Size twelve shoes hang out the window while my body aches with back spasms that started 200 miles ago. We float along the highway through serene plains that stretch toward the sun in adoration. Normally I welcome silence. My ability to write almost depends on it.
Yet, when trapped inside a plastic Saturn going across the United States, silence can mean the difference between an epic journey and a plunge off the edge of an overpass.
Adam merely nods his sleeping head in agreement.
I pry out Pet Sounds while attempting to keep my eyes on the road and the car in its designated lane. After bumper to bumper traffic in Chicago then getting lost on the north side only to reverse gears and travel back through bumper to bumper traffic, Bat for Lashes lulled me into submission. I believe this is where the yes man began to slumber.
This is not to mention, though I must, departing from Kalamazoo, MI by turning the opposite way on the express way. You can thank yours truly. I turned to Adam to inform my imprisoned travel companion, “I warn you, I am not very good with directions.” He merely looked at me with a Cheshire grin.
“I sure hope you’re not expecting any help from me.”
This from the man with the map.
We carried on with The White Album Disc One and Two, followed by Violent Femmes, a remastered Led Zepellin compellation and too many burned mixes with witty names. My car doesn’t even have power locks let alone access to an Ipod. Thriller echoed in my ears as I travelled ever faster towards St. Louis, the first stop on our wayward journey. Despite all the sun, my eyes began to fog.
I decided to travel by car for many reasons, mostly due to my lack of travel throughout the west. This is my exodus from bleak Michigan winters, my manifest destiny.
In order to travel from Kalamazoo, MI to Venice Beach, California, with multiple exotic detours along the way, one must drive 2,506 miles. According to Google, that is about 1 day and 16 hours depending on traffic.
The real danger of traveling so far is not lurid rest stops or a busted carburetor in what can only be described as chainsaw massacre country, no it’s the endurance race. The very real, if not discussed, mental competition to match the previous drive time by your travel companion. To not buckle under the pressure of droopy lids and numb appendages or even to beat your own record or imagined time schedule.
Yet as I dreamed of cerulean skies and cotton clouds, Joni Mitchell sang Blue into my psyche. A silver arch loomed in the distance. I shook Adam awake. We have arrived two hours later than planned, but we have arrived.
Cursing my lack of a camera we headed straight to the St. Louis Zoo, known as one of the largest free zoos in the country. Adam’s six-foot-five frame towered over an endless sea of small children and weary parents.
Zoos are a much different experience than what I experienced in childhood. It’s like taking your kids to view the local jail with much more interesting inmates. A two-hundred pound orangutan sits against the viewing glass to our delight. Families crowd around the animal to let the three-year-old bang on the glass. With what can be as morose expression, the orangutan humors his apt audience.
Hell, you can buy beer at the zoo.
One can no deny the argument that where else can a person see a trio of hyenas, except to travel into the heart of the Sahara and perhaps your death. What with humans destroying their resources faster than we can admit, these animals are caged in a haven. Though it is indeed a cage.
Ignoring the sharp pang in my heart, I merely mutter insults to the couple that has parked themselves and their eight children in front of my view of the beast. This is poor zoo manners.
We amble around the grounds spending adequate time watching the hippos glide through their watery tank and those damn cute penguins. The animals stalk the feeding area of the cage. Grizzly Bears pace as though on a track.
If I had any one animal I could be friends with and it wouldn't kill me, I'd hang with a polar bear. Of course, he could behead anyone that I asked him to.
Finally hunger is overwhelming, so we leave for the arch. Bellies full we walk through a wooded park towards the giant infrastructure.
As my first time in St. Louis, I must admit it is a pleasant city. The skyline is clean and not flagged with too many flashy towers or giant ads. Sitting under the pristine arch we watched three teenagers run amuck and fling goose poop at one another. Dried goose poo is left throughout the green to crunch under your feet.
Again, very pleasant.
I wonder who keeps the arch so clean.
We devised a heroic battle between two foes that started under the arch in the neat green, possibly a Viking and a Samurai. It naturally would end with a daring stab and the victor walking away towards the mighty Mississippi, while the loser bleeds to his death.
Going up to the top of the arch seemed like a waste of money, so we ambled away.
My limbs screamed in recognition as we climbed into the car. Adam agreed to drive towards Denver, which we hoped to reach without a layover.
We first started the drive at an ungodly hour, not long after Adam finished his shift at the bar. Both of us with sleep still in our eyes, Adam informed me that he sleep about fifty minutes total.
Then turning east instead of west on our first leg of the trip, I still try to ignore the ominous feeling creeping up from my toes. Denver is twelve hours from St. Louis.
“Well,” Adam said putting the car in gear, “Let’s see how this goes.”
Cue the music
