Some days, nothing much happens.
August 26, 2004. I woke from strange dreams involving campgrounds and serial killers when my mother poked her head in the door of my old bedroom and asked, “What time do you need me to wake you up?”
It was a big day. I was leaving on my adventure: a solo road trip around the United States. The fact that I was doing this on my own, for the next six weeks, with a sketchy route plan, amazed everyone – especially me. I had always pretended to enjoy spontaneous adventure, but not-so-secretly I liked schedules and lots of planning. I had always talked about wanting to see the world on my own, but somehow, something always came up to get me out of actually doing it. You know the refrain: “I would love to do it, I just can’t,” followed by a shake of the head, apparent regret masking relief.
This time the excuses had evaporated. I had a couple of months of absolute freedom between taking the bar exam and starting my law firm job. I had a good car, a little money saved and a great job lined up. There was a nagging voice (an ex-boyfriend) asking me, “When are you ever going to have this chance again?”
I had to do it. My reputation as a fun-loving, independent woman who made her own life happen – the reputation that fooled even me sometimes – was on the line.
To drown out my internal dialogue about whether I was capable of spending six weeks by myself, pitching a tent, and dealing with car trouble, I planned. I researched cities, National Parks, driving times. I called friends all over the country to see if they’d be around when I thought I might drive through. In the end, I had a rough plan that would get me from Rhode Island to parts previously unknown and back again.
After breakfast, it was time to go. I was an hour later than I had “planned,” due to lingering over coffee. I was delaying departure. I was nervous. It didn’t matter, I rationalized, because I didn’t have anywhere to be. My first destination was Chicago, which I would reach on the second day.
I said goodbye to my parents. “Call when you get there,” my mom shouted, waving, as I got into the car. “Where is there?” I asked. She shrugged, and waved again. “Wherever you get.”
Around the corner, I stopped for gas. A full tank of gas is important, I told myself, as I pumped perhaps a gallon into the recently filled tank. I wandered into the station store, poked around at the snack foods. When the cashier started watching me with suspicion, I got back into my car. I turned the key in the ignition. I didn’t have to go, I told myself.
I shushed my doubtful internal voice with some self-taunting (“what, are you scared?”) and took Rte. 95 out of Rhode Island and across Connecticut. This part of the journey was easy; I had traveled it many times to and from New York. I cut around New York City, buzzed through New Jersey, and sailed into Pennsylvania. I listened to George Carlin and U2 at top volume. I got stuck in horrendous standstill traffic on Rte. 80 in Pennsylvania. I ate the lunch I had packed, and munched on goldfish crackers. And as the miles – and hours – ticked by, the temptation to turn around and head to the safety of home slowly seeped away.
Thirteen hours later, when I pulled into a Comfort Inn (that I hadn’t known existed until I saw it from the highway) in Youngstown, Ohio (a town I had never heard of), nothing much had happened. I hadn’t seen anything exciting or met any interesting characters.
And yet…even with all that hadn’t happened, what I felt that night in Ohio was not bored, or lonely, or anxious, or doubtful. I felt energized, excited.
Free.
I think it’s because I sensed what was around the corner. The day nothing much happened was a preamble to many days of wonder and discovery. On that day, I didn’t just drive 600 miles; I also took a crucial first step. Now, five years later, I can’t imagine my life without regular solo travel, and letting the winds take me where they will.
Some days, nothing much happens…and everything changes.
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