Thank You
Well, folks, it is time. We have reached the end and thus the time for reflection. And boy, do we have a big mirror. This trip has changed a significant chunk of each of us. Steph has quit smoking, started eating well and, I think, moved one step closer towards figuring out true maturity (Yes, that is a compliment). Kelsea has opened up in a world of psychotic, older people (ie me and Steph), and though still flexible, she has become more confident and outgoing outside of her element. And I…well, prior to this trip, I was the poster child for Type A neuroticism. Now, call me Buddha Baby; I chit-chat with strangers, focus on the present and breathe and assess before flipping out because someone will be 30 minutes late to dinner. I hope, more than anything, that each of us can hang on to what we’ve gained.
But as I found myself lying on my living room floor watching Law & Order reruns, I realized this might be a bit trickier than it sounds.
I think the secret to success lies in recreating the conditions of the road trip in the real world. Every day for the past two months, we did something new. We pushed ourselves, relied on strangers for direction and discovered incredible things hiding all over the country, whether it be the Grand Canyon or 3 ft. long beef jerkey in a gas station in Arizona. It was a world of wonder and excitement, almost like reverting to childhood, and I know that this is what I have to do to help my new self transition into my old world. 
So, in this spirit, I have started a blog called Type7, a chronicle of my loose attempt to do or learn one new thing every day for a year. I say loose because I don’t want to make false promises, and I also don’t want to pigeonhole the blog. Expansion, cultivation and growth are half the fun. But I can tell you it will revolve around adventure. Around enthusiasm, curiosity, learning, lifestyle, travel and culture. It will document my attempt to live up to a Type Seven personality, looking at things from a child’s observant, inquisitive eyes and attempting to really participate in life rather than just let it fly by me on the bus. And though a big reason for the blog is my own personal accountability issues, I also hope I inspire others to live to the point of obnoxiousness–to always ask questions, to always try, and not to ask “Why?” but rather “Why not?”
Finally, and most importantly, it’s time for some thank yous. For everyone who donated, put us up, wiped our tears and filled our tanks. We couldn’t have done it without you.
Jasmine Au Alice Christian Norma Rankin Sheila Thompson Chris Yam Sam Edgemon Susanne Losch Andrew Keith Cathy Chessin Elliott Garlock Dot Oaks Chris C. Froehlich Pam Boaz Kristina Daoust Shelley Rose George Vieth Steve and Norreen Pecsok Maxine Levy Rita Wuebbele Stephanie Steiman Maggie Hall Laura Wickwire Daniel Osit Betty Woomer Jan Roberts Bruce Newell Brenda Ross Kelley Wittbold Kurt Hill Joanne Adler Laura Riley Lindsey Mundt Wanda Albritton Meredith Rose Anita and Rob Headrick Angie Jennifer Davis Wendy Higgins Lorraine Pecsok Nancy Pecsok Marji Cyrul Suzie Icaza Joel Alsup Catie Icaza William O’Riordan Fran Hickman Larry Title Kim Thompson Zach Hollis Tonya Orcutt Mardelle Gundlach Carmon Smith Darlene and Jeff Whitaker Ron and Tina Hickman Glenn Rockowitz Gary Legg Judy and Carl Mundt Braden Roberson-Mailloux Laura Bennett Donna at Rodney Strong Damon in Austin Butch and Lonnie in Nebraska Rachel Lipman Jana Harrington Lota and Bob Alsup Milton Artis Kristina Bradford Chuck Lemaire Sarah Engelke Every Manager at the Best Buy in Santa Fe The Carvilles Anthony Campo Angela Hiatt Anis and Tripp Trevarthan
A special thanks to our sponsors–Whole Foods, Best Buy and FOX 61
And of course, thank you to the houses–for everything you do.
End of the Road
We spent the day in Kingston, Ontario, visiting friends and eating Steph’s Grandma out of the house; on the way home, Steph stuffed herself behind the wheel one last time. ”I can’t believe we haven’t had one scratch on this car. Or a ticket.” she said, knocking on the dashboard.
