road trip songs
Friday, July 31, 2009
Want to buy any of the road-trip songs from my Flyover America road-trip music post? Here they all are, to preview and download from Amazon.com.
must we say good-bye to the road trip?
Friday, July 4, 2008
I passed a herd of miniature asses yesterday.
No, really. I know that’s what they were because I saw miniature asses races at the State Fair of Texas one year. They’re cute little donkeys, they look like plush Eeyores, only happier. They were grazing in a big field under a blue, blue sky studded with cartoon clouds.
I was driving by on Texas highway 281, en route from Austin home. I was taking the back roads because Willy Nelson was having a big blowout at Carl’s Corner, on I-35, the main highway. So instead of coping with mind-numbing traffic, I was meandering through small towns, past "hay for sale--square or round bales" signs and roadside fireworks stands and occasionally someone selling peaches and watermelons from the back of a truck. (I should have stopped but that’s tough for me when I get moving.)
I had my mouth set on a Whataburger, but couldn’t find any on this highway so I finally opted for Dairy Queen and was enjoying a Hungr-Buster Junior and Raul Malo on the iPod when I passed those cute little miniature asses.
I don’t care what anyone says, nothing beats a road trip.
I understand that the road trip might lose favor as we become more cognizant of the damage our fuel guzzling ways have wrought, and as gas gets increasingly dear. (I was pleased to have filled up a $3.93 9/10 a gallon, the cheapest gas I saw all the way home, except for the $1.83 sign still up at a long-abandoned gas station. Funny how pennies differences matter to us in this context and no other.)
So I was bummed by this cranky op-ed Michael Paterniti. The New York Times asked several writers to reflect on the consequences, good and bad, of gas prices and a diatribe against the road trip was what Paterniti came up with.
It made me sad and annoyed because I don’t understand dichotomous thinking that says if the stay trip is good then the road trip is bad. I like them both. I have two favorite ways to vacation. One is a long road trip fueled by gummy bears, beef jerky and tunes. The other is a rental cottage or apartment, where I can settle in, learn a place in microcosm and pretend to be a local.
But the road trip is my true love. My first real trip was across the United States with two girlfriends in a baby blue Plymouth Duster. I then moved on to the Greyhound bus, an alternate form of road trip. Then, I got a car. (Yeah—I didn’t learn to drive until I was 19 years old and didn’t own a car until I was 22.)
Nothing, nothing, nothing is better than seeing the country in large scale and small (Texas plains and miniature asses) through a windshield, than singing along with the radio, than road food and road thoughts and, if you have companionship, road conversations. As the body wanders so does the mind.
My alternate route yesterday took two hours longer than the usual route (five hours instead of three) and admittedly, I was a crispy critter when I finally reached my own driveway. The drive also drank half a tank of gas, about $25 worth in my car. And it gave me a Yeti-sized carbon footprint for that one day.
So I understand that the road trip may be an American icon to be relegated to history. I understand that and I hate it and if I must give it up, will do so with deep sadness. When I am old—really old—I will sit in a rocking chair and reminisce about the days when I could just get in my car and go—looking for America and finding it.
Do you like my new business card?
No, really. I know that’s what they were because I saw miniature asses races at the State Fair of Texas one year. They’re cute little donkeys, they look like plush Eeyores, only happier. They were grazing in a big field under a blue, blue sky studded with cartoon clouds.
I was driving by on Texas highway 281, en route from Austin home. I was taking the back roads because Willy Nelson was having a big blowout at Carl’s Corner, on I-35, the main highway. So instead of coping with mind-numbing traffic, I was meandering through small towns, past "hay for sale--square or round bales" signs and roadside fireworks stands and occasionally someone selling peaches and watermelons from the back of a truck. (I should have stopped but that’s tough for me when I get moving.)
I had my mouth set on a Whataburger, but couldn’t find any on this highway so I finally opted for Dairy Queen and was enjoying a Hungr-Buster Junior and Raul Malo on the iPod when I passed those cute little miniature asses.
I don’t care what anyone says, nothing beats a road trip.
I understand that the road trip might lose favor as we become more cognizant of the damage our fuel guzzling ways have wrought, and as gas gets increasingly dear. (I was pleased to have filled up a $3.93 9/10 a gallon, the cheapest gas I saw all the way home, except for the $1.83 sign still up at a long-abandoned gas station. Funny how pennies differences matter to us in this context and no other.)
