The travails of travel…
Last year after drifting about the Northwest for a while, a new door opened, time came to ramble down the road and drive south to Los Angeles for some gigs … of course I should have flown but somehow I thought I'll just do 'the drive' one more time, a little adventure is good for the soul, besides, I’ll save a little cash on the expense of flying and car rental etc, etc, … in retrospect, it wasn’t my best idea.
Side note: I often feel suspicious in airports; airports regularly bring out my deepest, most paranoid feelings. But it’s not exactly the sensation that “everybody is out to get me.” As a matter of fact, my feelings are exactly the opposite.
Anyway, never again am I going to do that drive in one day by myself: 1100 miles from Seattle to Los Angeles, oh so dim-witted, pitifully dim-witted. Never again, I know I've said that before, but … Never. Ever. Again. (Funny how that reads so differently when you put a period after each word … huh?)
I felt like my hands were duct taped to the steering wheel for about thirty brain-snapping hours. Between waiting for the ferry (the only way on and off the island where I was living), taking my wife and son to SeaTac Airport (they were flying to Paris, France and I was driving to LA!?!), the realization I forgot something important at home, again ferry back over and off the island, (of course you might say if you forget something, so what, that's what a credit card is good for, exactly right … I forgot the credit card) stopping at a rest stop, my foiled attempts at sleeping in the car, include my kinder gentler approach to driving (not hammering the last bit of life out of my old Corolla), and I was a witness to, if not infinity, at least a very lengthy torturous wait in eternity.
This was the trip I started seeing the signs everywhere, not just signs everywhere … but the signs, everywhere.