Day 2

June 15, 2016

Mile 347. We are in the Tennessee part of Bristol and it is Thursday morning. The mountains are shrouded in mist, which creates a feeling of enchantment. Just before ten we check out of the Hampton Inn and head downtown to the Birthplace of Country Music Museum. When the early recording industry was taking off in the 1920s, a record producer from New York spent ten days in Bristol recording local musicians playing mountain music. The event became known as the Bristol Sessions of 1927 and was the first time anything like this had ever happened. Dozens local musicians (including Maybelle Carter) and scores of “hillbilly” songs were recorded. Now a Smithsonian museum, which opened just over a year ago, occupies what was once a factory building where you can hear these early recordings and see films and videos of contemporary artists playing and talking about early country music. The museum is fabulous—worth a trip from Washington just to see it and nothing else. But we discover that actually there is much else going on in Bristol and environs, which it turns out is in the middle of a 10-day music festival where dozens of musicians play bluegrass, “Old Timey,” country, and folk music. We lament that we do not have time to see any of this and make a note to come down for the festival in 2017 or soon after.IMG_5288

Lunch was in The Eatz, a small and busy mom and pop lunch spot around the corner specializing in home cooked soul food. After we polished off fried cat fish, collard greens, coleslaw and mac and cheese, the owner came over to ask us about how we liked the meal and where we were from. An African American in his fifties, after retiring from the postal service ten years ago, he and his wife started the restaurant catering to the few people who still work downtown and occasional tourists. We commented that we were impressed with way that the small downtown area had been preserved and revitalized, to which he responded that actually Bristol was in real trouble—especially the part that is in Virginia (which is a separate town from the Tennessee portion).

He complained that the town was continuing to lose population and that his children all settled elsewhere after college since few jobs were available in Bristol. He said this was true of most small towns in the region. The shopping malls and big box stores had sucked the old town centers dry leaving vacant stores and dilapidated buildings. Bristol had at least preserved one street and did enjoy some tourism, but in his view it was a case of too little too late. Listening to him describe a fairly bleak picture, it occurred to me that Bristol could be the poster child for small towns throughout much of rural America. Only remnants remain of what used to be a vital downtown core, now surrounded by several rings, the first an ugly ring of used car lots, junk yards, fast food joints, honky-tonk bars, vacant lots, pawnshops, flea bag motels, auto supply stories and the like. The next ring includes the older neighborhoods with a few big old homes, most here built in the nineteenth century and mostly decaying, and a predominance of smaller, modest, brick houses. The third ring is dominated by the big box stores and national chains located near the interstate intersections. Near them you can find most of the newer and nicer homes.

In the case of Bristol, all the homes we saw were very modest. The Eatz owner explained that 18 families controlled 80% of the wealth in Bristol and that for the most part the rest of population was struggling to make ends meet. I checked out some of the demographic facts on the internet: total population for both cities under 50,000 and stable (Tennessee) or shrinking (Virginia). Median income for a family of four in 2010, $37,000 and probably no higher in 2016. Population 95% white. Trump country. How I wonder can a family live comfortably on that amount of money? The answer is that they can’t, and this has got to be a major factor in our summer of discontent.

From Bristol we take the shortest route to Asheville, only 85 miles, which we thought might be the most scenic, which it would have been were it not for the motels, chain restaurants, car lots, gas stations, churches (mainly Baptist and Pentecostal) and garish billboards plastering the roadside. Thinking of our Big Trip last summer and the quaint charm of villages throughout Europe and much of Asia, I can’t help concluding that what we have done in this country to sully and demean the natural beauty of our land has got to go down as a national tragedy. It did not have to be this way. We could have done better. Trained as a city planner and having taught planning-related courses at GW and Maryland, I wonder if there is any other profession that can boast of the kind of abject failure that has occurred on our watch. There are bright spots, of course, with concepts like New Urbanism, which promotes compact, high density, mixed use, transit-oriented development , but these sophisticated concepts might just as well be on the moon when it comes to towns and villages losing jobs and population and trying to hang on by a thread.

