Hot Springs, The flat expansiveness of Oklahoma, Cadillacs of Amarillo and the arrival into New Mexico
After refuelling at the famous restaurant, The Arcade, Maggie and I left Memphis and headed west. It would be the start of a long, long drive on I-40. Upon leaving the city and entering into the flatness of Arkansas, dark grey squalls swooped in out of nowhere. Maggie, the ever fearless driver, was determined to drive through the storm, insisting it would soon pass. When a bolt of lightning missed our car by mere feet, however, we quickly pulled off into a university parking lot, caught our breath and tried to lower our heart rates to a normal pace. That would be the third time in my life that I was almost struck by lightning. Soon the storm did pass, and we were back on our way through Arkansas.
After arriving and already feeling the stifling heat of the south, as well as the increasingly entertaining yet overwhelming presence of bikers, we found an oasis of deliciousness. After surviving on gas station coffee and granola bars for the past few days, we found a cafe that served home made ice cream, fresh baked cinnamon rolls (so devine that they could even possibly rival those of our dear amish neighbors), and -gasp- soy lattes. We were pretty stoked, to say the least. We pitched our tent in a nearby camping area, and went in search of the town's namesake. Alas, the hot springs had become privitized, and we were charged upwards of 20 dollars at the door. So we left. Obviously. Dinner that night was delicious, making a new kind of soup, reminiscent of the tomato based alphabet soup... except not. We drank our beers and slowly the campsite grew dark.
The original plan was Hot Springs, Arkansas to Amarillo TX. A drive that would normally take about 10 hours or so.The next day, we were off to Amarillo Texas. The drive through Oklahoma was, to say the least, flat. To say a little more, it was extremely flat. The only source of entertainment was the ever-increasing religious billboards and pornographic store signs. Not to point any suspicious fingers, but we found it odd that the farther we drove into the bible belt, the more adult stores appeared on the side of the highway.
The arrival into Amarillo TX was, sadly, anti-climatic. Where we were promised an artsy haven within the intensely prudish landscape of texas, we were faced with a more... simple city. We drove up and down the main streets, Maggie saying over and over again "Where is the city? Where is it?!" Both famished and smelling like roadtripping hippies, we stumbled into a small cafe wedged behind a parking lot and what looked like an abandoned industrial building. Greeted by a staff of well dressed young men (however upon closer inspection, were as mangy and renegade as we were, tatoos hidden beneath black starched shirts, no doubt) we hid in the corner, giggling non-stop about how crazy we must appear. Soon, however, bellies full and nerves calmed, we realized we needed a place to stay the night. As Maggie left for the restroom to adjust her appearance, I eyed the staff. Surely one of them would know where we could spend the night. Upon further consideration, however, I realized my nerves were simply too tired to engage in any kind of flirtatious begging (Hi, um.. do you have... a couch?) we left the restaurant empty handed. On our way back to the parking lot, we passed a pickup truck full of half manequin bodies. After a bit of confusion we realized that truck indeed belonged to the same artist who constructed the famed Cadillac Ranch. So, we hopped into the Grey Stallion and took off down the road, heading towards New Mexico.
Someways down the high way, we saw it. A bunch of spray painted, rusted cadillacs, buried nose deep in the prairie. We pulled off to the side of the road, fled the car and ran towards it, our footsteps mirrored by the honking of passing truckers (as if they'd never seen women before...) We climbed all over the cars, inside them and on top of them, spinning their wheels like children in a jungle gym. It was awesome. A little girl with a can of orange spray paint approached the car behind me. A few quick sprays and she walked off to her parents, who nodded in agreement. I turned to see what she wrote. There in big, sticky, orange print : "All you need is love."
Why are some children so damn smart?
As we climbed up onto our last car, the sun was setting slowly. I swear we could see thousands of miles away. Texas is flatter than anything I've ever seen before, no trees or hills in sight. The strange smell of exhaust and cow wafted towards us. I stood up on the bumper of the car, arms out stretched, and looked at the scene before me. A line of car bumpers sprawled out ahead, with the last one written in the same sticky orange font: "Forever".
We headed back into the car, whirled around and began to drive to New Mexico. Route 66 trailed along our highway, like an abandoned child. It was the kind of feeling after meeting a celebrity in the supermarket: a realization that they are not always iconic, but rather suffer the same bouts of humbling humanity as the rest of us: grey hairs, pimples, wrinkles, glasses, birkenstocks with socks. It intersected and deterred from the highway, speed limit 45 whereas the highway boasted a fast 75. That's like life. We are constantly upgrading to something bigger, faster and supposidly better, so much that we forget the treasures of our past. That's route 66: a distant childhood memory that visits you in the morning, right before waking, and you open your eyes with a craving in your soul, but unsure of what it all means, or why.
Suddenly, the clouds on the horizon merged. Jokingly turned to Ms. Maggie and said "Looks like we're driving into hell". Not funny. Within seconds, we were thrust into another storm, with wind and horozontal rain. The wind whirled and the sky darkened. No gorgeous texas sunset for us. Instead, picture terrified Jess and Maggie, driving head first into our second storm of the trip. We blasted Michael Franti and hoped for the best.