So I was bummed by this cranky op-ed Michael Paterniti. The New York Times asked several writers to reflect on the consequences, good and bad, of gas prices and a diatribe against the road trip was what Paterniti came up with.
It made me sad and annoyed because I don’t understand dichotomous thinking that says if the stay trip is good then the road trip is bad. I like them both. I have two favorite ways to vacation. One is a long road trip fueled by gummy bears, beef jerky and tunes. The other is a rental cottage or apartment, where I can settle in, learn a place in microcosm and pretend to be a local.
But the road trip is my true love. My first real trip was across the United States with two girlfriends in a baby blue Plymouth Duster. I then moved on to the Greyhound bus, an alternate form of road trip. Then, I got a car. (Yeah—I didn’t learn to drive until I was 19 years old and didn’t own a car until I was 22.)
Nothing, nothing, nothing is better than seeing the country in large scale and small (Texas plains and miniature asses) through a windshield, than singing along with the radio, than road food and road thoughts and, if you have companionship, road conversations. As the body wanders so does the mind.
My alternate route yesterday took two hours longer than the usual route (five hours instead of three) and admittedly, I was a crispy critter when I finally reached my own driveway. The drive also drank half a tank of gas, about $25 worth in my car. And it gave me a Yeti-sized carbon footprint for that one day.
So I understand that the road trip may be an American icon to be relegated to history. I understand that and I hate it and if I must give it up, will do so with deep sadness. When I am old—really old—I will sit in a rocking chair and reminisce about the days when I could just get in my car and go—looking for America and finding it.
Do you like my new business card?
Labels: air travel, news, road trip, texas
I-35
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
For many of us in Dallas, the stretch of highway between Dallas and Austin is as familiar and well-worn as the path between the couch and the refrigerator.
I-35 is a blessing and a bane—a zippy jaunt to a beloved town that has grown slower, rougher, more torn up and less lovely every year. This is a major artery through the nation. Trucks and heavy traffic, heat and cold, have rutted the asphalt, construction areas seem to settle in for decades, with occasional adjustments to the orange cones and lane closures. While landmarks still include the dome caterpillar at the Monolithic Dome Institute and the shop of guy who does chainsaw sculpture, much of the view is malls and industrial sites of various uninteresting sorts. Except, of course, Waco, which is a nifty little town to visit and I don’t care what you think.
On a good day, the drive takes three hours. Today was a great day, I made it in 2:45, with no stops. The longest it has ever taken me was five hours, due to blinding rain and construction. What a white-knuckle misery that was.
(Digression: I left here on Sunday morning. I’d planned an early start and dragged myself out of bed at about 6:30. I was in the kitchen, staring into space and drinking coffee, when I heard Tom calling weakly from the bedroom, where he was trying to remain asleep, “Sophie … daylight savings time.” Shit. I was barely awake and I was late already. This explains my packing job. I forgot shampoo, deodorant, earrings, eye makeup remover, and a belt.)
Anyhoo, we all have our rituals for the drive. I usually am compelled to stop in West for kolaches, which are Czech baked goods. (Not this time, though. I was in too much of a hurry.) I like the cottage cheese kolaches, the very thought of which gives Tom the dry heaves. He likes sausage rolls and cherry kolaches, if I’m not mistaken. And we like to stop at a little butcher off the highway that makes the world’s best beef jerky. Beef jerky and gummi bears are the road’s two essential food groups, to my mind.
A random observance: I noticed that while the billboards for Up In Smoke Bar-B-Q still feature a worried-looking cartoon cow, the cow is no longer being consumed by flames, which was always a little disturbing to me.
I was starting to think about filling up the tank when I spotted a Chevron with the ungodly low price of $2.76 a gallon. Score! I pulled off, pulled into the station, opened my gas cap—and then realized the station was long closed. Boarded up. Moths and cobwebs. Der. I pulled into a Shell station across the street and paid $3.16 a gallon. I later realized that this was about the highest priced gas on the road. What do you bet they leave that crusty old Chevron sign up on purpose, to catch hapless knuckleheads like me? A mile down the road I could have paid nearly .10 a gallon less.
Also, because I have promised Kristen a bathroom reference whenever possible…I see they are building some kind of bathroom spectacular fun house happy play area rest stop,to replace the old rest stop near Salado, at which I have rested many, many times. These new “Safety Rest Areas” are part of a statewide initiative to improve the rest areas and now, says to TxDot (Texas Department of Transportation) “motorists can’t thank us enough.”
