Everything in italics is a recent addition beginning in April 2014, three years after my cross-country trip west from Virginia.
I woke up in Morgantown, WV after ten hours, having hauled my belongings up to the second floor of a dilapidated Comfort Inn and collapsed onto the mattress with every intention of getting up for dinner. I never did: after an ersatz flail to make sure Themis was still pingable and all services were running, I passed out still in my clothes and one boot.
Morning came drizzling and cloudy in the ass-crack of a mountain bedazzled with fast food restaurants and gas stations. Breakfast was a bagel smeared with cream cheese and a cup of indifferent coffee. The landscape outside Natasha rose and fell in folds as I left, blankets of slumped stone and dirt covered in still-grey trees and shelves of explosive-hewn rock.
For five hours, it drizzled, all the way south down I-79 to I-64. West Virginia is full of vertical angles and ignorance. While I'm sure a large portion of the state is full of intelligent sorts, the bumper stickers and signs I saw did nothing to dispel my terrible opinion of the residents. Bumpers of trucks asserted the day President Obama took office as the first day of the American Holocaust: anti-abortion signs promised grisly death and ominous intentions towards those guilty of "murdering" their babies. Other signs threatened hellfire for not following their particular denomination of Christ. Perhaps it was the weather, but denizens encountered at gas stations were shrill, unpleasant, and suspicious all the way down through Charleston.
What I left out were the horrid curves and turns and swerves all along the length of I-79. I fully intended to find better coffee but never did - as someone detoxing from Penguin Mints, the abrupt drop in my caffeine supply hit me hard. Even loud music wasn't doing the job of removing the thick layer of cynicism and disappointment I was feeling through the state.
It's a pity. I really do love West Virginia for its miles upon miles of gorgeous landscape. Appalachia is polluted, run down, scarred by decades upon centuries of exploitation, but the land is beautiful. I like to think that one day we'll find the solution to Third World America, but I don't hold out much hope in my lifetime.
Kentucky was a relief.
The mountains rolled out and smoothed some as I hit I-64, falling down into Lexington and Louisville in blue and green folds promising spring. Signs advertising points on the Bourbon Trail sprung up hither and yon: the gas station attendants were more friendly, and smiled back more often. The roads were soft and pleasant to drive, the weather much improved from higher in the mountains.
In Louisville, I surrendered my driver's license and credit card to a cautious hotel clerk, and sent off a text to DanseMacabre, letting him know I'd invaded his hometown. A couple of hours later, we rolled out to Ramsi's Cafe and devoured good food.
DanseMacabre is one of my many MUD buddies, someone I've adventured with in San Francisco, DC, and Indiana. He's only been to the one nodermeet - the guy isn't really what I'd call a noder. The man is one of my closest, brightest friends. In the seven years I've known him, he's gone from teaching degree to theatre, from press to programming.
As I write this, he's in the final stages of completing his computer science degree and figuring out what he'll do afterwards. It's my sincere hope that he'll follow me west.
The rest of the night was scripting, laughter, hanging out, and a good bottle of malbec, all of which went on well into the wee hours. When I woke the next day, I rolled over, checked the clock, and burrowed back under the blankets of the hotel room bed.
Three and a half weeks left, and a whole country at my fingertips to explore.
I've got time for now to sleep.