Like Oregon Trail, but with less Oxen and more Feelings

The Grand Canyon was kind of a bust. We ended up going to the wrong end, where an Indian Reservation was charging a large amount of money to get anywhere near the giant hole in the ground.

While I have to say that I was a little disappointed, we did have a good time getting there. The desert was pretty barren, and we found out pretty quickly that we would have to entertain ourselves.

This whole trip has been good practice for our patience. Whether it’s with other drivers or with each other, we have had to check our tempers along the way. I think that’s a pretty natural reaction to being in close quarters for days at a time.

Thankfully, we are generally easy-going people. Jessica, Nick, and I all sing along, loudly and beautifully, to whatever songs we play on our iPods while Rachel listens intently. We dance in the car. We pass each other drinks and food. And Jessica always remembers to check my wallet for my credit card, because she knows I’ll just ask her to do it in a few minutes anyway. We’re like a well-oiled machine; but that doesn’t mean we haven’t learned about each other along the way.

Nick’s fear of sasquatch and el chupacabra and my general need to control every situation were already proven facts before we embarked on this journey. I knew Rachel was proud of her heritage and that Jessica would tell it to me straight. However, until you’ve spent this much time with your friends, all you see is what’s colored in the lines-- unlike my dinosaur coloring book (which I sadly left at home). Nick and Rachel and Jessica, and even myself, aren’t perfect little pictures. We’re annoying, cranky, and hilarious people who all like macaroni and cheese.

Kraft is the glue that holds friendships together, and I’m grateful for it.

I’ve heard that road trips can destroy relationships, but I don’t think that will happen to us. We’ve gotten too much information to blackmail each other with now, anyway.

Family Ties

About 6 hours after our brief stint in Hollywood, we stopped in Arizona to spend the night at my aunt and uncle’s home. I rarely get to see these members of my family, which for me is an oddity. My parents both have a lot of siblings and all of them still live in Illinois—except for this particular branch of the family tree.

I know that my two cousins were happy to see me, and I was grateful to see them again too. It’s been a few years since we last met. They’re both much younger than me, but it was easy to see how much they’ve grown up. I had never been to Arizona to see them before; they have always come to Chicago to spend time with us. It was nice to see where they lived and to finally meet the dogs I heard so much about.

Their seclusion from the rest of our family never really struck me before. I always just assumed that they preferred to live as far as they did from us. I could understand that. Being constantly surrounded by your large family can be extraordinarily overwhelming.

It never occurred to me before that they might miss us. I am so suffocated by the “us” at times, that I don’t think I appreciate what I have often enough. Having family near you makes things a lot easier. You have someone to rely on, someone to help you our when you need it, and you always have someone to talk to. The benefits of having a large family are numerous, but I don’t take the time to think about them as frequently as I should. I love my family, and I’m glad they’re so close. I hope to keep in contact with my Arizona family too.

Mostly, I was just a one-woman Britney Spears cover band

Our stop in Los Angeles was brief. Basically, we took a couple of pictures in front of the Hollywood sign. I was okay with that though. While fame and fortune may be big motivators for a lot of western travelers, I don’t really care about that stuff. Would it have been pretty cool to see a celebrity? Sure. Was it something I deemed necessary to search for that day? Absolutely not.

No matter how brief our stop was, you can’t help but think about celebrities when you’re at their watering hole. 

When I was little (and we’re talking like five here), I wanted to be a famous singer. I was so sure that I was going to be a star that I once packed up my bags and sat on the porch, trying to figure out which way I needed to go to get to Chicago so I could get on a plane for Hollywood. I had a microphone that would clap and cheer, just for me (and anyone else who pushed that particular button). While I hate to say it, those were just the dreams of a child who, in reality, couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

My not wanting to stay long in Los Angeles wasn’t because I am bitter that my dream never came true. I’m happy that I don’t have to get mobbed by the paparazzi whenever I go to the grocery store and that my face isn’t on a bunch of magazines. I like my life as an English major in Illinois. But, it is nice to fantasize about what it would be like. I’ll just save my concerts for the three other people in the car. I’m sure they appreciate it.

Seriously, Their Calves Have To Be As Big As Tree Trunks

Montana, Wyoming, and the other western states are like a large border before we could get to the real reason people go to the west coast. There would be so much variety in California!