Well, thaaaanks a lot. The next day, as Steph slept in her bed in Toronto, Kelsea and I hit a stand still about 30 minutes outside the city. The phone truck behind us did not. It clunked into the back of Betty, jolting us forward and leaving two dents that look like claw marks, or perhaps vampire fangs, on the rear hatch. No real harm was done, and no insurance claims filed, but the bump had an ominous feel, like something had begun to change.
We made it to Syracuse without any more hiccups, and after our nap in the parking lot, the house welcomed us with open arms. They gave us a room, offered us food and feeling bad that she didn’t make a bigger hooplah about our ending, Jennifer Siracini, director of development, called in the 24 hour news station to document our final casseroles. We explained that this house was special because Jennifer originally inspired the logistics of the trip. We explained that we’d made the same two or three casseroles all over the country, that we wanted to do this to say thank you to everyone that helped us. But when asked about the best part, about the biggest thing that we took away, I flubbered and mumbled. How could I answer this question in under an hour? How could I reduce all the phenomenal
people, ridiculous living conditions and personal changes to a couple sentences? I’m still trying to figure it out. Check back in a few weeks.
An hour later, we left six casseroles steaming on the counter and took our last meal outside on the screened-in porch. The sun set over the Interstate and sirens whined in the background as Kelsea and I spooned poppy seed chicken casserole off our plates. I felt at peace and my mind was quiet, which, for anyone who knows me, is a really..really…big deal. I had expected an emotional overload. But as I emptied my plate, I much preferred this ending.
Some things never change, and Kelsea and I woke up at 2:30 the next morning to see Harry Potter. It made me cry and it woke me up. I drove straight through to New York without a single cup of coffee and twitched around my apartment all night long, unable to sleep and thinking “What will I do next? Unpack my closet? Clean the oven? Write a book? Buy a couch?” This attitude lasted until Kelsea left and I found myself alone at my desk for the first time in two months. It was weird. I heard the police sirens, the children playing at the school next door–all of the normal things, the city things, still happening, still moving. But I was just sitting. With focus and disbelief and a sense of contentment that I have not felt in a very, very long time. I suppose this is what happens when you do the things you are supposed to do. When you follow your gut, no matter the credit card bill or the idiocy. I don’t regret a single thing that has happened over the last two months, and I cannot wait until the three of us can get together and do it again.
And Taylor Swift? Still playing.
Stay tuned tomorrow for a final thank you, a final wrap up and what’s next to come.
We Lost Something in Canada
On Friday afternoon, we took off for Canada, land of wildflowers and ambivalents, with 4 goals: change the oil, stop at duty free, make it to Toronto by midnight and coerce Stephanie into abandoning her life and staying with us forever. How did we do?
1. Oil Change Driving through Michigan, land of spare parts and bankrupt automakers, one might think it would be easy to find a cheap, quick oil change. Not so. After two exits with Starbucks, Fiber 1 bars, post offices and gas, we began to lose hope in our chances of finding liquid oil to ensure Betty’s smooth transition to Canada. Leave it to the WalMart atlas to save us.
Yes, indeed, about two miles before the only WalMart in Michigan with a Tire and Lube Express, Steph remembered that our atlas chronicled services offered at different stores around the country. She found our locale on the map, matched it with the cities in the front directory and lead us to an oasis of a WalMart, hidden in a forest off an unmarked highway. That’s about four miracles in a row.
VERDICT: Success
2. Stop at Duty Free In need of face wash and…other things…we approached the Canadian border around 11 pm hoping the duty free would still be open. But, alas, we did not see it, so after paying a highway toll, Steph decided it would be a good idea to ask the two security guards in combat boots in the middle of the road where we might find the duty free. Which meant that hours after explaining how to go through customs so that we did not get pulled over, we got pulled over. The two American guards poked around our car, asking about “that thing on top” and offering to write “we have weed” on the side of our car, so that Canadian customs would stop us. We giggled and chatted for about five minutes, and I learned that customs guards on a Friday night are just as bored as the guy working at the bowling alley. We all need someone to talk to, right?
