On The Road

Two days before my birthday, my friend Anna took me out on a drive.  Early in the morning, we set our course for Big Sur.  It was entirely impromptu, and only vaguely planned, which is how we both like our adventures.  Neither of us are the type to stringently create a concrete itinerary to follow.  Rather, we give ourselves over to the arbitrary Gods of wanderlust, and aim for aimless.  The destination is a mere point on a map, as the drive becomes our unexpected journey, of sorts.  Meaning, whatever happens, happens.              

A year before, Anna had decided to unceremoniously but no less formal, christen her misty grey Prius as Toothless.  This was right after we had just seen How to Train your Dragon 2, so the feels, as us fangirls like to say, were running deep.              

“It gives her character,” Anna said fervidly.  “It totally does,” I nodded in agreement… “I love it.”               

   And I did love it.  The car is sleek as a dragon, but purrs like a baby kitten.  This is to say, that Toothless can soar on the highway like she has strong, capacious wings, and yet, remain soft and dutiful as she needs to be.  Anna and I knew the drive we were embarking on that day, the 28th, was to give us that warm, fuzzy feeling.              

We drove through this narrow dirt path that google maps suggested as a shortcut.  It reminded Anna of the cramped roads of the English countryside she drove on in the summer of 2013 – a distant memory that has always remained fresh for her. The smile she wore curled warmly, as if the recollection somehow thawed the frozen memories at her will.  I have never been on any English countryside roads, but I tried to channel her melting thoughts like Dombledore looking into a pensieve.  I replaced the sunshine with a slight overcast, and gave the shroud of trees a cockney accent.  The breeze snored through like a giggle at a funeral, and I imagined my view from the left side of Toothless.  Somehow, I feel this is not exactly Anna’s experience, but still, I gave it a try.                  

I did, momentarily, think that the constricted patch of road, which lay before us like a veil of green giants, would look less idyllic at night.  I imagined it like an eerie backwoods of some D-list horror film where your car would breakdown because you forgot to fill up the tank like an idiot, and now had to search for nearby help on foot.  There you’d be, alone at night, walking up the road somehow feeling the open expanse of the outside close in on you.  You’d have no cell reception, of course, and couldn’t magically call anyone you knew – because 21st century be damned – and that lovely breeze from earlier would be creaking with noise.  Is that a footstep or just a cricket?  Neither of which sound at all similar, but who cares.  This is a horror film. We defy logic here. Nothing has to make any sense to be scary.  But, as luck would have it, I was not in a D-list horror film, and my phone was working just fine.  My nerves were calm, and the sun was shining.             

Anna and I had been on the road for some time when we decided to stop at a place called River Inn.  Its name reminded me of a small city in Game of Thrones – but let us give thanks to the Gods this isn’t Game of Thrones, and we won’t be running into any white walkers or wildlings or anyone who would tell us, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”  River Inn was by the side of the highway; it looked like one of those picturesque scenes from road trip movies where you might potentially have a serendipitous meeting with some a handsome traveler.  But I simply liked it because it lay in the pocket of the road like a small little nook in the state. Mundane and simple, yet, unbothered by the comings and goings of rushing vehicles; the sun beamed a warm grin like it knew a secret about the place, and I wondered if it did?  I snapped a couple photos, like any tourist would, to memorialize the thicket of Big Sur’s redwoods.  In the midst of modern technology we forget how hauntingly spiritual nature is, and how inadequate human life is without it.             

We stayed long enough to explore the River Inn’s gift shop, which, quite frankly, I thought belonged to a vampire and their familiar.  Inside were top hats and trinkets befitting a Victorian Dracula.  Crystals and amulets with skulls and dragons, and I think I saw a couple of pentagrams.  It was quite a shift from the angelic view of the subdued nature outside.   Out there the redwoods whispered a sweet lullaby that would sooth any child’s worries, but perched inside this tiny mausoleum – home of a morally conflicted nosferatu – clung the pulse of a historic millennium, the heartbeat of a venerable spirit.  Or so I imagined when I weaved through the shop.              

The bathrooms were less genteel.  Rigid and pasty with gaudy white paint, they crowded you to a corner in an unsanitary way.  Public bathrooms are always uncomfortable when they leave little room to maneuver in them.  But the graffiti on the walls were savory to read – I kid you not, the stall I was in had three declarations of love from one Caroline Do to Harry Styles.  I realize most of my readers wouldn’t care who Harry Styles is, but if you’re 1D as fuck like me, it’s a hilarious coincidence, to say the least.               

“It must have been Taylor Swift,” I joke with Anna.  I read an article where she and her best friend had taken a road trip to Big Sur the month before so obviously, as a Swiftie and a Directioner, I make the connection.               

“I bet that’s her pseudonym when she signs into hotels,” Anna quips back.  We laugh about it, but we know it’s unlikely, and yet, neither of us really cares.  We just like making up silly scenarios because that’s what all best friends do.   I imagine, had Taylor actually schlepped herself up into this exact stall, her eyes would roll out of her sockets, and she’d scoff, in maternal fashion, at Caroline Do.              

“He’s a terrible driver, Caroline,” she would say, tersely, under her breath as if the whispered warning carried weight enough to change the girl’s mind.  Shaking her head at her own memories, she’d say, maybe a little too loud, “He never did keep his wild eyes on the road.”  I hope Taylor uses her own lyrics when she’s talking to herself because that would never go out of style.              

