Big Enough
I’m a single, middle-aged, black woman and last week I drove from Oakland, CA to Upstate New York, alone, in the middle of a historic election and a pandemic. My elderly parents reacted with the steely reserve that had sustained them through my many lifetime adventures. My friends and colleagues were more direct, “You’re crazy.”
Cross country travel was not new to me. I had made the opposite journey 20+ years ago from Washington, DC to Seattle with my older brother. That time, we took the northern route, I-90 West, stopping at all of the major landmarks — Mt. Rushmore, the Corn Palace, Yellowstone and Jackson Hole. This time, however, after spending 9 months in some state of quarantine, and with my secret coping weapon (my passport) completely neutralized, I decided I needed a new adventure. That and my 86-year old mother’s announcement two weeks earlier that she needed shoulder surgery.
Like many, 2020 was a rough year for me. I broke off my engagement but couldn’t move out of the apartment I shared with my former fiancé for 6 months. Lock-down eliminated my commute but lengthened my workday. On top of that, work was even more demanding than it had been the previous four years with large, challenging projects crawling out of the woodwork. Workplace wellness apps were ironic when my workday stretched 14–16 hours a day. Oh, and did I mention the wildfire smoke?
After putting my apartment in storage for a few months, I spent my last night in Oakland at a nice hotel in Berkeley. Upon entering, I was met by a concierge who cheerfully took my temperature and reviewed the COVID symptoms list. All negative, all good. I wheeled my overnight bag, together with my pup’s travel bag through the deserted lobby. Upon arrival at the room, I was impressed by the “sanitation tape” on my door that was marked: “This room has been sanitized,” together with some other clever marketing assurance about my value as a customer.
My dog, Pecan, and I entered the room and began our inspection, Pecan with her nose, I with my roll of Clorox wipes. With the meticulousness that my mother could be proud of, I wiped every potential surface that I could possibly touch in the course of 16 hours: door handles, light switches, faucets, the telephone, the toilet seat and handle, the luggage stand and the remote control. Kudos to the hotel group for placing the remote in a sealed plastic bag. Nevertheless, I unwrapped it and wiped that down too. We traveled a lot when I was a kid and not once were we permitted to use any part of the hotel room until my mother had sprayed everything down with Lysol. I chuckled to myself — I had been made for this moment.
We declined the outdoor dining option, electing room service instead and settled in for the night. It was with mixed emotions that I was exiting the Town, which had been my home for the last 7 years. Prior to the pandemic, Oakland held the promise of everything this country should be — a mixing pot of people rich with idealism, energy and culture. Was it perfect? No, but it was pleasant, comfortable, welcoming. Anyone could be anything and feel they belonged in Oakland.
Halloween
We hit the road at sunrise and soon were speeding down I-5 through the Central Valley. At one point, Pecan bolted upright and soon we approached Bakersfield. She smelled it before I saw it. I stopped for a smoothie and gas and took in the town briefly. Strip malls, ranch style homes and lots of Mexican food. Back on the road, we passed a lot of Trump signs, the occasional display of the 10 Commandments and big crosses. I noted to myself there seemed to be an inverse correlation between Starbucks and cheesy displays of religious belief. The scenery wasn’t great so I plugged in my audio book to pass the time, eventually we made it to I-15 and began the climb into the high desert. We passed the Mojave Air & Space Port. Who knew there was an airplane garage in the middle of the desert?
Traffic picked up as we were joined by L.A. revelers heading up to Las Vegas. The yellow tumbleweed sprays added to the otherwise dwarf-like scrub brush landscape. I searched the radio for NPR and was surprised to find a strong signal broadcast out of Las Vegas and zoned out for a few hours to predictions about the upcoming election.
Finally, as we descended off the plateau, I saw the Las Vegas skyline for the first time. How I had made it to this point in life without previously setting foot in the place, I’ll never know but it was exactly what it had always been billed as, an oasis in the midst of a desert. Wynn, Aria, The Venetian, all of the big-name casinos stretched out before me. Never a gambler, I skipped a drive down the Strip and opted for my hotel. We’d driven close to 8 hours and both my dog and I had had enough.
We stayed near the Las Vegas Convention center which appeared to be a work in progress. I imagined what it must have been like during normal times. It just seemed sad to me. Where I was, the glitz and glam was lacking. Not quite a ghost town but more like one of those abandoned mega projects you could find in South East Asia and different times during the early 2000s.