 I didn’t expect it to be as empty as it was at all. In my imagination, it was the place to be on the west coast. The emptiness of the other western states would be put to rights once we arrived in the Golden State. Once we got there, I realized just how wrong I was.

When we left Oregon, the roads were treacherous. I wasn’t completely thrown off; California could have mountains. It wouldn’t be called the “Hollywood Hills” unless there was some variation in altitude. We crossed the border, where we were questioned over the potential possession of illegals: fruits and/or vegetables, weapons, and (I’m assuming) immigrants from Canada.

The journey to San Francisco was long. Spending this much time in a car isn’t the norm for any of us, and it can certainly get frustrating. We managed to make it thorough, with just enough time to try to see the sun rise at the bay.

It was FREEZING. I thought California was supposed to be warm and sunny. What happened?

Even though we were facing the wrong direction and couldn’t feel our faces, it was a memory in the making and I was excited to be doing it.

When we finally toured through San Francisco after a day of rest, we realized how much different it was to be in a city of this size compared to Seattle or Portland. It was like a mixture of a bustling metropolis and the open landscapes of the country. I believe it was Nick who said San Francisco was like the “Joliet of California.” It wasn’t nearly as overpopulated as I had dreamed it to be. Certainly, the line for the streetcars was long, and there were quite a few people walking around Fishermen’s Wharf. However, there weren’t nearly as many people meandering through side streets in the middle of the day in Chicago.

Not having many people around us put us at ease. It was almost like we were at home, walking around by the mall. Obviously, it wasn’t exactly the same. I can see how people would be able to live in Joliet and walk along the sidewalks to get to the grocery store. I can’t, on the other hand, imagine living in San Francisco.

The mountains that we had driven through the night before were almost nothing in comparison to the hurt that we put on our legs walking up and down those streets. We would walk down a very steep hill only to have to walk up the next one at an incline that I was sure would finally end me. How everyone who lives in that city doesn’t have the calf muscles of a male body builder is astonishing. People were riding bikes! BIKES! I could barely manage to lean against a tree for support while half way up one of those so-called streets.

Other than the strenuous exercise, San Francisco was a beautiful place. Hanging on to the handle bar of the trolley while going down the street at top speed is something I’ll never forget—and it’s not something I will ever want to. As for the shaking, aching legs at the end of the day? That’s a whole other story.

Hipsters, Raccoon Tails, and Leather. Oh My!

The last few days have been exceptionally hectic. We explored Seattle, Portland, and we drove through the night to reach San Francisco. We were all very tired, so I chose to sleep rather than update immediately.

Yesterday was the Fourth of July. Independence Day. In honor of this holiday, I decided to write about how diverse our country is.

In the last few days particularly, we have seen some very interesting individuals.

Seattle was absolutely filled to the brim with “hipsters.” If you’re not familiar with this type of person, you can typically spot a hipster by looking for one of the following:

·         Plaid shirts

·         Mustaches/Awkward Facial Hair

·         Colored glasses

·         Fedoras (with or without feathers)

·         Vests

·         Boat shoes

·         Bicycle riding

·         Contempt for humanity

·         Skinny jeans

Hipsters also generally hate being called hipsters. They refuse to be labeled. However, this only furthers their association with the group.

As I was saying, Seattle is absolutely full of them. While walking across from the city’s library towards Pike Place, we happened to see a young woman with a streak of green in her hair. She had many tattoos, a cigarette dangling from her lips, and a bad attitude.

Also, a raccoon tail was attached to the back of her skirt.

I judge strangers pretty easily. I suppose it comes from the fact that I am just so much better than other people that I can’t help but notice their many faults. It’s both a gift and a curse. (Just kiddin').

It was amazing for me to see that so many people in Seattle didn’t stop to gawk at the weird girl with the tail hanging behind her seat. They just didn’t seem to see her at all.

To me, she was SCREAMING for attention; but to the rest of the population of Seattle, she was a perfectly employable, normal young woman.

Our schedule called for us to drive through Portland on our way to California. We went to a sadly closed Voodoo Doughnuts and crossed paths with a “Keep Portland Weird!” sign painted on an alley wall.

We walked to one of the best book stores I have ever had the pleasure of entering. (I bought a “choose your own adventure” Jane Austen novel!). On our way there, we saw an older gentleman wearing some tight leggings underneath a leather jacket and a multitude of leather belts and chains. His hair was long and he looked very determined. No one gave him a second glance—except for us. Were we judging him? Maybe a little bit. But I’d like to think it was just because we were a little jealous.

