Curbside

The Red Earth of Tara

Atlanta sidewalks elude the average pedestrian, and those in existence could be considered an adventure in putting one foot in front of the other.  Along the few streets I have strolled on the outskirts of the southern city, wide swaths of uneven terrain serve as the only pedestrian thoroughfare.  One concrete walkway that I attempted to navigate banked at nearly thirty degrees and my ability to stay on the path took on more challenges that the alternative rugged version.  Stairs would serve as an easier ascension than the options provided by the Georgian capital.

At one intersection, where the sidewalks extend no more than twenty feet from the crosswalks and then transition to grass, the dirt beneath the dying winter brush had washed out from under the minimal growth and clumps clinging to the edge of the curbs leaving a low pile of reddish sludge along the edge of the crossings.  As I watched my step to avoid the muddy pile, I considered Scarlett O’Hara’s testament and loyalty to the plantation that may have stood on similar soil.  The familiar color of the southern soil streaked its way into the busy street and if it were not for the occasional pedestrian like me willing to dodge the bustling cars and trucks, no one might notice or ever give credit to the former red earth of Tara draining away into the city sewers.

Melting Away

Clearly I am not afraid to tackle a metropolis by foot, and as I pull up to the city center in a suburb west of St. Louis, I discover a noticeably large quantity of available parking that might not be available on a weekday.  One of the restaurants in the vicinity displays an a-frame sign to notify the minimal number of passers by that a private event eliminates the opportunity for any random tourists such as myself to enjoy its offerings.  I determine by my brilliant powers of observation that the event has already concluded as the centerpiece of its decor lay melting near the storm drain below the sidewalk.

When zipping past in a motor vehicle, such sculptures easily avoid attention, but as I wait for my lunch companion, I realize that somewhere the artwork of a craftsman has been kicked to the curb by those who briefly have enjoyed its presence.  In defense of the revelers, where would an ice sculpture meet its demise and return to its liquid state?  Where else would the remnants of an agrarian society drain away when its usefulness has gone with the wind?  The streets of busy cities carry traffic - vehicles rushing to their destinations - and occasionally a wayward pedestrian exploring on foot, but also the earth and water of the planet flowing towards a forgotten end.  Often a collection of footsteps captures a moment lost to history.

Where's Jack?

Your Favorite Restaurant

Everyone has a favorite restaurant – maybe even more than one.  Perhaps there is a restaurant that is perfect for a quick family meal, or the little mom-and-pop place where you take out-of-town company, or a romantic spot for an intimate dinner for two.  You might even have a favorite restaurant in another city.  Whenever travel allows, this perfect combination of menu and atmosphere always requires fitting a bistro, or a café, or even a diner into the itinerary.  For me, I crave a specific taste, a flavor that combines a splendid splash of memories, tastes, and wilted lettuce.  Yes, I admit it, I am a sucker for Jack In The Box tacos, and since the chain hosts no establishments near me, I constantly equate them with my traveling adventures.

My first taste of the low-cost, low-prep, skinny, greasy-bottomed, crunchy-topped snacks occurred at the franchise adjacent to my elementary school.  My addiction began after I left Arizona and the least-ethnic Mexican food no longer became readily available to me.  I began to plot the locations where I could find that friendly clown in other cities and towns that I frequented.  Both St. Louis and Los Angeles have outlets just at the end of the street from the rental car lots.  Heading west on Interstate 10, at the first exit inside the Texas state line, I found another branch.  Like little taco oases on the path to wherever I may be headed, Jack In The Box greeted me, welcomed me, and gave me a little moment of remembrance to my childhood and to previous expeditions, as well as a quick nibble to keep me satisfied as I hit the road.

