Trekking across America: a travel tale of one writer's relocation cross-country

Black Enterprise, Sept, 1995 by Ann Brown

As a child, I recall hitting the road for summer vacation, feeling secure in the back seat with my brother as we watched the road whisk by. What a way to travel, I thought. But as an adult readying for a longer road journey--one that would relocate me thousands of miles away to a new home--it was another story.

On a cold January morning before sunrise, my companion and I loaded our suitcases into a rented minivan. We were headed on a 2,824-mile trek that would take us from Brooklyn to Los Angeles.

As a newly licensed driver, I wondered what driving the cross-country trek would be like. Would we get lost or stranded? Would we see anything other than white lines and black top? Or, would we face racial hostility from locals or state troopers?

Apprehensions aside, I took comfort in the fact that we'd have a lot of company on the road. According to the U.S. Travel Data Center, 80% of all trips over 100 miles are made by car, truck (including minivans) or recreational vehicle (a.k.a. RV). Each summer, 226 million Americans drive to resorts, beaches, national parks, big cities--and grandma's. The experience can be exciting or distressing, depending upon how well you plan and your budget. But "winging it" on a tight budget, like we did, can add an element of adventure to your trip.

HEADIN' SOUTH

We said good-bye to New York City, exiting across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. The New Jersey Turnpike, I-95, with its strictly enforced 55 mph speed limit, seemed endless. But the first sight of cows and horses grazing in open fields did much to relieve our stress.

By afternoon we'd made it to Washington, where we drove past the White House, Washington Monument and the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials. Our two guidebooks, the 1995 Rand McNally Road Atlas and Rand McNally's Business Traveler's Road Atlas (with city-by-city maps and information on restaurants, attractions, climate and other details), were easy to use. But we still drove in circles trying to find the Vietnam Memorial. And now that Pennsylvania Avenue is closed to motorized vehicles, maneuvering the capital's mazelike streets is surely confusing.

After stopping for dinner, we decided to continue on to our next stop, Columbia, S.C., for a side visit with relatives, a bit of autumnlike weather and some southern hospitality. A day later, we doubled back to North Carolina to pick up I-40, our chosen route to head west.

As we drove into Tennessee, the road seemed to disappear into night, and a massive shadow enveloped the van. Our highbeams revealed the towering stone walls of the great Smoky Mountains on either side. We soon called it a night.

We picked a hotel from a sea of neon promises--low rates and comfortable rooms. We chose a bare-bones budget hotel, Travelodge. The Plaza it was not, but it suited our needs--cheap and clean, with a parking space right outside our room. The next morning at 8:00, we hit the road again after breakfast at the Waffle House, which would become our daily ritual.

We got to Memphis just in time to make the last tour of Sun Studio, the legendary recording home of Elvis Presley, Junior Parker and Jerry Lee Lewis. Smaller than expected and something of a tourist trap, it attracted an odd set, such as the Elvis wannabe in our group. Afterward, we headed over to Beale Street, Memphis' famed musical strip, but it wasn't the jumping joint I had imagined. B.B. King's Blues Club and Restaurant, however, was what I expected--smoky, loud and packed with people, both locals and tourists.

Since we hadn't planned to stay over in Memphis, we hit the road for a few more hours until darkness again took over. Near Little Rock, Ark, we selected another economy hotel from the highway mix. This time it was a musty room at a Super 8, which reeked of cigarette smoke.

The next morning, we started out for Oklahoma. In the suburb of Edmond, just outside Oklahoma City (at that time, still a very serene place), we picked up the famed highway, Route 66. We drove this bumpy stretch of 1926 road using The Route 66 Traveler's Guide by Tom Snyder, stopping along the way at the County Line, a relic gambling den and roadhouse once frequented by Pretty Boy Floyd.

KICKIN' IT ON ROUTE 66

Like the song says, Route 66 leads from Oklahoma City to Amarillo, Texas. Somewhere in Texas my anxiety of "big rig" trucks got the best of me. I passed one, pulling in front of it. But, I wasn't going as fast as I thought, and the trucker quickly shifted down a few gears so as not to plow into me. A close call that taught me fear has no place on the road. Although we planned to get to New Mexico before dark, night beat us again and we turned in at Amarillo. Motel 6 came up the winner in our "room-for-the-night" roulette; it soon became our preferred hotel--good rates, clean rooms, free incoming faxes and local calls, and if we'd had children under 12, they could've stayed in our room for free.

The next morning, we headed for Albuquerque, where we spent the day catching up on work. The food at Lubby's Diner, an inexpensive, cafeteria-style restaurant, was tasty and plentiful, and the setting, spacious. Before getting back on I-40, we traveled one last stretch of Route 66, stopping at Villa Cubero in Cubero, N.M., where Ernest Hemingway wrote most of The Old Man and The Sea.