Car Crowding

“I don’t know if I want to be good at car camping,” Truman said on our tenth day on the road, and our fifth night in a tent.

And fair enough: car camping is neither luxurious nor outdoorsy. There are conveniences, like access to showers that take quarters and having bear-attracting odors locked safely in the car. But the fact is, you’re sleeping in a tent and cooking food on a glorified bunson burner. On our third night in Yellowstone, Truman said, “We haven’t had vegetables in four days.” We had even gone through the carrots we had brought as emergency roughage.

But after driving more than 4000 miles over three weeks, and camping in Iowa, South Dakota, Wyoming, Utah and now Colorado, we know how to do it. Some tips: you can’t have too many reusable bags and bottles filled with water. Small treats, like chocolate and wine, go a long way. Buy firewood when the opportunity presents itself.

Yesterday was the last night we will spend out of a car. We knew where to stay: we found a site by a small tributary to the Colorado River. We knew how to be friendly: we ran out of fuel for our stove, but asked around and were able to borrow another camper’s spare. And we knew how to cook: we made brown rice with herring and avocado with a side of steamed broccoli.

But the pleasantness of last night was in part because we were in Rifle, CO, a small town 100 miles north of a national park I had never heard of. We’re here because Truman’s grandmother grew up here.

There isn’t much tourist industry in Rifle. The mountains aren’t too tall and the rivers aren’t too wide. But that’s what I like about modest beauty. It’s still beautiful, but there are no crowds.

Just Like A Star

Until recently, I never shopped at a supermarket with a parking lot. The only time I saw people do so was in trashy magazines, in photos of celebrities being “Just Like Us.” Walking out of the Albertson’s with a bag of groceries, I briefly felt completely glamorous. Then I realized I had been in New York for too long. 

Sounds from the Road

One of the defining elements of my time in South Dakota has been the Sturgis Rally. For an official week, and unofficially, the week before and after the rally, South Dakota gives into the tourist dollars of a half-million Harley-Davidson enthusiasts.

By design, motorcycling is a solitary activity, and I can appreciate how exciting this rally must have been for them. It’s a chance to meet other riders, show off sunglass tan lines and buy leather accessories.

But as someone driving across the country in a hatchback, the rally has been a pain. In South Dakota, I wasn’t able to experience the silence I imagine fills the state during non-rally weeks. And I feel bad for South Dakota residents. Summer there is so short, and three weeks of it are given up to the rumble of motorcyclists. Of course these riders nearly double the population of the state, and the economic benefit outweighs the cost in noise pollution.

When I planned this trip, I had never heard of Sturgis. The timing just worked out to be in South Dakota at the same time as all those bikers. I have a friend who drove out to LA from New Jersey, the timing just worked for her to do the whole trip in five days. Even if driving across the country feels like my American birthright, it’s really an adventure in logistics. It’s not possible to plan the perfect cross-country adventure. Things just time out as they do. 

Loving An Idea

Yesterday, I was in a cave, but a few days before, I was in “The Greatest Domestic Space in America,” Frank Lloyd Wright’s living room in Taliesin in Spring Green, Wisconsin. It was of course beautiful and impractical, a joy to tour but probably impossible to live in. 

I like visiting Frank Lloyd Wright buildings—I’ve seen maybe seven so far—but while flipping through Frank Lloyd Wright Quarterly Magazine in the visitors’ center, I started feeling a bit like a dope. Can you imagine writing the editors’ note to that? What’s to report? Frank Lloyd Wright is still dead and we need more money to repair the leaking? 

After the tour, we went to the Unitarian Church where Frank Lloyd Wright, his family and some of his apprentices were buried. On some graves, the deceased were described by one relationship—loving mother, devoted brother, loyal student. By Frank Lloyd Wright’s grave, there was a quote from the architect himself: “Love of an idea is love of God.”

