So it is that time of year where I haul myself (along with whomever and whatever decides to accompany me) across country. Two weeks ago, I organized my room in Michigan, packed some suitcases, loaded up the car, and drove 2600 miles back to California for the summer.
People seem to think that roadtrips are glorious adventures, somehow akin to a cinematic story, a neo-On the Road, and while some may be like that, this certainly wasn’t. Not to say that I didn’t have fun, but in trying to drive that many miles in a certain time feels more akin to something like North by Northwest, time pursuing you through Midwestern fields.
Yet, despite my complaining, there is also something incredible transversing the many fields and states, watching as one plain rolls into a mountain into a desert, and being reminded what a luxurity air-conditioning really is. The names often seem familiar only because of playing games like Oregon Trail or from reading young adult historical novels years ago. Why else would I somehow think the Platte River was familiar?
And of course there were the many cities and towns, the brief glimpses at another form of American life, exactly the same and entirely different. I was surprised by the places that while often relegated to the status of backwaters were more desirable than say Lansing, where I live.
Now that I am back in California, and the demands of grad school are more minimal (there is still a backlog of reading that must be done), I plan to write more. I was rereading the blog I wrote while studying abroad and found that until rereading I didn’t remember half those moments or thoughts any more. So onward to documenting the languid days of summer!