I skipped over Milwaukee, WI during my Great Lakes road trip which ended over a month ago because I was more excited in seeing my friends from college instead of walking around another U.S. town/city. I didn’t realize at that time I wasn’t going to be leaving Chicago for almost a month after arriving. So I had itchy feet and wanted to get out of Evanston, and Chicago, and see something new. And that’s how I ended up in Milwaukee for a day.

I’ve been to Madison a handful of times in my life: the first time was during my Reading Week break from Kenyon during my fall semester Senior year. It was my last year at Kenyon and I had never visited my sister at UW-Madison, where she was a Junior. I asked Ira if I could possibly crash at his place in case my sister couldn’t accommodate me and was shot down by Ira, so when I began the 500-plus mile road trip to Wisconsin I was making my sister’s decision for her. I don’t know how I managed to coordinate my road trip to Madison with a weekend trip with my sister’s boyfriend’s sister, who was also in Madison that weekend checking out the campus, but my sister was very upset with me when I told her I was half way to Madison and was looking forward to seeing her for the long weekend.

My point is…I’ve been to Madison three times and never stopped by Milwaukee which is only a few miles away…It was nice to re-hash those memories though

I’ll admit that I was slightly frustrated with the guys and their slight interest in visiting Milwaukee, but lack of initiative in actually wanting to see the city over the past month, so I decided to tell them I was taking off for the day and I’d be back later, which is exactly what I did. Listening to NPR and my iPod during the 82 mile trip felt so freeing in my mind. I don’t know if it’s the “freedom” of the road, or a “travel high” or something, but when I’m visiting a new city, town or anything I’m interested in seeing, I become euphoric. It’s like a runner’s high, without the sweat.

There was this hilarious show on NPR that kept me entertained for most of the trip, and after finding $3.84 gas (a steal), I arrived in Milwaukee without any real game plan other than figuring things out on the go. I walked around a street festival where there was some type of cook-off; stopped by a Nintendo Wii station where I “played” a workout game and was dubbed a “Bodybuilder” after asking the Wii woman to give me the hardest workout on the game. Apparently the hardest workout for Wii include lunges, led by a cyber-generated blond-haired man named Frans who leads you in exercise. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but followed Frans and then some numbers started showing on the screen.

“Wow,” the shortish Asian-woman who had enticed me to try Wii remarked after Hans left the screen. “That’s really impressive,” I turned to the screen to see what she was referring to. “I’ve never seen anyone get a score that high, especially on the lunges,” she looked at me with extreme confusion.

“You are a Bodybuilder,” the screen proclaimed with whistles and bells. I looked at myself to see if that was even remotely possible, decided the game was flawed, and then turned to the Asian woman, and saw that she was thinking along the same lines. I thanked her for her time and the complimentary socks, and waddled down towards Milwaukee’s Art Museum.

At first glance the Art Museum is quite an architectural accomplishment. If I had to describe it, I’d say it looks like the tale of a great white whale, and beyond the tail is Lake Michigan. Numerous tourists, including myself, were taking pictures of the Museum’s architecture before entering the museum itself. I paid the student price for the museum and spent the next couple hours meandering through the different galleries and halls, inspecting traditional and modern art and feeling the way I always feel in museums….some things make me go “Ooo,” others make me go “Ahhh,” and I usually breeze by the majority of the other pieces of art. I’ve been to hundreds of museums, maybe 1000 by now, but I still enjoy the experience.

My car was parked in a 2-hour space so I had my mind on the time throughout my tour of the museum and arrived at my car with two minutes left until I reached the two-hour limit, so I drove to North Old World 3rd Street, which was the most bizarre street name I’d ever heard, and walked up and down it checking out the different meal options. North Old World 3rd Street was the best place for a decent meal I had read, and I was excited about an African restaurant, but when I got to the end of the street I saw the restaurant had closed, so I had a chicken sandwich at some type of outdoors sports bar, while reading my book Everything Is Illuminated.

I hopped in my car and and decided to visit the Harley Davidson company and try to go on a free tour of the factory, but after plugging in the address to the factory into my GPS, I couldn’t locate it so I went to the actual plant a few miles away, and was frustrated to hear that I was supposed to be at the other mysterious Harley Davidson plant I originally couldn’t find. Instead of getting upset about my inability to find the correct Harley Davidson plant, I called the Miller Brewing company, and was told that I could join a free tour of their plant in 30 minutes, so I scurried over to Miller after my Harley Davidson debacle.

The last time I had toured any alcohol fermenting plant I was in Puerto Rico, touring Bacardi’s factory, and I really enjoyed the complimentary rum drinks offered at Bacardi. I’m not much of an alcohol consumer, but I dabble very infrequently, and appreciate the social aspects of drinking even though I don’t partake in the drinking aspect. I had to take a ferry to get to the Bacardi plant, so that was a bonus for Bacardi, plus I prefer rum over beer, another plus for Bacardi, but, in my mind, everything in Milwaukee revolves around Miller, so I was glad to be part of something local.

I joined a free tour with another 30 people, most of whom had enormous bellies, or were college-aged kids, and joined everyone in watching a 10 minute film to get our mindsets in “Miler Time.” Our horde was moved from the movie room through the factory where we saw where the beer is canned, bottled, and packaged, and then we were taken to a very impressive pub, which brought back memories of London. Everyone was served a pint, I befriended a guy and a girl, and then we were directed towards the beer garden where we were given two more pints of beer. By this point I was feeling a little woozy, and I walked it off a little by climbing to the top of the factory to see some more brewing machines and then was told there was a baseball game taking place that night.

I bought my brother a Miller beer pitcher, and fumbled my way to my car, but realized I wasn’t feeling any effects from a few beers and happily drove off to Miller Stadium for the Brewers game.  Fortunately, the stadium wasn’t too far from the actual brewing company, and after manuevering my way into the parking lot, I unintentionally made the decision to watch the baseball game after paying a $10 parking fee.  I gave the woman all the change I had, so scalping became impossible, but I did find a scalper who was willing to sell me a great seat for $40…2nd row behind home plate.  I jogged towards the stadium, learned that there was no ATM access from outside the stadium, hustled back to the ticket scalper to write him a check, but he wasn’t around, and I also realized I couldn’t find my car.  I assumed that I’d eventually remember where I parked it after the game was over and rushed back to the ticket vendor and bought a decent seat for $40.

The seat I purchased was surprisingly good, and the game itself was extremely enjoyable.  It was the first baseball game I had watched all season, whether on television or in person, so basically, for some unknown reason, my interest in professional baseball has seriously waned.  I noticed my complete lack of interest in the Yankees last Spring when I started dating Suz, but I thought that would only be for that season, but I have better things to do with my time instead of watch the Yankees every night for four hours.  The Brewers were playing the Cincinnati Reds so that was exciting because I got to see Ken Griffey Jr. and Edison Volquez (one of the top pitchers in the game), as well as Prince Fielder and Ryan Braun.  I find it somewhat weird that the last two baseball games I’ve watched have both been live baseball games and the Brewers have been in each game.  Last summer, during my road trip I watched the Cubs play the Brewers at Wrigley Field.

I watched half of the game and the man seated next to me kept me company for most of the game.  He was a Reds fan from Cincinnati, so we reminisced about Ohio (since I went to school at Kenyon), and talked about baseball, which was a ton of fun.  I scanned the stadium after the midway point of the game, and approved of the new Brewers stadium, and even thought that their concession prices weren’t terribly overpriced (that’s Milwaukee for you), and enjoyed the fireworks after each home run.

I had tried to put off the terrifying reality that I wasn’t 100% sure where I had parked my car, but used my gut instincts to get me to the area of the parking lot where I thought I parked my car.  Unfortunately, I’ve lost my automatic car locker and car alarm device so I had to use my keen eyesight to spot my black Toyota out at night, and after only 20 minutes of wandering I found it in perfect condition.  I breathed a huge sigh of relief, called Joe/Ira to let them know I was heading back to Chicago, and felt as if I made one helluva trip of a day in Milwaukee.

I returned to Long Island for a few days, to get out of New York City and see my family, and I continued to do what I had been doing in the city.  I went running during the day, did a lot of reading and writing, as the days slowly passed before flying out to Madison, Wisconsin for my sister’s graduation.  Unfortunately, during one of my runs during that week I fell (the second time in my life I’ve fallen while running) and seriously cut my hand.  I felt somewhat incapacitated to go running regularly as I wanted my hand to heal first, but I felt kind of in a funk.

After a weekend trip to Madison. Wisconsin to celebrate my sister’s graduation with my family, I returned to New York still confused about what I was supposed to do, but I convinced myself that until the beginning of June I was going to have a good time and if I was called back to work in June I’d be able to drive back to New York from Chicago in a couple days, or if they didn’t need me back, I could start anew in Chicago where I have some friends living.  It seemed like the most logical reaction for me to take during my few weeks off.

After returning from Madison I drove from New York to Cleveland, Ohio to meet Chris, but before arriving in Cleveland I stopped by Scranton, PA to meet up with a friend of mine from Hebrew School.  My friend was working at the Scranton Times and on my drive to Cleveland I saw Scranton pop up on my GPS so I thought I might as well stop by and see how he was doing.  I grabbed a drink, walked around Scranton for an hour or two, saw his apartment, and wished my friend farewell before hitting the road for the long drive to Cleveland where I was to meet Chris.