Though not open yet, the new rest complexes look splendid indeed, all made of stone with playgrounds and walking trails (and according to the website, wifi as well as heated and air-conditioned bathrooms). However, I find myself already feeling a little nostalgic for the open air bathrooms with the stainless steel toilets to which I’ve grown accustomed. They weren’t fancy but I have to say, they were always immaculate. As I waited for a stall on Sunday, I gazed up at the blue sky above and reminisced.
So, how’s this for a rambling and inconsequential blog? As soon as I have more time, I’ll tell you about the rockin’ exhibit about the Beats I saw at the Harry Ransom Center on Sunday.
In conclusion, on the drive home today I listened to Christina Aguilera’s Beautiful three times in a row. I’m such a sappy girl but that song moves me.
I-35 is a blessing and a bane—a zippy jaunt to a beloved town that has grown slower, rougher, more torn up and less lovely every year. This is a major artery through the nation. Trucks and heavy traffic, heat and cold, have rutted the asphalt, construction areas seem to settle in for decades, with occasional adjustments to the orange cones and lane closures. While landmarks still include the dome caterpillar at the Monolithic Dome Institute and the shop of guy who does chainsaw sculpture, much of the view is malls and industrial sites of various uninteresting sorts. Except, of course, Waco, which is a nifty little town to visit and I don’t care what you think.
On a good day, the drive takes three hours. Today was a great day, I made it in 2:45, with no stops. The longest it has ever taken me was five hours, due to blinding rain and construction. What a white-knuckle misery that was.
(Digression: I left here on Sunday morning. I’d planned an early start and dragged myself out of bed at about 6:30. I was in the kitchen, staring into space and drinking coffee, when I heard Tom calling weakly from the bedroom, where he was trying to remain asleep, “Sophie … daylight savings time.” Shit. I was barely awake and I was late already. This explains my packing job. I forgot shampoo, deodorant, earrings, eye makeup remover, and a belt.)
Anyhoo, we all have our rituals for the drive. I usually am compelled to stop in West for kolaches, which are Czech baked goods. (Not this time, though. I was in too much of a hurry.) I like the cottage cheese kolaches, the very thought of which gives Tom the dry heaves. He likes sausage rolls and cherry kolaches, if I’m not mistaken. And we like to stop at a little butcher off the highway that makes the world’s best beef jerky. Beef jerky and gummi bears are the road’s two essential food groups, to my mind.
A random observance: I noticed that while the billboards for Up In Smoke Bar-B-Q still feature a worried-looking cartoon cow, the cow is no longer being consumed by flames, which was always a little disturbing to me.
I was starting to think about filling up the tank when I spotted a Chevron with the ungodly low price of $2.76 a gallon. Score! I pulled off, pulled into the station, opened my gas cap—and then realized the station was long closed. Boarded up. Moths and cobwebs. Der. I pulled into a Shell station across the street and paid $3.16 a gallon. I later realized that this was about the highest priced gas on the road. What do you bet they leave that crusty old Chevron sign up on purpose, to catch hapless knuckleheads like me? A mile down the road I could have paid nearly .10 a gallon less.
Also, because I have promised Kristen a bathroom reference whenever possible…I see they are building some kind of bathroom spectacular fun house happy play area rest stop,to replace the old rest stop near Salado, at which I have rested many, many times. These new “Safety Rest Areas” are part of a statewide initiative to improve the rest areas and now, says to TxDot (Texas Department of Transportation) “motorists can’t thank us enough.”
Though not open yet, the new rest complexes look splendid indeed, all made of stone with playgrounds and walking trails (and according to the website, wifi as well as heated and air-conditioned bathrooms). However, I find myself already feeling a little nostalgic for the open air bathrooms with the stainless steel toilets to which I’ve grown accustomed. They weren’t fancy but I have to say, they were always immaculate. As I waited for a stall on Sunday, I gazed up at the blue sky above and reminisced.
So, how’s this for a rambling and inconsequential blog? As soon as I have more time, I’ll tell you about the rockin’ exhibit about the Beats I saw at the Harry Ransom Center on Sunday.
In conclusion, on the drive home today I listened to Christina Aguilera’s Beautiful three times in a row. I’m such a sappy girl but that song moves me.
Labels: road trip, texas, travel
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