I wrote another article yesterday. It’s funny, I’m pretty sure it’s good, but I will probably not try to get it published on its own. Part of me wants to sent it to the editor of Vagabond Journey (where I published the article on Amboy)–even just to share it–but part of me doesn’t want to be seen as a joke this early in the game. I don’t take myself that seriously, but this is my career and I don’t want to botch it.
The article I wrote yesterday was about our adventures staying at Motel 6s. Some funny, some scary, some sketchy–I think I summed it up well.
But it could be too soon to share it with anyone else in the business.
Maybe I am taking it all too seriously, maybe I am smart in playing it safe.
Until I decide which I am keeping this story to myself.
I don’t just look at road trips as a time to see new places and have experiences, I look at them as an excuse to do things I don’t normally allow myself to do–fast food, for example. Very rarely do we eat fast food here in Portland. I love it, though, and it takes a lot of willpower to avoid Quarter Pounders and corn dogs and frozen pizza sometimes. On the road, though, anything goes. We were falling into Ronald McDonald’s greasy, toxic embrace at least once a day. McDonalds. Denny’s. Denny’s is obscene in a most beautiful way. So much food and not that expensive. Everything is named “Slam;” you have to love the combination of violence and food. All the calories and fat and salt and taste I’m surprised I can still see my feet and my typing isn’t being interrupted by stabbing chest pains. Again, I would never eat that sort of stuff at home.
But there are no such rules on the road. Candy and I are the No Rules on the Road Club.
Coffee in styrofoam cups? Okay.
Burning through gallons of gas every day? Okay.
It’s weird being stationary again. I know I’ll adjust back, but for the moment it’s weird. I walked down to the corner store the other night–our corner store–and it felt strange. Am I really back here? I fish around in my pocket for the room key. I fumble around the kitchen when I try and cook. I look out the window at the car or at the place on the shelf where I keep all my maps and catch myself daydreaming. It’s good to be home, it’s good to return to that one place where everything is familiar and you can close the door and be surrounded by your books and sleep in your own bed, but there is always an adjustment period after a long trip–letting go of Ronald McDonald’s hand, walking in your own front door, and dealing with all the mail that came while you were away.