Chris has been working it seems like since graduating, and when I got to Cleveland, his life hadn’t changed much professionally.  He was working at his high school as a volunteer, but was trying to make plans for the following fall, because he was extending his current job through the summer.  While I was in Cleveland, Chris landed not one, but two, jobs for the following school year at two diffferent schools.  It was an exciting time for Chris and his family and I was psyched to see good things happening to Chris.

While Chris was working I walked around downtown Cleveland for the first time in my life and really enjoyed the city.  I also was working on an article for Junior Scholastic so I was also technically working.  I was also frantically trying to make plans for my next destination - Detroit, Michigan.

Detroit was about 160 miles away from Cleveland, and after hearing so many horror stories about the city I was psyched to finally see the anarchy and chaos that so many people had told me about.  I was expecting people to be shooting each other on the streets, babies crying, and even public beatings and damn, might as well throw in rape.  I mean, no one had told me one positive thing about Detroit before I arrived and I had no idea what to expect.  Lonely Planet even thought Detroit was an insane place.

My first “adventure” on the road trip occurred before I even arrived in Detroit.  I was driving into Michigan and was only a few miles away from the person who’s house I was couchsurfing at, and after following my navigation system, and paying a $5 fee for what I thought was a tax to enter the city, I found myself in a very awkward situation.

“Bridge to Canada” read numerous signs as I made my way past the toll booth and onto a very large bridge.  There was a ton of construction occurring on the highway entering Detroit so I was forced to take numerous detours, but I didn’t think I’d end up in Canada.  Before going any further on the bridge, I cut across the bridge, which was very illegal, and cut in line to go through Customs.

As I waited in line I rummaged through my wallet looking for any identification I could use to prove my U.S. citizenship since I wasn’t carrying my passport.  I grabbed the only three things that could prove any type of U.S. citizenship in my mind - my Driver’s License, my Health Insurance card, and my College ID.  The woman behind the booth wasn’t buying it and couldn’t understand how I had “accidentally” left America and now wanted to re-enter.

I was told to pull my car to a special section and I was told to enter this white building where I found myself sitting next to 10 Arab men.  After 30 minutes of waiting I was called up to the desk where I was asked questions like, “Why were you entering the US?” “Are you traveling for pleasure?”  “How could you afford to go on a road trip when you’re unemployed?” “How did you manage to leave the US in the first place?”

I tried giving the woman behind the desk my sad puppy face look which is miserable and pathetic, but I was seriously concerned that I wouldn’t be able to return to the States.  After an hour and a half of waiting and answering questions I was told that I could leave and I hopped back in my car and went through another toll booth where I explained that I had already paid to go over a bridge I never even used, but I had to sign some form to explain why I couldn’t pay the fare.  My explanation was - “Already Paid” and my signature was illegible.  The last thing I need is for the Feds to put me on their watch list.

I finally arrived in Detroit and met my Couchsurfing hosts - a girl about my age and a guy a few years older.  There was also another couchsurfer staying at the house from Germany, but who was working in Canada for the time being.  He was about my age - 22.  The male host drove Matthias and myself around Detroit for a few hours showing us the “highlights” and “lowlights” of Detroit and I got to see some really beautiful stuff as well as a bunch of terrifying realities.  Detroit is a real mess in some areas, and I definitely have no interest living there just because it seems like the city has no order.  It’s quite the sight.

I was mostly alarmed during the trip not with what we were seeing as much as that the driver was drinking a huge bottle of beer and had very little concern for the authorities.  This was the first time in my life I had ever been in a car with someone drinking alcohol.  I was terrified but didn’t want to piss anyone off by seeming to be a straight-edged guy.  I was somewhat terrified.

That night we went to a bar and listened to live electronic music to get warmed up for the following day and the Music Festival.

The next day I drove around Detroit, visiting the Motown Museum and the Ford Museum before heading back to the couchsurfing host’s house where the girl had found me an extra wristband for me to watch the Electronic Music Festival - the biggest music festival in Detroit.  I was the only jackass in the city who was visiting Detroit just for the helluva it, and not to see the EMF.  However, I was extremely grateful that my hostess was able to acquire a wristband for me.

After acquiring the wristband I had to deal with my next challenge - riding a bike.  Riding a bike isn’t a challenge for the majority of people out there, and I understand this, but I hadn’t been on a bike in over a decade and I was somewhat anxious about getting on a bike again.  I had failed miserably when Matt and I were in Cambodia and I couldn’t re-learn the necessary bike skills - balance - to bike around Angor Wat, but somehow I was able to hop on this bike and get my bearings rather quickly.  The next problem was dealing with gears.  I had never been on a bike that required me to change gears and I was terrible with the transitions as we biked towards downtown Detroit.

We grabbed a few drinks and then walked around the city where I got to see part of a Tigers game from outside the stadium before heading to the Music Festival.  My ex-girlfriend had been a very big fan of electronic music so I had listened to some of her favorite songs awhile back and enjoyed them as well, but I can’t admit that I’m a huge fan of the genre.  However, walking around the different stages and listening to the music I realized a lot of the sounds were similar to what I actually enjoyed listening to, and for the next six-seven hours I walked around with my new friends listening to numerous bands before jamming with Moby who was the final performance of the evening.

After the concert we went to a post-concert party where there was more mixing and electronic music but after a couple hours I was drained and was ready for sleep.

The next day I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to do.  I hadn’t been on the internet since arriving in Detroit and was worried that my editor had sent me numerous emails, so I tried to find a place with free wireless.  This took forever to do, but I found a cafe and checked my 70 emails and tried to get in touch with a close friend from Kenyon who was currently living in Lansing.  I called her home and had to keep leaving messges which I found quite strange.

Eventually I decided that I should just drive towards Lansing and hope that my friend would call me back.  I had been in touch with her earlier in the week and asked her if it was OK for me to stop by for a night and she was cool with that.  However, her and her family had been kicked out of their home because of a mold problem and they were staying with friends.  Somehow my timing was perfect because the residents of the house weren’t around and they had a couch for me to stay on.

It was a ton of fun to meet  up with Rachel and her family and finally see her 1 year old daughter.  Rachel and her husband are a very young couple, only a few years out of college, but they both seemed extremely happy with their lives and family and I felt so happy to see them in such an elated state of mind even though they were dealing with numerous problems with their home.  I explored downtown Lansing, and spent a lot of time talking and catching up with Rachel and her daughter before I headed north towards Mackinac Island.

Due to the ridiculously high gas prices I was trying to stay on a $20 daily gas budget which at $4 a gallon gets me about 125 miles.  My drive from NY to Cleveland hurt me with that goal but I was now making much shorter drives and staying in places for a few days also helped.  But I had to let Rachel and her family get on with their lives, but before I left she got in touch with her mom who lives in Houghton, an area I was planning on stopping by and her mom was cool with me staying a night.

I left Lansing and made my way up to Mackinac City where I caught the last ferry to Mackinac Island by two minutes.  I grabbed my backpack with my computer and that was it since I was only planning on staying one night on the island.  I quickly realized my serious blunder - I didn’t bring a sweater and the breeze on the ferry to the Island was more than enough to remind me how serious of a problem this could end up causing.

I arrived on the Island, found a bed/breakfast for $40, signed in, and started walking around the Island.  I saw a couple forts, and walked along some trails before returning to “downtown” where I grabbed dinner and warmed up after freezing for a few hours during my walk.  The next day I woke up and walked the perimiter of the Island - 12 miles - nearly freezing to death in my shorts and t-shirt, but was able to collect my belongings and returned to the ferry to make my way back to Mackinaw City.  The room I had at the B&B was incredible.  I had my own queen-zied bed, a television, a kitchen, a dining table with four chairs, a fridge and so many other things I didn’t know what to do with myself.  I also learned that I had internet access which allowed me to answer numerous pending emails.

I hopped on the ferry and returned to the mainland where I called Rachel’s mom to confirm that I would be arriving in Houghton that evening and was off to my next desination - Picture Rocks National Seashore.

I arrived at Pictured Rocks in reasonable time but only was able to walk around the park for a couple hours.  I saw the “highlights” of the park, according to the Park Ranger, which included the Bunny Ear sight and the actual seashore and a waterfall.  I chatted briefly with a local who was also hiking through the Park and felt bad when I had to hop in my car and make my way to my next stop - Marquette.

I didn’t know much about Marquette other than their basketball team, but I decided that Marquette would be the best place for me to find a decent meal option, so I grabbed a pizza and walked around the city for an hour or so before hopping back into my car and driving to Houghton.

I arrived in Houghton kind of late that evening and it didn’t help that the closer I got to Rachel’s mom’s home the darker everything became.  I had entered the true countryside of the UP (Upper Peninsula).  Each household seemed to own a few hundred acres, and I was totally amazed that my navigations system was able to direct me to the house without any problem.  I entered the home to some shock that I didn’t have any problems finding their house which was located off a dirt road.  I met Rachel’s mom and brother, both of whom were really pleasant people, and Rachel’s brother and I talked about numerous topics before both of us went to bed.

