When looking back on the past two
months of travel through America's guts, I think, “Jesus god, what
the hell have I done?” This in the sense that I really have little
clue. At any given time, most people can say what they were doing a
week ago. I usually had no idea what I did the day before.
As the weeks passed, it became more
difficult to remember specific events, likely because I hit 17 cities
in 53 days. I spent around 170 hours on trains over a distance
somewhere near 8,000 miles. My mind was pudding. It's as if what I
saw was a single massive metropolis with different districts. But
this is highly irrational, as well as silly.
As far as specific events go, the
following immediately come to mind:
I walked the stinking sands of the
Salton Sea, burned around the Tucson desert, toured a community
garden in Austin with a lovely lady named Ida, dodged drunken maniacs
on Bourbon Street, photographed a massive bailout protest in NYC,
drank at a bar with 1,000 beers on tap in DC, delayed my trip a
little to stay with a beautiful woman in Minnesota, froze my ass off
in Fargo (it wasn't yet winter, mind you), ran around abandoned farms
in Montana, and got a crash course in the vegan lifestyle in Portland.
This is by no means a comprehensive list, just what sounds
impressive.
I couldn't begin to count the number of
people I met, and I can't apologize for not remembering you, nor
should you expect me to. It's my memory, it's just no good. Most were
fantastic folk, and some were vicious bastards.
I met old truckers, a reformed
gangster, drunks, racists, drunk racists, farmers, an Icelander,
students, teachers, Irishmen, a strange woman who wanted to give Kam
and I a tour by driving us to the tops of desert mountains, several
libertarians, dolts, pill-pushers, musicians, barmaids, artists, a
coffee-loving Haitian, retirees, a helicopter repairwoman in the
National Guard, punks, and a man simply (and legally) named God.
Again, not a comprehensive list.
And I owe a heavy debt to everyone who
helped me along the way, in particular my couchsurfer (http://www.couchsurfing.com/) hosts, who
housed an oft-bearded vagrant fresh from the rails, whom they had
never previously met other than through messages on the internet.
Also, I probably smelled a bit from time to time. That I also simply
won't apologize for. Take a 30-hour train ride and you'll understand.
I was understandably a little haggard
in the last few days and cities, when the exhaustion finally caught
up with me. I was (and still am) sporting a wicked limp thanks to a
knee-to-chair slam in a haze of whiskey and Benadryl on a night train
somewhere in eastern Washington (the aim was drowsiness, not a busted
knee). I hadn't shaved in a month (still haven't). I was a sight no
doubt.
And even though I'm a lone wolf by
nature, it was fantastic having Kam as a traveling partner to keep me
sane for the first few weeks. Kam, I platonically love you, and
though I threatened to knock you out a few times, I rarely meant it.
And I don't think you were serious about your reciprocal threats. It
was far better being on a train with you than next to some orbish
woman wearing too much perfume, presumably to cover up her rally of
farts. This strategy, by the way, did not work for her.
Mentally, the frantically nomadic
lifestyle wore me down. I'd consider myself an introvert, by some
standards a curmudgeon, and constantly meeting and leaving was
exhausting. As was maintaining pleasantness so my host didn't kick me
out. But I feel like as soon I can find an apartment, drag my bed out
of storage, and get settled, I'll be ready to pack everything up
again.
Indeed, only a day removed from my last
ride, I already miss trains badly. Nothing quite puts your life in
perspective like hearing a mile-long freight train begin
moving. The sound is like nothing in the world, but can probably be
best compared to two 100-foot robots repeatedly punching each other
in the face, then punching you in the eardrums. If anyone wants to go
run around a railyard, let me know.
From here I head to LA to work out the
design of a book with my buddy Chad. Send me an email at
mattbsimon@gmail.com if you
want updates. They'll be important ones, not things like “page 34
is finished,” so you needn't worry about spamming. I'll also drop updates here.
Again, weighty thanks to everyone for
their hospitality. You'll always have a man in San Francisco.
