thefutureisred

The Best Part Of the Great American Road Trip

The Atlanta-NY drive is a tough one, particularly without stopping for the night. What keeps me going? Knowing that we'll be stopping for breakfast. Each section of this country has its particular roadside stops. Here, it's Cracker Barrell, Perkins and Waffle House. All the fireworks vendors were shut last night, as was Abbots Farms where you can purchase Jellies. Peaches. Salsas. They have free samples too but not at 3am. So we made do with the enormous breakfast platters at The Barrell then browsed the likes of Boston Baked Beans, singing fish and a parrot that repeats everything you say twice as fast and in twice as high a pitch. Don't forget the rocking chairs out front and all the Halloween and Thanksgiving gear inside. Noah likes to complain about the police. "They're just here to make money through bogus tickets, he rants. "When do you see them going into bad neighborhoods to help people?" How often is Noah in bad neighborhoods to see what the police do there? We are, after all, just passing through. At some point, generally when some poor motorist has been stopped by Smokey, as Noah affectionately calls them, he starts singing Rage Against the Machine with a twist. "Pigs On Parade." Lila serenades us with off-key La-La-Las, some squeaks and giggles. "Wheeeee-Boom!" She's the only one who really slept last night. Then we stop at Perkins for more coffee and somehow end up with six muffins and two cookies on their buy 2 get forty free deal. This is our way, the American Way, and I wouldn't trade it or the rolling green hills and spacious sky for anything.

Argentina By Bus: Travel At Night, Travel in Style

Traveling by bus in the United States elicits images of sitting in cramped seats, rank smelling bathroom -- if there is one -- leaking noxious odors from the back while some guy rests his knee in your lap so he can more comfortably clip his toenails. That's if you're lucky enough not to be sitting next to the ever-mumbling crazy who may well be on his way to serial killer fame.

It also takes forever. What would be 10 hours by car, can easily become a 24 hour bus ride that feels like a lifetime. I've done it, but generally for short distances and only when I can't find a somewhat decent flight alternative.

In Argentina buses are an entirely different animal. In Argentina, seats recline far enough for comfortable sleep. There's a porter who runs back and forth serving meals and drinks, an in-trip movie, and buses are significantly less expensive than flying. The average 10-15 hour distance costs, approximately 75-100 dollars. That can take you from Salta to Cordoba, Cordoba to Mendoza, Neuquen to Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires to Salta or Buenos Aires to Iguazu.

After three of these such rides in the past couple weeks, I can personally attest to the fact that they are the perfect way to travel, particularly overnight which has the added benefit of saving you a night's accomodation.

A typical night goes as such: You arrive at the station and get on board. Within the hour, the porter -- always unbelievably friendly and patient -- comes to take your drink order. This never fails to surprise me. Then dinner is served.

I'll admit, it's generally a strange mix of foods for my still-very-American-bred tastes, usually packed with breads, crackers, cookies and other various carbohydrate options.

Here you'll see our dinner between Cordoba and Neuquen. Bread roll, half sandwich on white bread, half sandwich on brown bread, pionono -- rolled sandwich on yellowish bread -- and a little packet of bread sticks. On the top left you'll find your desert, sweet jam with quesillo, a raw cheese. Try it! It's not at all bad. Dinners also often include a hot dish ranging from roasted chicken with potatoes to lasagna.

Dinner can occupy you for an hour or so until it's lights out, movie on,and you're finally lulled to sleep by the gentle roaring of the motor. Oh, depending on your ticket type, you might offered a nightcap of whiskey that comes on the rocks in a glass tumbler.

Most times, I wake up just as we're pulling into the next town. 

How Local Information Improves Your Roadtrip: An Experiment

We're on the move again. This time, we've just packed up our place in Salta to head back to the US after a quick roadtrip down to Patagonia, some skiing and then back to Buenos Aires before heading back to Atlanta for the summer.

It just happens that as we're leaving Salta, my fellow blogger Kelly Goodman of Travellious fame will also be roadtripping her way through the United States from Seattle to Chicago to join up with the July 26th Travel Blog Exchange Convention.