The next day I had breakfast with Rachel’s family before they made their way to downtown Houghton and I made my way West towards the Porcupine State Park.  “The Porkies” were a lot more accessible than the “Isle Royale National Park” which was a six hour ferry ride from the mainland, as I continued my trek through the UP.  Once I arrived at “The Porkies” I stopped by the Park center talked with a ranger about what to see and after charging my camera and watching a video about the park, hopped in my car and drove towards a few highlighted trails.

I got out of my car, grabbed my walking stick from my trunk - the same walking stick that I used during my “bear encounter” in upstate NY - and made my way to the trails.  Before entering the trails I was thrown aback by one of the Park’s signs.

“You Are Entering Bear Country,” the sign read as my heart became a soft thud in my chest.  “If you encounter a bear, make a lot of noise and let it pass.  Do not incite the bear.  It will attack you.”  I kept reading the sign and learning what I was supposed to do when, not if, I encountered a bear, and took a quick snapshot of the sign before heading deeper into the woods.  It may have not even been ten minutes into my walk that I heard the first noises that made me freeze.

“Rowr!!” I heard from a distance that made me nearly crap myself.  What I had heard could be nothing other than a bear because this sound actually sounded like something from National Geographic or a Nature channel.  I decided that even though I heard these growls from all over, none of them seemed imminently close to me, so I kept heading deeper into the woods with my walking stick.  I walked a few miles following a trail on trees, and was somewhat terrified that I’d actually spot a bear during my random walk.  As I got deeper and deeper into the woods I kept hearing bears around me, but I wanted to get a good hike in, so I kept going regardless of the bear growls surrounding me.

I eventually stopped when I realized that the trail markers I had been following actually lead me in a completely different direction than where I thought I was heading, so I quickly backtracked and move rather briskly now accepting my fear of the bears in the woods and wanting to return to my car ASAP.  After not hearing any bears for a few minutes I thought I’d check out a waterfall, but after walking two steps in the direction of the waterfall I heard a few bear growls in the distance and decided to head back to my car, unscathed and still alive.  I then walked up to the highest point of the park and saw a bald eagle.

After romping around the Porkies for the afternoon I returned to my car and headed towards Bayfield, WI - my launching pad for the Apostle Islands.  I was very relieved to leave Michigan and it’s incredibly high priced gas and was relieved to see $4 a gallon instead of $4.45.  In Bayfield, I found my bed and breakfast and walked around downtown looking for dinner.  I found the bar, the only place open past 9 in town and talked with an Iraqi war veteran for an hour or so, and paid my tab and left after he made me feel rather uncomfortable.  The war sounded like hell and it made me feel even more queasy because I have a close friend heading out there in the very near future.

I stuffed myself with cereal provided for me that night and the next morning I took a boat over to the main Apostle Island - Madeline Island - where I rented a bike and biked around 8 miles to get to the beach on the Island.  I walked to the state park and walked around the park for a few hours before returning to the beach and biking back to the port to catch the ferry.  I was very proud of myself for being able to ride a bike twice in a week after not riding a bike once in over a decade.

After returning to the mainland I hopped back in my car and drove towards Duluth, which had nothing for me to see or do, and made my way down to Minneapolis/St. Paul where I met up with Alli, my close friend from London.  I hadn’t seen Alli since London - December 2005 - so I was extremely excited and anxious to see her.  We had become very close friends during her one semester in London and I had no idea what the dynamic of our friendship would be this time around.

When I saw Alli, I quickly realized that both of us were still friends but the intensity had plummeted since our time in London which seemed natural.  For the next couple days I stayed with Alli and her roomates in St. Paul.  I walked around the Twin Cities with Alli and on my own, checked out the Modern Art Museum, and the most exciting part of the trip had to be when there were three tornado warnings for the Twin Cities during one of my days.  I wanted to see a funnel cloud, as long as it was very far in the distance, but unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn’t see one from my car.

Before leaving the Twin Cities I stopped by a town parade, and helped Alli paint her new apartment before making my way down to Madison, where I currently am.  One of my closest friends and roomates from colllege, grew up in Madison and his family has been nice enouhg to allow me to spend a couple nights at their home.  My first night I spoke a lot with his family, and today I went out to Taliesen to see a lot of Frank Lloyd Wright buildings and learn a lot about the man.  I had dinner with Ira’s family before joining his father and one of his father’s friends at a music concert at a bar tonight.  Ira’s father was a huge fan of the performer, and I, too, enjoyed the music.

So tomorrow, I head to Chicago to round up my road trip.  Physically, I feel like shit because I haven’t had a serious workout, or any workout since I’ve been on the road and I feel somewhat miserable.  I’m hoping I will start running once I arrive in Chicago and ground myself there for awhile.  The other thing, I’m really excited to arrive in Chicago because regardless of what happens in NYC with my old job, I feel like I’m actually doing what I want to do with my life right now and I’m excited about this new opportunity.  However, it will take a lot of work and energy to find work in Chicago, but I’m excited because I have some leads and I can only hope this trip to Chicago is more promising and productive than my last trip where I returned to New York single and unemployed.

Yep, it’s been an awesome few weeks.

Of course I’ve loved seeing my family and being with my grandparents who I don’t get to see that often since they live in Florida, but as I write this post, I’m stuck in a miserable motel - The Comfort Inn - which is practically everything but enjoyable. It sort of reminds me of the University of Wisconsin-Madison in some ways.

Every room is identical and provides all the same amenities for each guest. A bed, a television, some random furniture, a fridge, microwave, lamp, bathroom with shower, bath and toilet a few lamps and someone stops by to clean the room when we’re away. I find it somewhat despicable because I feel caught in an air-conditioned box. The room isn’t even that bad compared to where the motel is located.

You can’t even go outside for a run in parks, or see a park or woods or anything for miles around. We’re not located in downtown Madison, we’re nowhere near the students, we’re nowhere near anybody or anything except for fast food restaurants that are located across the double-sided highway that is inaccessible to a pedestrian. The only way to get around anywhere in this area of Madison you need a car. It’s the ONLY way to get around and it’s miserable. One can’t even go on a walk without being on a highway or surrounded by a million fast-food joints and a million cars.

On the contrary, downtown Madison is a cool city. State Street - the main commercial street in downtown - has been totally destroyed and looks as if Madison was a military battlefield, roads have been overturned, large tractors are randomly placed throughout downtown, red fences prevent people from walking freely from one store to the next or crossing the street, but I’ve been to Madison when there wasn’t all this construction, and State Street is actually a fun strip if you’re into shopping.

To counter this miserable motel feeling I have, I was charmed by a farmer’s market on Saturday morning when I walked around Capitol Square where local farmers had stands with home-grown foods and drinks. Cheese was the main attraction for most of the stalls, but I was fortunate enough to taste Ostrich jerky, some wine, and well, a ton of cheese and cheese spreads. I thought the “squeaky cheese” curds were the most interesting attraction because the curds actually squeak in your mouth.

This is a criticism more of the motel/highway culture, and not of Madison, because I actually enjoy walking around the city.

“Ha, ha,” Chris laughed at my predicament. “You’re the only person in the world who would call me and ask me that question. No, you’re not insane, Stu. It’s just Stu being Stu. I think you should head straight for Maine and enjoy a long weekend.”

I couldn’t believe Chris was letting me know that my behavior wasn’t that atypical. For years now I’ve heard the “that’s Stu being Stu,” response, but I don’t know what that means and I don’t think it justifies my actions, whether they be related to traveling or not. But I felt confident that this was the right trip to take at the right time. I needed to get as far away from New York City as I could, and in my mind, Maine was the only ailment to my sickness of the city. I wasn’t going to let anyone know I was going to Maine, because I didn’t want to hear anyone’s comment’s of “Why Maine?” or, “Don’t you have work?” I knew what I needed to do, and I felt completely justified that it was the right decision, regardless of the consequences.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I looked at my clock on the dashboard, where the clock read 9:30PM. There was no way I was getting to Maine tonight. I picked up my phone, saw that it was an unknown number and excitedly started talking.

“Hi, who’s this?” I spoke into the phone, hoping it was the sexiest woman on the planet wanting to see me for a wild night. Fortunately, the voice was a woman’s, but it didn’t sound that sexy, and she didn’t seem interested in having a wild night.

“This is Pamela at the Bar Harbor Hostel. I got a message from you earlier tonight, and wanted to know when you were planning on arriving,” a middle-aged woman’s voice replied with some curiosity. It was the first days of Spring, but it wasn’t the peak season to visit Maine or Acadia National Park where I was heading. “Were you planning on stopping by tonight?”

I looked out my front windshield and saw that I had just entered Connecticut and saw on my navigation system I still had hundreds of miles to go to get to Maine. How was Maine that far away? How is the U.S. that big of a country? There was no way I was getting to Maine tonight. “I’m currently in Connecticut,” I told the voice on the other line.

“Wow. Where are you coming from? There’s no way you’re going to get hear at a reasonable hour,” the woman’s voice became even more interested in my trip. I must have sounded as if I were fleeing from a murder scene or a crime, and was seeking refuge in the backwoods of Maine. I hadn’t done anything terrible, but I was definitely seeking refuge.