Whoever you are, Caroline Do, I saw your scribbled note, inked in cursive – a heart doodled over the I in your name like a lovesick teen from a rural county – You and I stood in quiet solidarity, in that moment, 1D as fuck – despite my girl, Tay Tay’s warning – for one eccentric man/boy millionaire Harry Styles.              

Yes, Caroline, I too love Harry Styles.  Well, mostly his style, if you get my drift.  I would raid that boy’s closet and steal all his Saint Laurent shirts, and a few sweaters.  I’ll even take a few of his Chelsea boots as well because why not?  Though, I suspect, I wouldn’t have to steal from eccentric man/boy millionaire Harry Styles because, if his reputation precedes him, he would politely offer to give me some of his style for free.  But I digress from the actual story.  Let’s get back to that, shall we?

We got back on the road again, and left River Inn behind us in the rearview mirror – ciao Caroline Do.  Ciao Harry Styles.  I don’t know how long it took, but we reached Bixby Bridge.  Bixby; the name sounds like a socialite’s surname in an Ian Mcewan novel or a crushingly handsome Great Gatsby character.   Nevertheless, I took in the sights.  I found myself admiring the sky, which was as turquoise as the sea.  On my left, I noticed a congestion of people and cars gathering on the dirt road – a tourist destination? I wasn’t sure, but Anna and I did pause to be tourist folk all the same.   I wish I could say I noticed something particular about the people around me, but I discovered no such inspiration.  It was families and lovers, and friends on a road trip.  Every last one of them, including Anna and I were typical visitors.  With cell phones, ipads and digital cameras in hand, we all captured our one moment on this grooved corner.                                

Back in Toothless, revving up her engine, we curled our way out into the graveled road.  We were surrounded, on this thin path, by mountain of lush greens. A flashback to scenes of Middle-Earth cruised alongside my reality, and I felt like I was taking a Prius down to Mordor.  Toothless’ bottom exterior clanged with the surface of the road, on the incline of our path, causing concern to flood both our faces.  The dark, granite dragon that took flight on the highway, was now jerking with trepidation at each squeeze of the pedal.  Anna drove gingerly to avoid harm against her car, but the heartfelt attempt was no use.  Toothless’ bottom, once again, scrapped the dirt floor of the mountain, and it screeched like a wounded animal.  I was certain her bottom would rip wide open beneath us, revealing the molten fire of Mordor, and our inevitable doom.               

Anna, a bit apprehensive, jokingly said, “I like going on drives with you because you’re the only person that never questions my choices while driving.”  I couldn’t tell if she was worried of judgment or wrecking Toothless, or perhaps both?  But nonetheless, we both laughed and I said, “Whatever happens happens.  This is an adventure we’re on.”  I was neither frightened nor truly concerned, but I suspect I may have had a false sense of security because it was full fletched into afternoon light, and there were loads of bystanders.  Still, my faith in Anna was absolute.                Just then, as we established our synchronized madness, we passed two women in an unmemorable jeep.  They were parked to the side, facing the opposite of our incline.  With a more suited car than ours, their faces locked on our grey Prius with a puzzling stare.  I could tell, even from behind their sunglasses, they were questioning our decision.  Was it the model of our car or was it our moxie to decent into Mordor they were internally battling?  I’ll never know, but my guess is both.  Anna allowed herself to push Toothless just a bit further before she decided to turn around.  Mind you, there was no space for an old fashioned u-turn so Anna had to carefully adjust Toothless around like she was parallel parking.  It was a real possibility of driving over the edge, but after several shifts of her gear, the dragon purred once more up the jagged road like a champ. 

That day, before our near fatal adventure in Middle-Earth, we drove to Salinas and found ourselves lost in its downtown.  “Old Town Salinas” said the sign I read; “Heart of the Valley.”   Salinas is the birthplace of author John Steinbeck, the namesake of the middle school I attended when I was a child.  I was deeply fascinated by where Steinbeck was born; Old town is, as the sign reads, old.  It is old in the vintage sort of way like walking into an antique store.  Very much like a cross between modern life, and an abandoned Disneyland’s Main Street, it drips with classic fervor of an era long passed.              

We didn’t wander on foot while there, but from my quick glances through the window I found buildings unique to Salinas.  Some resembled Gringotts from Harry Potter.  Others like a small plantation manor, and I found one made of brick called “Dick Bruhn a Man’s Store.  Anna and I, avid fans of Miranda Hart, could not hold ourselves back from saying it with the most exaggerated posh accent.  We let the name roll off our tongue like we were suckling on sweet honeycombs.  Each syllable flavored our taste buds as we repeated the name in between our girlish giggles.  Two adult females, lost in Old Town Salinas can’t be bothered with maturity when, as entertainment, we shout the names of different establishments.  Honestly, it’s probably the most fun you can have.  Say those names with an opulent accent like you’re at the country club for the English society elites, and you’ve got yourself a handsome time.                  

Our adventure concluded with Anna and I driving through the cotton candy sunset like two protagonists in an indie film.  Silence filled in between us like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer while the music thundered an eclectic taste of artists.  The open road leading to anywhere that Toothless was willing to fly, which, that night lead to Whole Foods for a late night craving of grapes and cookies.