The road (from the driver's perspective)

How do you measure a road trip? Not in miles traveled, but in experiences had. So how then do you measure the traveling itself? Too much of the trip is spent on the road in the car to be ignored. For this trip, I have assumed the role of driver. I do not have the luxury of contemplating hay bales or snapping a picture of every single water tower I see (though I do throroughly enjoy listening to Alex describe the scenery and love the excitement she experiences at discovering yet another water tower). My eyes are on the road and my fellow travelers to ensure that Alex and I arrive at our next destination. This is my best attempt to describe traveling America from behind the wheel...

 

In Lafayette, LA, Alex and I found that most people drove around in their cars and there was not really anyone walking on the streets to interview. At first I thought this was absurd. Walk much, Lousiana? Then I realized that it is the same where I live. People drive everywhere because the city is not really conducive to traveling by foot. This, and a random conversation we had with a yogi on Bourbon St., made me realize that our posessions very often seem to become an extension of ourselves. Though I am certainly not an automobile, and I wouldn't identify with one if you asked me, as I drive over the various streets of America, my little green SUV becomes an extension of myself. I connect with the roads, the veins of America's body. My fingers become its tires, tracing and caressing the road's every curve. I sway with every strong gust of wind that carries me on to the next destination. Its exciting to be traveling at such speed on, what I am convinced is the only thing that connects and unites the American people, the country's roads.

 

So then, how do you measure the car trip when you're driving? Sometimes minutes feel like hours and hours like mere moments so I can't say that I count the time it takes. I don't measure it in the miles that my poor little Kia is conquering on its Westward trek because to me measuring miles is meaningless. I have nothing to compare the immensity of a mile to and miles go by so quickly in the car. I would have to say that I measure the trip in bugs on my windshield. Each tiny squashed insect carcass is a welcoming splash from the next city. Some are little splotches from small cities who want to leave a mark on my life, but don't know how. These bugs squeak, “Thanks for passing by,” as they collide with the glass that has become my second lense. The biggest one so far was an oversized welcome from Texas, the state where everything is bigger! “Check out the quail farm,” it urges me before crashing against the windshield, “you can buy them live or frozen!” Each smudge is another battle scar on our green chariot that pushes further and further into new territory.

 

It would be interesting to see how many little insect bodies have found their way onto my windshield by the end of this trip, but at each gas station, I have to clean them off and make room for the next state's bugs to crash into me.

 

(Sarah)