Day Four (Or: "Ooooooklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains...")

Today's entry is brought to you by the letter H for hotlink. Follow some of them for all the info on all the boring things I find fascinating.

Hola from Amarillo, TX, eleventh largest city in Texas, "Yellow Rose of Texas," birthplace of my beloved friend Angie, and the self-proclaimed helium capital of the world!

Today I became very, very familiar with my inner monologue, with nothing else to do but listen to wonderful music, and to the quiet chatter in my own head.

The Peabody was way, way too comfortable. The hotel operator delivered my wake-up call at 7:30 and when she offered a follow-up snooze call, I took her up on it. I got out of bed a full hour later than I intended to, not eager to get on the road. Today's agenda was all-driving all day, to reach Amarillo at a reasonable hour.

I took a spin around Little Rock to see what it looked like in the daytime and I have to say, I'm kind of enamored of it. You can turn right on red, people stop for pedestrians and their rush hour is hardly like any rush hour I've ever seen. Also! Parking spots! Parking spots as far as the eye can see. There's also a trolley, the River Rail Electric Car system that goes across the Main Street Bridge over the Arkansas River into North Little Rock.

Something else I noticed, although it was subtle, and if you don't pump your own gas (Barbara, I'm looking at you) then it won't mean much but here goes: In the South, the gas nozzles at the gas stations still have that little rest bar on the handle so that you can let the gas pump itself--AWESOME. When I first started driving, we still had those in New York, but then it got taken away and people started shoving their gas caps in the handle to create the same effect. Then signs went up at gas stations proclaiming that to be dangerous and illegal. My gas was pumping in Oklahoma today, and I sat in my nice toasty automobile wondering what New Yorkers did to lose the privilege.

I passed through the Ozarks. Had it been a clearer day, I would have more to say, but even hazy and foggy, the mountains were very pretty, rolling and still green in places. I shot into Oklahoma around lunchtime (after getting lost in the fog trying to find a Cracker Barrel that I never did actually find, despite the sign on the highway proclaiming its presence). I didn't get lost, but I did get led astray, just waiting for the stupid restaurant to appear. During that trek I drove through Mountainburg, AR, population 682. The only way that town could be crowded is if everybody went to the Dairy Freeze at the same time. (Which reminds me: I saw both a Piggly Wiggly, Big Lots and Hobby Lobby for the first time today, despite having known of their existence for a long time. It's like how Long Islanders just keep waiting for a Sonic to appear--my cousin Tom and me at the forefront, for sure--those commercials of frosty limeades are such a tease.)

There is almost nothing for me to say about Oklahoma, sadly. I encountered heavy fog like I've never seen in the daytime about fifty miles outside of Oklahoma City and was in it until I was twenty miles outside of Amarillo. Honestly, I passed through the middle of Oklahoma City and didn't see a durn thing (durn it!) except the car in front of me, the car in back of me, and the white wall of fog on either side. I did get the sense, however, that Oklahoma is extremely flat. I don't mind flat, flat is OK to me. (Whoa. OK. Oklahoma. Ha!)

Oh, wait, I do have something to say about Checotah, OK, but I think the only way to do it is in the form of a letter:

*

Dear Civic Leaders of Checotah, OK:

Was it truly necessary to put a gigantic brown sign (of the variety usually reserved for places of historical import) on I-40 proclaiming that Checotah is the "birthplace of Carrie Underwood, American Idol Winner 2005"? I mean, for serious. Isn't that kind of thing usually done for, like, astronauts? Or Troy Aikman?

Thanks for your time,

Andrea

*

An unexpected feeling arose the further west I drove: my mind wouldn't leave Mississippi behind. All day, I tried planning my route home, trying to figure out a way to stay overnight in Jackson, or at the Shack Up Inn in Clarksdale. I feel like I have more to see there, more to do. Last night, I stayed up very late using the experience in a story I had been working on that was just waiting for me to fit in the Clarksdale piece of the puzzle.

Hmm. Not to get too far ahead of myself, but I'm resistant to the idea of taking the same route back to New York that I took to get to Seattle. If I don't get a vague idea of what that route might be, I might just fall back on I-40 out of laziness. (I hope not. That's not generally my M.O.) Last night, the valet at the Peabody, who was totally an Arkansas good ol' boy, shot the shit with me for a few minutes and suggested that I go up through Colorado to shave off the California leg of the journey up to Seattle. The theme of the trip is "Don't Get Caught With Your Drawers Down When The Snow's A-Comin'" (or something like that--cut a sister a break, I'm exhausted). Colorado is invariably associated with skiing in my mind, which wouldn't even be a sport without snow. But anyway, he suggested I take the Eisenhower Tunnel, the interstate 70 tunnel that goes under the Continental Divide, which would cut the most treacherous part of the drive right out.