VERDICT: Fail
3. Make it to Toronto After one Tim Hortons stop and two wrong exits, we pulled into Toronto around 2 am. And I’ll be honest, all I noticed were girls in really trashy outfits. But the next day, I saw the city’s beauty and charm. It’s like a little New York, which means you can live in Brooklyn and still walk/ get cabs to the Lower East Side. Despite the 3-week and counting garbage strike, the streets ran clean, and everywhere you looked, people sat on patios, smoking cigarettes, sipping on coffee 
and catching up with friends. To counter the four hour walking tour we took to see all of this, we dined that evening at The Fat Belgian and stuffed our faces with burgers, mussels and grilled calimari. Did I mention we were going to Kingston the next day to inhale Steph’s grandma’s peach cobbler? Yeah…about that…Canada’s pretty nice.
VERDICT: Success
4. Coerce Steph to abandon her life Though I’m sure the idea of another 7 hour car ride held a lot of appeal, we could not pry her away from Toronto. She sent us off with a delicious home-cooked dinner party (oh, how we have changed!) and woke up at 6 am to pack the car. And I really can’t say any more, other wise this blog is going to become the most cliche piece of mush you’ve ever read. Suffice to say, leaving sucked.
VERDICT: Fail
CFC’s Top Ten Road Trip Tips
As our trip comes to a close, it seems pertinent to share some of what we’ve learned. Because really, what’s the point if you don’t share?
1. Decide on the budget before you leave. You don’t want anyone to think “Hilton” when the other is thinking “camping.”
2. Splurge on a GPS. If you spend money on one thing, let it be navigation. I can’t count how many fights our combo-GPS, Google Maps and Atlas (always buy an atlas!) have prevented.
3. Abandon notions of cleanliness. When in a car for hours at a time, certain bodily functions will arise that, otherwise, you wouldn’t want your boyfriend to hear. Let it go, or else you will be in pain.
4. Buy appropriate groceries. Jerkey, crackers, sliced cheese. Cans of tuna and other meats you don’t have to keep cold. Green peppers and cucumbers last extra long. That kind of thing.
5. Buy ice. This will keep you from having to throw out whole bags of chicken. If it’s humid, you need to change the ice twice a day (we needed to learn a lot about ice. we suck at ice.)
6. Stay connected I continued working on this trip, so we had a car plug adapter and a Verizon Wireless card. It was, in a word, phenomenal, but if you don’t need quite that level, know that you can usually jack wi-fi from hotel parking lots.
7. Keep it cheap. Motels usually leave coupons at state Welcome Centers. Budget sites like kayak.com and roadsideamerica.com are great for cheap lodging and activities. Get your ice from gas stations and hotel ice machines. Park rangers know where the free campsites are located.There are ways to cut corner everywhere you look, just keep your eyes open.
8. Driver controls the music. Period.
9. Bathroom Etiquette. Shut the door when you pee. Nothing is more disgusting than listening to someone else take a massive piss. Also, clean up stray hairs and liquids when you leave, and most importantly, bathroom time is alone time!
10. Exercise. While we’re on the subject of alone time, I can’t stress enough to importance of exercise. Even a daily, 30-minute walk will keep you strong and happy and stave off exhaustion.
Recession Blues? Try Volunteering.
Over the last two months, I’ve had some difficulties with people who have a stake in my apartment. To say the least. It’s complicated, but suffice to say I’ve seen people sink to unbelievably low levels of respect, honesty and integrity. And here, in Chicago, it’s reached a very unfortunate level, and I might have to move out of my apartment before I even get back. I can’t even relax when gas stations don’t have bathrooms, so my stress level right now? Don’t get me started.
With groceries that seemed heavier than normal, we arrived on the U Chicago campus to cook at the Ronald McDonald House. Excuse me, Ronald McDonald Mansion. Two sets of cherry doors with glass in-lays led into the foyer, anchored with a wide, circular table and cascading flower arrangement. The kitchen is bigger than many restaurant facilities. I’m talking 7 cutting boards. A woman named Karen was the first to pop up in the kitchen to see what we’re doing and help us navigate the 4,562 drawers.
Karen knew the layout because she has spent the last 2 years at this house. Both of her children, now in their late teens, have chiari malformation, a brain disorder that causes apnea, dizziness, headaches, nausea, ringing, an endless list of symptoms for which the only treatment is surgery; they came to the University of Chicago for Dr. David Frim, a neurologist who could fix their previously botched surgeries. In the last two years, they’ve been home for 13 weeks. Due to the economy and their absence, the family lost their business. Karen has blacked out in the hospital due to exhaustion. And her kids talk of suicide.
