I rented a car from a place that was no longer where I thought it was. The signage was gone when we pulled up, and the windows were obstructed with brown paper. I called to make sure I wasn't getting bamboozled. You'd figure if a place was open for business and waiting for you, they would notify you that they, you know, moved. "Oh, we're in the mall now, across from the deli." Great. Your car lot is now part of a regular mall parking lot? Which cars are yours? "The ones alongside the trees", she said. Super. Here's a few hundred bucks while I try and go find this red Hyundai, my fancy ride for the next few days.
I thought I could totally bring my storage book of CD's to play during the ride. Wouldn't you know it, this 2019 car didn't have a disc player. What it did have, however, was a touch screen on the dashboard. Do they even call it a dashboard anymore? I don't even know. This screen allowed me to do quite a few things. Bluetooth, GPS, link to whatever crap on my phone. I managed to use none of it. Instead, I plugged my phone into a USB port, flicked on the navigation app with Cookie Monster's voice guiding the way, and started my journey.
To head north or east, my current locale requires one to drive down long, descending gaps to get out of the mountains. I don't mind that part so much, but climbing back up these gaps is absolutely terrifying. Heading from Tennessee into North Carolina, specifically, feels like that eerie initial ascent up a roller coaster. There's just something daunting about it. And to make matters worse, unlike a roller coaster climbing up, this road is winding and curving all over the goddamn place. The fact this car wasn't mine and probably not even a year off the assembly line didn't make things any more comforting.
Contrary to the slogan, Virginia is not for lovers. It sucks. Specifically, I-81, the highway that shoots up and down the longest side of the state. Now, I have driven through long portions of states before, such as Oklahoma and Missouri. Oklahoma was probably the more desolate of the two. Just miles and miles of flat land. Western Virginia isn't quite like that, but there's still just miles and miles of...nothing. But at least the road sailed through or at least fairly close to civilization. Blacksburg, Roanoke, Harrisonburg - small college towns, really. For a few brief moments, I longed to get into Virginia Tech for some reason, located in Blacksburg. While in high school, a friend and I were planning to both head there. He never did. Then shortly after college, I wanted to attend grad school there. I never did. Passing the exit sign for that town gave me a little bit of sentimental closure.
I thought I could churn through half a day's worth of driving on just trail mix and water. Naturally, I was wrong. So, I broke up the trip by stopping in Maryland overnight. Some much needed stretching and stuffing my face was enjoyed immensely. Onward to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where my parents liv- just kidding - I still had another five hours to go. I sort of wish I grew up in the Susquehanna Valley. Harrisburg, Allentown, maybe Scranton. Nothing too rural. Reasonably close to Philly, buses or trains to New York City. Alas, on this day it was merely drive-through country. Winding, curvy roads, mostly under construction, mostly making the road way too narrow with trucks right alongside you. I'm pretty sure a truck once grazed the car. Not terrifying at all.
And speaking of trucks, Jesus tapdancing Christ, I passed no more than eight thousand of them. Big ass trucks, double decker trucks, box trucks, tank trucks, flatbed trucks, log carrying trucks, refrigerator trucks, trucks towing trucks, dump trucks - you name it. One truck had some six-foot long anchor strap just flapping in the wind, the driver clearly oblivious to it. Another truck had some small thick cardboard corner thingies that fell off the crap he was towing and hit the roof of my rental car. Guess I should be grateful it was just cardboard and not something like, oh, I dunno, a handful of giant steel beams perhaps.
Finally crossing the state line into New York, I pulled off at the first rest stop, just south of Binghamton. It's a considerably big rest stop, one of those welcome centers that feature all sorts of things like maps and state guides, a big food court, and cheesy stuff outside such as the giant I Love NY sign people kept taking pictures in front of. Do you really love New York? Do you? Good, because you're still in the middle of nowhere my friend. So stop taking pictures in front of this corny old slogan and get back on the road. Or at least wait until after I leave, because I saw how slow you were going heading into this place.
As of this blog, the Google map of I-81 around this region is dated July 2018. Orange construction containers (what do we call them? Upside down cans? They're not cones) line the middle of the road for miles. Trust me when I say these containers are still fucking there. Cookie Monster tells me traffic is congested ahead. Yeah, thanks dude. I know, I'm in it. I eventually make it through Binghamton, finally saying adios to I-81 and merging right onto 88. Which, even though I already knew, Cookie Monster failed to direct me to do such. From this point, I reach my hometown in just under two hours.
I'm not going to write about what transpired with my brief visit home. It was not terrible, but didn't go the way I had hoped it would. Part of the purpose of my visit was to clean out everything that was mine there. A few clothes in a dresser, plus two totes and an old red suitcase in the garage. I threw most of the clothes into a bag and dropped them off at a donation center. Inside the suitcase I found my passport, set to expire in a couple years, along with a few other I guess important documents that prove I am a living person. I guess I decided these things would be safer in a rented garage, hundreds of miles away from me? Who knows. I also found a few old journals. Lots of pent up angst in those pages, hoo boy. In the two Rubbermaid bins were a collection of books, with framed photos and trinkets from an old friend who passed almost a decade ago. I slid the photos out of the frames, keeping them for myself. I left the empty picture frames, plus most of the (somewhat useful) trinkets outside at the end of the garage. On the day I left, they were all gone.
