It was May 3, 2021 in Santa Monica, California, and after eleven hours of watching my worldly possessions packed up and taken away in a movers truck, to be loaded into a container and shipped to Australia, I drove east on the I-10 towards the California desert in my over-packed RAV4. Without having deliberated on it too much, I knew that night, and for the next five months, I would be driving under the radar, literally sticking to speed limits, metaphorically keeping things private.
McKinney, Texas
An early Facebooker, used to sharing, aiming to impress, connecting and chatting, I now chose to not post about the road trip on social media. For one thing, I did not want to invite judgment or criticism – for how I was spending my time, energies, money, or lackthereof. Nor did I want to receive the well-intentioned “Living the dream!” comments when the reality could be far from that on any given day, and then my inner response would be self-recrimination for not feeling as fabulous as someone living the dream ought to feel. I did not want to spend every evening selecting and processing photos, composing narratives to go with them, and being lured into the time-consuming trap of monitoring comments and engaging in responses. I wanted to pull back from the social media vortex and be present.
I took a break from working, I stopped watching and listening to the news, I stopped watching TV shows and movies. Living for each day, surviving some really punishing drives, arriving safely at my destinations, spending quality time with the people that hosted me, that was enough.
I took a day-by-day, week-by-week approach to planning, although often having accommodation locked in well in advance kept me on a tight and sometimes exhausting schedule. But I didn’t really comprehend the enormity of what I was doing until I came to the final days and started looking through my photos. Two years on, I am still dazzled by what I saw as my RAV4 carried me around America.
From the vast breathtaking expanse of the Grand Canyon, across the lush Ozarks to the humid mellow wonder of Everglades, to the unfailing majesty of Niagara Falls, the desolate beauty of Badlands, the gorgeous colours, grizzly bears and woolly bison of Yellowstone, the icy caps of Mt Rainier and down through the redwoods to the smoke-choked vistas of Yosemite... From Santa Monica across the desert, over and alongside rivers, through the South to the white sands of the Florida beaches, all the way to Key West, then up the East Coast and along the lobster trail from Rhode Island to Maine, across the edges of Lakes Erie and Superior in the Midwest and back to the Pacific, from Seattle down the Oregon and California coasts... Over the Blue Ridge Mountains, White Mountains, Black Mountains... I drove the 10, 40, 75, 90, 95 and 101 freeways extensively... explored gorgeous galleries and museums, sought out significant music destinations, because music is so much of who I am, consumed many shots of espresso from local roasters, visited farmers markets, and pumped a lot of gas – except in New Jersey and Oregon where they do it for you.
As solo as I was during the five months of road tripping, I had planned the trip based on where I knew people, or where friends had set me up with people I would soon get to know. Those people who looked after me, who gave me a bed and roof over my head, fed me, took me on local trips to give me a break from driving, listened to my stories, stresses and, most importantly, accommodated my luggage, paraphernalia and occasional meltdowns (usually over luggage and paraphernalia) – who dealt with Hurricane Deb, as I often referred to myself, with generosity and graciousness – gave me an appreciation for humanity that I feel I might never adequately acknowledge, except in writing about it.
There were two girlfriends that were my anchors, one in Los Angeles and one near Dallas, who answered when I called from the road in an anxious state to let them know I was anxious so I didn’t feel so alone. But I was largely alone. A warrior woman in a vast landscape with a bag of valuable items at my feet near the brake pedal and too many clothes in too many suitcases in the trunk and back seat of my RAV4.