Tearing up, she said that the house has been instrumental. Not just for her, but everyone here. When a child is sick, you can’t worry with renting a car, going grocery shopping, maintaining the family business so that you can pay for a place to stay. Food donations have dropped this year, Karen said, so the people who come to cook provide an invaluable service. ”The beeping, the fear, the worry…this place is an escape,” she said. “People come here to eat for an hour and we talk and help each other out. It’s like a little family.” True to her word, everyone ate at one long table that night, celebrating the successful open heart surgery for a 6-day old baby that had come to the house earlier that week.
When people are living like this, how can I possibly stress out about an apartment? It’s just a place to stay. It’s just stuff. Worst case scenario, I’ll put my stuff in storage and deal with it when I get back. I cannot possibly worry, and I cannot possibly indulge the people who have sunk so low and become so petty over a few rooms in an old building in New York.
Repeatedly, we have arrive at the houses stressed out, or unhappy for one reason or another, and they have put things into perspective. The ants in our car? Not important. The air vent exploding on the Interstate? Not important. Running out of gas with the closest station 5 miles out? Really doesn’t matter. What matters is home and family. People who care. And yes, I know I’m delving into reflective mumbo jumbo. But with a trip like this, something really does change. All we can hope is to hold on and carry it home.
West Coast Photogs
So. I’ve been terrible with updates lately. We went to Canada, and they don’t have Internet there. That’s a lie. They do. I’m just getting tired.
But we do have exciting photo updates! Vegas, California, Oregon and Seattle for your viewing pleasure. Stay tuned tomorrow (I promise…ok, fine, by Friday at least) for real-time posts on Chicago, Canada and Syracuse. Here’s a teaser:
Wild, Wild West
Ever wonder what happens when you plop three city girls into the wilderness? Watch our webisode to find out! 
Small Town Livin’
Yesterday, Betty broke. We’d spent the day flying through Nebraska, pushing 80 and trying to negate the state’s existence. The landscape never changed, but the atmosphere in the car sure did. All day, white smoke seeped out of the air vents like a giant Ghostbusters’ failure, and near the town of Big Springs, smoke also started to ooze from the speaker and the air bag. I turned off the A/C. Immediately, smoke billowed into the car and something sparked in the vicinity of the air vent.
We screamed, pulled over, Googled “smoke is coming out of every vent in my car,” and called daddy. In that order. He diagnosed Betty with a faulty heater coil and told us it would probably cost a lot of money.
But if I have learned one thing on this trip, it’s that three 20-something girls in a car with Tennessee license plates have a certain pull when it comes to mechanics, electricians and anyone dealing with technology out of our supposed realm of understanding. Don’t even bother commenting that this is anti-feminist. I know very well it is. But if your car broke down in the middle of Nebraska, and you didn’t have any money, you, too, would put on a ball cap, roll into the nearest tractor store, smile and say that smoke is billowing out of your car.
We rolled 50 feet down the highway and into Big Springs Equipment, Inc., a place where tractors with wheels the size of my body littered their stock yard, and Peanuts the pug sits queen (if I owned Peanuts, her name would be Rolly Polly). In the back, we found Butch, an older man with a ball-cap and glasses and the dirty jeans and t-shirt of a farmer, wiping his face. 
“Hello?” Steph said. Butch looked up, his tanned face looking like he hadn’t seen girls in here in a while. “We have a question. Our car is leaking, and we wondered if you fixed cars or maybe new of a repair shop near here?” Butch put his glasses back on and blinked.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” he asked, pronouncing his r’s like w’s.
“Weeeelll,” I said, “There’s this white smoke blowing into the car, and when I turned off the A/C, it sparked out of the air vent.”
“A spark!” he looked like we told him we’d seen a crop circle. We shrugged.
“Alright, well let’s take a look at this.”
In two minutes he, too, proclaimed we needed a new heater coil and instructed us to drive Betty around back by the shop. Back there, two other men in mechanic outfits lay on their backs under a truck, and as Butch cooled our engine with a fan, we all sat around chatting. We learned they’re all family, are the only repair shop within 20 miles and that Butch is trying to sell a Jetta that he bought for a blonde who ran off 30 days later. They learned that we’re on a road trip, keep nectarines and snow peas in the back of our car and used to drive tractors when we were little, though now, we live in cities and are heading to Chicago.