Kelly and I have been chatting lately about the benefits of local information to the wary traveler. How solid, friendly local information that leads you off the tourist path not only enriches your trip, but allows you to make friends and forge relationships.

We've both met countless people through Twitter, and a few weeks ago, she asked me to write a Newbie's Guide to Couchsurfing. Through our discussions, we came up with the idea of following our respective roadtrips, showing our contacts with locals through Twitter, Couchsurfing and other sources. We'll show you how our travel experiences have been helped., improved, possible confused, hurt or completely changed through these local contacts of ours, hopefully providing ample fodder for fun, travel tips and will be a good learning experience for all involved.

And in late July/early June, I'll write a guest post for Travellious of tips, thoughts, ideas, mistakes and all else to summarize what we've learned over the summer.

Of course, feel free to e-mail, comment or tweet any thoughts or advice you may have along the way.

Our itinerary is as a follows.

July 8  Leave Salta on the overnight bus to Cordoba

July 9-10 Explore Cordoba. The churches, flea markets, peatonales.

July 10 Leave Cordoba on the overnight bus to Nuequen

July 11 Relax for the day in Nuequen. Rent a car.

July 12 Drive our rented car to San Martin de los Andes, known for being a good, local family ski place. We're renting a little cabin here for the week and will spend it by the fire, cooking meals from local produce and skiing. May I just mention, this will only be my second time skiing ever.

July 18 Return to Nuequen where we drop off the car and pick up yet another overnight bus, this time to Buenos Aires.

July 19 Arrive in Buenos Aires. We'll be staying at Hostel Colonial where I'll be writing a story about family stays at hotels.

July 21 Flight leaves for Atlanta.

Kelly and her two travelblog companions -- Peter Carey - @pwcarey on Twitter - and Pam of Nerd's Eye View --  leave Seattle July 16. Their itinerary takes them through Mount Rushmore and the South Dakota Badlands on the way -- two places that featured prominently in a roadtrip I took my senior year of college. My very first roadtrip. You can follow along with Kelly on Twitter as she travels with two other travel blog companions  on their way to the Travelblog Exchange convention.

I hope to see them all there. But I'll figure out the details of that particular trip once we're solidly back on US soil when I'll begin looking for cheap flights and places to stay in Chicago.

Quebrada de Cafayate

The quebrada lies approximately 200 kilometers south of Salta, la cuidad. As you move toward it, you see the greenery of the Tres Cerritos valley slowly vanish to be replaced with brick red rock. It is striking. The rock creates formations that make me understand exactly why la provincia del Salta has become world reknown for climbing. Cafayate is also along the Ruta de Vino, although I haven't seen vineyards in quite a while. What I do see is one amazing landscape after another.

We've stopped often to take pictures, which happened to correspond with each of the times Lila had to throw up the bright pink popsicle she had for lunch. One of us with the camera, the other rubbing Lila's back. Poor thing. I think it will be a loooong time before she eats another fruitilla pop.

A more complete photo essay of Cafayate coming later this week. Subscribe to my feed and you'll be one of the first to know when they post.

Now If You Could Just Release Your Grasp From My Pantleg

I went to NYC for Halloween weekend to finish the translation with Ali. It was a wonderful weekend.  The perfect mix between work, seeing old friends, parties, dinner or drinks, and time alone.  

It was odd not having two other people around all the time to consider before making plans, choices, thoughts. When I was ready, I went where I wanted and did what I desired.

It felt empty at first. Noah and Lila walked me to security, waved and waved as I walked beyond the point where they could go and two minutes later, I was alone. Well, I suppose as alone as one can be in an airport surrounded by thousands of people. But nonetheless, something was missing.

Soon enough, I began to enjoy the extra space, even as much as I loved my nightly calls with them. Lila took the phone, gave me an air hug, then rubbed her nose against the phone for our traditional nosey-nosey-nosey goodnight. “I love you because I miss you because I don’t want you to go and I want you to stay with me,” or some version of that she’d say.

