Snipets of the Past

The Beginning 

It was dark at the time of our departure, and the moon was not out. The ominous and cold clouds that night, in mid-march 2013, marked the beginning of an unknown feeling towards an experience only imagined.

Walking out the backdoor of the kitchen I said one word to my companion, "Ready?" "Onward," he replied as we walked up the strenuous hill from the place of our employment. Sweaty and tired from the footwork and attention paid to our guests, we reached the car and began to take inventory of our essentials. It was here that our journey began, in a parking lot, settled in the oaken mountains of Carmel Valley, CA.

As we pulled off property, there was a sense of urgency to get away from the area we had become so accustomed to over the past decade.  It was apparent that the anxiety and excitement were mixed with feelings of fear and uncertainty and made a wonderful blend that was settling. A sense of peace flowed through my body as I took the wheel towards our first way point.

My companion's name was Mark Collins Vasquez.  From a broken family, came an authentic gentleman that may not have been raised in the most peaceful of households but that upheld traditionalist ideals of loving your family and if you have a problem speak up, no matter the outcome.  He was a mid-height man but of a slender build, very much like a boxer, and with the speed of a hummingbird's wings. He was quite the ladies’ man and had a way about him that I only know how to describe as mysterious.  Anytime at a lounge, women would get caught in his yellow-green eyed gave and have no chance.  Jet black hair and a descendant of the Aztecs he was a man, through and through.  No bullshit, not much to say, but when he spoke you listened. His morals were loose, but if you were to hint at a wrong doing, he would correct it that moment. This made him a good companion that would pay attention to our surroundings and speak when necessary. Not pig headed, like myself, but ready for anything that we may face.

We took highway 68 to Blanco Road and then to the 101 south. Passing through Gonzales we sparked up conversations of past lovers. "She was the love of my life," I said.  "I doubt that, you haven't even graduated college," retorted Mark. "I know, I know, but it's one of those feelings you get that binds you up and won't let go," I said in response to his brutal honesty.  "You won't know, until you know and you may never know," said mark, as plainly as the moon shining in the sky. By this time we had made it to Soledad and were making good time. We had begun measuring our trip in fractions. "We are 1/42 of the way there," I mentioned. Mark, as pissed as an old woman whose oven had stopped working, said, "It’s not even morning of the first day of our travel.  Settle in, it's going to get tough." 

We reached Paso Robles and headed east on the 46. This would take us to the Interstate 5 and would guide us straight down to Bakersfield where we would begin heading eastward on the Route 66. After about 10 miles outside of Paso Robles we got stuck behind a large semi-truck on a one lane highway.  At the time I was eager to get around it and maintain our pace, but then I stepped back and remembered what mark had said.  So I began to settle in, listen to the sound of the road, look into the sky, and prepare for this long journey. It was pupil dark that night as we drove down the lonesome 46.  There is a way to tell that you are at the end of that highway.  Oil wells, hundreds of them, come out of nowhere in the darkness.  They are situated no more than two miles west of the intersection between Interstate 5 and Highway 46.  These would be the last familiar distance markers that we would encounter for the entire trip towards our destination.  From then on, all would be new and foreign.   

After we reached the 5 we continued south and took a turn towards the east onto highway 58.  This road took us past a very large complex, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, but that I'm sure could have been seen from space.  The lights were blinding, and from that you could see the high fencing surrounding the entire complex. Wasco State Penitentiary read the sign in the front, as if they were proud to maintain such a vulgar place.  We drove past without the slightest hesitation, because we both knew that within those buildings lived creatures, derelicts, and yet some innocent men.  A prison is an eerie place to cross paths with, knowing that murderers, thieves, drug addicts, and the like reside behind those walls.

After that there was not much interesting for hours.  Then all of a sudden mark spoke, "red lights," as he pointed out the passenger side window. "I don't know, what could they be," I said?  The lights were literally spread out over miles of space.  They blinked very rhythmically, as if breathing.  As we got closer more and more lights became visible.  Finally, as we drove nearer and east of the lights, we began to see patterns.  Runways.  Turnarounds.  It was Lancaster Air force base, and being that we had never seen an air force base at night, we had no clue what was going on.  Naivety at its finest.

