Things You Think About During a 1,900 Mile Drive Across America
I just moved to Austin
There were Lewis and Clark, Marco Polo and his father, and now there is Jeffrey and David Sullivan.
My brother and I recently drove 1,900 miles. 1,900 miles is approximately the distance between our home in Massachusetts and Austin, Texas.
We listened to the song ‘On The Road Again’ many times, stopped at many gas stations, and drank many iced coffees.1 We stayed at hotels in D.C., Nashville, and Texarkana. We rode by the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of the Shenandoah River region, through the flat open nothingness of Arkansas, and I think, at one point, past the sea of swirly twirly gumdrops.2
Yankees out of water.
The amount my brother and I laughed during the trip is incalculable. Whether it was blasting Jay-Z as we rolled through New York City, hearing a guy in Nashville singing about how he “got himself a woman twice his size," or repeating an inside joke for the billionth time—we basically laughed our way across the country.3
It would be wrong to draw conclusions about places where you stayed so briefly. But I will share my knee-jerk perceptions. A vibe check, as the kids say.
Something felt strange about D.C.
Just, off.
It might have something to do with the old guy who lives in that big house. You know, the mentally impaired criminal who couldn’t tell you the flavor of his ice cream.
On a somewhat similar note, I recently heard someone say that a pride flag and a mask are the leftist version of a MAGA hat and a gun. Based on what I saw walking around D.C., I think this statement can be confirmed.
Don’t get me wrong, it was cool to see the capital of the empire. And we had some good fun. We met up with my aunt and cousin and had a cheerful dinner. And seeing the iconic Lincoln Memorial, Capitol Building, and White House was an excellent experience.
Our next stop was Nashville, Tennessee. What we witnessed of the country music mecca was mayhem. Our hotel was right downtown, near Broadway. Naturally we explored the famous street.
The amount of live music and number of people out on a Monday night was absurd. I knew it was big time there, but I didn’t know it was like that. We were in awe of the energy, and everyone we talked to was so kind.
But as highly as I thought of the city, I felt some downsides. It’s hard to say exactly what. Although, for example, one guy comes to mind. This guy was wearing a shirt that said, “If you don’t like Trump then you probably won’t like me...and I’m fine with that.” It’s almost sad considering how low of an IQ you must have to wear that shirt.
Moving along.
The last of our hotel stays was in a place called Texarkana, a twin city on the Texas-Arkansas line.
Our hotel was in a modern area with chain restaurants, car dealerships, and people.
But the downtown—right on the state line—was a different story. Other than a few cars that drove by, there were no people. Nothing was open. There was no noise. It smelled like dust.
The finishing touch to the creepiness was a confederate statue in the square with odd writing that I struggled to understand.
The one place that didn’t look like an abandoned structure from the 1950s was a coffee shop. It looked new. According to the door, it should have been open. But it was not open.
Eerie.
Dave and I instantly started sending videos to our family. My other brother said it is the type of town where someone in a musty room is peering out their blinds and snaps them shut when you look at the window; that it’s a place of rolling tumbleweeds. That was spot on.
It was a place stuck in time. It was a place that sends a shiver down your spine, and not the good kind.
It was a place that made you think.
During such a journey, what else do you think?
You can’t help but think about the radical variety of lifestyles that exist. You see a rusty shed in no man’s land in Arkansas, and your instant reflex is to be dismissive. But then you think, hey, someone loves that shed.
You also think, wow, look—it really is a great big world. You’re in awe of the gigantic size of the United States. Talk about the wealth of a nation—there is so much land, so much resources, and so many damn trucks. My goodness, the number of trucks is incredible.
Most of all, you think about what it is like to be other people. You see an overwhelming number of humans during the journey. Each one you see is the main character in their movie. They have somewhere to go. They have a song stuck in their head. They woke up with a set of desires and fears and dreams. Every single person. This is the basic idea of considering other people’s perspectives, I know. But when you go deeper, and imagine what it would be like to be that person, like actually literally be that person, it is a weird feeling. Weirdest is when you consider that person having no idea you exist.
Oh, and of course, you will think about how nice it would be to get out of the car, stretch your legs, and eat a juicy burger and some salty fries.
My brother and I definitely did.
And we survived. We made it to Austin. And I wrote this from a cafe steps away from my new apartment. Which is like heaven.
What we began to call the ol’ fuel-up charge-up.
Comes facundus in via pro vehiculo est—on a journey a witty companion is as good as a ride (Publius Syrus, Setentia 104)
Did you guys come across any Sirens or cyclops’ along the way?
Misty Taste the moonshine, tear drop in my eye. Legendary trip