Since I’m almost always with Lila, I rarely hear her on the phone. When I do, I’m struck with how much she sounds like Rebecca, Noah’s youngest sister. Rebecca and I used to spend a lot of time on the phone, mostly when she was in high school and college. Now that we don’t have those conversations anymore, it is difficult to hear Rebecca’s voice when I talk to Lila.

My weekend on 110^th and Broadway revived for me the days when Noah and I lived uptown our first year of marriage and the years before we got married. Halloween, I joined my mom friends in Brooklyn for a post trick-or-treating party. It was perfect. There, I saw all Lila’s old friends, all so grown up and mature, and met their little brothers and sisters, who are now the age Lila was when we left NY.

The same nostalgia poked at me as I walked through Morningside Heights. So much has changed. Grandma’s diner – where Noah and I ate grilled cheese with hot chocolate the night we got stuck downtown without money and had to walk 50 blocks in the freezing snow – is long gone.

Our last few trips to NY have been so unpleasant and exhausting, so it was nice to be reminded how lovely so much of my life had been. But it also made it all the more bittersweet knowing that in less than three weeks, we fly to Argentina and once again have no idea when we will return. If all goes as we hope, it could well be a very long, long time.  

I waded through a NY soup of memory until my friend Levy pointed out I was fighting with ghosts. “Why attach to things that no longer exist?” he asked me. Particularly, I thought to myself, when these memories fill my present with that slight sense of loss. Who needs it? And I tried to let go and enjoy my time.

Noah and Lila met me at the airport where. I saw Lila’s sweet smiling face first. She grabbed me and hugged me and didn’t let go for a long time.

Confessions of Raging Maniac

Few know this about me, but when I drive, I change into another person. I have no patience for stupidity and seem to find endless stupidity on these roads. People who are slow to go when the light turns green make me crazy. If you honk at me without good reason -- and you'll be hard pressed to find a good reason -- you'll hear me spew words that would turn a construction worker's head.

Noah met me in NY and didn't see me drive until a good four months into our relationship. Imagine his surprise to see this soft-voiced woman suddenly turn into Linda Blair. Lila, for her part, routinely tells me "Mommy, it's not nice to call people an idiot" when she's in the back seat.

"You're right, honey. I shouldn't say that."

"You really shouldn't," adds Noah quiety with fear in his eyes.

I am more than lucky that she has chosen not to repeat many of the other choice morsels she's heard (at least not yet).

Atlanta drivers, in particular, make me crazy.

Most of the day -- while people are at work -- traffic moves clearly and quickly. But then, then, the work day releases and thousands upon thousands of people scurry out of their offices into their cars and start navigating their vehicles on the streets with wild abandon.

They horrify me.

"But aren't NYC drivers so much worse?" you're probably asking. No.

See, people in NY drive like lunatics, too. They think nothing of leaning out the window to scream obscenties at a neighboring car. Or swerving from lane to lane just to meet their destination a few moments earlier. But at least with all that, you have this underlying feeling that these drivers know what they're doing.

In Atlanta, and indeed the south in general, somehow i'm not instilled with the same confidence. Example. The next time you drive on the highways here, notice all the skid marks. Now notice the roads are straight, not a curve in sight. There are very few cars on the road as compared to a NYC street any time of day. And the weather is rarely bad enough to warrant the skids and broken tire shards littering the highway.

What are these people doing?

Sigh.

I guess you can take me out of NY, put me on the beach, show me the beauty of Buffalo or the tastes of the south of France and Italy. I may be happy to have left the disjointed, moves-too-fast-to see life in NY, but a part of me will always be a New Yorker. A Brooklyn girl.

I'm kind of proud of that.

Sometimes This Traveling Is A Bore, When It's Not Driving You Nuts

I was just in NYC. I didn't like it much. Two days there, and I find myself slipping back into the same habits as before. I stop saying hello to people, never smile at anyone. I keep to myself.

 

How did I not notice this when we lived here?