“Live in a city and headed to Chicago?” Butch raised his eyebrows, whistled and leaned back on his heels. “Man. I feel sorry for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Country’s for me” he said, and shook his head. “If you can’t walk out your house and kick your horse in the ass, drink a beer and piss off your deck, then you ain’t livin’.”
Butch clipped our heater hoses and refilled our coolant, checked our oil, wiped down the car, put a traffic cone on top of Betty, got in a water fight with Stephanie and, in the end, charged us $10. We gave them $20 and a bag of candied pecans.
Later that night, we rolled into North Platte, NE, Buffalo Bill Cody’s hometown, county seat of Lincoln County, and home of bizarre, anachronistic Blockbusters that don’t have movies made after 1993. This was an issue, since we needed to see HBO’s latest vampire creation, True Blood, in order to make it through the night. The helpful clerks happily referred us to–gasp–Movie Gallery, where we got a membership just to rent episodes 8-10.
“OK, I have to tell you something,” Steph said. “We’re on a 12,000 mile road trip, and we got addicted to this show in Seattle, and now we rent it every night.”
“Oh, I watch it,” the clerk said, 
lowering her head and her voice, “I get it.”
We snapped up our movie and–boom–went next door for a $5 pre-made, yet delicious, cheese pizza from Little Caesars. Then–boom–3 minutes down the road Holiday Trav-L-Park for Campers, where we got a 20% discount–5% for paying with cash and 15% for AAA. The campground, part of a non-profit organization of parks offering the “best accomodations in America,” had a pool, wi-fi and flushing toilets all for $14. Boom, boom, boom.
Nebraska, though incredibly dull, also turned out to be incredibly easy. Tune in tomorrow to see if Iowa proves as amiable. And also whether or not we find a crop circle.
Brokeback Betty
After somehow completely missing Grand Teton National Park, we pulled into Jackson, Wyoming, a tiny town where cowboy meets couture (Mind you, I said Jackson. Jackson Hole is the resort area immediately surrounding.) The downtown consists of chi-chi shops, outdoor tour companies and building facades that look as if they have not changed since 1872. Stage coaches clop around the town square, and the Cowboy Bar offers saddles instead of bar stools. And the arches leading to the town park? Made entirely of antlers.
By the grace of God, we stopped in Jackson on the 4th of July. If you have never been in a small town during Independence Day, then you might as well be an ex-pat. Livingston, MT had already started their celebration when we rolled through on the 2nd, and by the time we reached Jackson on the 4th, festivities were in full swing. Officials had blocked off the town square, families picnicked in the park, everyone had an ice cream cone, and little kids danced in the street in full cowboy get-up.
It was darling, but unfortunately, Wyoming is a very big, empty state, and we had a very long, lonely drive ahead. I spent the first 5 hours hungry but clueless as to what I wanted to eat. We had bread and jerkey and cheese and yogurt and crackers and carrots and fruit and oreos and Fiber 1, but they all sonded so gross. I sunk into the back seat, while outside, a thunderstorm threatened to beat Black Betty to a pulp.
We stopped to get gas in a town with a handful of trailers, no traffic light, the gas station, and across the street from the gas station, mecca. Also known as an ice cream shop. The nutrient I didn’t know I needed. I walked across a dirt road, to a parking lot full of beer-bellied cowboys sitting on their truck beds slurping ice cream out of waffle cones. Everyone stared as I walked by, staring the stare you only get in a small town where residents know you don’t belong.
The ice cream store shared space with the law office and the coffee shop, and offered a handful of tables for what seemed like the entire population. I waited in line and, when my turn came, ordered one scoop of Cookies N’ Cream. The young woman behind the counter handed me a cone the size of my face.
“$1.98, please,” she drawled. The royal blue polo stretched over her belly matched the headband stretched over her ponytail. I handed her my new debit card, one with my picture on it. She swiped and took a second look.
“Where you from?” she asked.
“New York.”
“Oooh,” she said. “Reason I know is we don’t have credit cards like that in Wyoming. What’re you doin’ way out here?”