Chapter 2

Now you may be wondering about me but I won't go to far into detail about who or what I am at this point in the story.  I was uprooted at the age of six weeks and moved into a house on a hill in Knoxville, Tennessee.  It was a slow time for my family, and we spent all of our time together.  Whether it was weathering the storms of rain, snow, or heat or just maintaining the yard, there was not much socialization on that hill. We had dogs, cats, and wide open property that was as untouched the forests of the Appalachian Mountains.  Purple and steaming in the morning we could see those mountains.  I spent 10 years of my life in Knoxville.  One of the best parts was leaving and visiting the grandparents in Temple City, California, almost every summer. Don't get my wrong, Knoxville was great, but California had many more perks to take advantage of. I must say though, Tennessee has an old beauty about it that California cannot duplicate.

So come the Arizona border, it was difficult to think that we were going to be leaving our home for some time in order to explore areas that we had never been before. This was the first real traveling I had ever done. We crossed the border between California and Arizona as the sun rose over the mountains southeast of Kingman, Arizona. The highway was surrounded by desert, early morning desert, which is naturally cold and punishing to those that are not prepared. The one thing I was not prepared for was the images that will be burned into my memory for as long as I live. Man amazes and horrifies me.  This time I was amazed.  In the distance, a mile long basilisk slithered through this barren landscape with the ease of water over limestone.  Graceful yet puissant, this Union Pacific locomotive pressed on through the desert, our counterpart, at that moment of this journey.

We stopped off in a small town, with car salesmen and Starbucks everywhere, even in this godforsaken desert.  We grabbed a bite to eat that was nowhere near satisfying, in the least.  I had been behind the wheel for 10 hours and we decided to switch position, Mark as driver and myself as navigator. There is not much after the California-Arizona border. I remember seeing a sign that said, "Property for sale-$750 per acre." Jesus!”  I thought, but then again, why would you ever want to buy land here.  There was nothing.  I finally realized why the United States, so graciously, gave the American Indians, some of their land back... We didn't want anything to do with it.  

After this we had gotten into Flagstaff. It is called high desert, but the snow and pine trees would suggest otherwise. This is where we stopped off for a drink. There was no question about it, we needed one. Mark spoke, "Whiskey." "Yes indeed my friend, what happened to not drinking?" "Fuck that noise, do you really think id make it across America without sampling spirits?" I had no response. We pulled up to one of our favorite types of bars, the dive. The worse possible looking bar from the outside, the best type of fun on the inside. We broke through the door like starving and thirsty, malnourished refugees, and immediately eyes fell upon us. We sat. "Jameson and a beer, two times."  The best drink I'd had in some time. The eyes strayed, to focus on things other than the newcomers. We sank into the bar and became oblivious to the all Seeing Eye. What a relief. 

We left the bar and drove to the university. We wanted to see the lifestyle of the Arizona student. It turns out, from our point of view, that there isn’t much difference between California and Arizona students. Yea there's a "boundary" that divides states but does it divide the way we live. Nobody knows really. America has never been a whole like Germany or France. We are a people of immigrants. We all moved to this beautiful piece of land. Only American Indians are true Americans.

As we approached the Arizona-New Mexico border, I realized that I had brought a good amount of Marijuana with me on our excursion.  Remembering a story a bartender, by the name of Jackson, had told me, New Mexico police were very strict when it came to illicit "drugs." For some reason I got extremely paranoid by the thought of police searching our bags, and car.  I told Mark to pull the car over and I began to rip the back of the car apart, searching for my ganj.  I found it, took a couple of real large rips and then left the weed on the side of the road and continued down the road.  After we got on the road, "What the hell was that Thomas?" "Sorry man, I got really paranoid, I know I will regret this a few days in the future." And we did.

As we pushed forward on our trail through the desert of the southwest we crossed the "boundary" of New Mexico. God I hate that place. There was aridity and struggle. I assume that is how America lives. Survival, that's what you call it. I remember the deserted freeway towns. Maybe population of 600 and just a hotel, Taco Bell, and a Chevron. Damned corporations taking over even the poorest of settlements in America. We stopped off for gas about 120 miles outside of Albuquerque. I phoned my dad. I told him of the desert and the mountains we had crossed.  He assured me that he had been there before. As he explained his experience with this godforsaken land I couldn't help but realize how fucking awful this place was. How could someone live here?  There is nothing. There isn't even a grocery store. Fuck.