“New York. But I may stop in Boston and make my way towards Maine tomorrow. Is that Ok?” I told the woman as I rubbed my eyes to stay awake behind the wheel. How could I be this tired? I hadn’t even gone running tonight and I was extremely beat. What was this world, this city and my life doing to me to make me feel this way. Things just didn’t seem right. This couldn’t be the life everyone who worked lived on a daily basis. I wanted to believe this, but was realizing that I was probably just thinking wishfully. Everyone worked to pay rent, pay for food, and survive. I worked for the same reasons, but I needed to live my life as well.

“Well, I’m closing shop for the night, but call me when you get nearby Maine tomorrow. I should be in the office after noon,” the phone clicked on the other end. I had made numerous calls to anyone I knew in the Boston area and fortunately found a friend who had an available couch and was pleased to have me over for the evening. Hours later I drove into a suburb of Boston where my friend was living. As I exited my car, my friend from Kenyon was waiting outside to greet me.

“Hey Stu!” Margaret’s face warmed with a smile as we hugged. “I need to do some shopping, so can we head to the grocery store?”

“Sure thing, Margaret. Anything you want,” I told her as we both hopped into my Toyota. “Where are we going?”

“Just the local supermarket - Stop & Shop,” she responded.

“No way,” I retorted as flashbacks poured into my mind. “I used to work at a Stop & Shop in Long Island.” It wasn’t long ago I was scanning hundreds of food items at the local Stop & Shop supermarket in Long Island during my painful job search. Beep! Beep! Beep! Cans, fruits and women’s hygienic products would pass by my scanner on a nightly basis. Sometimes friends from high school would see me and wonder how I was doing. Looks of disappointment, and sometimes pity took over their face when they saw me in my Stop & Shop uniform. I was also writing freelance for a magazine and working as an intern at another magazine, so Stop & Shop wasn’t my only responsibility, but I thought of it as a bridge from vacationing to the professional world. Even though many friends and family members may have not thought the job glamorous, I’ll forever be indebted to that supermarket for helping me re-focus on wanting to get a job. They were the only supermarket, out of the four I applied to, to even call me back for a cashiering position. This memory, plus hundreds of others racked my mind as Margaret and I walked down the food aisles.

We returned to Margaret’s apartment shortly afterwards where I saw a guy with the most interesting looking facial hair sitting on a couch. Brownish-red hair hung down his ears, and very prominent sideburns ran along his face. His mustache was equally as impressive, as I wondered who this guy was and how Margaret knew him.

“Hi, I’m Stu,” I extended my hand, introducing myself to Margaret’s roommate.

“Hi, I’m Bruce,” he said, in a the most relaxed voice I had heard since visiting Ohio in the beginning of February. I had immediately befriended Bruce before we exchanged another word as I yearned for this type of down-to-earth, friendly person who didn’t seem caught in the middle of the rat race lifestyle I was escaping in New York.

“How do you and Margaret know each other?” I asked, eagerly awaiting a response. I still didn’t know what the connection was other than thinking they met over Craig’s List.

“I went to Kenyon. Graduated last May,” Bruce answered.

“No shit! How is that possible? I went to school with you for three years and I never saw you once? I don’t understand,” my eyes lit up, and confusion ran across my face. I didn’t know everyone at Kenyon, but the place was definitely small enough that you’re prone to stumble upon mostly everyone in your class at some point. But I had NEVER seen Bruce before, and couldn’t fathom how that happened. Could have I been that preoccupied at school?

“I stayed in my room a bunch,” Bruce responded, and we left it at that. Bruce was apparently just chilling in Boston with Margaret and amazingly didn’t seem caught up in the craziness of the post-college/Kenyon world my friends and I had fallen victim of. He seemed to be totally complacent living in the outskirts of Boston without a job and not necessarily knowing where he was going or what he was going to do. I loved Bruce because of this, and wished that I’d reach a point where I could feel so at ease with what I was doing with my life, and where I was going.

Everyone was extremely beat from work or lounging around, as Margaret provided me with an ample amount of blankets and pillows and I made myself a comfy bed on their couch. I had been out of New York for less than 12 hours and was already having more fun than I had had in over a month. I needed to get to Maine. I needed to get away. I didn’t understand why it had taken me so long to find this time to finally leave New York, as I wished that this long weekend would never end and I could explore new areas, and meet up with old friends and make new friends until I got older, fell in love, and then share those experiences with whomever that lucky woman would be. But I had a life back in New York I couldn’t abandon because it was too difficult to find a job, and I was trying my damn best to make the most of the opportunity before it ended. Some day I’d have the freedom to go wherever I wanted for however long I wanted, but this wasn’t the time. I’d have to settle for a long weekend, but that was much better than staying in midtown one more night. Anything was better than New York City.

“Are you excited about the Earth Day marathon?” I turned to my marathon teammate, Terrell, after grabbing myself a banana covered in a black skin, but which surprisingly contained a white-yellowish interior. A year ago at Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio, I trained religiously for Kenyon’s Earth Day Marathon Challenge. “Crunch, crunch, crunch.” “Pat, pat pat,” my feet glided over Ohio’s rolling hills and meadows. Although I was graduating in a few weeks without a job or any idea what I was doing with my life, running provided my only solace to the chaotic world around me. Any problems with my girlfriend, or classes, or the post-college life vanished during my daily hour runs through Amish Country’s farmlands and fields. Kenyon may not have provided a lively night scene, or many cultural escapes from academia, but Gambier’s isolation provided a running experience that somehow alleviated the daily stresses and pains of being a college senior. Continuing my training into the summer after I had completed my half marathon relieved the stresses associated with unemployment, uncertainty and loneliness. From June through March running had become a drug to resolve my problems and bring my mind and body back to a happy medium, but my body needed some rest a month before my next marathon. My mind needed new stimulus and some variety.

“I don’t know, actually,” Terrell responded as she poured herself a milkless bowl of cereal. “With work taking up so much time I haven’t been able to properly train. I wish that wasn’t the case, but I’ll try my best to get in shape this month,” she turned from me slogging down her arid cereal before collecting a huge red and puffy winter jacket and her teaching materials. Frustration transfixed her face and even though life seemed to be going well for Terrell, her job was creating stresses that were wearing her thin. I can’t let this happen to me, not now, not ever.

After a night stop in Boston with Terrell I was off to Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. Surrounded by vast woods to my left, the Atlantic Ocean to my right, and stuck in the middle of a National Park, I was finally able to take a breathe after a six hour drive from Boston and 12 hours from New York. Climbing over ten-foot rocks, bounding over boulders, crossing glistening streams and walking over thin ice were my new life challenges. Building web pages, writing news stories, making phone calls and dealing with a very tentative professional future were afterthoughts that settled deep in my mind. The sweat that poured down my forehead, and ran over my nose, slowly accumulated with every passing rock. The waves whooshed along the coast, crashing into the rocks creating a white, frothy foam. The wind softly whistled through the trees. Silence surrounded me on all sides except for the crunching leaves and sudden bursts of “Hmph” and “Huff” that spewed out of my mouth.

The weather was neither cold nor warm. Caught in the limbo between winter and spring a nose-numbing breeze blew over the rocks before the suns beams provided minimal warmth. “Pow,” my legs flew out from under me and I lay on the ground, blood seeping out of my elbow and my head shook up after slipping on some ice. Gathering consciousness and stabilizing my body, I climbed down to the rocks below that were being assaulted by the crashing waves.

Acadia in the “Sprinter” may not have been ideal for most visitors, but as I gazed into the setting sun separated by miles from other park dwellers, and hundreds of miles away from New York City I couldn’t imagine a more serene and natural environment to escape to for a weekend trip.

Make sure to catch a glimpse of New York’s new public pay potty. Located between Madison Square Park and Madison Ave between 23^rd and 24^th streets squat’s a large stainless steel and tempered glass box, about the size of a newsstand. When strolling along the park I thought the structure looked more like a misplaced elevator from the nearby buildings that tower over the park instead of a public restroom. A red light notified me that the bathroom was “occupied.” I waited patiently nearby the toilet before the door slid open, just like an elevator, and out popped the toilet’s former user.

“I’ve had to piss in bottles while driving and picking up passengers,” Josef Mullaev, a New York City taxi and limo driver told me as he exited the restroom. The lack of public restrooms in New York City apparently causes serious difficulties for our cities cabbies, as Mullaev seemed eternally grateful for the public restroom. “It’s really beautiful, the bathroom, but I don’t think most people will know how to use it, ” he told me as I gazed into the bathroom’s interior as the door shut behind us. “They only have instructions in English.”

Accessing the toilet is no different than using a candy machine. I inserted a quarter into a slot when a yellow light turned on alerting me that service was needed for the bathroom. I paused, waited a few minutes, but nothing changed. A service person is supposed to keep an eye on the bathroom’s operations throughout the day but no one was around to fix one of New York’s few public restrooms.

I returned an hour later and saw a green “Vacancy” light glowing brightly near the door. I inserted another quarter and the silver metallic door slid open. I walked onto a wet, black rubber mat that lined the floor and scanned the bathroom’s gray plastic walls with its surprisingly spacious interior. Suddenly the bathroom doors closed behind me locking me in for my allotted fifteen minutes. I turned to my right and saw three smaller buttons – a red one for in case of an emergency, a yellow one to reach an operator, and an orange light to warn users when there is three minutes to open the door. A large green button allowed me to open the door if I decided to leave early, and below the green button was another red emergency button. Behind me, the metallic toilet looked as if it had a few gallons of water and soap poured onto it was still wet. To the left side of the toilet, a different button dispensed toilet paper with yet another red emergency button nearby. A large rectangular mirror allowed me to check my hair and attire and the sink provided an automatic water and soap dispenser and an automatic hand dryer.