The next morning, I ordered my drive though Starbucks and hit the road by 7 am. Along the way, I debated whether or not to stop off at the Grand Canyon, another place I’d never been before but decided to stick with the plan — get as much mileage behind you during the daytime. We did stop in Flagstaff for gas and lunch and I was pleasantly surprised. Flagstaff had a funky conservative vibe to it — very outdoorsy, almost Boulder-like, but with a lot of gun racks. I ordered takeout lunch from a local restaurant and took Pecan for a pottie break. Flagstaff had a disarming charm to it that I did not expect. People were friendly, even if the cashier didn’t quite make eye contact with me when I picked up my order. The biggest surprise was that on our way back to the car, we saw two young black women walking down the street. I assumed they were in college there.
We continued on I-40, modern day Route 66, to Santa Fe. I had looked up various sights to see if there were any that were easily accessible from the highway but found that most were a good distance away from the highway and would add too much time onto our route. Time constrained, we pressed on, awed by the expanse that stretched in every direction, punctuated by the occasional wind farm and, yes, Trump signs.
We arrived in Santa Fe at dusk and proceeded with our routine, check-in, sanitation rituals, and evening walk. Our hotel was located at the edge of downtown and as we perambulated around the environs, I admit, I felt a tinge of fear. There appeared to be more than a handful of vagrants crawling literally out of the woodwork and more disconcerting, the streets were mainly empty. We headed back to our hotel and ordered room service.
The next day we awoke to brilliant sunshine, cool temperatures and a better orientation to downtown Santa Fe. We walked to Santa Fe Plaza, the Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi, the NM State House and back to our hotel, stopping only for delicious coffee. I grabbed a muffin and then we headed out for an early morning hike.
Santa Fe is known for its creativity and proximity to mysticism. As we wandered through the scrub brush and up the Atalaya Trail, there was a noticeably calm vibe. When we passed a few other early morning dogs and masked hikers, my normally nervous pooch warmed right up to these strange canines and wagged her tail high and happy. We reached the summit and looked out on Santa Fe and felt good.
We spent the afternoon wandering up and down Canyon Road, eyeing the artistry of the famed Santa Fe galleries. There were not many people. It was quiet. The hospitality displayed by the gallery representative belied a very apparent sense of unease. While there were more people than I would have anticipated at my hotel, license plates from Texas, Colorado, Kentucky and Arizona, the numbers of tourists simply weren’t there. After a day full of exploration and appreciation, we grabbed a take-away dinner from what appeared to be a simply delightful restaurant.
Leaving Santa Fe on the break of the morning was perfect. The sky yawned open wide as yet another vast expanse spread out ahead of me on either side of I-25. Clouds curled and twisted like inverted stiff peaks in freshly whipped cream painted pink and lilac hues by the rising sunlight. Not one to stop for much, I pulled over at a rest stop to snap this amazing sight.
Election Day
As I worked my way up to highway 412, the third day of 9+ hour drives was beginning to wear thin. I focused mainly on my audiobook as I sped through the fields and sad occasional town. Here I was “in it”. The “Real America.” I tried to see the wholesomeness, the authenticity but what I saw was isolation, stasis and nothing that remotely resembled wealth. We stopped every four hours to stretch our legs. Naively, I searched for a Starbucks or any coffee shop. Even the gas stations had strange names, Love’s, Cenex, Jim’s Oil and Gas. Gone from the roads were the happy arrow signs of the once ubiquitous Amazon trucks. Every small town I passed through had the same desolate feeling to it. There were no children, lots of pickup trucks and many old people. I smiled at the irony of the many “Co-op” signs that were painted large across the silos (These people hate socialism but are fine with co-ops). So many Trump signs. It was sad because the main streets resembled what I imagined they looked like 50 years ago. The only signs of modernity were the outsized John Deere stores — filled brand spanking shiny new equipment — circled by, well, not much else.
At one point I pulled off to get gas and was surprised that there was no electronic card reader much less anything digital on the pump. With 48 more miles in my tank, I decided to keep rolling to the next gas station rather than trying to navigate a credit transaction where there was likely no connection. It was odd to see this “America.” Even more disheartening was to think this was what the residents thought they wanted to have made “Great Again.” It didn’t look so great to begin with.
