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September 25, 2013

How to Pack for a Road Trip

Tons of gear

This isn’t even everything

The ability to travel light is a virtue; there is no debating that. I have never really possessed this virtue. Confess: how many pairs of shoes do you need for even just one weekend? Right. Running shoes, walking shoes, dressy shoes, comfy shoes, something flip-floppy. I am packing for 10 weeks. Now, I truly hate to acknowledge the gender gap here, but, seriously–I recognize that there are men who may be reading this post and who are just about now ready to move on because I wrote about shoes up there but STOP. Come on. Really. You can go off for the weekend with nothing more than a bandana and a book of matches? Really? Come on.

When I was getting ready to leave, I asked my neighbors (who I love) “How much do I need to pack for this road trip?” and Neighbor Husband said, “pair of shorts, pair of jeans, two t-shirts, long-sleeved shirt, two socks, two underwear, sweatshirt.” He said this like he packs for a 10-week trip every day. In fact, he used to camp a lot with “difficult youths” as a wilderness counselor so maybe that short list, plus a case of Mountain Dew and cigarettes really was his pared-down reality. But sensible as this prescription was, it was not going to work for me. I figured I had to pack for so many realities: changing seasons, hotels, campgrounds, workouts, dinner parties, conferences, rain; I had to pack for the possibility of swimming and for the  inevitable sad, lonely road moments when I would need something soft and fuzzy and warm to surround me and help me hold my shit together–a form of soothing that maybe Neighbor Husband could accomplish with a simple change of socks, but, not me. (This is actually Colby’s role–to be soft, fuzzy, and  comforting. But the truth is, if I start to freak out, Colby also starts to freak out, and more often than not, in times of stress it is Colby who freaks out first and thus it becomes my job to be soft, fuzzy, and comforting. So in short, I needed to pack at least one fleecy pullover thing, if not two–considering where I was planning to travel…more on that in an upcoming post.)

There is an underlying truth of the matter, so I may as well just cut to it: I am (wait for it, cyber friends…this is messed up) 49 years old. And that means I’ve been working and earning for a very long time–actually, since I was 15 (though I spent all the money I made at that first job, from age 15 to 17, on things I can’t write about openly and also on a really ridiculous, rusty little car called “The Goddess Mobile,” named thusly because I thought in cosmic terms back then, and named things accordingly), and because I’ve worked so long and saved some, and because I have an awesome set of parents who support my dreams even to this day, and because my employer–Norwalk Community College–is supporting me somewhat on this sabbatical journey that I’m partly on (though the whole “let’s go for a drive, Colby!” thing is strictly personal…) the bottom line is, I do not actually have to travel light. I can–because I’ve reached a certain dreadful age–afford to not travel light. I’m not traveling extravagantly, but, I’ve got some stuff along for the ride. And though I have all my life admired the expression “just a hippie gypsy,” I can’t honestly make those words apply to me, just as the Scamp has not been named “The Goddess Domicile.” I am not floating down the road.  I am not rambling. I am dragging The Dog House.

Alright. So here, then,  is a list of things that you really should bring on a road trip, if you have the ability, and the space, and you are willing to surrender to your true desire to be acquisitive and stuff-laden, which is a truth lurking in us all, because we are humans, we are Americans (if you’re reading I assume you are but HEY how cool if you are not!) and it is 2013, and RETAIL is the dominant force in our economy (don’t worry; go shopping!!!) and to deny this is folly. You really need:

  • 1 Good car and 1 trailer–check!
  • $100 in groceries from Trader Joe’s, including quinoa and smoked tofu (if you are a fruity northeasterner, as I am, this is like water. Also, while we’re on it, bring water);
  • Tarp, blanket, another blanket, four towels (Colby needs three), comforter, pillow;
  • Big pot, little pot, fry pan, 2 bowls, 2 plates, 2 glasses, 2 mixing bowls, one overly expensive French press, a good mug, a tea kettle;
  • Self-buttering popcorn lid that was found at thrift shop where pots and pans were bought and was irresistible;
  • Two camp chairs, a fold-up table, camp lantern;
  • Wind chimes, clothes line, cooler, tool box, tools, duct tap, lots of duct tape;
  • A big, big plastic bin filled with all the books you know you’ll want and the ones that you might want and also the ones you should want and also a few that you saw and thought, “oh, I forgot about that one!” while you were packing…
  • Enough electronic gadgetry to arm a fleet of angry(?) robots;
  • 20 pounds of dog food, dog treats, leash, spare leash;
  • An atlas, a Woodall’s Guide to Midwestern Campgrounds, a GPS unit;
  • Clothes and shoes, shoes and clothes, clothes and shoes;
  • fishing pole/tackle box;
  • mini barbecue, charcoal, matches, lighter fluid;
  • Dog bed, dog medicines, my medicines, other pills that sometimes come in handy like aspirin;
  • A mesh bag with the usual toiletries as well as cosmetic clay masks, planter’s wart pads, athletic tape, body lotion, wrinkle eraser and vitamin cream (because by god, in addition to traveling and writing, I am going to use this time to heal my feet, take 10 years off my face, lose 10 pounds and get very, very healthy)…
  • And.. what else? I know I’m forgetting something. That’s the thing: we plan and plan but always forget something. I have all this stuff because you know what? I can have it, and I might need it, and I have room to take it. That’s the main thing. Traveling light is a true virtue, but, getting stuck without something you really need, like your passport or a corkscrew, really sucks.

POST SCRIPT: three days into my trip, I realized I probably only needed to bring a pair of shorts, a pair of jeans, two t-shirts, two socks, two underwear, and a sweatshirt, and maybe a couple other things. And for the other things that I had completely forgotten, I found that it was easy to hit the Dollar Store, because in America in 2013, every single little struggling or plain-old dead town (the kind of town I am seeing plenty of) has a Dollar Store. So I went out and bought what I simply could not live without: a little garbage bin, two throw rugs for the trailer (because it fills up with foot dirt so fast), an extension cord, a voice recorder, a laundry bag, and a six-pack of diet root beer. All easily obtained at the Dollar Store and now I am all set. I also want to mention here that when I packed I did NOT bring my guitar, bicycle, kayak or any form of television or other entertainment mechanism. I miss these things, but, listen to me: THE POINT OF A ROAD TRIP is to do things differently, so, obviously, I had to leave some things behind.

Scamp bathroom
September 20, 2013

Buy a Scamp, see the world

The Scamp

This is my trailer.

kitchen

My galley kitchen

I decided that I wanted to travel with Colby in the simplest manner possible, and not in some sort of monster truck. I did my homework. Steinbeck traveled with Charley in an early version of the RV–a camper affixed to a truck body. He named it Rossinante.

Fifty-three years later, it is mind boggling how much more there is to choose from: Fiberglass campers, aluminum campers, travel trailers, mobile homes, fifth-wheels, truck-bed set-ins, pop ups. I knew I wanted to be surrounded by something solid, for safety. And I knew I wanted to be able to untether my car, so that when I parked somewhere I could leave the trailer and go explore.

I searched online for deals. There are some fantastic little trailers out there. You can check out fiberglass trailers on the Web and read about some of the ones for sale. I really dug this one little Boler camper that I saw in New Jersey–I took my mom and dad with me to look, because I am mildly paranoid about going alone to visit people I meet on the internet. (Though how my parents, in their 80s, were going to help me if I landed in a nest of marauding cannibals is another matter.) This little Boler was awesome; it had been redone with a checkerboard floor and painted white and aqua, very retro looking.

But the truth is, I needed more than cute. I needed functional. I needed an actual bathroom, not a port-o-pot, and I needed everything in it to work. Another couple was there to see the Boler at the same time as me; they were about 15 years younger, they were more the type for buying something that would not quite work so that, when they get to be my age, they can appreciate the need to do the sensible thing. In any case, my search landed me in Thetford, Vt., where I purchased a 13-foot Scamp trailer that was just a year old from a guy named Warren.

Now, what was especially awesome about this purchase was that Warren came down on his price because he liked my project and was willing to barter. He is working on a website for people who give up drinking. He knocked off a thousand dollars so long as I agreed to provide four short profiles for his page. As of today, I have found two people I know who have given up booze and neither have consented to an interview–so if you are a sober person, preferably one who is famous, please contact me.

