Sur la route encore*

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We're off -- and so far, thanks to family, friends and barbecue, we've had a pretty damn good start to the cross-country jaunt.

You can see the route we're taking up top -- after an overnighter in D.C. for some delicious beer (and peripheral UFC viewing) with a number of good people, we stopped at my mom's in Ohio, and Lisa's folks came down from Milwaukee. I had to work; they all got to take in the Air Force Museum and Carillon Park and other good stuff. (Upside: Milano's at lunch for me Tuesday.)

We are sticking to the past trip's effort to eat locally wherever we stop along the way, and so far so good. Wednesday we got to Louisville around lunchtime, so we stopped at the birthplace of the Hot Brown and each had one. We got to Memphis Wednesday evening and celebrated with the sampler platter from Neely's (Pat and Gina were not in the house at the East Memphis location, alas).

Graceland is on the agenda for Thursday. So is more barbecue.

(*In case you're wondering why the foreign-language headline, I thought it approproiate to borrow an album title from Lisa's fictional French country-western band, Chapeau Fou. You might also enjoy their other efforts, "Qu'est-ce que c'est Chapeau Fou?" and "Ne fence me in pas.")

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Packed Up

So it goes without saying that we've been bad bloggers of late. But we totally have a good excuse: We've been packing.

Not this whole time, although sometimes it felt like that. We've spent much of the last two-plus months preparing to move -- and it still felt really sudden when the day actually came. But it did, on Saturday, and our two-year stint together in Charlottesville is now officially over.

For a temporary home, we sure did a hell of a lot there, what with the cross-country move to get there and the getting engaged and married and all of that. And we'll miss our free Friday wine and Christian's pizza and gelato (although going there four times in our last week softened the blow).

But we're also ridiculously excited to get to our new home in L.A. and start our life there. We may even post more than once a quarter. Stay tuned.

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Moving pictures (or, pictures of moving)

Pictures, we got pictures -- a photographic chronicle of our 3,726-mile odyssey across America is now up on the photo page. You can click on the thing over on the right rail that says "Hey -- pictures!" or not move your mouse as much and just go from here.

Not much from my home state, for some reason. But if you're interested, here's a pretty shot of downtown Datyon (not taken by me).

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Klippan-Leksvik-Kviby-Aspelund-Vinstra-Aneboda-Malm-Kramfors-Hemnes-Sval¨øv

Ah, one of the great joys of moving – the classic right of passage: the obligatory trip to Ikea. Which, in our case, involved a two-hour drive to Northern Virginia on our first relocated Sunday. Clearly, we want to assemble some furniture – and we want it bad. And now that we've bought it, eventually we will.


I kind of hate to admit it, but I love Ikea – the goofy nonsensical product names (though, as Rick points out, sometimes they’re not even trying – the name of the grill pan was “Grilla”), the Swedish meatballs, the traipsing through the showroom on the trek to the self-serve bins while I inevitably fill the cart with a pile of stuff I don’t need – but hey, it’s $2, so why not? And over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good at assembling it all – which I admit gives me an inexplicable sense of accomplishment. And a very nice collection of allen wrenches.

Our trip was my first time traversing the interstates, and I got to see for myself the infestation of the “big box” stores. No matter where we were, you could always buy a pair of flip flops or assorted household goods at a Target, buy a book and get a cup of coffee at a Borders, score a flat screen TV at a Best Buy, or satisfy your hardware needs at a Home Depot or Lowe’s. Yes, you can pass from town to town and never really see any local store, or regional chain if you don't look hard for it – and that’s a damned shame. I’m a believer in the mom-and-pops and specialized one-of-a-kind stores. It breaks my heart -- and makes my skin crawl -- when a boutique or small bar is pushed out by a Cheesecake Factory. For every Macaroni Grill there should be three Iotas -- at least.

But I gotta admit: there’s something comforting about knowing you can always find the familiar, even if it’s unoriginal or impossible to pronounce. My kingdom for a world where the big boxes can live side-by-side with the locals without relying on Chinese mega-factories. Because as much as I will always patronize a local, I really love my Target.

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Let's light this candle

I've always wanted to be a free spirit – a devil-may-care, hears-only-the-call-of-the-road, get-off-the-motorcycle-without-a-trace-of-helmet-hair kind of girl. Someone who sets out for an adventure not caring that she might be in Belize when the rent money runs out. Who could really live the "it's the journey not the destination" kind of life without sounding like a complete jackass. You know the type: Thelma, Louise, a young Che Guevara and Ewan McGregor all contained in a curvy package that looks good in well-worn leather.

I'm not. I like a certain amount of order alongside what could only be described as semi-controlled chaos. I'm not a big planner, but my need for some kind of control has driven me to obsessively vacuum, purge clothes and trash and rearrange furniture for the past few weeks despite the fact that a) Clean is a relative term and b) Rick's idea of clean probably doesn't extend to washing the shower curtain (by the way, the vacuum motor burned out last night, so we gotta stop at Target during the Ikea run, Rick). It's all part of my not-so-subconcious attempt to anticipate at least part of how this next phase of my life – our lives – will unspool.

As a newbie to the cross-country trip and a believer in the Springsteen-fueled open-road-as-savior, redemption-beneath-this-dirty-hood poem, I'm buying in. In the hopes of not becoming Clark W. Griswold, I will not keep one eye on the clock hoping to beat the estimated drive time on Mapquest. I will embrace road snacks, sample a few of Texas's 63 greatest tacos, decide which state has the worst drivers, and take a step toward satisfying the wanderlust that I sometimes wish I lived by.

Mostly, though, I'm ready to start this adventure. For months Rick and I have been jaunting back and forth across the country, counting days between visits, scouring travel web sites for the best fares, and racking up frequent flyer miles. And for months we've been talking about this trip – this big move. Up to now, time together has meant a few blessed uninterrupted days absent concerns about work, then returning to the place where my job is and my stuff lives, a couple of hours away from most of my friends. This time, when we get back, I'm – we’re – coming home.

Rick's leaving Los Angeles, even for a set duration, is a big deal. Even with the things he says he won't miss, it's a hard place not to love – and it will be tough to be away from his amazing friends. Reading his posts the past couple of days, I realize that I have no tearful goodbyes. Sure, I’ll miss being able to wander around the house wearing embarrassing T-shirts and having unbrushed teeth, and regularly staying at the office until 8 pm. But these are small sacrifices. What I’ve really got is just a hopeful hello. And a promise to come back.

My road songs playlist is assembled; my boarding pass is printed.

In the words of Mercury astronaut Alan Shepard in The Right Stuff (played by Scott Glenn, who incidentally, I'm ashamed to admit, rocks a mesh T-shirt in Urban Cowboy), let's light this candle.

It's time to hit the road.

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