Road trip

Adam and I are on our first long ride together since our trip to New York City to get him a visa for France. He’s still the only guy I know who gets giddy over Cher, Natalie Merchant or good 80s love songs (a good variety of which, and as far as we can both figure, are most often heard in central PA.)

We’ve been singing for hours. We traded bu dat dahs on The Proclaimers’ I Would Walk 500 Miles, a perennial favorite, which I had stored on my computer. We collectively gasped when "I’m a Believer," from Shrek, came on 107.9 FM. We sang solos alongside Toni Braxton, Aerosmith, and Phil Collins, and double-duetted with Don Henley and Patti Smith, Nelly and Tim McGraw, and Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock. My voice hurts.

The trip itself was great, and the Washington Auto Show, sponsored in part by XM Radio, is going to comprise a chunk of my Master’s project. I only have two hours of battery life remaining in my laptop, and I’m trying to use them to write before the scenes erase themselves from my working memory, but it’s hard to concentrate in a car that’s full of songs with sing-alongable lyrics.

Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m excited to spend it with Kathleen and a few other friends, maybe at a random party in Webster. I can’t wait to see Ben, the adorable TV post-producer with hair that stands up by itself. I just met him a few days ago, and he lives in Los Angeles, but he’s swoon-worthy and I’m sure his friend's party would be a good time.

Adam and I stayed at Kimberly Chesebrough’s for the past two nights. She’s a great friend and a terrific hostess, calling frequently to check in and even inviting us out on her date (the guy couldn’t get tickets to the jazz concert, it turned out, so Adam and I went to see the National Christmas Tree and other DC ornaments.) I couldn’t drink without a valid photo ID (part of what was stolen from me a few weeks back) so we left the one bar we entered. We watched a guy clean an ice skating rink with a zamboni for entirely too long of a time.

I love Pennsylvania’s thoughtful road signs, in bright neon orange and pink: Buckle Up Every Time; Beware of Aggressive Drivers. I feel like this state really cares. The cheapest gas we’ve seen so far was a few miles ago: an unbelievable $1.65 a gallon.

Outside of one white, dilapidated church in Allenwood, this guilt-tripping sign was plunged into the dirt:

Jesus Came To Earth
So
We Could Go To Heaven
Service: 10:30

We just passed Purity Candy, where we stopped on our way to DC to get 50 percent off all Christmas candy. It’s the only place we took a picture on the whole trip, besides the car showrooms where friendly 20somethings offered to snap our pictures and post them on the internet. We were photographed in front of a yellow Dodge Viper and a funky, boxy concept car made by Jeep.

Despite a big Styrofoam cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, I’m tired. I want to take a nap, but it’s rude to sleep when you’re not driving any of the 7.5-hour drive. (Adam drives standard. Driving standard freaks me out a little.)

Route 15 would be so much cooler if we had time to stop at random places to check them out. Adam has to pick up one of his fraternity brothers at the airport this afternoon, so we left at 9:30 without looking back, forward, or to either side. We’re stopping only for pottybreaks, dismissing signs for veritable hotspots like Tom’s Leather Goods, Farmer Boy Furniture, and various adult video stores and scenic overlooks.

The trees on the mountains in front of us are a fine fringe. They grow on the horizon like hair. We’re almost in Lycoming, wherever that is.