We made our way over to Albuquerque and finally it seemed as though we were entering into a place where people actually lived.  It was populated and Mark and I were grateful for the sense of breaking into a place that was bustling and moving.  It was opposite of the freeways through Arizona and New Mexico. There were beautiful pieces of artwork along the freeways as we set our aim on the very center of the city.  Albuquerque is a city, set up against a large range of hills.  I wouldn't call them mountains because they were not tall enough.  It did create a backdrop for the city and cast an odd feeling over the city.  It wasn't a place we could call home, even though we were happy to enter it. We continued to get closer and closer to the heart of the city and I remember driving down the streets of Albuquerque.  It seemed old, a bit run down outside of the city center, but because we had never been there it was all new.  There was nothing old about it. 

We decided to stop off and grab something to eat before we continued on. We found a small place, pushed up next to a strip club.  All we got were sandwiches, chips, and drinks. After eating we walked outside and a gentleman approached us from the strip joint.  "You gentleman want a two for one special?" I immediately remember the drinks from Flagstaff, but retorted, "We are on tight schedule that we must stick to." That was all that had to be said, as he walked to another pair of gentlemen walking in the opposite direction.  Mark hadn't said a word or even looked at the man.  I feel as though if the decision had been left to him, we would have been sitting there with some New Mexico women on our laps. 

Chapter 3

 People often mistake change for circumstances in life that are not chosen. I believe that is why people are afraid of change, the different, the new.  I have always tried to embrace it. So when we finally got through that desert of New Mexico and into the panhandle of Texas it was an immediately different feel. We pulled over about 4 miles into Texas and we stepped out of the car. It was dusk then, late dusk. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, but the colors, from sky and golden orb, had blended into a whirlwind of colors on an expansive canvas over the Texas plains. Shortly after, Texas became very dark. Our second night on the road.

That evening we both began to get twangs of hunger.  From the passenger seat I heard, "Let’s stop in yellow."  Confused I said, "Yellow? What do you mean," until it hit me and I realized the connection, marks wit precedes him. As we approached that city there was not much to choose from around 1am. We pulled off the freeway and drove south on some boulevard. There were law enforcement vehicles racing up and down the street, which made for an uneasy feeling as we approached the only food establishment open for miles. As we ordered and got our food from the drive-thru window I couldn't help but notice the tone of the man’s eyes gazing at us through the window. A young man, Caucasian and angry. His eyes said, "What are you doing here? Why do you mock me? Get on." It saddened me, but we listened. Driving away you could feel the burn of someone watching you, staring on at the vehicle California plates. We ended up eating in a parking lot just south of the 40. Let me tell you, that food was awful. I have never had worse sustenance in my life. I have even eaten spoiled food, and this was worse. We didn't even finish the "meal," threw everything in the closest garbage, and continued on our journey. 

At this point in time, I was driving, and for some odd reason my eyes began to burn, and I had a headache and sneezing.  It had been a long time since I had caught a cold. "I think I may be coming down with something," I said turning to Mark.  "Same, I can't catch my breath," Mark responded.  By this time we were just on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.  At around 3 am, this city is abandoned and all you can see are the lights from some small skyscrapers.  There is one that stands out among the rest.  It was called the Devon Energy Corporation.  The company built a structure that towered over the rest of the buildings in the city. It was funny because most of the buildings are brick, originals, while this one was modern and designed by, I am assuming, a very large, ambitious team of engineers and architects.  I thought it an eyesore at the very least.

We drove around the city for about 30 minutes, and then parked on the street across from the Dev Corp.  Still feeling sick, Mark mentioned, "Maybe it's just allergies."  "Let's get some drugs from Seven Eleven," I said. Partially blinded by our puffy eyes we walked into the store immediately in search for an over the counter allergy medicine. Mark got to it first but it was eight dollars for one pill, supposedly with the strength to knock out allergies for 24 hours and not make you sleepy. I can't believe how much that passage sounded like an advertisement. 

