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.
Glad you are safely home :) Ah yes, while traveling does drain you after a good amount of time, there's a part of your soul that is so energized by it. You won't be home a month before you start looking for tickets to your next destination. I currently have ten different trips bouncing around in my head and I won't feel settled until I have my plans solidified. There's a likely chance I will be roadtripping through your town next summer on the way to Alaska. Maybe we will kidnap you and take you with us. Maybe we could go by rail...
Posted by: Becktastic | October 26, 2008 at 08:00 PM