"The West is the Best"
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The West is the Best --by Susy-- (When you're from a small town and rural area, you think you're hot stuff just taking a really big bus trip, LOL, as this piece illustrates.) A fantastic cross-country and West Coast bus tour made me feel near to the Creator and recaptured some joy of childhood as thousands of miles of frequently magnificent U.S.A. sights, both man-made and natural, unfolded before me and rolled past. Nature impressed me more. Most cities came to resemble each other, just masses of buildings, cars, and people glimpsed briefly in passing, while landscapes and vast vistas sank into my psyche to become part of me forever. This country, America, is awesome. I can't even think of adequate adjectives for the huge sprawling mountain ranges in Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, California, Oregon and Washington, or the way the land grew more and more gorgeous the further we progressed across and up the coast toward Canada. Western scenery is painted in shades of pinks, gold, reds, browns, purples more than hues of East Coast greens. Seattle looked mildewed. So often damp, moist, raining. I was stranded for six hours in downtown Salt Lake City, and ran through a fierce hailstorm which pelted us with hailstone balls the size of baseballs. It was outrageous, I'd never seen the like before, or a city so pristine and clean. Just about everyone there had blonde hair and blue eyes, and they all looked wholesome, healthy and happy in their big well-designed sparkling clean city hemmed in by spectacular pink, gray and beige colored mountains.The tremendous gold Mormon Tabernacle Temple that looked rather like a gigantic middle ages castle perched above, on a huge hill overlooking the city. Utah rivaled Nebraska in terms of seeming vast, endless. But there wasn't as much to gaze at in Nebraska, as in much of the Midwest I passed through. Chicago was an exception and visually more of of interest than many metropolises, with its enormous splendid lake and lively South Side that was really hopping. Illinois and Indiana looked something like North Carolina in terms of being flat with lots of cornfields. Iowa appeared almost deserted, barren save for its farmland. Very flat, as well. My bus did not approach the Grand Canyon. What I did view of the West made me vow to eventually see its glories. I loved deserts, they looked just as atmospheric, evocative and haunting as in big screen Westerns.Seeing tumbleweeds doing their thing was cute.
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How could one forget the pink funeral home in Port Townsend, Washington, a small fancy resort town where many people I saw were prematurely so wrinkled from their love affair with the sun and the Pacific that I swore never to pursue a tan. Someone there told me far too much drinking and partying went on. Port Townsend looked even more ritzy than Scarsdale, N.Y., Greenwich, Conn. or Chapel Hill, and was the epitome of opulent seaside-themed quaintness. I even saw a store stocked only with Christmas trees (in mid-August) of all kinds, sizes and colors, a fairy tale shop of raptures and resplendent ecstasies. One Christmas tree, sprayed white with thousands of diamond sparkles, was decorated with shining gold balls and encrusted with jewels and frilly ornaments in dazzling shades and designs of intricate, ornate artistry. Others looked even more fanciful. It was funny; I had to change buses a lot, and on some buses most everyone was gregarious and friendly, while on others I felt some hostile dark vibrations in the air. The bus drivers seemed either totallly talkative and social or completely crabby and withdrawn. But then, days and nights spent on board with decreased ability to sleep doubtless could alter awareness. Sleep deprivation plus the heady elixer of travel even made me lose track of what day it was, a couple of times. I recall stumbling down the steps and accidently splashing a man with my soda and he grumbled, "That girl threw her drink on me."