We picked up some other items from the convenience store and pressed forward. At that point it was about three am, maybe four. We began to leave Oklahoma City, because of the lack of life. We were the only things that had been moving through that city’s veins.  It was so quiet, almost maddening. I never imagined of being in a city that I would not like, until I was in OKC. What an awful place at night.

Chapter 4

You may look into this writing trying to decipher a secondary meaning; if that is your end goal this is the wrong story for you.  What I write is what I mean; there is no in between the lines here.  There is no subliminal message or anything of the sort. I want to say this and reiterate it, time and time again.  Not because I have any problems with the reader or their intentions, but to be open and honest about what you have in front of you.  This is my life, with some additional fictitious scenes, that I wish, had happened on the way.  I have started describing a wonderful and fulfilling journey.  I am currently on another.  MY muse is my eyesight.  I see and I write, I hear, and I write.  I love everything about living. I know nothing else. 

As I sit here on the Amtrak, heading north from Salinas to Portland I find myself asking the same questions.  Who am I? What am I doing? Is this the right choice? I am complacent.  None of those questions matter anymore.  What I do is what I am. In order to live a happy life, I must do what I want to do.  Emphasis on the I.  If someone wants to share my journey, they are more than welcome to accompany me.  But it’s my journey.  Selfish as it may sound. 

 This chapter is number four.  And this part of my writing is completely different from what has been prior.  But at the same time it is all the same. I take the stance that when starting a new chapter; we are taking a new journey.  Join me in stepping out of our comfort zone, thirsting for El Nuevo.

Chapter 5

The majority of our journey past Arizona became a dream. There are only small snippets that actually stood out, worth mentioning. After Oklahoma City, we took an hour break along the freeway, where we tried to sleep, but the little auto we had chosen restricted even your slightest attempt to stretch out for comfortably. This was around 6 am and not only was the car awfully small for anyone to sleep in but it was cold outside, something near 28 degrees Fahrenheit.  No chance of sleeping outside.

We jumped back on the freeway and ended up in St. Louis around 2 pm the day we were supposed to arrive in Chicago. We stopped here and took in the Mississippi River as well as the famous stainless steel arch. Other than that, St. Louis hadn't much to offer us. We had our eyes set on something completely different, and we would reach that idea soon. We set out and by about 7:30 pm reached Chicago an our hotel, the Lincoln. 

Upon arrival, exhaustion had set in, but the blustery and blistery city wind woke us into a dream like state of wonder.  We had made it.  It was at this time we rejoiced, with our drinks of choice, mine a Manhattan on the rocks and my companion's, a beer of his choice, as we sat in the bar looking northwest down North Lincoln Avenue.  

The next four days were our reward for making it across a majority of the United States, in a single take.  47 hours, straight, switching drivers whenever possible.  The below freezing weather we wandered into was taken in and enjoyed, by myself.  Steam coming from manholes, and every man and woman's nostrils or mouths. Watery eyes, hidden skin, and invisible ears were expected here. The reward was an experience into how other humans lived, their environment, their quirks, their city.

For those few days it was our city too.  We partied with locals, took public transport, perused the shops, drank the beer, ate the food, met old friends, and got in touch with ourselves.  We rooted in four days to that beloved city, or I rooted, I should say. Relatives of mine have always said that the cold is what keeps people away from their homes, almost like their protective moat from outsiders. I was the long lost resident that had finally made it through, and I was welcomed back with wide cobblestone streets, so familiar, I hadn't the slightest remembrance of leaving.

In reality, I had never been to Chicago, but it felt like a place I could be.  It was more of a representation of what was possible, and what I longed for in my life.  From the day we set out from the rugged country of Carmel Valley, I knew that I would not be returning the same.  And after our return trip through the grueling snow covered roads of Utah, Wyoming, and Nevada, we made it back to our homeland of California's Central Coast.

When arriving home there is always a feeling of unfulfillment or that your voyage had not been enough to forget some of your daily regimens.  Eight days is not an eternity, but the journey gave me the stimuli I needed to make my next expedition.  It would create an innate yearning for the travel required to find a place or person that is your home. I have been following that path ever since.

To the dollars spent, memories created, and longing for something different.  Chicago changed me in a way no person ever could.