After twelve minutes of observing the facility the fan that had been whirring died down, the lights dimmed as I prepared to be immersed in the seven gallons of disinfectant water that cleans the bathroom after each session.

“Hello? Is everything alright?” the toilet god spoketh to me. “Do you need any help?” the voice continued. I looked around and didn’t see anyone occupying the bathroom with me, and let the toilet god know I was doing ok, and I’d be done momentarily. “Let me know if you need any help,” were his concluding words before I decided to take a piss for the helluva it and use the automatic sink.

A queue hadn’t been created during my fifteen minutes of privacy when I exited and most people didn’t seem to notice New York’s newest and most convenient public restroom. A great idea, I thought to myself, as long as one can read English or tread water.

“Yea, yea I know,” I responded, and actually meant it.  “I don’t know why I haven’t been able to head down there yet, but believe me Dan.  I’ll be there soon.  Matt and I are planning a trip very shortly, so don’t worry.”

“Good stuff, I’ll see you guys this weekend,” Dan told me before hanging up the phone.  I guess I was going to Philly sooner rather than later, but I was excited because I had yet to visit Philly properly, and thought that it’d be a fun weekend with the guys.

**

“So I’ll hop on the train in Newark, and then find you, but make sure you’re on the 7:30 train to Philly,” Matt told me over the phone that Friday while we were both at work.  Matt was already working in New Jersey so it was much easier for him to hop on the train in Newark instead of heading back to New York, and it saved him some money, so the train to Philly was doubly enticing to Matt.

I tried to get off work earlier than usual so I could grab my bag from the apartment and take care of some things before taking off for the weekend, but I didn’t have that much time before making my way to Penn Station via the E train.  The most convenient part about living in Manhattan, or New York City for that matter, is the public transportation.  It’s extremely easy to use if one can read a map, and even if that’s tough for some travelers, the lines are all color coordinated, so you can also call the 1, 2, 3 the “red line” if necessary, however I’ve only heard one person refer to the subway lines by their color, my other close friend Bry.  Not that I ever aspire to be thought of as a “true New Yorker,” I actually try my best not to associate myself with the city at all, but a good way to stick out like a sore thumb is to refer to the subway lines by “green,” “yellow,” or “red” because it just doesn’t make much sense because there are always more than one train associated with each color.

I took the E train from midtown east and headed towards Penn Station before dashing off the train with my backpack and murse towards the Amtrack section of Penn Station.  Not only was I in a hurry to buy a ticket, I really wasn’t sure where to buy anything but I assumed everything would be labeled out and accessible for anyone to use.  I saw an extremely long line of 20 individuals lined up behind a row of computers that dispensed train tickets as I sprinted to the end of it.  I had about 20 minutes until my train was departing from Penn, and wasn’t really in a hurry, but couldn’t afford to leave Matt hanging on this trip.  It wasn’t even a consideration as I looked at my watch, and then looked at the line ahead of me, which was getting smaller at a terribly slow pace.

When I finally got in front of the line I started walking towards a machine before I was interrupted by a short woman with dark hair, and ruby red lipstick.  She seemed very stressed out and frazzled as I took a step back from from her just to make sure she wasn’t crazy.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said out of breath, the woman seemed crazier with every passing second.  “I really need to get on the 5:26 train and it’s leaving in a minute.  Can I please…”  I pointed her to the ticket machine before she wasted any more of either of our time.  I saw that another machine was open and I headed towards it following Dan’s meticulous instructions on what tickets to buy to get to Philly and what steps Matt and I should take in order to meet up with him in Philly.  I was very impressed with Dan’s preparation for the trip, especially since he’s been pegged by Matt and I as one who doesn’t get out much, and when he does, something terrible usually happens.  Fortunately Dan hasn’t lost his life on any of his cruises or trips, but it sometimes seems as if he manages to find himself in a worse situation after he returns from a trip, then when he left.  As I read through his step-by-step instructions I couldn’t help but be amazed with his precision.

I paid close to $40 for the round trip off-peak tickets and scrambled to the station entrance where hundreds of people were crashing into each other, nudging, pushing, and even elbowing to get to the platform.  I thought it was bizarre for people to be acting so viciously to catch a train with stops in Jersey, but maybe everyone was fed up with the murkiness of New York that the smell of Jersey didn’t really bother them any longer.

I hopped on the train and quickly noticed numerous differences between the New Jersey trains compared to the Long Island Railroad (my most used railroad that connects Long Island to New York City).  “Damn, it’s just not as clean or nice,” I thought to myself as I looked at the red colored seats with their blue plastic surroundings, and extremely small cushions.  The trains walkway was light brown and overall, the train seemed more cramped than what I was used to, but it wasn’t really a problem for me.  These were just my initial reactions before I found a seat and began reading my marketing textbook.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I didn’t have to even look at the Caller ID because I knew who it was.  “Hey Matt, I’m on the train,” I told him and could tell that he was not nearly as anxious now that I had confirmed that I was on the correct train.  “I guess the train will arrive in Newark in fifteen minutes or so.  Once you get on just call me, and I’ll try to find you.”

“How about if we meet up in the front of the train?” Matt suggested and I thought it was sound advice.

“Sure thing, bud.  I’ll start heading up to the front. See you soon,” I replied.

“Great, see you soon Stu.  Take care,” Matt told me before hanging up, and I got back to my textbook.  I’ve been taking a marketing class at NYU in their School of Continuing and Profeesional Studies and I thought the train ride to Philly would be a perfect opportunity for me to get my weekly homework done.  Each week we’re assigned a couple chapters and the class is so different than my classes, workload and stresses of Kenyon that I find my NYU classes as one of the most enjoyable and relaxing parts of my life schedule.  Plus I get to learn new things about topics I’m interested in.  If the classes weren’t so damn expensive I’d take a class every semester until I died.

Before I knew it, the train had pulled into Newark and my phone started buzzing again.

“Ok, I’m on the train, where are you?” Matt asked me when I picked up.  I had already tossed my textbook into my murse and was heading into the front cars before I saw him sitting in one of the blue seats by himself.  I looked around the car and saw that no one else was in it, and thought this was a perfect place to get some reading done en route to Philly.

One of the many enjoyable parts about traveling with Matt deals with one of our many shared interests - reading.  I’m not saying that my other friends don’t enjoy to read for pleasure, but I don’t know anyone who gets through more books than Matt.  We may not be interested in the same types of books all the time, but I think both of us appreciate solid writing and fun stories, but whenever we’re traveling there’s this understanding that whenever we’re on public transportation or if there’s a trip we’re taking we don’t need to talk to each other the entire time, if at all.  Matt looked as if he had had another grueling week at work, but I was glad to see him after a week or so, and was really appreciating how frequently we had seen each other since I had returned to New York in the fall.  Compared to being in California and Ohio for the past four years, Matt and I had been able to see each other on a weekly basis that always helped me get through some of the most challenging parts of my post-college life.  I was most pleased that he now had his weekends free most of the time and was able to travel with me for the second time in as many weeks.

My phone buzzed again interrupting me from my reading, but I saw that it was Bry so I picked up to see how he was doing.

“What’s up bud?” I asked casually, realizing that I’d have to soon explain to him that I had taken off to Philly for the weekend without him.

“Oh, not much.  Just wondering what you were up to tonight?  Want to hit up the bars, or stop by my place?”  he asked, as I thought that there was no use in lying to him about the trip he hadn’t been invited on.

“Sorry bud, I can’t.  I’m on a train to Philly for the weekend,” I told him as I anxiously awaited his response so I could react appropriately to not hurt his feelings.

“What?  You’re going to Philly?  When did you make these plans?” Bry retorted, as I thought to myself that he couldn’t have asked a worse question.

“Um, well,” I tried to decide if I should lie and tell him that these were sudden plans, but foolishly told him “we had been invited to Philly a few weeks ago, and had made the travel plans earlier in the week.”

Although slightly disappointed, Bry seemed not to be terribly insulted but chimed in that “next time you and Matt take off for a place, be sure to let me know about it,” before we finished the convo.  Whoo…dodged a bullet I thought to myself, before pouring into my marketing textbook.

The train to Newark didn’t take more than 45 minutes to an hour, and as Matt and I disembarked the train I definitely felt as if we were no longer in New York.  The train platform was outside, as the cool air blew in my face numbing my nose and biting at my cheeks.  I looked around and saw another track without a train, and followed the masses up some stairs into the train station that seemed surprisingly small for a large traveling hub.  Matt and I saw that we had twenty minutes until our train would leave for Philly so we walked around the station that was no longer than 400 yards and was filled with plastic seats, snack machines, one food stall and a ticket machine.  For some reason, Matt and I decided the ticket machine was our best diversion.

