Drive-time
This past weekend I was in Philly for a conference, and flying is such a production that I decided to drive. Having my car allowed me to visit Nifty Fifty's, though the location in South Philly had closed, so I had to drive all the way out to Swarthmore for my customary Golden Fried Chicken Cutlet sandwich (who knew Cheez Whiz would be so good with iceberg lettuce?), basket of homemade fries, and chocolate cherry milkshake. On the way, I saw that Wing Wah's Chinese restaurant had also closed. A moment of silence for the best General Tsao's chicken I have ever had.
I don't mind driving--even enjoy long drives--though I used to haaate it. On the street where I grew up, traffic generally blows by at about 65 mph. My parents didn't want me to wander out into the road when I was a toddler, so they used to tell me scary stories about cars, trucks, and motorcycles, and (I guess) how they could veer out of nowhere and run a little girl down.
Consequently, when I started to drive, I constantly imagined horrific accident scenarios. Driving felt, on a low level, like maneuvering a disaster-evasion course. But then I moved to Center City Philly, where drivers are so aggressive that they honk if you don't start to go when the traffic light in the opposite direction turns red. Driving in heavy traffic on the Schuylkill, I pretty much had to just screw my eyes shut and go for it (kidding, Mom).
Still, what really changed my feelings about driving was the 950-mile trek from Missouri to New Jersey, which I did too many times when I was living in St. Louis. At first, going back and forth, I stayed with friends in Youngstown, Pittsburgh, Chicago, or even Charlottesville. But then I started doing the drive in a single day, and I started getting this unaccountable satisfaction from it.
I almost miss those drives. It was partly the physical challenge (my best time: 16 hours, 15 minutes), partly the feeling of having traveled over an astonishingly vast part of our country. Partly those really pretty stretches of Southern Illinois or Southern Indiana, with wide expanses of fields on either side and endless miles of black-eyed Susans breezing past. Partly the way the light would look dappling the highway through the summer-lush tree-tops in the late afternoon. Partly the sweetness of a milkshake after a couple of hundred hot, thirsty miles, and the routine I started to have, my own stops and my own landmarks--look, there's the Indy skyline against the setting sun, only 5 hours to go to St. Louis. There's nothing special about the Fazoli's in Terre Haute, but heading eastward, it meant I was through the first leg of a trip home.
Every time I circled the St. Louis Arch on that curve of highway just over the bridge, I remembered how otherworldly it had looked the first time I saw it, how it had almost glowed green, lit up so strange and tall against the night sky, confirming how very far from home I was.
I don't mind driving--even enjoy long drives--though I used to haaate it. On the street where I grew up, traffic generally blows by at about 65 mph. My parents didn't want me to wander out into the road when I was a toddler, so they used to tell me scary stories about cars, trucks, and motorcycles, and (I guess) how they could veer out of nowhere and run a little girl down.
Consequently, when I started to drive, I constantly imagined horrific accident scenarios. Driving felt, on a low level, like maneuvering a disaster-evasion course. But then I moved to Center City Philly, where drivers are so aggressive that they honk if you don't start to go when the traffic light in the opposite direction turns red. Driving in heavy traffic on the Schuylkill, I pretty much had to just screw my eyes shut and go for it (kidding, Mom).
Still, what really changed my feelings about driving was the 950-mile trek from Missouri to New Jersey, which I did too many times when I was living in St. Louis. At first, going back and forth, I stayed with friends in Youngstown, Pittsburgh, Chicago, or even Charlottesville. But then I started doing the drive in a single day, and I started getting this unaccountable satisfaction from it.
I almost miss those drives. It was partly the physical challenge (my best time: 16 hours, 15 minutes), partly the feeling of having traveled over an astonishingly vast part of our country. Partly those really pretty stretches of Southern Illinois or Southern Indiana, with wide expanses of fields on either side and endless miles of black-eyed Susans breezing past. Partly the way the light would look dappling the highway through the summer-lush tree-tops in the late afternoon. Partly the sweetness of a milkshake after a couple of hundred hot, thirsty miles, and the routine I started to have, my own stops and my own landmarks--look, there's the Indy skyline against the setting sun, only 5 hours to go to St. Louis. There's nothing special about the Fazoli's in Terre Haute, but heading eastward, it meant I was through the first leg of a trip home.
Every time I circled the St. Louis Arch on that curve of highway just over the bridge, I remembered how otherworldly it had looked the first time I saw it, how it had almost glowed green, lit up so strange and tall against the night sky, confirming how very far from home I was.
posted by Tara | 7:05 PM
2 Comments:
Wait -- you drove HOW many miles at a single go? Say WHAT?!
I am in awe. Yes, Tara, I respect you yet more as of this moment. (but if it were, say, competitive eating or marathon running, it would be different. Why? I don't know.)
I don't think I could do competitive eating or marathon running, but I could sure do marathon eating . . .
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