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LONE STAR STATE My bus rode through only a patch of the Lone Star State, Texas. Mercifully so, I thought at the time. I thought I just can't take too much of the whole Texan thing of always sporting cowboy hats, boots, Western shirts and jeans while dancing the funny looking two-step to Tammy Wynette and perpetually gabbing about the marvels of Texas. They act like it's paradise and every other place is pure or unpure hell, which I saw for mysself is untrue. All you can talk about is Texas if you live there. (On later cross country jaunts on which I drove I discovered I love the Houston-Corpus Christie-Port Arthur-Galveston Texan coastal area. It's down there right beside Alabama and Mississippi and part of Florida. A strong feeling of the overpowering flavor of the land of moss, magnolias, molasses and mysteries, of the Deep South, filtered through the senses as we traversed those regions and Louisiana. The South is the most colorful and boasts the best sense of humor and the most witty repartee and the most eccentric outlook of all. So it's ironic we're perceived as backward or dumb by Northerners merely because our accents are slower, more melodious and pleasing. Softer. Eccentricities may be laughed at, gossiped about, but are still more tolerated in the South as they are in England, which in a sense was the South's mother--that right there makes the South more fun. The South U.S.A. boasts a kind of wacky, enchanted charm, as if under a spell, I found largely missing elsewhere...it's unique. And yet it felt liberating to get away, out from under the daunting huge weight of Southern history, Southern traditions, Southern shame and Southern problems. Southern ways. I appreciated the many varieties of Southern culture, cooking, endlessly amusing idiosyncracies that provide the South's novelists with an endless gold mine of fascinating characters and stories, all the more for placing big distances between it and me.)
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LOS ANGELES I half-expected Los Angeles to be horrible and tacky, but instead, L.A. looked like the most fun place in the world to live with its tall swaying palm trees, pastel adobe Mexican buildings, way out futuristic architecture and art, and so much going on everywhere you looked, swarming and buzzing in hilly mysterious intricate and alluring canyons. Despite the smog and traffic jams, all seemed sunny and golden that day. Even the combination bus/Amtrak station appeared attractively Spanish, built around a vast marble courtyard. I couldn't believe it when I noticed some people glance at me when I paraded through hauling bag and baggage--they were looking at ME, with all those movie and t.v. stars out there? Then I realized I was wearing a bright red outfit. Red attracts attention. I certainly couldn't expect anything with Heather Locklear, Morgan Fairchild, Farrah Fawcett and Donna Mills running around out there, could I? Well, that was alright. That's part of what's so great about traveling. One is much more interested in observing than being observed, which is how it should be, losing oneself in other sights, sounds, people. Keeping curiousity alive, regardless of environment and surroundings. You realize, too, that as long as you love nature, you are truly wealthy, no matter the size of your bank account. Back on the bus after the break, before taking off, I remember I announced to everyone, "I'm a newspaper reporter. I want to live here someday." A very wry-sounding lady remarked, "If you lived here, you'd be a dead newspaper reporter." Later on road trips where I drove I especially loved traveling, so much. Even when danger seemed about to explode, as in a seedy old hotel in New Orleans, or when I drove the wrong way on the freeway a short time before getting back right. I was so drawn to New Mexico I drove back there twice in the next few years, on road trips with my sister which were so much fun, I almost couldn't stand it. I've yet to see, though, anywhere more lush and lovely in its way than Cornpone County. Not Charleston or Wilmington in azaela season, Westchester County, Oregon's redwood country and Washington State, Manhattan's Fifth Avenue at Christmas time, or the Hudson River in Ossining, N.Y., and Lord knows, those places are beautiful enough.--SUSY
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Almost everything in downtown Denver looked shiney and brand new. Another clean-looking big city, Denver still appeared different from Salt Lake City and its odd pristine look. During a long wait at the bus station in Denver, a man approached me and wanted me to go off with him and he'd teach me to be a "mystery shopper." I smiled and pretended to go along with it, but soon as I could get away, went off and found a police officer to tell--I was afraid the man would try to abduct me. I recall earnestly relating this bizarre true tale to the cop, who stood there regarding me with a certain skepticism. But he went with me to point the guy out, and to my surprise, the feared would-be kidnapper stood there at the curb laughing and talking with some policemen in cop cars. As if they knew him, and were friendly. So I didn't know what to make of this weird incident. Was the guy going to murder me, or make me a "mystery shopper"?
