The Final Countdown
My neatly packed suitcase.
Tomorrow, Monday, I embark on my journey. I’ve spent this last week doing research for my trip, making lists, gathering materials, and pumping myself up. My bag is packed with clothes for three different climate zones, plus casual and dressy occasions and even rugged conditions. I’m bringing seven pairs of shoes (Converse sneakers, casual booties, hiking boots, Birkenstock sandals, dressy sandals, ballet slipper flats, and flip-flops, if you MUST know), cute dresses, t-shirts, jeans, bathing suits, sweaters, winter hat, sunblock… you name it, I’ve packed it.
Packing up my bag has put me very much in mind of how I used to (up until about 2 months ago) pull out this particular piece of Samsonite to travel back to Israel with, stuffing it silly with all the new clothes I inevitably acquired on the trip, as well as huge supplies of American snacks, toiletries, and sundry other items which, of course, I could not (i.e. would not) purchase in Israel due to price gouging. I mean, expensiveness.
My suitcase was ALWAYS overweight. There was not a single occasion upon which it met the maximum requirements for any airline going anywhere. Luckily, I rarely, if ever, had to pay extra fees because airline employees were usually nice and let me shift a few pounds into another bag, or my carry-on, and balance it out with a roll of the eye and an “I-don’t-really-give-a-crap” shrug as they slapped on a few stickers and sent it on its way.
Which led to me thinking about airports, and how much I hate them and how happy I am that I don’t have to approach one anytime soon, and that when I do next take to the skies, it’ll be on a domestic and not an international flight.
I don’t hate airports intrinsically. If you’re going on a vacation with your family, or traveling somewhere new and exciting, they’re the place you want to be. But when being at an airport inevitably means you are either returning to a familiar place, filled with loving people, knowing you’re going to leave again in about two minutes, or actually leaving that familiar place and those loving people, the airport becomes a rather bitter experience.
During those two-week visits, every time I glimpsed a plane in the sky I felt a shudder of dread. And the car ride back to the airport always carried a tang of panicked resignation, with the painful, futile desire to rewind the last fortnight and do it over again rather than return to the place of my misery, the coming-and-going place, the airport.
Some reading this might say, “Well, gee, Abra, it sounds like you really didn’t enjoy the life you were living if you were dreading going back every time. Maybe that was a sign of some sort?” Well, I advise you to shut up. I guess my only real answer to that astute observation is that I was so heavily oppressed by my unhappiness that I couldn’t even see it. It was just a part of the reality I accepted.
To circle back around to what we were originally talking about, I’m not taking a plane on this journey. I am going nowhere near that cesspool of tortured emotion we call an airport. I’m taking a car. My car. My new (pre-owned) Honda Civic, in fact. And I can stuff as much crap into it as I want.
Prior to making the decision to leave Israel, I spoke with a friend who had made the same decision a few years earlier. After discoursing honestly about what a move back really meant, he finally said, “America is wide open roads and you at the wheel of your car. That’s what it is.”
This resonated with me, because I’d been dreaming that dream for years (who could live in Jerusalem, a city most notably not created with cars in mind, or Israel, a country where you terminate at unfriendly borders after driving a few hours in any direction, without dreaming it?): sailing down an open, empty country road, totally free, going anywhere I wanted, road tripping straight into a country song. (But NOT while listening to country music - chas v’shalom.)
So of course, one of my goals on my adventure year was to go on road trips, real ones, ranging over many states, into unknown territories, full of beautiful scenery and eloquent, original musings on America, human nature, freedom, and myself, which I would brilliantly share on my blog.
And right now, all of that is still possible, because I haven’t set out yet.
I have no idea what to expect. I’m sure to make mistakes, get really pissed at myself, waste money, have a crappy night or two, get extremely sick of driving, and meet some weirdos. But I hope that in between all of those things, I will also reconnect with old friends, see completely new things, experience natural beauty, hike mountains, and gain a wider perspective on this strange world and my place in it.
I mean, no pressure, road trip. You’re just the culmination of years of romanticizing the American countryside and the ultimate power of the self-seeking journey. NBD.
In short, I’m about to embark on a trip. I can’t say whether or not it will be life-changing or even interesting. But the fact that I’m doing it, rather than sitting in an office, or sitting on a couch, or flying out of here, is kind of a triumph in itself. So go to hell, self-doubt! I spit on you vigorously.
Watch me drive away.