“Oh, I’m on a road trip,” I said. “With my sisters.”
“What, they didn’t want ice cream?” she asked, as if she could not understand that such a being may exist.
“Oh, um, I don’t know. They actually don’t know I’m in here,” I smiled. “Gotta get away some times.” She smiled, her brow a little furrowed, as I handed her the signed receipt and bounded out of the store, approximately 5,000 times happier than the era Before Ice Cream.
We spent the next 6 hours driving through a Wyoming thunderstorm, consuming the treats we’d purchased at the gas station (including P.S. I Love You) and gaping at the double rainbows that appeared over the highway. Around 10 p.m., we sputtered into a gas station outside of Boulder with an empty tank and very full bladders. I sprinted to the doors, at 10 p.m. on a Sunday, mind you, only to find them locked. Closed for the 4th. In fact, the only thing open on Independence Day seems to be 
Wal-Mart; are you surprised? Nope, neither were we. We purchased dinner–three cans of beans and two gallons of water–and headed back to Betty, so we could find a hotel.
Unfortunately, three blocks down the road, Betty lost it. For the past week, she’d whined every time we turned her on, and now something smelled like butt in the back seat and vapor oozed out of the air conditioning vents. The windshield fogged up so badly that Steph couldn’t see, so we pulled onto a dark, deserted road and flicked on the hazard lights, while we tried to figure out whether hot or cold air would make the steam go away. We decided on hot, and the car quickly become a cesspool of rotting food and filth. We plopped ourselves on the hood of the car and ate beans from a can, watching fireworks in the distance while we waited for the steam to evaporate off the inside of our windshield. Happy 4th of July!
We Actually Never Run Out of Things To Talk About
Just behind the Food Mart in Gardiner, MT, the Roosevelt Arch guards the north entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Constructed in 1903 as the thorough-fare for horse-drawn carriages full of tourists, the arch proclaims the park is “For the Enjoyment of the People.” It’s the last thing you see before it swallows you hole.
Once inside, you meander through craggy rocks and dense conifer forests until you hit an entire village on top of a mountain–post office, general store, gas station. Tourists run to and fro, their wind breakers and camera clashing with the forest. I imagine that if we were to settle the moon, it would look equally out of place.
Past the village, the park heaves and swells with unseen activity. Rivers and streams run low through the park, and flushed rocks hiss with steam. Entire forests lay grounded, the result of a pine beetle problem that has choked the park, yet you know that elk, bison and bear, even the stray vagabond, roam hidden throughout the remaining trees. You can’t help but feel like an intruder. 
The drive through Yellowstone was an altogether humbling experience, topped off by the fact that the park sits on top of a super volcano. The thing is past due, and when it erupts, it will probably destroy the Earth. Seriously. In the History Channel’s Top 7 ways the Word will end, it’s number 4. It will destroy the immediate surrounding area (meaning North America), and the ash it emits into the atmosphere will slowly destroy the rest of the earth. When contemplating where we’d like to be when the volcano popped, Kelsea said she’d like to be in Yellowstone. “I’d like to be able to say I was there when.”
One thunderstorm later, we tumbled out of the car and onto Flagg Ranch Resort. Do not be fooled. We camped in the back yard.
Immediately upon exiting the car, a horde of mosquitos attacked every free inch of my body. I’d rather have been greeted by a bear. We spent the majority of our time at the site spraying bug spray on our clothes and into the air, like perfume, and ended up in the tent at 7 pm, watching something I’d much rather be bitten by: 
Twilight.
But before retreating to shelter, we made dinner and discussed the nutritional benefits of Nutella. We’re getting quite creative with our cooking, and after a tasty taco salad (which I wouldn’t have even made for myself in my real apartment), we combined marshmallows, Nutella and Oreos into every possible permutation. If you think it’s limited you’re wrong. The best was an Oreo smore– a disassembled Oreo with marshmallow and Nutella in the middle–and will leave the rest of our tasty combinations to your imagination.
Tomorrow, we’ll kick off the 4th with a hike up the Grand Teton. Just kidding. But be will be somewhere in its vicinity. Tune in to see whether or not we find fireworks and blow our faces off!