The trip back was somewhat less stressful than the commute up there, save those damn mountains. It was an interesting road trip overall, to say the least. And if I had to do it again, hell to the no, I will be flying instead.
I thought I could totally bring my storage book of CD's to play during the ride. Wouldn't you know it, this 2019 car didn't have a disc player. What it did have, however, was a touch screen on the dashboard. Do they even call it a dashboard anymore? I don't even know. This screen allowed me to do quite a few things. Bluetooth, GPS, link to whatever crap on my phone. I managed to use none of it. Instead, I plugged my phone into a USB port, flicked on the navigation app with Cookie Monster's voice guiding the way, and started my journey.
To head north or east, my current locale requires one to drive down long, descending gaps to get out of the mountains. I don't mind that part so much, but climbing back up these gaps is absolutely terrifying. Heading from Tennessee into North Carolina, specifically, feels like that eerie initial ascent up a roller coaster. There's just something daunting about it. And to make matters worse, unlike a roller coaster climbing up, this road is winding and curving all over the goddamn place. The fact this car wasn't mine and probably not even a year off the assembly line didn't make things any more comforting.
Contrary to the slogan, Virginia is not for lovers. It sucks. Specifically, I-81, the highway that shoots up and down the longest side of the state. Now, I have driven through long portions of states before, such as Oklahoma and Missouri. Oklahoma was probably the more desolate of the two. Just miles and miles of flat land. Western Virginia isn't quite like that, but there's still just miles and miles of...nothing. But at least the road sailed through or at least fairly close to civilization. Blacksburg, Roanoke, Harrisonburg - small college towns, really. For a few brief moments, I longed to get into Virginia Tech for some reason, located in Blacksburg. While in high school, a friend and I were planning to both head there. He never did. Then shortly after college, I wanted to attend grad school there. I never did. Passing the exit sign for that town gave me a little bit of sentimental closure.
I thought I could churn through half a day's worth of driving on just trail mix and water. Naturally, I was wrong. So, I broke up the trip by stopping in Maryland overnight. Some much needed stretching and stuffing my face was enjoyed immensely. Onward to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where my parents liv- just kidding - I still had another five hours to go. I sort of wish I grew up in the Susquehanna Valley. Harrisburg, Allentown, maybe Scranton. Nothing too rural. Reasonably close to Philly, buses or trains to New York City. Alas, on this day it was merely drive-through country. Winding, curvy roads, mostly under construction, mostly making the road way too narrow with trucks right alongside you. I'm pretty sure a truck once grazed the car. Not terrifying at all.
And speaking of trucks, Jesus tapdancing Christ, I passed no more than eight thousand of them. Big ass trucks, double decker trucks, box trucks, tank trucks, flatbed trucks, log carrying trucks, refrigerator trucks, trucks towing trucks, dump trucks - you name it. One truck had some six-foot long anchor strap just flapping in the wind, the driver clearly oblivious to it. Another truck had some small thick cardboard corner thingies that fell off the crap he was towing and hit the roof of my rental car. Guess I should be grateful it was just cardboard and not something like, oh, I dunno, a handful of giant steel beams perhaps.
Finally crossing the state line into New York, I pulled off at the first rest stop, just south of Binghamton. It's a considerably big rest stop, one of those welcome centers that feature all sorts of things like maps and state guides, a big food court, and cheesy stuff outside such as the giant I Love NY sign people kept taking pictures in front of. Do you really love New York? Do you? Good, because you're still in the middle of nowhere my friend. So stop taking pictures in front of this corny old slogan and get back on the road. Or at least wait until after I leave, because I saw how slow you were going heading into this place.
As of this blog, the Google map of I-81 around this region is dated July 2018. Orange construction containers (what do we call them? Upside down cans? They're not cones) line the middle of the road for miles. Trust me when I say these containers are still fucking there. Cookie Monster tells me traffic is congested ahead. Yeah, thanks dude. I know, I'm in it. I eventually make it through Binghamton, finally saying adios to I-81 and merging right onto 88. Which, even though I already knew, Cookie Monster failed to direct me to do such. From this point, I reach my hometown in just under two hours.
I'm not going to write about what transpired with my brief visit home. It was not terrible, but didn't go the way I had hoped it would. Part of the purpose of my visit was to clean out everything that was mine there. A few clothes in a dresser, plus two totes and an old red suitcase in the garage. I threw most of the clothes into a bag and dropped them off at a donation center. Inside the suitcase I found my passport, set to expire in a couple years, along with a few other I guess important documents that prove I am a living person. I guess I decided these things would be safer in a rented garage, hundreds of miles away from me? Who knows. I also found a few old journals. Lots of pent up angst in those pages, hoo boy. In the two Rubbermaid bins were a collection of books, with framed photos and trinkets from an old friend who passed almost a decade ago. I slid the photos out of the frames, keeping them for myself. I left the empty picture frames, plus most of the (somewhat useful) trinkets outside at the end of the garage. On the day I left, they were all gone.
The trip back was somewhat less stressful than the commute up there, save those damn mountains. It was an interesting road trip overall, to say the least. And if I had to do it again, hell to the no, I will be flying instead.