I remain unconvinced as of this writing, so unless something drastically changes, tomorrow morning I'm headed out for Santa Fe, which is only a few hours' drive away. I'm hoping to catch a showing of I'm Not There, the Todd Haynes movie about Bob Dylan, which nobody seems to believe I haven't seen yet.

(Wasn't playing in WV, I missed the last showing in Nashville and it's not playing in Little Rock or Amarillo.)

Anyway, I blasted into Amarillo at around 8:30 toward my cheapie Expedia-booked Microtel right off of I-40. Comfortable and clean for $72--if you're ever passing through, this is good deal. Continental breakfast in the morning, indoor pool, lots of TV stations and the room is huge. Oh! And a microfridge, just like I had at Sarah Lawrence!

The hotel is within spitting distance of The Big Texan, which used to be on Route 66 but was moved onto the I-40 service road after 66 went into decline. Its reputation revolves around its 72 oz (which is 4.5 pounds, btw) steak ("The Texas King"), which is free if one can eat the entire meal (which also includes a bread roll with butter, potato, ranch beans, shrimp cocktail, and salad) in less than one hour. Otherwise, the meal costs $72.00. Several individuals annually are able to eat the steak and are listed at the restaurant.

Is this not both completely gross and completely charming? Kind of at the same time? This place is internationally known for this challenge. It's like the American Burger 4x4 challenge, but much... grosser. I can't even finish an 8 oz filet mignon. I can handle about 4 oz of red meat before I start in with the buyer's remorse. Anyway, you can't deny that's a valuable piece of local color. (Or as my former boss would say, "Those are some local tomatoes, all right." He said that in a variety of situations, and I never fully grasped its proper usage, but let's pretend that it fits here. This is the same boss who gave me the golden phrase, "Time wounds all heels.")

After reading about The Big Texan, I began to wonder if there was anything I'd eat 4.5 pounds of. Kozy Shack rice pudding is probably a good guess. Mmmm... and it's made on Long Island, in the town where my mom grew up.

Good songs to be driving across Arkansas, Oklahoma & Texas:

• anything by Robert Johnson (particularly "Terra Plane Blues," "Me and the Devil," "Little Queen of Spades" and "Come on in My Kitchen"
  
• anything by Django "The Gypsy Guitarist" Reinhardt
• The White Stripes' White Blood Cells album
• Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti (there's a cover of Bob Dylan's version of "In My Time of Dying" on the second disc)
  
• disc one of the compilation Vicky made for my trip (Andrea's Road Warrior Mix, Vols. 1, 2 & 3) which has lots of Feist, The Elected and Rilo Kiley on it.
• Oh! And Woody Guthrie. Any Woody Guthrie will do.
• End your trip across Oklahoma with Johnny Cash "T for Texas"
  

Travel tip: If your back ever becomes stiff while driving across Oklahoma, steer over the rumble strips on the shoulder. Instant massagey chair! Just kidding (although it does feel pretty good).

Yet another random Bob Dylan fact: Dylan lived for a few years at 92-94 MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. I lived at 104 MacDougal Street, in considerably less posh digs above the Yatagan Kebab shop, on the other side of Bleecker. No coincidence there, just some Craig's List luck.


Day four:
Little Rock, AR - Amarillo, TX
Mileage: 634
Total Mileage: 2,170

Top of the duck sanctuary at the Peabody, as seen from room 601. Beyond that is the Arkansas River.

This one's for Barbara: "The traveling marauder has secured the Ozarks and declares peace throughout all Odin's sacred lands! While wearing jeans!"


It was like driving straight into a wall.


Um, OK, this is the first time I've ever seen these octanes. (Here's another one Barbara and Nora won't get--hee!) I took a shot in the dark and chose 88, because it seemed one better than 87, instead of one worse. Scientific, I know.


Yawwwwwn. Not a great day for photos--tomorrow will be better, especially if I make it to the Georgia O'Keeffe museum before it closes. I took photos of all the pricey Kohler fixtures at the Peabody, but I doubt you guys would be interested (here's a teaser--pedestal sink! "You may leave Kitchen & Bath Design News, but it never really leaves you." Hey guys, there's also a Haier microwave in this hotel room!)


Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe,
My woman needs it ev'ryday,
She promised this a-lad she'd stay,
She's rollin' up a lotta bread
To toss away.
She's in Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe
Now she's opened up an old maid's home,
She's proud, but she needs to roam,
She's gonna write herself a roadside poem,
About Santa-Fe.

From "Santa-Fe" by Bob Dylan