 

We carried some of this New York as we drove south for what may well be the last time. It might not; it might. The first day was hellish. Imagine this. Noah and I in the front bickering for at least three of the seven hour drive our first day. Did I say bickering? No, fighting. Straight out, no purpose fighting. We brought back past grievances and hurled accusations. There was shouting, crying and long stretches of silence following statements like “Whatever.” Or “This conversation is over.” And begin again.

 

I considered jumping out of the car and just running. Where? To what? No idea. I just wanted to get away from just sitting there with all that negative energy (yes).

 

This, thankfully, was infinitely better than our first drive to Atlanta after the first time we left NY.

Amazing how things have changed and yet the same patterns are always there. Traveling is exciting at the beginning. Everything is always new. Now, after almost two years, constant change has become our norm.

 

I've learned a lot since we left NY. Learned how to adapt to whatever situation arises. Learned to let go of the things we can’t carry with us. And I feel like I’ve moved closer toward the type of person I’d ultimately like to be.

 

Clearly, we humans like our patterns. In NY, I took the same roads to the subway each day, most times forgetting myself and suddenly finding myself ast my destination. While the streets were the same, when pressed, I couldn’t have told you which actual route I took. Did I go up Henry? Or Clinton? I didn’t remember.

Now I can't remember which road we took each of the six times we've driven this route (3 times round trip).  

 

They say children need boundaries, stability and routine in order to feel secure. When Lila tantrums because we want her to go to bed or buy her a new doll, and we refuse to budge because of the tantrum, she seems happier when we hold true to those edges. A new toy won’t make her happier, but knowing she is safe within defined borders does. The tantrums are horrible and often occur when stuck in traffic on a highway somewhere. I’m talking screaming unintelligibly at the top of her lungs, kicking the back of my seat, heartwrenching cries too. But after, after things all calm down, Lila will then repeat happily, “I was screaming so I couldn’t have chocolate.”

 

She understands.

 

I think we say that children need boundaries, though, because we so desperately need them ourselves. We just don’t have someone forming them, often arbitrarily, for us.

 

I suspect that once again it is all about finding balance. Routine is comfortable and necessary, but it can also become too binding. Complete freedom is wonderful too albeit extremely rare.

So back to the car driving down Interstate 81 -- or is it 81, 84, 85 or 95?. We're in one place but moving. We fought all day one, but day two the cloud lifted and we calmed down, figured things out.

 

Because when all is said and done, what else are we going to do but work it out?

The Inevitable Lightness of Dark (Or Some Such Nonsense)

It's the paradox of the move that does it. We're in one place but moving. Lila and I are baking cookies tomorrow for her teachers. Noah's picking up a package at DHL. It's our first day of dogsitting Cosby (who seems rather irate these days, although I'm mostly sure he wasn't offended by my last post.)

Everything slows down the week before we move. We don't go out as much. Don't see as much, and we don't seem to get as much done. Yet the days slip and slide forward so fast I don't know Monday from Friday. I suppose it's something like turning a corner. You're slowing down, slowing down, but really speeding up at the same time.

Does this make any sense at all?

I didn't make it to yoga and the abortion protest this week bc we went to Toronto again to see family. This coming weekend will be my last chance. I haven't started Lila's Halloween costume. We didn't go to Maid of the Mist or Cave of the Winds.

Between now and Monday morning, I plan to go through all our stuff, pick something up from DHL, launder and iron the cloth for Lila's costume, make cookies for Lila's teachers, give a donation to a couple charities around here, do laundry, mail some stuff back to Atlanta because it won't all fit in the car and plan the trip down to Atlanta. Also, go to four yoga classes so I can use up the rest of my ten-class pass (unless someone else wants it. If so, let me know. I'd be happy to ask Darcy if she'll transfer it to someone else), take pictures of the protesters. I have a list of questions in my head for them. Should probably write them down but whenever I try, I forget them.

Blah blah blah. Have you noticed that between moves I list all the things to do, to go, to be?

I've noticed. It's tedious as hell, but it's what in my head now. It's my process, so now those of you who have asked how we do this, this is it. To do lists and you just don't think about it too much more. You really can't think too much about it, because if you do, it's becomes more difficult to reach the ends of those lists.