Despite the admonitions of my friends and colleagues, and though I saw many Trump signs, no Trump caravan tried to force me off the road because I had California plates or capture me and make the slave of some racist cabal because of my curly hair and latte colored skin. I didn’t feel the glare of the “other” nor was I ever on the receiving end of a racial epithet slung at me for no reason. Instead, I saw people. People who lived a life vastly different from my own, existences I certainly would never choose and could not understand. The verve and future facing world I came from was literally thousands of miles from where I was, a place that on its face appeared not backwards but behind, disconnected from the present I inhabited.
As I crossed Kansas, I final understood why when I had previously flown across the state it took so long. Kansas is huge and there’s nothing but fields. Dodge City reminded me of Bakersfield, I smelled it before I saw it, except bigger. We stopped to take a photo of the stockyards — I’d never seen anything like it before — there was the beef. It seemed like hours passed filled only with billboards mainly supporting Trump and advertising “adult” stores. It was a relief when I finally saw for the first time fiery late-autumn deciduous trees as I closed in on Kansas City.
After checking into our hotel in KC, we went to a friends’ house to watch the election returns with two classmates from college one an artist, the other a writer/professor, his family and an adorable 8-month old puppy, Lulu. The set up was great. We each had our own socially distant table and ribs from Arthur Bryant’s. We commiserated over the election results as they trickled in. As I sat there, in the middle of the country, with two progressive white guys I’d known since I was 17 years old, I marveled at the world we were living in at once miraculous to the extent that I had forged such amazing friendships that have endured over the many years with two people who were nothing like me on paper, at the same time disturbing after having witnessed almost 2000 miles of Trump support and all that symbolized. The gulf between my world and that one was enormous.
As per usual when this group of friends gathered, we dissected the contradictions and potential crisis we were navigating. Each of us had similar but nuanced analyses of how we got to where we were. None of us had real answers for how to move forward. Ultimately, the weight of the uncertainty wore my artist friend down and I grew fatigued from my 11-hour journey. I went back to my hotel for a good nights’ sleep. I was in the home stretch knowing regardless of the outcome, my world was still, in the immortal words of Louis Armstrong, wonderful.
As per the plan, we were on the road by 7:30 and speeding towards Columbus. We stopped as needed, more than we had at the beginning of the trip and I overlay my engine hum with the sound of more audiobooks. Kansas City to Columbus felt different. I finally saw a Biden Harris billboard. There was decidedly less open space but also much more energy. Skirting St. Louis, we rolled into the Indianapolis traffic and finally hit a sense of urbanity that was absent from most of the trip. As the highways morphed from flat to rolling hills, the surrounding farms appeared more affluent than the ones I’d passed on the other side of Kansas. When I pulled into Columbus I was struck by the riverfront and architecture of this little charming city. We stayed by the river and went for a long walk on the riverfront. Feeling no longer out of place and ensconced in the familiarity of city life, even Pecan was excited to explore this new environment.
Our last night on the road, we played ball in our hotel room and relaxed. The next morning, I availed myself of the Starbucks in the building and took Pecan for another long morning walk. We hopped in the car and began the last leg of our journey. It flew by. From Columbus, we went to Cleveland, Erie, Buffalo and then winged cautiously through the Finger Lakes Region of my home state, carefully dodging at least 7 state troopers with the help of Google’s speed trap warnings. At one gas station, a nice older man said to me after looking at my license plates, “California? You’re a long way from home.” True, I smiled underneath my mask, I was also closer to my other home — the place where I grew up. I wished him a nice day, got back into the car and continued on. What had once seemed daunting, 9 hours of driving, had become routine almost game like. In spite of our dallying, we pulled up to my parents’ driveway exactly 9 hours after we’d left.
Looking back, my trip wasn’t crazy. It was the only solution to the real problem of navigating middle age and elderly parents with health issues in the middle of a pandemic. It took no special amounts of courage or bravery, only an open mind and willingness to explore something new — the country I live in. The many hours alone on the road enabled me to reflect on the rhetoric of both sides of the political spectrum, each vested in demonizing the other, neither willing to actually take stock of where the other was coming from. The arguments over the battle of the soul of our nation seemed hyperbolic having just driven across it. America and its democracy were not the size of a communion wafer in the hands of two stranded castaways —they’re much bigger than that. Moreover, fear was not one of the founding principles of our nation. While I will never understand the lives of those who live in and around those little towns I sped through last week and they may never understand my appreciation and affinity for the verve and vibe of a place like Oakland; after covering 3210 miles of America’s highways, the one thing I am certain of is that this country is big enough to hold everyone, regardless of who they are or what they believe.