“I wonder where you can get tickets to from Newark,” Matt gazed at the touchpad screen and scanned over the destination codes.  “Wow, you can get tickets all the way from Phillipsburg and Palmyra,” Matt continued as I decided that it’d be best for me to assume that these towns were nowhere near us and not get into a discussion on New Jersey geography.  “How much are monthly tickets from those towns?”  Matt plugged in the necessary information before we both exploded into laughter thinking how insane it was for people to pay close to $1000 for a monthly train pass to get to Newark, and then how crazier it was to think that if people actually commuted that far, they were probably heading to New York City, so after we made our calculations we laughed our way back to our train to Philly thinking how much easier it was for us to take a subway to work instead of two trains and then a subway for over a grand a month.

Although I wasn’t necessarily impressed with the New Jersey trains, I was somewhat disgusted by the Philly train we got on.  It looked as if a hurricane or tornado had landed in our car and had taken no mercy on the seats or the train.  My only recollection or thought connecting me to Philly was when I grew up watching “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” and Will Smith started each show with his “rap” song about “West Philadelphia” where he was “born and raised.”  But other than that I wasn’t sure what type of city I was about to visit.  If the train cart was partially representative of the city, I felt as if I was in for quite the weekend.

“Just stay out of West Philly,” I overheard someone say from behind me, but decided not to react or look back out of fear that a gun may be aimed at my forehead.  My marketing textbook seemed slightly more welcoming.

Matt and I continued reading when the train started, but were quickly distracted by the train’s audio system.

“Next stop, Bushwinkle” a Black man in a large blue winter coat and a baseball cap opened up the train door and hollered to everyone in our area.  Matt and I lifted our heads from our books and looked at each other before checking out the guy and then looking at each other again before we erupted into laughter.  This was the trains audio system we both realized and started laughing at an embarrassingly loud volume.  Matt started looking me up and down in a weird way, and started laughing again, as I sat facing him with a curious expression over my face.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked Matt, wondering if he was going to comment on me looking like an old man again.

“You’re dressed like one of the guy’s who work on the train,” Matt couldn’t control himself any longer as he started laughing louder and louder and I looked at my clothing and compared it with the man who was checking my ticket.  “Let me take a picture of you with him.  Hurry move that way,” Matt started to get his camera out before I told him that we didn’t need the extra attention.  I was fond of the blue jacked I was wearing, and even though thought it was humorous that the jackets were similar in many ways, it was my father’s jacket so there is some sentimental attachment with the jacket.  Perhaps my dad worked on Philly trains temporarily and got the jacket, but I highly doubt it.

An hour or so passed before we arrived in Philly proper, and I was about to get off the train with the mass of people, but Matt wasn’t budging.

“Isn’t this our stop?” I turned to Matt and asked him, not really knowing what stop we were supposed to get off at, but figured that the train would only empty for the Philadelphia station.

“No, I think it’s the next one,” Matt told me.  “I’ve come to Philly a few times before to visit my brother and I always get off at the next stop.”  I wasn’t sure what to do, but I sat down and rode the train to the next stop where a few people including us exited the train to an abandoned station.  Matt and I wandered through the halls and quickly realized we had gotten off at the wrong station but looked for public transportation to be dropped off somewhere near Dan.  Instead of a train or a subway, I was somewhat surprised that Philly included trolley’s as a part of their public transportation.  We had gone askew from Dan’s directions but were improvising which brought some excitement to our long day of travel.

I was surprised to see how easy it was for bystanders to get on the trolley tracks, it was literally a foot drop onto the tracks and there was nothing to prevent drunken students or people who were sick of the Philadelphia lifestyle from jumping in front of the trolley that trudged along the tracks at a menacing 8 miles per hour.  Matt and I waited a few minutes as I looked around the station and noticed something particularly different to New York or most places I had been on my U.S. road trips - there were more Black people.  I thought it was interesting observation but didn’t have any type of reaction before hopping onto a tram that seemed to have gotten off on the wrong track in San Francisco and ended up in Philly…imagine how long that trip would actually take…geez.

A few stops later Matt and I got off the train and called Dan to let him know where we were.

“What?!” I overheard Dan on Matt’s cellphone.  “How did you guys end up there?  I gave you step-by-step instructions and you still manage to mess that up.”  I lost Dan after that outburst as he instructed Matt which direction we were to follow in order to make our way towards the University of Pennsylvania, Dan’s alma mater.  The weather was frigid, as I bundled up in my scarf, hat, gloves and jacket and made my way with Matt towards Dan’s apartment.  Most joints seemed to be closed at 10:30 on a Friday which was somewhat surprising, but I didn’t really know what part of Philly I was in, but assumed that we weren’t in downtown due to the lack of life around us.

We passed a bar called “The Pig’s Fizzle” or something to that effect, a church, and another bar where we saw Dan.  Dan looked noticeably healthier, as if he had been exercising recently, and we all embraced with hugs before making our way behind the bar, through snow that was more like mud, and finally were instructed to take off our shoes before entering Dan’s humble abode.

For a one person apartment and a recent college graduate, Dan seemed to be in a very good situation.  There was a kitchen that didn’t seem to be used terribly often but had various personal items scrambled around, a living room with a couch, television, a chair and lamp, a bathroom with shower/bath, toilet and sink, Dan’s office which had a mattress for one of us to sleep on, a desk, Dan’s chair and his laptop, and then further down the hall was Dan’s bedroom in which Dan had prominently placed a party sign in board, frequently used at bar and bat mitzvah’s where people signed in their name and wrote a personal message to the bar mitzvee, but instead of seeing a picture of Dan, there was a picture of his parents which was a good picture, but his father had one of the wildest looking mustache’s I had ever seen.  We grabbed some food at a restaurant nearby, but crashed immediately afterwards after the long day of traveling.  I nestled into the mattress before Matt had the opportunity, and by “nestling” I mean I laid down, Matt was no longer interested in the mattress so our sleeping arrangements had been settled for the weekend.  Apparently Dan had organized a long day for us the following day as I was excited for anything.

So when I stumbled into a random bookstore near Columbia University in the Upper West Side of Manhattan on an Autumn day I was totally shocked when I saw the “Lonely Planet New York State” book. I had stopped by the bookstore a few weeks before because the walk I had been on suggested checking out the bookstore and I remember being amazed that this was the only bookstore in all of New York City that actually sold the New York State LP. The fear of the bookstore selling out of this book was a terrifying reality to me because by owning the LP, I was buying myself some security and stability in some way. I knew I’d have something to do if I hadn’t landed a job and was done with my NYC walks. I was at a point in my life that provided absolutely no security of employment, so many questions about life, and I just wasn’t feeling all that great, and most importantly, no one was around. Traveling and walking was an extremely personal experience and I remember being very sad when I finished the last of my 25 NYC walks towards the end of September. I had spent an entire month walking over 100 miles of the city. The natural progression in my mind was to begin exploring New York State.

Exploring the towns of Sleepy Holow (Tarrytown) and Hyde Park along the Hudson River were very powerful and moving trips in my mind. The weather was perfect, not too hot nor cold in October and the leaves changing color made the Hudson River Valley majestic. Although I was the youngest person exploring FDR’s House, Kykuit House, Washington Irving’s House, and all those other places I stopped by on those trips, I felt at ease with life, and had accomplished a peace of mind. I was having an incredible time doing what I loved to do more than anything else I could do on my own.

So when I hopped in my car a few weeks ago on a Sunday morning and picked up Matt and Bry adrenaline ran through my veins as I unconsciously connected this trip with my past New York State road trips. However, this trip was different from the beginning, and I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. The most noticeable difference was that I wasn’t traveling solo, I had two of my closest friends in the world accompanying me…this was supposed to be a “normal road trip” because I wasn’t by myself.

The drive from Long Island to West Point isn’t a significant distance, only 73 miles. I wanted to be on the road by 9am so we could catch the 11 AM tour and then spend the rest of the day exploring the area and not have to be rushed at any point. Months ago when I went to Sleepy Hollow Bry had shown a strong interest in joining me on the trip, but I went solo because he had IM’d me at 3AM and I didn’t feel comfortable waking him up at 8AM that same morning. Since then, Bry has held a grudge against me for not including him on that road trip and I was hoping this trip would heal any wounds from the Sleepy Hollow trip. I didn’t care what time he went to bed the night before, he was going with me on this trip. Unlike my situation with Bry, I had purposefully delayed my West Point trip just so Matt could join me. I guess somewhere in my mind I’ve thought of Matt as my traveling partner and I’m willing to accommodate him more than anyone else when it comes to traveling. This might not be saying much though, because I don’t usually accommodate anyone when I’m traveling or planning on going on a trip. If I want to see a place I go see it usually without any warning or explanation. A lot of people think I’ve turned traveling into this escape because of my frequent excursions without any thought. I think that traveling, or at least road tripping, is a reaction to something that’s been brewing in my mind for quite some time, and even though I may not vent these thoughts or feelings with anyone, I always have a destination in mind when I hit the road. So, I don’t think my traveling behavior is that random.

After driving through the Bronx and entering the Palisades Parkway I checked my tank unconsciously after remembering my panic attack months earlier when I reached “0 miles left” and couldn’t find another gas station for miles before pulling over and paying $3.45 a gallon at the only gas station in the area. I saw that I had enough gas to get us to West Point but we’d definitely need gas for the trip back. Driving with Matt and Bry wasn’t totally different than driving solo, as the music from my iPod played in the background, while we chatted about what to expect in West Point, and Matt and Bry kept letting me know that I’d have to drive quickly to make the 11AM tour.