We pulled off the highway finally in Tucumcari New Mexico, and drove from parking lot to parking lot, looking for a hotel with wireless service. Finally, we got pulled over. On our five foot treck from the Westin to the Denny's parking lot, Maggie had forgotten to turn on her headlights. Oops. About ready to turn on the waterworks, Maggie wimpered something about the rain. The cop let us off with a warning. We needed coffee.
After refuelling once more, we calculated the distance between Tucumcari and Albequerque. A determined Maggie decided to go for it. I wasn't going to stop her. As soon as the rain and lightening subsided, we were back on the road, non stop to Albequerque. We pulled in really late to the Route 66 Hostel, picked up the key where the gracious owner had left it for us, crawled into bed and passed out.
The next morning, I walked downstairs. A vibrant man sat behind a desk, listening to unfamiliar music on the radio. "You room 12?" he asked me. I told him I was, and I thanked him for letting us arrive so late. Now, I have always taken a liking to people who work in hostels. I think there's something about a person who can stand the constant coming and going of people. This experience proved no different. Before I knew it, we had planned my whole life out, examining it inside and out, diving into every idiosyncracy- not to change it, but to know it fully, to embrace it, and build from it. By the end of our conversation, I felt engergized, with a new purpose in life, and the feeling of impending possibility for change. We were both illuminated.
Wandering around Old Town in Albequerque, I was reminded of Spain as a young man approached me. His dark hair and almond eyes tugged at my heart, as if i was seeing an old friend. He explained his car broke down, and he just needed 20 more dollars to fix it. I didn't believe his story, and I told him so, but I gave him some money anyway. It just felt like the right thing to do at that point. He introduced himself to me, and we sat down on the steps of a church. He said he was from Amarillo TX, and I excitedly told him that we were just there. He, no more than 19, said that he and his wife were trying to get back home there, but their car broke down. I again told him I didn't believe his story, and he shrugged and said it didn't matter if I believed or not, just that I was willing to help him out. I told him all about my adventures in europe, and how often I too needed to rely on the help of strangers to get by. You learn alot about humanity that way. We went our separate ways, only to run into eachother again a little while later, when he informed me that he had a little luck down the road. I wished him well and we separated again.
The bells of the church rang. I thought of Laney. The incredible light being I had met in spain, who not only illuminated my time there, but also rekindled a flame inside me that I fear had long burnt out. I picked up my cellphone and called her. "Where are you?" I asked. "I'm in Albequerque" she answered. "Me too! But I'm leaving for Flagstaff" I replied "Me too! See you there in 4 hours?" And it was. Maggie and I hopped back into the car, and drove west to Flagstaff, stopping only to pose with the gigantic dinosaurs on the side of the road.
After arriving and already feeling the stifling heat of the south, as well as the increasingly entertaining yet overwhelming presence of bikers, we found an oasis of deliciousness. After surviving on gas station coffee and granola bars for the past few days, we found a cafe that served home made ice cream, fresh baked cinnamon rolls (so devine that they could even possibly rival those of our dear amish neighbors), and -gasp- soy lattes. We were pretty stoked, to say the least. We pitched our tent in a nearby camping area, and went in search of the town's namesake. Alas, the hot springs had become privitized, and we were charged upwards of 20 dollars at the door. So we left. Obviously. Dinner that night was delicious, making a new kind of soup, reminiscent of the tomato based alphabet soup... except not. We drank our beers and slowly the campsite grew dark.
The original plan was Hot Springs, Arkansas to Amarillo TX. A drive that would normally take about 10 hours or so.The next day, we were off to Amarillo Texas. The drive through Oklahoma was, to say the least, flat. To say a little more, it was extremely flat. The only source of entertainment was the ever-increasing religious billboards and pornographic store signs. Not to point any suspicious fingers, but we found it odd that the farther we drove into the bible belt, the more adult stores appeared on the side of the highway.
The arrival into Amarillo TX was, sadly, anti-climatic. Where we were promised an artsy haven within the intensely prudish landscape of texas, we were faced with a more... simple city. We drove up and down the main streets, Maggie saying over and over again "Where is the city? Where is it?!" Both famished and smelling like roadtripping hippies, we stumbled into a small cafe wedged behind a parking lot and what looked like an abandoned industrial building. Greeted by a staff of well dressed young men (however upon closer inspection, were as mangy and renegade as we were, tatoos hidden beneath black starched shirts, no doubt) we hid in the corner, giggling non-stop about how crazy we must appear. Soon, however, bellies full and nerves calmed, we realized we needed a place to stay the night. As Maggie left for the restroom to adjust her appearance, I eyed the staff. Surely one of them would know where we could spend the night. Upon further consideration, however, I realized my nerves were simply too tired to engage in any kind of flirtatious begging (Hi, um.. do you have... a couch?) we left the restaurant empty handed. On our way back to the parking lot, we passed a pickup truck full of half manequin bodies. After a bit of confusion we realized that truck indeed belonged to the same artist who constructed the famed Cadillac Ranch. So, we hopped into the Grey Stallion and took off down the road, heading towards New Mexico.