Speaking of loving an idea, the Sturgis Bicycle Rally is happening all around us in South Dakota. The density of motorcyclists hasn’t stopped being absurd. I don’t know what idea these riders love, but they all seem very happy to be together, wearing leather and talking about RPMs.

Just A Bit More About That Lake

It was Jordan’s lake. Well, she never owned it, but it was her neighborhood lake out in Solon, Ohio. It was where she learned to swim, where she and the other neighbors used to bike to every day in the summer, and where she was a lifeguard in high school. Before we jumped in, Jordan, her dad, Truman, and I had gone trail running in the nearby Metropark. It wasn’t a huge park or a wild one, but it was enough of both of these things that Truman and I got lost and dogs could be off leash.

We were sneaking into this lake, in a way, since Jordan’s family doesn’t live in Solon anymore, and she has no more claim to this lake than I have to the high school I went to ten years ago. No one stopped us though. As Truman noticed while watching Jordan and me walk to the car, we don’t look like kids anymore. No, we look like adults, perhaps even new homeowners in Solon. And while I was treading water in this lake, I had this feeling that after a nice place to run and a natural body of water to swim in, the rest was just details.

Next Up: A River

So far this summer I have swam in: a pond, the ocean, the sea, and now a lake. 

Going West

I’m in New York right now, in a brief lag between my summer trips. When I was hiking in the Adirondacks or biking through Berlin, it was easy to forget that all this fun was made possible by The Great Unknown. I have no idea what my life will look like in six months, but who can worry about that while swimming in the Black Sea? In my parents’ house, packing and unpacking, watching reality TV and eating fresh fruit from Costco, all I can think about is the West. 

And tomorrow I head there with my friend Cody, the Truman Capote to my Harper Lee. Our first stop is Jordan’s parents’ house in Shaker Heights, Ohio. Her dad was the first person to sell waterbeds east of the Mississippi; he was also the last. And back in the day, he was fierce ultramarathoner. On Friday morning, he and I are going for a run. And then Truman and I will drive to Chicago. 

Practical and Good.

Along with tap water and free toilets, before this trip, I didn’t appreciate how in America, you can pay to eat any fruit you want any time of year. But in Sofia, Istanbul and Berlin, there is only seasonal fruit. In Bulgaria, my friend was canning cherries before I came, and in Germany, white asparagus season, which I missed, is a big deal because when it’s over, there’s no more white asparagus.

Out of season fruit and vegetables don’t add much to my life. Generally, people in Sofia, Istanbul and Berlin seem to enjoy the same conveniences, save for nectarines in the winter, that Americans have, like indoor plumbing, the internet and fashion scarves. And since individuals have less money in those places, there are less private cars, and more public infrastructure. There was no need for a car in any of the places I visited, which to me is the ultimate amenity of living in New York.

In the case of Berlin, there is some pride that basic luxuries come cheap. The city’s unofficial slogan is “poor, but sexy.” And Berlin, which was sexy to me, is kind of broke. It’s possible to live very well on a bad job in Berlin, but there are few good jobs to be had. This is especially true for people without EU passports. I met a few ex-ex-pats whose hearts belong to Berlin, but whose wallets demand they work elsewhere. But still, it wasn’t like people in Berlin had bad teeth, which was sometimes the case in Sofia and Istanbul. (Also, isn’t it funny how if you have good teeth, no one thinks you’re rich, but having bad teeth means you’re poor?)

Back to the title of this post, which is a play on the “Square. Practical. Good.” slogan of Ritter Sport, a German chocolate bar which can be found out of season at many New York bodegas. An ex-pat friend said that slogan is so German: direct, not exactly wrong, and without the same kind of consumer wish fulfillment that is so common in American ads. She also says Germans identify themselves less with the products they own. And like buying fruit only when it’s in season, that seems practical and good.

Hoping to Meet a Canadian Today

So I can bring up my favorite episode of This American Life, “Who’s Canadian?”

From the Hamburger Bahnhof

I usually find YouTube Art to be voyeuristic and silly, but this video by Cory Arcangel is dope.