We pulled into the Visitor Parking Lot at 11AM as Matt and Bry ran inside the Visitor’s Center and I parked my car. It would’ve been really annoying to have to wait until the 1PM tour, so I was relieved when I was told that they were able to get tickets. I thought it was a little ridiculous that the tickets were $15, but I imagined that we’d be able to walk around the campus, check out some buildings and maybe even see parts of the Hudson. I had paid much lower fees for my other Hudson River sights and seen those types of attractions, but I would soon learn that the West Point tour is filled with disappointment.

“The tour bus is leaving in five minutes,” someone said when the three of us were walking through the gift shop. Matt found a new cup for his muesli and bought it, which kind of surprised me because I rarely see Matt buy anything from a souvenir shop, but the muesli cup is an essential part of his traveling life as I remember. After my moment of shock, the three of us followed the crowd outside where we we saw a line of people with an average age of around 70, maybe it was a little higher.

“Stu, I can’t believe you’ve actually done this stuff on your own,” Matt nudged me as we waited on line behind the white-haired folk.

“What do you mean?” I asked Matt, not really sure where he was going with the conversation.

“Just look around. We must be at least 50 years younger than anyone else on the tour. I can’t believe you’ve been on other tours with people who are 50 years older than you, and you don’t feel weird at all,” Matt laughed and finished his thought with, “You’re an old man in a 22-year old body.”

I thought this was funny, but I was also concerned that maybe other people were thinking along similar lines. I enjoy traveling to see new things and have new experiences, but I hate going on any type of “tour.” I think it’s dumb to pay a hefty price to do something I can do at my own leisure and for free - walk around. Matt’s comment reminded me of when I lived in London and Trev and Alli, my two closest friends from London, told me similar things about how I dressed. Apparently I dressed like I was 40 years old when I first got to London, and after months of Alli’s education I returned to my 20-year old normalcy. But no one had made a comment about how I’ve dressed or acted in a very long time, at least nothing negatively, so I was worried that perhaps in my post-college life I’ve adapted some more “mature” customs after working with people much older than me on a daily basis. I examined myself, seeing that I was wearing my father’s blue jacket, a pair of jeans, brown shoes, and a hoody sweater, and told myself that Matt was just giving me a hard time, but it made me think about how youthful I presented myself. Even though I sometimes feel much older than the 22 years old I am, I want to keep a youthful feel and look.

The three of us headed to the back of the bus and I sat right next to the toilet which made Bry laugh about my misfortune. A mixed smell of over-sanitation and the rank smell of what people must do in a bus toilet sucked any fresh smelling air away as the three of us ended up suffering for the next 5 minutes when some voice on the announcing system welcomed us to West Point.

“For the ridiculously overpriced tickets we charged you,” the voice started, “we will be showing you as little as possible of the campus, and will use your funds to increase the size of our humongous visitor center,” the message ended. “Great,” I thought to myself, as I yearned for the experiences I had in Sleepy Hollow and Hyde Park where it was me, my car, my guidebook and the only thing guiding me was my zeal for exploring a new section of the world. West Point’s tour was too militaristic for me, but I kept my mouth shut about my initial concerns, but the three of us kept making fun of the craziness of the situation of being surrounded by 80 year olds. “I can’t believe you’ve done this numerous times before,” Matt turned to me, laughing as I leaned my head on the bathroom’s wall, waiting for our arrival onto the campus.

When we got off the bus, there was only one thought that ran through my mind, “it was FREEZING.” Snow covered the ground for as long as my eye could see, but instead of walking around the campus, the 30 people on the tour were herded like cattle to a stand of bleachers, where Matt hurled himself over the side rail as Bry took the more pedestrian, civilized route of climbing the stairs for a seat, and I stood in front of the crowd gazing over the field and campus.

“This here is a large green field, with snow covered on it. Behind the field are large buildings where the students sleep, eat and live. You won’t be seeing these buildings because they are interesting and you would gain a greater appreciation and knowledge about the campus. To the right you can see an impressive statue of one of our most famous graduates, Cornelius Buxley Mcluaghlen, who actually didn’t go to West Point, but accomplished a lot of wonderful military deeds and he watches over the campus.” After five minutes of not really understanding anything that was being spoken, and freezing my ass off, the tour reached what I thought as its highlight, the Hudson River.

I was kind of worried that this organized tour would forget to include the most basic element of why I wanted to visit West Point, to see the Hudson River and understand how the school and the river coexisted, and fortunately we were able to look at the river for a few minutes as well as a memorial statue that had a phalanx shape to it, and after some poorly made attempts by the tour guide to make jokes, everyone got back onto the bus, and the three of us made our way back to the shit-scented back row.

We arrived at a church moments later, as I wondered why this was part of the tour. I guess I had created this false vision in my mind about West Point because it was a military camp. I wanted to see soldiers firing guns, and doing military drills, and maybe even kill something or someone, but over the course of the tour I saw no more than five students dressed in a very impressive blue suit winter attire and white military hat, walking stoically through campus. No one was fighting each other or doing army games or military drills. It seemed like an ordinary college campus to me and this was somewhat disappointing. I felt like I was 17 years old again visiting colleges and having some tour guide tell me how great their library was, or how old some other building was, or how their college had the first microscope in the northeast region of their county and city, or some crazy stuff like that that means nothing to me. Even though I was thinking these thoughts, having Matt and Bry around for company made everything seem even more bizarre as we made fun of the tour and our situation for the entire hour long experience.

The church the bus dropped us off at was described as “majestic,” “impressive,” “grand” and other things of that nature, but it looked like any old church to me, and didn’t seem all that impressive. Perhaps my travels around Europe have stunted my appreciation for churches because I’ve seen hundreds and hundreds of very impressive churches, but I can’t say anything bad about the church on the tour, because it was beautiful. However, it was just a church to me. Matt, Bry and I left the group for a few minutes to walk around and take some pictures of us praying or doing something religious, before we left the church, hopped on the bus.

“Thanks for visiting West Point Military Academy,” our tour guide said over the loud speaker. “We hope you had a good time,” as the tour bus pulled into the visitor center.

I was so upset that the tour was such a disappointment, and I paid money to be part of it. Matt and Bry looked at me as if this was how I spent my weekends driving through upstate New York, but I felt that there was no way I could explain to them how different and dull the West Point experience was without insulting them. I think the biggest difference between West Point and any of my other road trips was that I had no freedom at West Point. The three of us were constrained to very strict rules, and there wasn’t any time for wandering or experiencing West Point.

Before heading back to the city, Bry, Matt and I hit up the Main Street of West Point which was even less desirable than Gambier’s commercial district. There was one street with three or four restaurants which were all very tacky or looked somewhat dangerous, but eventually we decided to eat at the local diner. I ordered myself a buffalo chicken sandwich, Matt got some salad and Bry ordered something relatively healthy as well.

“Usually the trips are more involved, and exciting,” I told them when we waited for our meals. “I rarely have been on tour buses for any of the New York Road trips, and even when I have been I’ve had the freedom to wander around. This was very different guys,” I tried pleading my case but Matt and Bry wouldn’t have any of it. I felt as if they thought that all my road trips were similar to West Point, when in fact, West Point and its rigid structure was completely opposite to my usual trips. I had to go on tours at Washington Irving’s House and Val-Kill, but they were usually over an hour or two and I got to walk around. I felt as if West Point was the biggest scam I’d ever encountered on any trip I’d been on, and felt terrible that my friends had to experience it with me.

I almost forgot to get gas on the drive back, and turned my car around before reaching the highway and filled it up with $20 worth of gas, which barely gets me anything, but it was enough for the drive back. I drove through Bear Mountain State Park, and thought it’d be fun to walk around some of the trails, but Bry and Matt were eager to return to New York, and I didn’t want to force them do something they weren’t interested in.

Overall, West Point was a ton of fun because I was traveling with two of my closest friends and their company totally affected how I approached West Point. I loved having someone to share my critical thoughts with and my feelings, instead of writing them down or keeping them to myself. I enjoyed seeing how Bry and Matt reacted to certain things I found interesting, and often thought to myself, what they were thinking about my road trips and traveling behavior. I enjoyed having someone to talk over a meal with, and appreciated not being alone. However, I thought that West Point was so different than any of my other road trips, and I wasn’t sure if I thought this because I didn’t get to walk around at my own leisure, or if I thought this because I was in a different mindset because I was traveling with my friends. Perhaps I should try new road trips with them when the weather gets better and I can make more valid conclusions about the pros and cons of traveling solo and with other people.

I don’t suggest visiting West Point.

The road trip started without any specific goal other than heading towards Niagara Falls for a weekend trip. As I would soon realize, this trip didn’t have one definite goal. I wasn’t solely going to St. Louis to see my girlfriend, or driving to new cities to explore the viability of me living there in the near future, or meeting up with family and friends, or just taking in the sights. It ended up being a combination of numerous motivations, but something that helped get my motor going was a feeling of separation and loneliness. I wanted to reconnect with people who were extremely important to me as well as living the exciting life only travel can provide.

Niagara Falls was in the state of New York so it didn’t seem that ridiculous to head there for a weekend trip. What I soon realized was that New York is a very large state. The 440-mile drive from my home in Long Island to Niagara Falls was one of the most painful traveling experiences in my life.