Have I mentioned preparing Lila to go. We've already started the goodbyes, returned our library books, barbequed with the in-laws one last time. We go through our clothes and decide what to pack. Begin to talk about what we'll do next week, the week after, where we're going, who we'll see.

All this before Monday morning, when we start the decent from Move to Road Trip to Month in Atlanta to Deal with Last Details of Argentina to ARGENTINA.

It is evitable. A ball rolling down hill, and yet I still feel like I'm on the steep uphill of the next leg the journey.

What is Death To A Four Year Old?

We stopped in Silver Spring, MD on our way to NY, mainly to stop at the cemetary where Noah's mother is buried. We've been to visit three times since Lila was born. More often than we'd been in the ten years prior.

"This is where Daddy's mommy lives," says Lila as we drive into Mount Lebanon on Adelphi Road. She brings tears to my eyes, and I am amazed she remembers from last year.

All three of us stand by the grave. It's one of the few white headstones in the cemetary. On it, there's a tree with five branches -- one for each child she had -- two strong roots and Noah's father's ring embedded in the trunk. The headstone to the left marks the death of a Gertrude. She died on Noah's birthdate. The one to the right belongs to Martin. He died on Noah's older sister's birthday. Coincidence or no, it's creepy.

"Does Daddy's mommy lie down here?" Lila asks.

"She's underneath the stones," we tell her.

"How does she breathe?"

"She doesn't. You don't breath after you die.

Lila repeats these same questions with slight variations over and over.

At one point, she put her hand on Noah's shoulder and reassures him. "I'm going to get you a new mommy."

"You can't just get a new mommy," he tells her. "Can you just replace your mommy?" he asks.

"No," she replies, and I admit, I am mildly relieved.

Then Noah asks for some time to himself, and we go for a walk around the grounds. Lila does not want separate from Noah. She looks back, keeps him in sight at all times and gets anxious when we pass some bushes that obscure him from view. And of course, there are more questions.

Does Daddy miss his mommy?  Do people stick their tongues out when they're dead? Why is Daddy crying? Did Grandma Ruth die too? Followed by a symphony of Whys?

The questions were simple, but the answers are not. Questions humans ask themselves over and over during the course of a lifetime. People have built careers on answering these questions. They are philosophy.

What would you tell her?

Sometimes A Run Is Just A Run

I hate running in the city. The exhaust fumes choke my lungs. The sidewalk breaks my legs and back and there's nothing interesting to see anyway.

But now, now we're in Fairview, North Carolina, staying with Jaime and Adam. "I'm going running here," I told myself the second we turned off the main road to the gravel one before the grassy one leading to their driveway.

Of course, I wasn't so enthusiastic when I woke this morning after a late night drinking wine and chatting. Still, I forced myself to go. And I'm glad I did. It is beautiful here. No smog. No cars. Not even asphalt. Just a serene road shaded by pine and oak leading through the forest. It was still cool out when I left. "This is just too easy," I told myself as I made my way back to the main road.

Who was there to greet me? A min pin with buggy eyes, arf-arfing and jumping up and down in as menacing a manner as a dog like this can muster. I gave him my hand. He sniffed, and now we're friends. Then he turned to bark behind him. That's when I noticed his friend, the one I hadn't seen until just then. An enormous hybrid sort of animal with the head of a Doberman, eyes of  Labrador and the body of a horse.

"Oh shit!" I thought. "No, don't come here," I told her as she trotted her way toward me. As if she would listen. So I turned around and walked slowly the way I'd come. The two pinschers followed. I figured I could continue my slow walk like this the whole way home or face my fear. I faced her. She was unbelievably sweet. And the two of them ran half way back with me.

So when I hit that half way mark, I realized why the run down had been so light and breezy. Now I was on the backswing and not having a good time of it. My lungs burned, my breathing erratic, and I was wishing badly that I had remembered to drink water before leaving the house. "Keep going, keep going," I told myself. " I even changed the music to something more uplifting. But not even Gwen Stefani could get me up that hill. I gave up and went to walk.

A minute later, the road turned and I reached the top of the hill.