Another Sense Of Direction

Stuck in construction traffic on the south side of Lake Tahoe, I have already added a couple hundred miles to the odometer, crossing Donner Pass, touching the waters at Sutter’s Mill, and helping push a stranded traveler out of the snow.  An adventure like this doesn’t need the hum-drum of bumper-to-bumper vehicles.  My saving grace, off the road to the left, I see my beloved Jack.  I pull in, I order the two-for-a-dollar special, and I sit with my laptop and my tasty, unhealthy treat watching for the traffic to clear.  When I landed in El Paso, (see “El Paso, El Paso,” January 2013) Jack held a position across from the airport’s entrance as I turned east.  He always knows right where to be when I need him.

Crossing from Lewiston, Idaho into Clarkston, Washington, Jack again makes an appearance.  I make a mental note, as I have just finished breakfast, and after my brief dart into Oregon (see “I Owe Oregon,” February 2013), I return to his side.  As I sit enjoying my crunchy, greasy, messy flavors, I leaf through my beautiful atlas (see “Traveling With Boys,” November 2011), I place a check-in call with my brother, who also embraces my JITB affliction, and I plot the lengthy afternoon drive up and over Lolo Pass through the Bitterroot Mountains.  With his charming ad campaigns, his bouncy, bobbing antenna toppers, and his irresistibly tempting tacos, Jack In The Box accompanies my adventures, just like my musical soundtrack, the wind in my air, and the beckoning of the open road, making taste another vibrant element of the journeys I have taken.  His low-cost corn tortilla snacks may not be the gourmet selection of more refined palettes, but I connect that taste with the memories of dozens of drives, each one of them savory and simple, but full of spice, aptly affordable, and a taste I frequently crave.

You Go, Girl

Don’t Count Your Chickens

An evening flight into St. Louis – that’s all I want.  I have flown over the Gateway Arch at dusk several times, but I imagine the airline has changed its itineraries since my last evening arrival.  My final destination lies across the Mississippi River, so I opt for a flight to Chicago with an early morning train the next day.  Having experienced Amtrak (see “Overnight On The Amtrak” from April 2012), I am game for a three-hour ride on the Lincoln Service to the Illinois capital, and a good night’s sleep in the City of the Big Shoulders couldn’t hurt either.

But after three hours in the airport waiting for a possible departure time, I eagerly board the last flight of the night.  The pilot brags that the airplane has been loaded with just enough fuel for an expeditious flight after an evening of delays courtesy of summer storms in the Windy City.  She even counts the flight out to the exact number of minutes ensuring her signing our jinx warrant.  About two-thirds of the way towards our destination, the flight attendants serve a big slice of humble pie to the passengers on behalf of the captain announcing the flight needs to swing out west of Chicago to avoid the weather heading eastward, but the plane does not have enough fuel to make that happen.  Instead, we are going to fuel up in St. Louis.

Where I Want To Be 

To be frank, I have no business piloting any aircraft because wind speed, lift, yaw, and all those other aerospace terms do not sink into my head, and the advanced algebra needed to figure out those high-tech equations are too much for me.  But I do know it is advisable to have enough fuel to circle an airport just in case of situations like this.  I expect the eager flight crew, quite possibly based in Chicago, hoped to be home on a Friday night, too.  In fact, the flight would not make it to Chicago for another five hours after touching down in St. Louis.  My skills as a driver and the simple math required to operate an automobile tell me that the driving distance to

Chicago from St. Louis equals roughly five hours.  Irony makes me chuckle.

When we land at Lambert Field, I expect a fuel truck to meet us near the terminal, and then send us on our way, so when we taxi to a gate and the plane doors open, I see the writing on the fuselage that this would be a longer stop than originally communicated.  The flight attendants, most likely still embarrassed at having to cover for the pilot’s shortsightedness, hide around the bulkhead just peeking out when they absolutely must, like when I press my call button for example.  The look of irritation as the flight attendant approaches seems obvious.  When I explain that I really want to be in St. Louis, but the airline had no evening flights, she asks if I want to get off the plane.  I jump at the chance.  After confirming I have no checked luggage, she lets me exit the aircraft to the dismay of every other passenger.  I unbuckle my seat belt with a less-than-official, “You go, girl,” from the flight attendant.  And I do, since this is where I want to be anyway.