopped yet.

I may not have been afraid of the snow, but I was still happy to see clear roads and sunny skies the next day. I had people to visit: friends in Chicago and Minnesota. I enjoyed each meeting – I had never met either friend in person – enjoyed seeing friendly faces, people to eat and smoke and fellowship with.

I drove 800 miles in and around meeting these friends, loving the 70, 75 speed limits when I hit Minnesota. The roads were a little icy by nightfall, but I paid no attention, driving 80, 90, 100, just playing with the road and my car and the black sky.

I have a premonition, I told a friend before I left. I saw a scene in my mind, as clearly as if it had already happened:

1. My car will break down, probably in Wyoming.
2. I will have to spend a week in a small, It’s a Wonderful Life town, waiting for a part to be shipped there so the mechanic could fix my car.
3. A wonderful family, as hospitable as people were 70 years ago, will give me a bed for the duration, feeding me and fellowshipping with me while I spend time milking cows and gathering eggs and repairing fences with them; somehow I will know how to do these things.
4. I will not want to leave when my car is finally fixed. I might decide to stay there forever and marry the family’s oldest daughter. This part was not as clear as the rest.

We laughed, enjoying the fantasy and embellishing upon it. I should have remembered to be more careful in my daydreams. As in fairy tales, too often they come true.

It wasn’t Wyoming – a few of the details I got wrong, apparently. My car died in Minnesota instead, 50 miles from South Dakota and 60 miles from anything resembling a city. It was the prefect setting. For five minutes all I could do was laugh – I was more amused than worried.

I called Triple A and they sent a tow truck driven by a friendly small town man with a Midwest accent. He brought me the 60 miles to the VW dealer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but it was Sunday, and on Sunday there are no mechanics working in that area of the country.

I waited at a hotel. I waited, and called friends, and went twice to the theatre, and waited more. I wandered aimlessly through the mall. I ate at Outback, wishing I was 21, if just for one day, for a cold Guinness draught would not have gone amiss.

I went to bed late and fell asleep laughing softly at my situation, but not knowing why. Who knew how long I would be stuck there? Or if my car was even salvageable? I don’t know why I didn’t worry about it more, but even the fact that I wasn’t worrying struck me as funny.

The next day was spent the same way – waiting, browsing the mall, watching VH1, wishing the theatre opened earlier but knowing that I had seen all the good movies. I called the VW dealer as soon as they opened:

“We’ll take a look at it this morning.”

“I know you’re busy, but I need to be in Washington tomorrow night.” I didn’t, but I wanted them to rush.

“Washington state? You’re crazy.” Yeah. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I went to the mall again and talked with whatever employees had the time and inclination to chat. It was the Midwest, and it was Monday morning. I didn’t suffer for want of conversation partners.

The dealer called at 2:00. “It seems there was a coolant leak. Two of them, actually. It’ll be ready to go in an hour. We’ll send a van to pick you up at your hotel.”

I left Sioux Falls an hour and a half later, less $500 and two days behind schedule. But I shouted as I left – long and loud – glad to be on my way again. I drove 500 miles that night, till I reached Wyoming and crashed at a Best Western. Maybe it had beautiful sunsets on the plains, and herds of buffalo, and friendly people, but I didn’t want to spend another night in South Dakota.

By the next morning I had no inclination to drive. My two-day break left me without the energy I had before. I took comfort in the sunrise over the Wyoming hills, the 75 mph speed limits, but even then I wanted to be with my friends in Spokane that night, away from hotels and driving and fast food.

Montana was the worst state of the trip. It felt longer than South Dakota or New York – I’m not sure if it really was. I can’t remember. I stopped twice for breakfast, once for lunch, each time seeing happy cheerful natives, thinking: Have you no sympathy for me? Couldn’t you give me a smile, tell me that it’s not far after all, that Spokane is coming up quickly, just around the bend, almost there…. No such encouragement was forthcoming. Not even a friendly slap on the back, “You’re doing alright there, Tim.” I felt lonely.

I sang to the Counting Crow’s Hard Candy. I listened to Ryan Adams and Lucinda Williams – poor driving music, but they were about loneliness and I liked the way they made me feel. How does that type of music encourage you when you’re sad? Is it knowing that someone, somewhere, has it worse? I wonder.

And finally: the Idaho border was 50 miles away. Spokane a hundred miles or so beyond that. I called my future roommate and told him I’d be there by 6:30. “Cool. Give me a call when you hit Spokane. We’re going bowling tonight. Join us?” Hell yeah.

I hung up, and suddenly there were flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I pulled over, then: “Hi, I’m Officer Redding of the Montana State Police.” I nodded. “This is an investigative stop. Based on what you say, I’ll decide to let you go, write you a ticket, or place you under arrest.” More nodding, scared nodding, please-let-me-go-I’m-really-a-nice-Christian-guy nodding. “You were going 87 in a 75.” That slow? I was going 93, last I looked. “May I have your license and registration?”

Five minutes later I was on the road, ticketed, less the $40 fine I paid in cash. I stayed much closer to the speed limit till I reached Idaho, planning (God help me) to speed then to make up for lost time. But in the icy mountain passes and growing twilight I could only go 65.

Spokane: 70 miles, and I was forgetting my loneliness. “Spokane!” I shouted. 50 miles, 25, 15, and I was in Washington fighting rush hour traffic – not fighting, but dancing with, weaving through at 85 mph, excited, listening to Brian Setzer, calling friends and shouting victory through the phone.

Spokane – I made it, I was actually doing this, moving here, 3,000 miles away from the last place I called home. My new apartment was waiting for me after bowling, my life away from family and New England about to begin.

And now – now the café is closing, and my roommate is waiting for me to return with a video for tonight. Tomorrow it is three weeks since I arrived, and there’s still no furniture in my apartment, but… who needs furniture? The less I buy, the less I have to pack in the car for my next road trip.