I had just arrived from a ten-day trip through Israel experiencing ungodly temperatures that averaged over 100 degrees Fahrenheit daily. I had trekked through the Negev Desert in southern Israel staying overnight with the Bedouins helping prepare their meals, riding through the desert camelback, and climbing mountains to watch the sunrise. However, as I sat stuck in gridlock traffic along the Palisades Parkway, 400 miles away from my destination the desert seemed infinitely less frustrating. Somehow, New York City traffic had expanded outwards for 50 miles as it took a painstaking four hours to drive the first 100 miles of my trip. The drive seemed equally unbearable to my 12 hour bus ride over dirt roads from Angkor Wat in Cambodia to the Thai border, where an elementary-sized school bus was filled to maximum capacity with 20 strangers and the air conditioning didn’t seem to work which made the 90 plus degree heat seem even more agonizing. If I was able to move my legs in that bus, or even change seating positions, that would have made the drive somewhat more relaxing but my body was stuck in an immobile position. The bus driver also seemed to have a knack for finding every pothole in Cambodia as my traveling partner and I managed to survive the most turbulent and patience-testing trip of our lives. I kept reminding myself of these challenging times I had experienced over the past few months as I sat in the drivers seat going nowhere, but nothing seemed to make the New York gridlock enjoyable.

Eight hours later I collapsed on my hostel bed in the small town of Niagara Falls, New York with one certainty in mind – I sure as hell wasn’t going home any time soon. Visiting Niagara Falls was identical in purpose as so many of my past trips had been – I wanted to see something new.

The water crashed on the rocks hundreds of feet below creating a thick white foamy discharge and a calm-inducing mist as I walked along the New York section of the Falls. I snapped my pictures, crossed over to Canada for the breathtaking views, and called it a day at mid-afternoon after running out of things to do and see. Like so many of my previous trips, my guidebook led me from sight to sight and city to city, and ended up being a good disguise during this section of the trip as I made my way from Niagara Falls to Cleveland to see my best friend from college, Chris, claiming to my friends and family that Lonely Planet suggested I should stop by Cleveland before heading to Detroit.

The road trip never had one set goal, or purpose, and if there was any unifying feature to the entire 5-week trip it centered on not having to return to New York and enter the reality of the post-college life. Road tripping provided a deep sense of freedom, individualism, and power over my life. I knew where I wanted to go, and what I wanted to see, and whom I wanted to be with. New York provided nothing other than confusion, unemployment and a large tag that read, “Bum.”

Cleveland’s most redeeming feature is that Chris lives there. Driving through it’s heavily industrialized downtown, and silent streets helped me realize that an alternative goal of the road trip was not only to determine where I’d consider living, but also where I wanted to stay far away from. Cleveland was a city that fit into the latter group.

When I arrived in Cleveland I quickly realized that I couldn’t really go home. I was even further from New York, and more importantly, closer to Chicago than I had been since my time in school at Kenyon in the Amish Country of Ohio. I had a plane flight scheduled from New York to St. Louis the next week, but knew that I could always cancel my ticket and use the credit on a future flight. My main concern was realizing that if I drove to Chicago I was setting myself up for driving down to St. Louis, and although this was an exciting realization I was also concerned that I was losing my mind.

My heart started beating at a much quicker pace, and adrenaline ran through my veins as I departed the next day from Cleveland en route to Chicago. I had already been on the road for four days and was almost 1,000 miles from my family and closest friends and was heading to a city that solely represented failure in my mind. I had interviewed a few times during the school year in Chicago but was unable to land any position, and as I made my way into Chicago’s commercial Loop, the realities of the challenging job market and unemployment racked inside my mind. Even though my heart and body was in a state of elation realizing I was a few hour drive from St. Louis, I meandered my way through a city that reminded me of the challenges that lay ahead in my life.

Walking around the Loop, frolicking through Chicago’s Millennium and Lincoln Parks, basking at its beach and checking out the Frank Lloyd Wright neighborhoods removed any doubts I had to whether or not I should consider living in Chicago, as I instantly fell in love with the city and what it offered. There was shopping galore along the Magnificent Mile on Michigan Avenue, and bars aplenty on Division Street. Most importantly, the city was celebrating its annual Restaurant Week as I sampled the local cuisine without having to spend a fortune. The clear blue sky and radiant sun made Chicago seem as if it were an offspring from the Garden of Eden, and for that week I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the States. Unexpectedly and without any warning I had fallen madly in love with Chicago.

I found myself prancing through parks, and sighing along the beach, and feeling hopelessly romantic when I suddenly realized that a much more passionate and tangible love was only a few hundred miles away.

Perhaps I desired to see one of the most beautiful natural sights this world has to offer in Niagara Falls, or maybe I felt compelled to re-hash old memories and create new ones with Chris. I could have wanted to expand my knowledge of my country walking through the streets of one of its greatest cities in Chicago, or maybe I just wanted to satisfy my urges in St. Louis. I stopped trying to label the road trip with any particular goal because as I had learned from all my previous trips around the world - what I may want to achieve or see in the beginning of a trip may radically change once I’m on the trip. In each passing city I experienced drastically different feelings, but I’d be foolish to not admit that I hit the road for the same reason as always: I was passionately in love with moving and experiencing new things, and hell, I was 21 years old and was in serious need of a good time, even if it was 1,000 miles away.

Around the turn of the twentieth century, wealthy families from New York City built large homes and mansions in Muttontown during the Gold Coast fever. Some of these magnificent examples include Knollwood, a 60-room Greek Revival, Italian Renaissance and Spanish styling mansion erected by Wall Street tycoon Charles Hudson in 1906 with towering Ionic columns at its entrance. The current Woodcrest Club and the Muttontown Golf and Country Club are two other remnants from its Gold Coast past.

After World War II, Muttontown, a village of 6.1 square miles, underwent a significant population growth from 382 people in 1950 to 3,499 in 2003. This small enclave in Nassau County attracted a certain type of person – the wealthy. With a median household income of $184,386, ($140,000 higher than the national median) the wealthy of New York have found an alternative settlement other than Manhattan.

Whether sheep herding and extreme wealth have any direct connection, I cannot honestly comment on, but I can tell you that growing up in the town of Muttontown makes a New Yorker feel as close to New York City as a North Dakotan may feel about their proximity to New York City. Living atop Hardy Hill in our grey painted house, with dark blue roof shingles and a darkened red door literally made me feel as if I lived on top of the world, but stuck in the middle of nowhere. As I would gaze down on my neighbors, town and practically everyone else around me as a kid, I would wonder if there was more to life than the grass fields, the large houses, and Route 106, the road that connected us to the towns of Syosset, Jericho and the rest of the world. Was there anything else more enjoyable for a young boy other than grass fields to run around with his friends, play catch with his brother and dad, and find escapes from his mom after setting a prank on his younger sister? Life was one game after another, whether I was running off to soccer practice, getting ready for a baseball game, or training for my next cross-country race. My house and neighborhood provided every opportunity necessary to stretch my legs, improve my throwing arm and golf swing, and even allow me to become a decent basketball player.

Exiting the neighborhood through its windy roads and undulating bends, you are distracted from the traffic of 106, but can see in the near distance an entrance to a completely different environment, a forest. Soft dirt paths lead walkers, horses and riders into the 550-acre Muttontown Preserve that is open to the public. Part of the Preserve used to be Hudson’s Knollwood estate, before King Zog I of Albania bought it in 1951. Zog never resided in Muttontown, and sold it a few years later in 1955 to Landsell Christie, who made a fortune mining ore in Liberia, and destroyed Hudson’s mansion in 1959 after the house experienced extensive vandalism. In the past 40 years, the county has purchased about 430 acres from Christie for the preserve. I have frequented its running trails during my returns from the city, avoiding hundreds of piles of horseshit as opposed to the masses of people I have to maneuver through when running in the city.

The thirty mile drive my family and I would take monthly to Manhattan solidified in my mind the huge separation from my home and the world’s largest city, which was essentially next door geographically. Driving down Fifth Avenue or through Central Park seemed dirty and dark, confusing and nauseating, as I never looked forward to spending too much time in what many have called, “the world’s greatest city.” Cabs flew by us screeching their horns, and masses of people seemed to be in a rush to go everywhere but where they were, as life in the city seemed too hectic, and no one seemed to take a breath to look around. I never imagined living in the loud, chaotic, Manhattan or New York City would be the ideal life for a young man. But here I am in midtown east Manhattan, looking out of my mom’s apartment on the 25^th floor gazing down on the miniscule cabs, and pedestrians that shuffle around with somewhere to go, but never satisfied from where they’re coming from; as I wonder which life is more worthwhile for a New Yorker, and also wondering how much my life has changed from my Long Island days atop Hardy Hill. Is the prestige, power and size that is associated with Manhattan really what makes New York so special, or does the calm, clean-aired, rolling green hills of Muttontown create a sense of calm that is worth more than any high rise, studio apartment or loft?

Perhaps there are benefits to both my past and present neighborhoods, but I will always be proud to acknowledge my Long Island roots, and defend the grass fields, dirt trails and dense woods that I grew up in and helped mold me into the person I have become today.