As we leave Bristol we observe a mega structure situated in what probably was once a corn field, rising like a gigantic fortress, probably 15 stories high and surrounded by an empty parking lot that is probably larger than what is left of Bristol’s downtown. It turns out to be a giant stadium, at least as big as FedX Field in Washington where the Redskins play. Impossible, I think. This is a mirage. Bristol does not have a NFL team. As we get closer, we see the sign: “Bristol Motor Speedway.”

Just as we realized how much we were missing by not being able to take in some of the music festival, we think if only we could have planned to spend a day in the stands of the Bristol Motor Speedway along with 150,000 screaming fans. Then perhaps we would understand the Real America.

Still shaking our heads, we spot the exit on to Interstate 25 which will take us the remaining 70 miles to Asheville. This stretch of road—which cuts through a national forest– is what all interstate highways should be like: no advertising or billboards anywhere, only breathtaking views around every curve of the tallest mountains east of the Rockies with many peaks reaching 6,000 feet or higher.

Ashville here we come!

PS. Photos to follow when I am able to solve the upload problem.

 

 

Day 1

Mile 0. I have tossed the luggage in the back of our 2008 blue Subaru Outback with the left rear fender secured by duct tape. I have no idea who ran into the car this time or even how it happened, but there was not enough time for body shop work. Besides, the duct tape should do fine and adds personality. I drive out of the Kennedy-Warren garage and pick up Embry in front of Starbuck’s holding two coffees and a muffin. It is nine am on Wednesday, June 15. We are off.

Embry came up with the idea of the theme for the road trip– “Searching for the Real

America: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.’’ I added, “In the Age of Trump.” The news is blaring over the radio; and it is, as usual, all about Trump—his doubling down on nailing Muslims, all of them, his insinuation that Obama was somehow behind the Orlando massacre, and that one of Hillary’s top advisors is a terrorist working for Isis. I groan and turn off the radio concluding that at least we have the ugly part covered today.

This will certainly be, I think, our last big trip, which means that reflection and looking back on our combined 144 years on this planet is unavoidable. I immediately think of Washington, our home for the last 44 years. Who would have guessed that we would stay in our Macomb Street house in the Cleveland Park neighborhood for 43 years, raise two children (whom we are very proud of and who have, with their spouses, produced four glorious grandchildren), pursue what turned out to be fulfilling careers for both of us, and enjoy lasting friendships with so many great people? As they say, “You have been blessed,” and by any measure we have.

Mile 15. I realize that almost an hour has passed, and we still have not reached the Northern Virginia Beltway. Cars are stalled bumper to bumper on both sides of I 66. “Metrogedden,” I conclude since observing the empty ground level tracks, I see no trains running on the Blue/Silver Line. This is due to single tracking and track closings to address safety and deferred maintenance issues, a sad and deplorable situation attributed to mismanagement and inadequate funding. People are giving up on Metro and driving. The repairs will continue for at least a year, and no one will be spared the long waits and jam packed trains. I am relieved that at least we will miss the first two months of this nightmare.

Remainder of trip through the mountains, miles 15-350.   Miraculously the cars thin out and we are driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains. The mountains are breathtaking and on this day actually appear blue amidst fields of every possible shade of green, with yellow, lavender and orange wild flowers along the interstate. Embry asks if I think we will ever see a landscape more beautiful. Of course, we have driven this leg many times, probably close to fifty, since for many years we drove along this road to visit Embry’s mother in Davidson and for weekend getaways with friends to go canoeing, hiking and cross county skiing. But somehow this time it seems special.

The experience is far from euphoric, however, due to the heavy traffic and the high percentage, maybe close to half, of eighteen wheelers, which tend to roar along at 80 miles an hour and tailgate if you are slowing them down. I tell myself that traffic will diminish as we head west. The other “ugly” aspect of this leg are the billboards. There are interstates that are worse, but to have any billboards defacing a bucolic setting like this in my view is a crime against humanity. You don’t see this kind of thing in Europe or for that matter practically anywhere we went on our trip around the world last year. I know that there are setback requirements on interstate highways which prevent advertising totally in your face, but they are not enough. All the billboards on scenic roads in the U.S. should be removed, blown up and destroyed.

