Road tripping through the pandemic
Something about covid-19 made me miss my parents like a homesick kid at sleep away camp.
But I was fifty-four. And I lived in California, over 2000 miles away from my parents in Missouri. There was no way I was going to risk flying. And honestly, the thought of driving that far by myself in the three days I could spare from work scared me.
Nonetheless, I packed up my car on a Saturday afternoon, took my daughter, and set out.
I had to stop about an hour away for gas. There was a large empty lot right off the exit with a bright aqua, dilapidated building on it.
And this giant, orange sphere with a sign prohibiting me from parking there. I felt like I’d driven into a fairy tale–both alienating and enchanting. It made me want to pull off the road every hour to snap a quick photo.
Saturday, 4:00 PM
Voices struggling to shout out.
Saturday, 5:00 PM
Loneliness and desperation hovering in the dry air.
Saturday, 7:00 PM
The first night, we camped on the land of a former combat veteran in Nevada. He lives by himself on an immense stretch of desert, and asks visitors not to express any anger or negativity.
Sunday, 8:00 AM
There was a calmness to the vast spaces in between.
Sunday, 9:00 AM
And at the same time, a restlessness.
Sunday, 10:00 AM
A feeling of leaving, and being left, behind.
Sunday, 11:00 AM
And a feeling that America was on the brink of collapse.
Sunday, Noon
A moan in the empty space between the letters. Signs of exhaustion.
Sunday, 2:00 PM
Or, was I just projecting my own feelings onto these signs? On the journey back to the state, and state of mind, where I had grown up. Signs that prevent you from crossing into spaces you want to go.
Sunday, 3:00 PM
Signs telling you to stop, telling you there’s only one way. You grow so used to them, you just stop without thinking.
Sunday, 6:00 PM
And then deep in Wyoming, this.
A monument to unabashed desire. I fell into a trance, snapping dozens of photos, each one opening up a new feeling, as my daughter waited in the car.
Sunday, 6:00 PM
I felt an intense kinship to this pink, abandoned building. The struggle to express something–despite whatever forces were pushing back.
Sunday, 7:00 PM
The evening seemed to cover everything in a blanket of sadness, but in that delicious kind of way.
Sunday, 8:00 PM
A gas station with no trace of gas, just a peeling sign–I felt a divine beauty in these remnants of failure. I think it was a feeling of awe for someone’s struggle. For their courage to take on a challenge that was so out there—it couldn’t be done.
Monday, 8:00 AM
The next morning we were greeted by a wagon wheel. Had it actually rolled across America, carrying someone’s dream? Now but a symbol of the wild west, a country where everything seems possible.
Monday, Noon
Where cars fly and wild animals do chores.
Monday, 2:00 PM
While truckers drive a maximum of 11 hours a day, criss-crossing the country. A new regulation grants them the right to drive longer. It’s supposed to improve safety on American roadways.
Monday, 4:00 PM
With fierce optimism comes the need for trash cans sprinkled in even the most remote locations to catch our failed dreams. But what if the greatest American treasures lie buried in the trash of impossibilities?
Monday, 5:00 PM
Aching for affection.
Monday, 7:00 PM
Driven to the spectacular.
Monday 9:00 PM
Our last night, we camped on a farm on the border of Missouri. Only a few hours left to St. Louis. We could hardly wait.
Tuesday, 9:00 AM
I didn’t intend that to be the last photo I took on my trip to visit my parents. But it feels right. A randomly placed sign telling me not to enter the places I long to go.
What’s next?
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