Six Days on the Road

Let me start by saying that it is my firm belief that everyone should drive across the country at some point in their life. Preferably their young life. My most recent road trip, moving back to Chicago after almost 7 years in the Bay Area, has convinced me that, if possible, one should share this experience with one’s father. However, if your own father is unavailable, don’t let that stop you. Take mine.

I have always known that I take after my dad in a number of ways, but this trip added a few more to the list. My secret fascination with really nice hotels, although I rarely actually stay in them; the not-so-secret joy I find in the worst kind of country music (such as Sawyer Brown’s early hit “800 Pound Jesus”); my pre-travel anxiety, mostly related to packing efficiency and general tardiness; the prematurely white hair (oh wait, no, I’ve known about that since I was 5); my dislike of Oklahoma; and finally, my love of road trips.

That said, I would go ahead and venture that Dad & I were perfect travel partners. Especially if your idea of a great trip is one that starts with some nervous packing, ends with some grey hairs, and involves a lot of Mike Reid, Hampton Inns (best beds, hands down), and general scorn for the landscape around Tulsa in between.

The adventures started before we even left San Francisco, namely last Sunday afternoon as we attempted to cram my life’s possessions into my car while still leaving ample room for airflow. For those who may not know, my car is a Toyota Celica. Small. Very small. It is also silver. This has absolutely no bearing on its cargo capacity; I mention it here because the color will come into play later on in our tale.

After shoving (read “carefully aligning”) everything into my car and slamming the trunk shut, my dad picked up two abandoned rubber bands from the floor of my now-empty room and put them around his wrist, declaring for the general benefit: “Rinders’ Second Rule of Travel: Leave nothing useful behind.” And so we began. (I decided not to tell him just then about the handfuls of nickels I had thrown away earlier that day, after deeming the effort it would take to pack them to cost me far more than 5 cents.)

Over breakfast the next morning (Day 1), which was eaten at my dad’s eccentric Victorian B&B just down the road from my old apartment on Sutter, he starts telling me about a radio show from his youth called Captain Midnight. For those of you who may not have been tuned in, Wikipedia informs us that Captain Midnight was a WWI fighter pilot recruited by the U.S. military to head up the “Secret Squadron,” a group fighting sabotage and espionage prior to the U.S. entry into WWII. Like all good heroes, Captain Midnight had a trusty sidekick, the unfortunately named Ichabod Mudd. I did not know where this seemingly casual reminiscing was headed until Dad informed me that his most vivid memory of listening to the show is Captain Midnight’s tagline as he and Ichabod embark on a new adventure: “Ok Icky, fire up the silver dart!”

It is at this point that I realize that my name for the duration of our journey would be “Icky.”

I won’t bore you with the details of the early portion of the trip, or even many details of the trip as a whole. I will instead bore you with the details of one particular evening in El Paso.

[You may note that El Paso is not, in fact, en route from San Francisco to Chicago. This is true. However, having gauged that the Silver Dart was not so much built for snow and/or mountains, we had opted for what my dad calls the “Southerly Southern” Route. This took us all the way down to San Diego, then across the lower portions of Arizona, New Mexico, into Texas, and finally north through Oklahoma, Missouri, and Illinois.]

So it happened that on Valentine’s Day we found ourselves in El Paso dining at the local (and when I say local I mean it was in the lobby of our Holiday Inn) watering hole called the Cactus Rose with a guy in an enormous black Stetson, a woman who looked like Mrs. Robinson and dressed like my second grade teacher, and various members of the Canadian militia.

Rinders’ Third Rule of Travel (and not-so-coincidentally one of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People): First things first. My dad orders his now standard Maker’s Mark manhattan (I went away to college and apparently my parents discovered hard alcohol) and I, thinking that a place named the Cactus Rose would know how to handle tequila, asked for a margarita. The confusion in our waitress’ eyes should have been our first clue.

The drinks arrive. Dad looks suspiciously at his glass, which appears to be a whole lot of bourbon whiskey with a maraschino cherry floating on top. It seems the bartender was focusing so hard on the type of whiskey requested that he forgot a few key ingredients, like vermouth. As for my marg, let’s just say that a quick taste and a glance around the restaurant confirmed that, when the Romans are wearing Stetsons and packing heat, one drinks beer.

However, Rinders’ Eighth Rule of Travel dictated that we must drink what had been placed before us, and so we did. Then it came time to order food. After 3 days on the road, we were both searching for something that could possibly contain a nutrient on a menu full of ribs, ribeye, country fried steaks, and various other battered items. We both opted for a grilled catfish, the key attributes being that it was grilled and that it came with salad.

Dad and I amused ourselves while waiting for the food by drawing on the paper tablecovering with crayons handily left on the table in a miniature cowboy boot. Mrs. Robinson, looking like she had had a few, stumbled by, nearly losing a heel off one of her festive red pumps. At one point, a man with a handlebar mustache wearing an electric blue vest came over and offered me a rose, which I took. The Canadian militia looked on.

The salads arrived, and we were each provided with what can only be described as a tureen of dressing. So far, so good – at least it was on the side. The food arrived. And continued to arrive. It seems that our catfish were not working alone, but came armed with potatoes, coleslaw, entire loaves of bread, Saltine crackers (stuffed into our bags for later, per Rinders’ Second Rule), and, last but surely not least, beans. Our astonishment at what appeared to be the entire Harrah’s buffet transplanted onto our table must have shown in our eyes because our waitress kindly informed us as she placed the last dishes down that “Everything in Texas comes with beans!”

As we learned at breakfast the next morning, this is true.

But when in Rome, one does as the Canadians do. One eats the beans. And one orders another Budweiser.