This brings to mind gun control, promoted by the news we are hearing over the radio that for the first time even some Republicans may be having second thoughts about gun control after the worst mass gun killing in American history. Again, gun violence and the killing of innocent people does not happen on this scale in other countries. Would the founding fathers have turned a blind eye if military assault rifles—designed for one purpose, to kill other human beings—were readily available? Please. I turn off the radio again as Embry plugs in her ipod and we listen to symphonies by Beethoven and sonatas by Schuman.

By late afternoon we have arrived in Bristol, Tennessee/Virginia. We are stopping here because the first five years of Embry’s life were spent here, and she has managed to dig up the address, which we put on our GPS. After driving through a surprisingly quaint but small down town with numerous bars, boutiques and somewhat upscale looking restaurants, we find the house and take a photo. (Smallish, wood frame, old and tired, with a huge back yard, modest neighborhood.) The amazing thing is that she recognized the house immediately.

Nothing special about the evening—Hampton Inn, ribs at Logan’s Road House (the place was packed at 5:15.), returning early so Embry could assist in phone interviews for the search process at All Souls Church. Nothing special, that is, until I checked the baseball scores on my iphone and learned the Nats beat the Cubs 5-4 in 12 innings, down by one going into the bottom of the twelfth, winning the three game matchup between the best two teams in the majors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 1

Mile 0. I have tossed the luggage in the back of our 2008 blue Subaru Outback with the left rear fender secured by duct tape. I have no idea who ran into the car this time or even how it happened, but there was not enough time for body shop work. Besides, the duct tape should do fine and adds personality. I drive out of the Kennedy-Warren garage and pick up Embry in front of Starbuck’s holding two coffees and a muffin. It is nine am on Wednesday, June 15. We are off.

Embry came up with the idea of the theme for the road trip– “Searching for the Real America: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.’’ I added, “In the Age of Trump.” The news is blaring over the radio; and it is, as usual, all about Trump—his doubling down on nailing Muslims, all of them, his insinuation that Obama was somehow behind the Orlando massacre, and that one of Hillary’s top advisors is a terrorist working for Isis. I groan and turn off the radio concluding that at least we have the ugly part covered today.

This will certainly be, I think, our last big trip, which means that reflection and looking back on our combined 144 years on this planet is unavoidable. I immediately think of Washington, our home for the last 44 years. Who would have guessed that we would stay in our Macomb Street house in the Cleveland Park neighborhood for 43 years, raise two children (whom we are very proud of and who have, with their spouses, produced four glorious grandchildren), pursue what turned out to be fulfilling careers for both of us, and enjoy lasting friendships with so many great people? As they say, “You have been blessed,” and by any measure we have.

Mile 15. I realize that almost an hour has passed, and we still have not reached the Northern Virginia Beltway. Cars are stalled bumper to bumper on both sides of I 66. “Metrogedden,” I conclude since observing the empty ground level tracks, I see no trains running on the Blue/Silver Line. This is due to single tracking and track closings to address safety and deferred maintenance issues, a sad and deplorable situation attributed to mismanagement and inadequate funding. People are giving up on Metro and driving. The repairs will continue for at least a year, and no one will be spared the long waits and jam packed trains. I am relieved that at least we will miss the first two months of this nightmare.

Remainder of trip through the mountains, miles 15-350.   Miraculously the cars thin out and we are driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains. The mountains are breathtaking and on this day actually appear blue amidst fields of every possible shade of green, with yellow, lavender and orange wild flowers along the interstate. Embry asks if I think we will ever see a landscape more beautiful. Of course, we have driven this leg many times, probably close to fifty, since for many years we drove along this road to visit Embry’s mother in Davidson and for weekend getaways with friends to go canoeing, hiking and cross county skiing. But somehow this time it seems special.

