The morning of my revised departure was a perfect winter Saturday
in the Midwest. Clear skies, temps in
the 20s, and no precipitation. On a
normal day, I would have thought about going to the gym, or a long walk but really binge watched BBC,
but today, I finished up my packing, loaded up the car and was ready to go when
my god damn bike rack wouldn’t get on the back of the Prius properly.
Everytime I take my bike, that GOD DAMN bike rack is a
puzzle. It’s essentially a tripod with
straps, and the bottom two arms secure the bottom of the rack and the top arm
rests on the glass of the car. But I always screw
up where to put the straps—and try to lock them in to the glass. I get super-frustrated, and Pickle’s shivering
in the car and this is the last thing I have to do and why does this always
take me half an hour? I finally give in
and google it and think that I may have undiagnosed ADD because another person
would take a picture of the bike rack installed and keep it on their phone but
no, for me, this happens everytime. And it’s so frustrating because it’s the
last thing you do, and you’re all packed and excited and then this god damn
befuddling rack is blockading my happiness.
UGH. Anyway, got that sorted, got
Trekky mounted and then went upstairs to take one last look at my sweet beloved
condo. I walked through, turned off all
the lights and said “see you in a month condo”.
And off we went.
On the road
As I drove down 55 south---it looked very strange and
foreign to me—there were industrial canals, and lots of towering cranes and
non-ironic companies with names like “
What was really strange is that I’ve driven down this
section of I-55 dozens of times catching flights to Midway. When I realized that it wasn’t actually a new
stretch of road—I sort of started in the car in surprise. Do you ever walk down
stairs and think there’s one more step then there is, and your foot lifts up to
go down, but the ground is level and your foot meets it too soon and your body
is startled a bit? That’s how this felt.
Like, “Duh, Becky, that’s the orange line and you must have ignored these
canals before”. I felt like a stranger right in Chicago. Anyway, I passed midway and going by it felt
like the hobbits leaving the shire—not knowing what would come next. I have to say, the entire drive was so
interesting to me because I hadn’t been on these roads as an adult, so anytime
I was bored I could look out and see the names of towns I didn’t know “Darhart,
Texas” or “Joplin, MO”, or different landscape and wonder about the people who
lived there and built lives and families and had dreams and such. And because I was alone, my only company was
a farting beagle and the sounds of NPR or my podcasts.
The travel food all worked out pretty well for food—the only
thing I stopped for was an occasional coffee and fountain diet dr pepper.
Pickle is my ambassador of good will—when I bust her out, everyone is happy. I'm gonna brag about my beagle now, so if you don't like to read about that, you can skip this part.
Sometimes I’ll be
walking her down the street and people smile and want to meet her. It's because she’ll get an occasional
burst of energy and start running. Her floppy ears are flying about, her head is slightly down, her mouth is open like she’s struggling to breathe and her little screwed up back keeps her gait swayed to the left, like she’s running against an invisible wall and only one side of her body can be at full capacity.
Or, every time she gets out of the house in the morning, she runs to our little lawn, flops down on her back and wiggles around on the ground like a horse just out of it’s saddle. She gets up, and then walks 2 feet, and flops down again.
It’s so damn cute, and the neighbors walking to the el stop and smile.
(My ex-boyfriend was the only one who didn’t think Pickle was cute as hell—but I think under his gruff exterior, he even found it funny. But, you know, he never liked to talk about feelings, so it's hard to say)
It’s not that other dogs aren’t funny—it’s just Pickle is the dog I know the best and she cracks my shit up. Anyway, because so much of my social feed is dedicated to her, she’s known to my friends and when I come a calling, all the kids are excited to meet Pickle. And because she’s a beagle, she’s super-chill and sweet with everyone, especially kids, so what she lacks in energy and ability to retrieve balls, she makes up for in her demeanor. She’s pretty boring moment to moment, but when her little charm kicks in, it’s super hard to resist her.
So, for this trip, she was my calling card. It’s funny---each household called her something different---the one in KC called her a him and Pickles. The one in Albuquerque called her Pickles, and the one in Scottsdale called her “Mr Pickle”. I always say “we don’t subscribe to gender norms” when people call her a dude, nor do I say “Pickle, singular”. As the conversation progresses, I’ll refer to her in a way that won’t make people realize they are wrong---like—“this puppy loves to see other puppies” or, “beagles are a funny breed”. But sometimes it does slip out “Yes, she’s a good puppy” and people will freak out, apologize “Oh I’m so sorry—I called her a he”, or “Oh! It’s just one pickle? Doesn’t it seem like it should be Pickles plural?” I say—she responds to anything---doesn’t matter. But inside my head, I think---there’s only one of her—why would I name a singular being a plural name? Even if she is a dog?
I couldn’t ignore the birthplace and childhood home of Mark Twain, so I stopped in Hannibal for gas and drove past Mark Twain sites. But, for real, no reference at all to Samuel Clemens, which is what he would have been called back then. Anyway, I hollered out “Maaaarrrrkkkk Twaaiiiinnn”, took some pics, and drove on to KC.
In KC, I stayed with the lovely Fraiponts (Todd and Mia, sadly, not Carrie who was in Florida) and we hung out, drank wine (not Mia, she’s a child) and visited. At one point, I was seeing migraine light orbs, but I stuck it out because I didn’t want to alarm anyone and thought they would go away. It may have been the Bugles? Mia was a trip---so bright, so engaged, and so much like her mom, who is one of the most considerate people I know. Do you ever feel like you are always the one asking the questions, while people talk about themselves non-stop? Maybe it’s because I’m around improv people too much—but it’s hard to find a polite conversationalist in my world. I end up asking all the questions, and they just answer and then don’t reply in kind. Carrie is the exact opposite—so it’s so refreshing. And she remembers stuff, too. So, Mia, as soon as we were settled down to visit says “I have a bunch of questions for you that my mom wants to know” and begins asking all about my plans in LA (to take a month and see if it’s a place where I could live) and how do I feel about it (Nervous, worried about money but very very excited to do something new) and the class I’m taking (A sitcom pilot writing class) and then asks “What kind of story are you thinking of” and then when I tell her, she says “Oh that’s awesome. You could have this kind of character, too”. I mean, I was at a bar in LA last week, and saw half a dozen friends and though they were all dear, I don’t think I got asked as much. So, I asked Mia lots of stuff too (what does she read, what is she studying right now, what is her morning routine, who are her friends) and I think I have a new BFF.
Anyway, I was pretty pooped out, and headed to bed early. I slept like a log and woke up around 9.
Look how cute this couple was on Roosevelt Road as I left Chicago! I had to take their picture--they were smiling, laughing and loving life. Yay Chicago!
Pickle sat up front with me. She mostly slept.
Mid state Illinois! Pickle pepped up when we stopped at the Lincoln railsplitter rest stop. She likes historical places to pee, like me!
Me getting a little bored on the road.
Beautiful sunset!!
Crossing the mighty Missisiip! (or the MO river? I'm not sure)
Samuel Cleeeeemmmmmeennnns!
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