I knew I’d buy that Scamp even before I saw it. The day Suzanne and I went to look, during the tour a horrible sulfur smell escaped from somewhere deep inside the thing, but, it might have been Warren, I thought, who was a very nice, energetic, well-groomed guy but, hey, maybe he stank? Or it may have been coming from the Scamp fridge…because we found two Power bars in there growing mold… but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It was my trailer.

I returned to pull it home, and spent a few hours dashing around to Walmart and U-haul and AutoZone, looking for an adapter for the trailer hitch, but, that just cemented my strange bond to Warren, who I like very much and feel connected to; he got this Scamp just a year ago as if he had been saving it for me. It is not easy to find a used Scamp, especially a newer one with a bathroom in it (instead of extra beds). Warren had used it, but, he and his wife had a baby and that meant they weren’t likely to use it again. And so in late August, adapter in place, money exchanged, promise to write about sober people made, I took my trailer home.

I am not as bookish as Steinbeck, I suppose, or maybe it’s just that our culture has changed so much, exchanged its high brows for lower ones. In any case, I christened the machine The Dog House.  I was ready to put me and my dog in it and hit the road.

September 17, 2013

Reasons for a Road Trip

Like Steinbeck, when he famously traveled the country with his dog Charley, my dog Colby and I set out on a trip. But also like Steinbeck, we quickly found that we needed to take care of a few things first. Steinbeck wrote, in “Travels With Charley,” that when the travel bug bites and “a man” (it was 1961) wants to hit the road, “the victim must find himself a good and sufficient reason for going.” Of course, someone imbued with the degree of wanderlust that Steinbeck and Charley and Colby and me are imbued with does not really need to put the reason into words, it’s just a thing that we long to do and given any opportunity, we will do it. But I have one good word to suffice: Sabbatical. I’ve been given a year of my life to pursue a few dreams with the security of knowing my job awaits when I return.

Earlier versions of my adventures did not end so well, because when I tried this before, within about a day of being alone on the road I was lonely, scared, and confused. In 1989 my friend known as Madeline told me at the Bozeman, Montana, airport as she stepped onto the tarmac to leave me there, “You stay on the road as long as you can.” Go have adventures, go see the world, go find whatever the hell you’re trying to find that is making you too crazy to be with. But I was 24, and I did not have a dog, and I had not made myself a map and did not have a purpose and did not have a job waiting for me anywhere. In short, I was lost. There is a certain amount of being lost that is crucial to a road trip, but when it is out of proportion, the journey is doomed. And so in 1989, the day after Madeline left, I turned tail and started for home, which was New Jersey.

It is now–and I really can’t believe this–about 24 years later. I am twice the age I was when I seemed to have nothing but time. And for the first time in my life I really do have time, and along with that I have just enough money, and I have spent the past 24 years learning how to use it–the time, I mean; I try not to use the money too much. The purpose of my sabbatical is to explore America’s industrial ruins–cities that are past their glory days, and struggling to retain their identity, or remake it. (Golly; does that sound a little bit like a metaphor for me? Well, read on. We’ll see.) I need to learn to use the internet and social media as a journalist, which required having a focus, and dying cities is the subject I picked. Just is. Maybe that metaphor thing was at play in my mind (words of wisdom returned to me from the student I gave them to a couple years ago: “Does your narrator ‘want’ something? Of course she does…) But in any case, armed with this mission and inspired by Steinbeck (and a million thanks to Gail Howard, for handing me the book on CD before I left for a drive back in June), I decided to visit those places in one big, long swoop, in a trailer, with my dog at my side, to combine a personal adventure with that professional one.

Here are a few tips if you are thinking of embarking on a similar adventure:

  • Have a partner who is also a writer, and who will support you 100%–thank you, Suzanne Parker.
  • Be sure to thank the rest of your family because they helped, I’m sure; thanks, mom and pop.
  • Dogs make good companions, but any pet will do. A horse might come in handy.
  • Have a good reason to go, but be willing to change it once you get started; more on that later.
  • Be absolutely sure that you are fully prepared…because without planning, you’ll probably fail.