The experience is far from euphoric, however, due to the heavy traffic and the high percentage, maybe close to half, of eighteen wheelers, which tend to roar along at 80 miles an hour and tailgate if you are slowing them down. I tell myself that traffic will diminish as we head west. The other ugly aspect of this leg are the billboards. There are interstates that are worse, but to have any billboards defacing a bucolic setting like this in my view is a crime against humanity. You don’t see this kind of thing in Europe or for that matter practically anywhere we went on our trip around the world last year. I know that there are setback requirements on interstate highways which prevent advertising totally in your face, but they are not enough. All the billboards on scenic roads in the U.S. should be removed, blown up and destroyed.

This brings to mind gun control, promoted by the news we are hearing over the radio that for the first time even some Republicans may be having second thoughts about gun control after the worst mass gun killing in American history. Again, gun violence and the killing of innocent people does not happen on this scale in other countries. Would the founding fathers have turned a blind eye if military assault rifles—designed for one purpose, to kill other human beings—were readily available? Please. I turn off the radio again as Embry plugs in her ipod and we listen to symphonies by Beethoven and sonatas by Schuman.

By late afternoon we have arrived in Bristol, Tennessee/Virginia. We are stopping here because the first five years of Embry’s life were spent here, and she has managed to dig up the address, which we put on our GPS. After driving through a surprisingly quaint but small down town with numerous bars, boutiques and somewhat upscale looking restaurants, we find the house and take a photo. (Smallish, wood frame, old and tired, with a huge back yard, modest neighborhood.) The amazing thing is that she recognized the house immediately.

Nothing special about the evening—Hampton Inn, ribs at Logan’s Road House (the place was packed at 5:15.), returning early so Embry could assist in phone interviews for the search process at All Souls Church. Nothing special, that is, until I checked the baseball scores on my iphone and learned the Nats beat the Cubs 5-4 in 12 innings, down by one going into the bottom of the twelfth, winning the three game matchup between the best two teams in the majors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Road Trip 2016: Preface

What is THIS all about—driving out West and back? It was Embry’s idea, which must have been in her head last summer when we were in the middle of the around-the-world-without–flying adventure since I recall her suggesting a road trip around the U.S. shortly after our return. It all boils down to this: at our “advanced ages” of 74 (me) and 70, how many more opportunities are we going to get for doing something like this?

The idea behind this trip is to see as much as we can of our own country, visit dear friends and relatives along the way, and appreciate what we often tend to take for granted. But my hope now is that it will turn out to be more. Who could have predicted last fall that Donald Trump would be the Republican nominee and that our country would find itself at a critical moment in our history? I try to keep assuring myself that this guy won’t win, but he could. How could this happen: electing a mean spirited, inexperienced narcissist with fascist tendencies? I say it could never happen here. Yet it has happened in other countries like Germany and Italy, countries known for their culture and “advanced civilization.”

Besides the idea of being able to see and experience our vast and beautiful land, the “something more,” I am looking for is some insight as to why people feel the way they do. Surely many people are still hurting from the Great Recession, good jobs are hard to come by and wages remain stagnant. The gap between the “Creative Class” (professionals, successful artists and athletes, the highly educated, CEOs, entrepreneurs, etc.) and what used to be the Middle Class continues to grow, not to mention the gap between the one per centers and practically everyone else. The country is becoming more diverse by the day and within a decade or two will no longer be a white majority. I get this. I understand why there is fear and insecurity. But why The Donald? What is going on? What is behind the hatred of the federal government and the contempt for Washington? My hope is that getting outside the Beltway and into the heartland will provide some insight.

But fear not. This will not be a political commentary by bleeding heart liberals. The blog hopefully will be an honest account of two old codgers, winding their way along valleys, over mountains, through plains, deserts, and cities in what in my view has been and still is (at least for now anyway) the greatest country in the world. We have been blessed to live here at this time in history. It will be a joy to get one more taste of it before we pass the baton.