We hit I-77, figuring we’ll stop off in Roanoke to see our cousin Peanut before continuing North, but find out his wife is scheduled for surgery…not the best time for houseguests.
“No problem,” I say as I open the handy atlas I’ve made sure to stock the car with. (Dad has taught me well!) “Something else will work out.” The UnTourist philosophy is given its first test.
And it passes. The phone rings. My sister Karla is simultaneously driving to an airport. Why? To go to Washington D.C. for a work conference which puts her up in her own 4 star hotel room for the next couple of days. It has a coffee pot (a.k.a. hot water), a mini-fridge and a pool. That’s all I need to survive!
“We could come to D.C.,” I’m exploring the idea in my own head. Why not?
“You should come, it’d be so fun!”
“You don’t mind?”
We divert course to get over to I-85, and we’re off. Across through Greensboro, around Durham and up towards Richmond, at which point we’re faced with I-95. Thanks to my Wild Acres East Coast friends (Jill and Gary) I’ve been forewarned, but think surely they exaggerate. It’s crowded, yes, and it’s busy, yes, but we’re moving along, until, we’re not. We are 90 miles from D.C. and crawling, not too mention getting bored. It’s amazing how easy it is to get programmed into “get there” mode. Today is the first real day of our big adventure. We have no where to be at any particular time, but as soon as we hung up with Karla, we started calculating miles and estimating times. We are toiling on the interstate with no view and exhaust fumes.
“Let’s get off!” It’s silly how liberating the thought is. We feel like kids ditching math class as we peel off 95 to take Route 1. It’s actually called 1. Oh, I could go on with the symbolism. The first road, the #1 road, the road meant for us to find on day one of our car journey. We see diners, we see Quantico, we see military housing developments, we see a store where I run in to buy my sister the raffle tickets she needs for her conference but forgot at home, we see a little grocery store and buy some wine for our D.C. arrival.
And we see strip malls. America, in all it’s glory, can be ugly. Boasting large, old growth trees that form a dense canopy, the few untouched sections of forest are a tease of the beauty that could be. But mostly the hardwoods have been cleared, pavement poured, room made for mini-marts, gas stations, and fast food restaurants. Driving at a leisurely pace, actually paying attention, the repetition is shocking. Didn’t I just see a Subway? How many Exxon’s do you need in a three mile stretch? As if duplication is not enough, there also seems to be a gaudy contest. Sit one time, at dusk, and just observe from afar a gas station. The entire shop building is ringed with paneled lighting, the interior fluorescents glare through the generous windows, each pump has its own wrap-around bulbs. The whole thing creates a great halo of light. Squint your eyes. It’ll look more like a spaceship preparing for take off.
Among masses of chains, there are only a handful of Mom and Pop looking places. There is no variety in the land of the free and this is, is in not, an oxymoron? Still, I'm happy with our choice. Route 1, after all, provided a steady flow, lots more to look at than interstate berm, and delivered us straight to the big, shiny hotel!
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