Yeah, they were.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
That's Americano
Missoula, Montana
Two years on, I miss my road trip every day. While doing my makeup I’ll remember the bathrooms in my accommodations in Brooklyn, New York or Spokane, Washington. I’ll remember the decorative sign on the dresser in the Airbnb in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, that read: “Surely not everyone was Kung Fu Fighting”. I’ll recall working at my laptop in Mendocino, my all-time favourite coastal California town, in a gorgeous old inn that I had stayed at twice in the 1990s and had always wanted to return to, before walking along the orange-tinted bluffs in the autumn sunset. I’ll look out at the Sydney rain, or the dry Los Angeles haze, and breathe in the salty air and sunshine of the Florida beaches. I sip on my first morning coffee and remember countless coffee roasters that I found in random towns like Amarillo, Texas and Brookings, Oregon that gave me memorable conversations and pretty good Americanos. I thinks of old friends, new friends, the kindness of strangers who became friends, the strangeness of old friends who’d moved on. I smile at the pure exhilaration and self pride I felt upon arriving at Niagara Falls or Yellowstone National Park, such a long, long way from Santa Monica. I drove there, on my own, the long way.
The elation of getting to such a monumental place. "I'm spectacular, just like these falls!"
I saw the United States through the eyes of someone who had lived there for long enough to feel like it was home, with the comfort and confidence of one who belonged, yet also as one from somewhere very different, who took nothing for granted and was constantly surprised, dazzled, daunted and humbled by my surroundings. As one who could speak the lingo just fine (gas station). And also with the detachment of one who saw the overt patriotism and blind faith in monsters – 40-foot containers atop lush green hills in the New England heartland emblazoned with the letters T – R – U – M – P and the nation’s flag waving from every light pole for miles. “Stop waving your flags at me!” I yelled to nobody as I drove towards the New Hampshire border from Maine. “I know where I am!” (Expletive omitted)
Indeed, some of the places where I encountered the most spectacular terrain, had the most remarkable experiences and spent time with the kindest people, were also some of the deepest red states in a politically-divided, traumatised, barely breathing United States. In Texas, Missouri, Tennessee, Alabama, Georgia and Florida, the most conservative states, I had some of the most cherished times of my travels. That dichotomy affected me deeply and I ponder it still.
Throughout the road trip I tracked the progress, or lack thereof, of my worldly belongings, in the hands of a shady shipping company, in a container eventually destined for Sydney, where I had decided to return to. After five months on the road, back in LA my friends asked why I was leaving. “I don’t know,” I cried. “Because my things are on their way there. Because I had to buy a crazy expensive flight after my original flight was cancelled four times. Because my head is so messed up... I don’t know.”
People constantly told me that I was so brave to drive around America for five months on my own, but I believe the bravest thing I have done was return to my hometown and start over. Back in Sydney I felt lost. Isolated, confused, bewildered. Not once, navigating my way around America with only the Apple Maps app on my phone to guide me, did I get lost. (Well, I did have trouble finding my cabin at Old Faithful in Yellowstone, circling the parking lot for some time at the end of a long day.) Not once in 15,000 miles – or in any of my seven years behind the wheel in the United States prior to that – did I incur a traffic fine. But in my home city i quickly got a ticket for supposedly handling my mobile phone while driving. (I wasn't, but Revenue NSW don't listen to logic or reason.)
Back in Sydney I could not get a new – or used – RAV4 for love or money. The Toyota dealer in Culver City, California who had leased me two RAVs over those seven years in Los Angeles actually paid me nicely to take the car back from me the day before I flew to Sydney. Worldwide car shortage. Computer chips, supply chains, pandemic disruptions, whatever.
So for many months, even now still, I would yearn for that silver RAV4, which kept me safe and propelled me forward, day after day.
Saying goodbye to my friend, my shelter, my RAV
November 2021
It’s that forward motion of a road trip that is the most intoxicating and addictive thing of all. Staying still is a whole other journey that feels strange and uncomfortable. Whether I belong in Sydney, LA or somewhere else, I know I am happiest in a Toyota, and happiest of all in a RAV4. I hope there is another one (in pearly white) in my not-too-distant future. I hope it carries me back to a sunset in Florida, or along the far reaches of Queensland's Whitsunday coast, or to somewhere new just waiting to welcome a brave warrior woman like me.
Sunset in Sarasota, Florida
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