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When my sis and I drove out to L.A., first thing we saw on its outskirts was a giant "Tara" Gone with the Wind-like looking funeral home up high on a hill overlooking a huge cemetery-- a fleet of long black hearses were lined up beside the funeral home--most remarkable were three gigantic statues in a row, of Micaelangeo's naked statue of David, a Greek goddess, Venus or Aprodite and I can't recall what the third one was. I said, "Uh oh, this place must be as wacky as the South"
Stranger still was what transpired in the Mojave Desert, the day before, headed to Barstow... -
We were tooling along happily towards Los Angeles via Barstow through the Mojave Desert when the car started to emit puffs of smoke from under the hood...overheated. Pulled to the side of the road to let the car cool off. No more service stations for many miles--what if something was bad wrong with my car's engine? And there we were out there in the middle of nowhere (it still looked atmospheric and cool, though) beside that vast desert. Looked like just a couple of abandoned buildings off in the distance. And there I was in charge of my precious sister...I got out of the car and walked in the desert, the nearest part. Sherry opened the car door and leaned out. I returned. Suddenly we heard children singing, sounding strangely near and loud and clear, some sort of joyful old timey children's song. But we didn't see anybody for miles! We both heard it. Suddenly it occurred to me to pour cold water from the foam ice cooler used to store our diet cokes into the radiator and try to start the car--and it did start ! And proceeded with no further difficulties. We decided that maybe it was invisible little ghost Wild West Indian and frontier children we had heard playing and singing in the twilight California desert . Kids from the 1800s, their spirits. Maybe.
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That time, driving around L.A., the city didn't look so hot (except for certain parts) because it was cloudy and gray that day. L.A. and environs need sunshine, to really shine. We laughed at all the people making a big display of exercising downtown on the sidewalks of parks and such. Jumping rope, standing on their heads, lifting weights, etc., quite ostentatiously. We did Rodeo Drive, saw the Hollywood sign, went down that other famous road (forget its name) and Wilshire Blvd., and Malibu. We thought even Myrtle Beach looked better than Malibu. We just drove around everywhere. Going in, Barstow and San Bernadino didn't look appealing at all. Sort of ugly towns. We couldn't find anywhere to stay in L.A., and did a whirlwind tour and started back that same night. I regret that, now. We'd started out in the N.C. mountains, were just going to be there on holiday, and impetuously decided to drive out to L.A. for a lark, and it was lots of fun--I went wild over Santa Fe and New Mexico and went back not long after. I'd been through New Mexico before, but hadn't seen Santa Fe.
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In L.A. we saw the "dream factories" where movies and t.v. shows get made, gigantic buildings, all pastel colored, even pink. I should have let Sherry out there. She's a born actress, and one of a kind. She's unique. Never come across anyone like her. She's one of my sisters. We saw a giant billboard in Hollywood of some lady named "Angelina," she had very long full blonde tresses, trout pout with big red lips, really big boobs but was skinny. Who the hell is that? We wondered, are all females supposed to look like that, is that the Hollywood ideal ? Her picture looked garish and tacky. Sherry thought she saw Johnny Carson driving around. It did look like him.
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First time I went out West, the bus mystery tour odyssey, my former college roommate R. had invited me out to see her and her hubby in Federal Way, a burb of Seattle. When I got there she had gotten so fat I could hardly recognize her, but I hid my surprise. They wanted me to take care of their fancy dogs while they visited N.C. so a few days in I found myself alone in their house with the dogs and a gun in a shoebox. They'd be gone ten days. Her hubby's brother and his two guy friends and their parents befriended me. I recall the two friends and I lounging around on the living room floor, smoking a J. while we watched that kind of depraved Mick Jagger movie on t.v. The one where he has dyed black hair and cavorts in a hot tub with Anita Pallenburg and another girl. "Performance." I wondered if the two guys found Pallenburg foxy. I had fixed them dinner. They were appreciative. We went in R.'s bedroom and looked at her highly erotic paintings. She'd been a veritable nympho in college, couldn't believe I was still a virgin at 18. I borrowed her big white van to attend a Stevie Nicks concert in Seattle. I'd never driven a van before, never driven in Seattle before but I had to see that Stevie! Got lost on the way back, but nothing bad happened. When R. returned, she wanted me to go to bed with her hubby while she supervised, said they'd bought hookers before for that purpose, but I declined. It wasn't too difficult to turn her down. She found a journal excerpt where I criticized her for making me eat shark, and flew into a rage and ordered me to leave. So it was back on the bus for me, and once more I got to see the U.S.A. in a big, big way, and I ought to do that again, look for America and see what happens. I felt like I could really breathe out West, in those wide open spaces...room to make the big mistakes...
