Sleeping in a Wal-Mart Parking Lot

My friend's sister once went on a diet that consisted of eating beets only. I remember this well, because we were standing in their kitchen one afternoon, my friend and I eating hamburger buns or leftover pizza from the night before, and she was standing by the sink eating bloody, red beets out of the can. And she was doing it proudly, announcing that this was the third day and she had already lost eight pounds. And that this was the beginning of the new her. That she would no longer have to worry about being overweight, that this red vegetable was the answer to all of her questions. Her diet lasted less than a week.

I woke up this morning feeling tired, like I always do after the weekend. There was again, one toothbrush next to my sink and two pairs of boxer shorts and some socks on the floor in my bedroom. I couldn't hear the red sox/yankees game playing next door in my living room, and the only warmth that came into my apartment was the beginnings of a new, hot spring day. I could feel the Charlottesville humidity rising outside my window, creeping in as the sun came up. But I kept my windows open to bring the sounds of cars and trains passing next to my ears.

We spent Sunday in bed all day planning our three week road trip across the country. We made sure we planned to stop in places like Missoula, Montana, and Madison, Wisconsin. We mapped out what cities we have friends in, where we want to stay in hotels or hostels, where we want to camp out, trying to avoid a night in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Parts of us want to just hit the open road and feel all romantic and energized and spontaneous, but parts of us know that at the end of a 12 hour day of driving, knowing that cold sheets in a two star hotel await us will feel amazing.

When I was four years old my family took a train trip across the country. There are pictures of the experience and a whole album devoted to it on a shelf in my parents house with little captions next to the pictures like, "Woah, that's a long way down" from the Empire State Building and "Snow? In the summertime? Unbelievable." One caption reads "Thank you, to the man who made this all possible." My dad traveled a lot for work while I was growing up, so we could make trips like that, so that once a year we could travel up to Vermont or Colorado to go skiing. Whenever I think about these trips, I also think of my brother, sister, mom and I sitting around eating BLT's or pizza whenever my dad was out of town on business. And how much I loved knowing that we could have BLT's whenever my dad was out of town because he was trying not to eat red meat and we could never eat anything like that when he was at home for dinner. Somehow, I always concentrated on the perks of dinnertime without him, so that I wouldn't feel like I was missing something.

The only part I can remember about the cross country train trip is the It's a Small World After All ride in Disneyland in California. I just remember being surrounded by all these dolls singing and the dirty, dyed green-blue water as we floated behind families who had traveled to have some sort of vacation, some kind of break from it all, only to be lined up in the hot sun. And when I was growing up and someone asked me if I'd ever been to a certain city or state I always had to ask my mom, "have I been to Seattle?" Yes, I've been to Seattle.

For the upcoming road trip, we made a list of things to pack making sure that a cooler and plenty of food and water was at the top. Knowing what is available at the gas stations and truck stops along the way, we wanted to make sure that we actually took care of ourselves on this three-week excursion. In my mind all I picture is the Pacific Ocean lining California One as we eat granola bars and drink five day old bottled water, no shower for days and the smell of salt spacing through the open windows. Whenever anyone asks how long we've been together, and if we have ever driven for a long time with each other we both avoid the question. "Three weeks, huh?" Part of me wants to defend us, saying we've driven from Virginia to Boston plenty, but the other part just thinks of that Pacific Ocean. And him right next to me.

Then I think about what happens whenever we put ourselves out of our own contexts. I picture the lives of all the people we will pass on the road, and how unexplainable the whole experience will be. It makes me want to think about what I can already change in my life right now, feeling sometimes like I'm living off of beets and not really tasting or experiencing anything.