Two weeks (felt much
longer), two dudes (still dudes, just physically exhausted ones), one car (a bug-splattered
nightmare), six audiobooks (half of which actually made the drives longer
because they were so boring), hundreds of pictures (964!!!), and countless
memories—this is our trip in a nutshell.
Our daily log book!
Of course, I wish I had
the space and time to write much more about our road trip. I also wish I had the words to describe
every fantastic experience, enlightening conversation, and inspiring
sight. But I don’t. I just don’t think I can put into words
the incredible emotion I feel when I think about this trip with Dad.
Now, before you start
thinking “Oh, their trip was perfect”—which my intro seemingly implies—it’s
important for you to know it wasn’t.
After five or six days on the road, the happy conversation and easy
drives began to waver. For some inexplicable reason, I found
myself getting irritated with my father’s continual use of the word “beautiful”
to describe every impressive mountain, sprawling farmland, and bewitching body
of water, as well as old trains and airplane cemeteries (Note: He probably didn’t
use “beautiful” to describe these last two things, but he was so enthralled by
them that I couldn’t help myself).
I also struggled with his gum-chewing, which I never really noticed
until my mom mentioned on the phone at some point during the trip that many
people reflexively fear or despise loud chewers. She called this a disease;
I thought “disease” was a little strong, but I later worried that I contracted
it during the trip. It’s
probably more appropriately labeled a “complex” (Here’s the real thing: http://www.thekitchn.com/misophonia-the-unbearable-loud-155746).
Finally, the misanthrope
in me resented the constant stream of incredibly
nice people my dad befriended at every location. I’m not lying either.
As if by some sort of weird extrovert magic, he identified the kindest
people to initiate random conversation with and/or ask to take our
picture. These new acquaintances soon
became our pseudo-tour guides, for they often recommended future destinations
for us to explore. Jerome, the
tiny ghost town outside Sedona, AZ where we enjoyed a personal art
demonstration, was one of those lucky suggestions. The awe-inspiring (surprisingly pleasant) four-hour drive
along the California coast was another.
So, after further thought,
I really can’t blame my dad for his little quirks, especially when they lead to
such amazing opportunities. I also
shouldn’t give him too much of a hard time for overusing “beautiful” as an
adjective because everything we witnessed, experienced, felt was beautiful in
its own way. Giant trees that beg
to be climbed are beautiful; magnificent canyons that render one speechless are
beautiful; mile-long trains that bring childlike joy to an older man are beautiful;
memories of a father chewing gum are arguably beautiful; exploring a new locale
with a loved one is beautiful.
Driving across the country with my dad was
beautiful.
There’s no denying how
appropriate the word turned out to be.
Thank you, Dad. I’ll never forget this.