WhyRoad trips. Remember when we used to pile into the back of the station wagon or the huge backseat of your parents car and head out of town for a week or two of extremely close family time? No seat belts, a sack full of sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, a Mason jar of water, some homemade chocolate chip cookies and you whiled away the miles listening to your Dad read Burma Shave signs and fell asleep to the rhythm of the tires keeping time with the tar stripes on the highway.
Well, dream on because now you just hope and pray you don't get killed by someone texting or a guy with a concealed weapon firing off a round because you drove too slow in the passing lane. For me, the possibility of peeing in my pants is far more serious when the last gas station for 50 miles had two toothless Deliverance types sitting out front and the restrooms consist of an outhouse too far out back.
Now, before you can leave the house, my Mom's rule was that everything needed to be left 'clean' which made absolutely no sense to me. If you weren't going to be there, why on earth did the house have to look like overnight guests were coming? Well, 'in case you were killed in a car accident'...and would we care or know if anyone said under their breath, "They were such a wonderful family, but did you see the dust on the coffee table? What a pity to think they would die and leave a dirty house!" As stupid as it seemed then, it is even more stupid now since becoming Martha Stewart on Steroids is exactly what I turn into before packing a suitcase. It's Spring Cleaning any time the house/pet sitter is coming.
When we head off on one of our many trips, be it to the airport or in the car, we always a) overpack b) forget something and c) get lost. Getting to the final destination is only part of the adventure especially if your vehicle is equipped with the latest navigation system; i.e., Garmin, I-maps or Loretta Always Lost--our constant voice companion who seems to be morphing into HAL from '2001, A Space Odyssey'. For example, we always get three route selections: green-fastest, blue-fastest with interstate, tolls roads, etc and orange-longest drive through parts of the country you can't find on a map. We naturally select shortest and logically should be faster than longest but this has not been the case recently. Loretta's mappy brain has evolved and not in a good way. She is giving more and more instructions that often put us on a business or scenic route adding hours to the ETA. We do not like Loretta and we often tell her so and it's a good thing the windows are up when we argue in profane words and languages at her ignorance. Never trust a woman with a voice like velvet that you cannot see. She is a liar. It's about as smart as giving a telemarketer your bank account over the phone.
You never know what you'll find when you arrive at your destination. Third floor Europe 'with a lift' is actually four flights up a narrow staircase with a broken elevator and timed lights that turn off just when you're trying to figure out the four sets of keys for the medieval door into your 300 square foot apartment. A 'beautiful view' might be overlooking the town square directly out your bathroom window waving to the passersby with a bar of soap in your hand. C'est la vie!
There are some things, however, I just cannot abide by and accept no matter where I go. Let's talk about tattoos. Don't get me wrong, I have one. It's the smallest Toulouse Lautrec cat ever inked on the human body at the base of my spine on THE most painful spot of the anatomy. After giving natural birth to four children, one would think my pain tolerance is right up there with turn of the century dental work but either the French have incredibly mean needles or I'm the biggest baby they ever put ink on. I didn't know I could sweat with half of my rear end exposed to a skinny artiste for one hour and a miniature chat noir I'd never see without a mirror. But sweat and moan I did from the sheer ecstasy of the moment.
So, I'm calling out some of you not-so-pretty ladies. While sitting at a lovely cafe in the French Quarter, countless young females walk by with less than warm enough clothes so we can all appreciate their ink. Seriously, a half shoulder tank top exposing your goose bumps and cartoon character inked in comic book colors across your shoulder blade made you look rather...colorful. We have no idea what your tattoo is--scar camouflage? Coupon day at 'Tattoos, Furniture & More' (and that's a real store in Rogers, AR)? I nearly spewed my beignet when a large-thighed woman wearing shorts that did not cover those thighs was proudly strutting her bruise-looking tattoo in ancient Japanese that when interpreted probably said 'I have huge thighs' strolled by way too slowly. Let me just say if you have cellulite (and most everyone does who's over the age of 30), please cover it because all we can do is hope we don't go blind by staring into the sun to avoid looking at your legs. That's why capris were created. Wear them. I don't leave home without them.
As we conclude our latest journey along the Gulf Coast of America, we have rocked out to The Eagles, ZZ Top and other great bands while stuck on the interstate, laughed at our plethora of idiot techno and useless inventory of same (most likely due to our age-related attitudes) and spent long evenings sitting on the deck gazing at the giant Live Oak whose branches reach out and touch your soul with history and wisdom to survive so long. We are travelers full of love for each other and the places we discover.
So, until next time...
Laissez les bons temps rouler, y'all.
