Handing over the keys to my Florida house — and I was free. The hardest part was still ahead: heading north. First to Orlando, then onto the Turnpike leading to Highway 75, the road that runs through Gainesville and then northwest. The further north I traveled in Florida, the less flat the landscape became. And although the scenery still spoke of the South, now and then the vegetation reminded me of the familiar landscapes of central Russia. If not for the smoothness of the road, it could almost feel like driving through the Moscow suburbs. Westward!
Around Tallahassee, the natural beauty was stunning. It seemed hurricanes rarely reached here, leaving many tall, ancient trees untouched. Incidentally, Tallahassee is the capital of Florida. As I continued towards Panama City, a rain shower blessed the road — exactly what I had wished for to wash away the bugs from my windshield. Even as I passed Pensacola, the rain persisted. A cool breeze swept through the window. No more need for air conditioning; I even set the fan to a light heat. When I passed through Madison County, I thought of bridges, wondering if the novel took place in Florida — but I couldn’t remember. Madison County. Holmes County. Washington County. From east to west!
In Alabama, my cat and I needed a break. When I stepped out of the car, I was met with cold air. Not the coolness of Florida winters — genuinely cold! I threw on a light denim jacket I had wisely packed and changed into jeans. My sneakers were buried deep in the duffel bag — tomorrow’s problem. For now, I ran toward Alabama’s welcome center, my feet freezing. Once back in the car, I cranked up the heater. After all, it wasn’t May. And it wasn’t Florida anymore. Alabama and Mississippi each hold a small slice of land by the Gulf of Mexico. Alabama gave me a sunset; Mississippi gifted me an unexpected bond with the pine trees. Pines crowned with golden sand, basking under the giant coin of the sun. Pines, majestic and abundant, leading the road westward. Westward!
Louisiana’s French soul was immediately apparent — even to the uninitiated. The “Welcome to our glorious state” signs were written both in English and French. The state was named after King Louis XIV of France, who ruled in the late 17th and early 18th centuries. My heart longed to detour into New Orleans, and I even “accidentally” took the wrong turn. But visiting the French Quarter would have cost me at least two hours. It was nearing ten Eastern time (nine Central), and after ten hours behind the wheel, I was desperate to stretch my legs. I returned to the righteous path — the path westward. Westward!
I stopped for the night near Baton Rouge, Louisiana’s capital — the name meaning “Red Stick,” of course. It’s the second-largest city in Louisiana after New Orleans. What else haven’t I shared? Small details, like not being allowed into a Mississippi gas station with my cat, wanting to buy a souvenir. Or meeting a vet supply store owner who believed two Xanax pills for the cat were excessive (they were prescribed!). Or my theory that Mississippi and Missouri were named after some Mrs. Sippi and Miss Ury. Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow will bring Louisiana. Tomorrow will bring Texas. I will drive through Houston. Through San Antonio. I’ll wave at one of my favorite basketball teams and sing Patsy Cline’s song once more. The longest driving day is behind me. Tomorrow, again, westward! WESTWARD!
Miles flew beneath my wheels like years pass in adulthood; hours flashed by like minutes. Lost in thought, I crossed hundreds of miles in what felt like mere moments. I had covered nearly 500 miles when San Antonio shimmered ahead in golden rays. I muttered Patsy Cline’s song about the rose from this town and missed my exit. San Antonio was teeming with traffic, and for the first time, I felt I was back on a populated Earth, far from the isolation of Palm Bay.
Right after San Antonio, the long-awaited hills began — first small, then grander. In the breathtaking pink and orange sunset, I witnessed the most beautiful Texas landscapes as I entered the middle of nowhere.
I learned it was a full moon when a Texas patrol stopped me. The speed limit is 80 mph during the day and 65 mph at night — but I had unknowingly been cruising at 85 into the sunset, unaware that night had officially fallen. I was given a “courtesy warning” and asked if I was carrying weapons, drugs (even legal ones), or large sums of cash. I confessed about the Xanax for my cat and was sent on my way, instructed to drive 65.
By sheer luck, I found my hotel — 30 miles earlier than my GPS suggested. Seeing the hotel sign, I thought, there can’t possibly be two budget hotels of the same brand out here in the middle of nowhere. I called the hotel I had reserved, and sure enough — it was the same one. I turned around and, within minutes, carried my cat inside, saving about 25 minutes of driving.
In the hotel courtyard, a beautifully designed jacuzzi sparkled invitingly. I longed for a glass of wine and a dip into its bubbling warmth. But physically, it was impossible: after 11 hours on the road, my cat, exhausted and warm, snuggled tightly on my lap between the laptop and my belly, clearly unwilling to let me go. She was utterly content. I hadn’t medicated her all day, and she had been quiet, only crying briefly a few times. Each time, I would stop, take her out of her carrier, offer her the litter box, some water, a few kibbles, pet and kiss her. In return, she calmly settled into her carrier, content to ride on. We were both absolutely happy.
October 23, 2007
This day was nothing like the one before. Yesterday, I left warmth for bitter cold; today, I returned to summer. I was grateful for Vovka’s advice not to bother with socks and sneakers — I had packed them nearby just in case, but “just in case” never came.
Louisiana bid me farewell with chilly gray skies. My heart skipped a beat as I soared over yet another bridge across the Mighty Mississippi. Though called mighty, the river was narrower than the Volga or the Dnieper. I snapped a photo of the bridge, swapped my CD for one labeled Ambient Collection, craving its soothing sounds. Soon, ambient music filled the car, my cat quieted, and the clouds drifted eastward like morning birds.
Driving toward the Texas border, Johnny B. Goode played in my head, along with the phrase “across the expanses of Louisiana.” The expanses were indeed vast — but truthfully, a bit dull. The most remarkable moment was speeding along a canal that divided the highway, elevated on tall columns, surrounded by magical forests — which I had no time to explore, already delayed by roadwork that stole half an hour.
Texas immediately felt more alive. The sky cleared, the air warmed. I turned off the heater, rolled down the window, pushed up my sleeves, and applied sunscreen to my driver’s arm — the sun wasted no time.
In Texas, aside from a road called Hand, I saw a few witty signs:
“Drive Carefully — My Daddy Works Here”
“Working for You. Give Us a BREAK.”
and the legendary:
“Don’t mess with Texas.”
Houston — a HUGEston in a Huge state, filled with spirited Texans who love their speed. On a road posted for 65 mph, the flow was 85 mph, with some overtaking even faster. Between Houston and San Antonio, a gruff-looking man with a delicious Louisiana accent helped me check and top up my oil. Approaching San Antonio, the sun and I faced each other squarely once again — and I felt, without a doubt: I was truly heading west!