Someways down the high way, we saw it. A bunch of spray painted, rusted cadillacs, buried nose deep in the prairie. We pulled off to the side of the road, fled the car and ran towards it, our footsteps mirrored by the honking of passing truckers (as if they'd never seen women before...) We climbed all over the cars, inside them and on top of them, spinning their wheels like children in a jungle gym. It was awesome. A little girl with a can of orange spray paint approached the car behind me. A few quick sprays and she walked off to her parents, who nodded in agreement. I turned to see what she wrote. There in big, sticky, orange print : "All you need is love."
Why are some children so damn smart?
As we climbed up onto our last car, the sun was setting slowly. I swear we could see thousands of miles away. Texas is flatter than anything I've ever seen before, no trees or hills in sight. The strange smell of exhaust and cow wafted towards us. I stood up on the bumper of the car, arms out stretched, and looked at the scene before me. A line of car bumpers sprawled out ahead, with the last one written in the same sticky orange font: "Forever".
We headed back into the car, whirled around and began to drive to New Mexico. Route 66 trailed along our highway, like an abandoned child. It was the kind of feeling after meeting a celebrity in the supermarket: a realization that they are not always iconic, but rather suffer the same bouts of humbling humanity as the rest of us: grey hairs, pimples, wrinkles, glasses, birkenstocks with socks. It intersected and deterred from the highway, speed limit 45 whereas the highway boasted a fast 75. That's like life. We are constantly upgrading to something bigger, faster and supposidly better, so much that we forget the treasures of our past. That's route 66: a distant childhood memory that visits you in the morning, right before waking, and you open your eyes with a craving in your soul, but unsure of what it all means, or why.
Suddenly, the clouds on the horizon merged. Jokingly turned to Ms. Maggie and said "Looks like we're driving into hell". Not funny. Within seconds, we were thrust into another storm, with wind and horozontal rain. The wind whirled and the sky darkened. No gorgeous texas sunset for us. Instead, picture terrified Jess and Maggie, driving head first into our second storm of the trip. We blasted Michael Franti and hoped for the best.
We pulled off the highway finally in Tucumcari New Mexico, and drove from parking lot to parking lot, looking for a hotel with wireless service. Finally, we got pulled over. On our five foot treck from the Westin to the Denny's parking lot, Maggie had forgotten to turn on her headlights. Oops. About ready to turn on the waterworks, Maggie wimpered something about the rain. The cop let us off with a warning. We needed coffee.
After refuelling once more, we calculated the distance between Tucumcari and Albequerque. A determined Maggie decided to go for it. I wasn't going to stop her. As soon as the rain and lightening subsided, we were back on the road, non stop to Albequerque. We pulled in really late to the Route 66 Hostel, picked up the key where the gracious owner had left it for us, crawled into bed and passed out.
The next morning, I walked downstairs. A vibrant man sat behind a desk, listening to unfamiliar music on the radio. "You room 12?" he asked me. I told him I was, and I thanked him for letting us arrive so late. Now, I have always taken a liking to people who work in hostels. I think there's something about a person who can stand the constant coming and going of people. This experience proved no different. Before I knew it, we had planned my whole life out, examining it inside and out, diving into every idiosyncracy- not to change it, but to know it fully, to embrace it, and build from it. By the end of our conversation, I felt engergized, with a new purpose in life, and the feeling of impending possibility for change. We were both illuminated.
Wandering around Old Town in Albequerque, I was reminded of Spain as a young man approached me. His dark hair and almond eyes tugged at my heart, as if i was seeing an old friend. He explained his car broke down, and he just needed 20 more dollars to fix it. I didn't believe his story, and I told him so, but I gave him some money anyway. It just felt like the right thing to do at that point. He introduced himself to me, and we sat down on the steps of a church. He said he was from Amarillo TX, and I excitedly told him that we were just there. He, no more than 19, said that he and his wife were trying to get back home there, but their car broke down. I again told him I didn't believe his story, and he shrugged and said it didn't matter if I believed or not, just that I was willing to help him out. I told him all about my adventures in europe, and how often I too needed to rely on the help of strangers to get by. You learn alot about humanity that way. We went our separate ways, only to run into eachother again a little while later, when he informed me that he had a little luck down the road. I wished him well and we separated again.
The bells of the church rang. I thought of Laney. The incredible light being I had met in spain, who not only illuminated my time there, but also rekindled a flame inside me that I fear had long burnt out. I picked up my cellphone and called her. "Where are you?" I asked. "I'm in Albequerque" she answered. "Me too! But I'm leaving for Flagstaff" I replied "Me too! See you there in 4 hours?" And it was. Maggie and I hopped back into the car, and drove west to Flagstaff, stopping only to pose with the gigantic dinosaurs on the side of the road.
posted by Jessica @ 8:51 PM
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