Kendall Waldman and I finished our road trip some time ago, and now we're home again. The car that took us 8,000 miles across the US is trapped in a lot in Las Vegas and we don’t have enough money to get it out. I've never felt so sad. But I didn't want this From Sea to Shining Sea column go out on a BUM NOTE so here's some stuff I learned.
When you're asking a mechanic named Google what the coughing sound beneath the hood is, then you probably shouldn't be driving alone in the desert for days on end. We're about as savvy around motors as family pets are around table manners. The first human mechanic we pulled in at to fix a leak pointed out that our high beams were shot and the back tyre had less grip than a broken finger. The next one pointed out that we had a three-inch cactus thorn stuck in our gas line. If we removed it, we’d have to replace the whole fuel whatchamacallit system costing us at least a million bucks. If we left it in, it might come loose and the engine could explode. But then again it might not. It’s still there.
Annons
Dogs die in parked cars, and so does fruit. Plums are the worst. They reek like some kind of off-the-market oven cleaner. That's no good if you're bedding down each night in the back. On hot days, buy dry fruit or get used to sleeping on the roof.
Always carry at least one bottle of something joyful with you. After a day on the road making wrong turns, spending a fortune on petrol and fending off other cars biting and snapping at your bumpers, if you don’t burn a little bit of the tension off with booze, you’ll end up butchering your travel partner in their sleep. And then who’s going to split the driving?
Like religious views and sex, music is something you shouldn't shove on other people without asking if they're cool with it first. We had no hard and fast rule but neither of us would ever dream of playing anything more hectic than Blonde on Blonde or Either/or before noon. Part of that has to do with drinks the night before. But if you're driving late at night, you can play anything that keeps you out of the ditch. Black Dice saved our lives.
When soap presents itself, scrub. You can end up going days without seeing a shower head and that's all fine. Dirt keeps you honest and the drips and drops on your hands and clothes play out like a memory quilt. The crawfish in Lafayette, the blow out near Mobile or the exploding wine bottle in Natchez, Mississippi. But dirt can also function as a social block and when you're relying on the kindness of strangers, friends of friends and local tourist boards, the last thing anyone wants is a handshake that sticks to them.
And if you ever make it to Bayou le Batre, don’t eat at the Mexican. It will make you shit your eyeballs out.