I would say that my friends and I are “weird.” We like to play board games instead of attending wild parties and we generally talk about books. Don’t get me wrong—we gossip like old women and watch enough T.V. to win a game show. But for some reason, we have always been out of the social spot light. Shouldn’t that make us less surprised by the differences in others?

We’ll work on keeping our minds open; but in the meantime we’re going to enjoy these fluffy hotel pillows and, eventually, the Golden Gate Bridge.  

You Are My Life Now

For those of you who don’t know, Stephenie Meyer’s book—Twilight—was published in 2005. In it, she chronicles the story of a young woman who feels alone in the world, but finally finds her place with a family of vampires. The girl’s vampire boyfriend, Edward Cullen, is the ideal for millions of teenaged (and some not-so-teenaged) fans. It’s really no wonder why tourism in Forks, Washington has risen so rapidly since Meyer decided that her characters lived in and around the rainy town.

Thankfully, many of the locals have embraced their young adult literary claim to fame. Shops offer Twilight related souvenirs and there are photo opportunities everywhere. Edward Cullen is worshipped as a god here as well.

There were two things about our visit to Forks today that really made me think:

Firstly, I have to say that I am amazed that a book has made such a deep impact on such a small community. There are so many people flocking to this modest town just to take a picture next to a population sign or a rusty Chevy (Side note: They have the actual car from the movie! It was pretty cool! Not that I’m a fan or anything. That would be ridiculous. I’m clearly not a pre-teen. We went to Forks to visit the Timber Museum, but it was closed today). The fact that this previously sleepy logging community has welcomed Twilight fans with open arms is really wonderful.

The second little bit of observation I had was a little bit more selfish. I was feeling a tad homesick today, as I am prone to do. Forks is so very small. I live in Channahon, a town that is about 8 square miles, and it sometimes feels like I see the same 10 people every time I go out. I can’t even imagine living somewhere that is only 1/3 the size. So it made me a little nostalgic.

As a small town, Forks lives up to the stereotypes that Channahon never has. You could tell that the locals really knew each other and that, although they may live somewhere famous, they didn’t act like celebrities. They were just normal people who happened to live in the rainiest place in the U.S.

For Meyer, and I think for many other American authors, small town America is what exemplifies our country for us; we see living in close-knit communities with a Main Street and a small house with a picket fence as the ideal. Forks is one of those communities, but it is hardly quaint or quiet. Instead, tourists flood their parking lots and demand travel mugs with Robert Pattinson’s face on them. If I were a deeper thinker, I might see this as a negative part of our capitalist society.

Good thing I’m pretty shallow, because I certainly couldn’t go without a post card from the Timber Museum.  

Also, I’ve never burned down the Silver Dollar Bar

(Please forgive this post. It’s late, I’m tired, and we drove for a long time today. Hopefully, this makes sense.)

We made it! After a long and terrifying drive, we have finally reached our hotel in Lacey, Washington.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was extremely afraid of the Rocky Mountains. Facing a new challenge was something I knew that I had to do, but that didn’t mean that I was excited about it. The first stretch of our mountain drive gave me a false sense of security. The mountains in Montana weren’t bad at all. There was a moment of terror at some point, but for the most part it was just a regular road.

Idaho was a different story. Even though our journey through this state was really short, the mountains were very difficult to drive through. They were almost everything that I thought driving the Rocky Mountains would be.

Even though it wasn’t without its trials, the Rocky Mountains were really beautiful. They were so huge and covered in trees. Rocks of all different colors, waterfalls visible from the road, and quaint towns nestled in valleys provided us with insight into why people bother to drive this risky road.

The fear and wonder that I felt in equal parts made me start to think about the permanency of things. Those mountains have been around for a very long time. The trees that grow on their hills have had decades to get as tall as they are. In comparison, I’m practically an infant.

We stopped for lunch at this fabulously tacky restaurant that had 50,000 Silver Dollars built into its bar. Part of the “fun facts” paper that the restaurant had on every table proclaimed that:  “The Silver Dollar Bar has never burned down. Ever.”

I guess the point of all of this is that your legacy is what you make it. The mountains will be there longer than any of us. No one can change that. The Silver Dollar Bar hasn’t ever burned down, and that’s something it can be proud of. Now I get to say that I have crossed the Rocky Mountains and lived to tell the tale.