Friday, July 29- Saturday, July 30

From Arches we set out to join our friends, Peggy and Perrin, who have a vacation home near Crested Butte in the Rockies. We wake up early to see the sun rise, changing the vast desert in front of our tent from gray, to purple to red and then to white as the sun peeks above the horizon and pours light into our tent. The evening had not been too bad with temperatures dipping into the 50s; but by 8:00 a.m. it is already in the low 80s, and expected to top 100 by noon.

Our first stop is a small town in the desert, Thompson Springs, about 40 miles away where one of the camp attendants lives, a middle aged woman with a face showing years of hard work in the sun. We spend some time discussing life in the area, and she volunteers that she lives near her parents in an old mining town that is now a ghost town, a situation she describes with stoic resignation. Naturally we are curious as to what a real ghost town looks like, get directions and arrive there in about 45 minutes. We count about 10 mobile homes, some in disrepair, clustered around a small intersection just minutes off the interstate. Six or seven buildings located in what must have been the village center are boarded up and falling down. The only former establishment that can be identified displays a hotel sign. It is also rundown, and has a truck in the driveway suggesting it is now a residence.

We wonder how many towns in southern Utah are like this, having lost population as mining petered out and are struggling just to survive. What must it be like to live in these towns, which have lost all their services and are often long distances from grocery stores, pharmacies, and schools?

The drive to Crested Butte is up the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, which takes about six hours. We climb from about 5,000 feet to almost 10,000 feet before descending to a valley around 8,000 feet and then up again. The scenery is stunning though similar to what we have seen before in other parks like Yosemite and Sequoia except greener with an abundance of water in streams, brooks and occasional alpine lakes. Traffic is surprisingly light though the absence of guard rails on most hairpin curves keeps us–me anyway–from thoroughly enjoying the views, I am reminded of my granddaughter, Josie’s, comments to me in Yosemite, “Just suck it up, Pepe!” but am sadly finding that I am becoming more anxious rather than less. Perhaps this is just a sign of getting old. But consider this: when guard rails do exist, look at them carefully. All of them—or at least most of them—have dents where vehicles obviously banged into them at some point. Some are even partially destroyed. Now imagine what would have happened if these guard rails had not been there.

Embry says she is tired of hearing me complain and asks to take over the wheel.

There are virtually no villages or signs of human habitation anywhere until after a couple of hours when we roll into Gunnison, a tourist town of several thousand people, located in the valley near the southern boundary the Rocky Mountains. From there it is only another 50 miles north to Peggy and Perrin’s mountain home as we drive along a small highway curving through a green valley with bubbling streams and large ranches with horses and cows grazing. No sign of any desert here.

The email directions provided by Perrin take up one full page when printed out. Three miles here, then four miles there, then turn when the road bends, look for Sam’s cabin, then…. Naturally the GPS has faded, so we are now on our own. Just after the sign for Sam’s cabin, the journey starts to get serious with 7.1 miles to go on a road that starts off paved but quickly deteriorates to gravel and dirt and narrows so that it is virtually impossible for two large cars to pass. And everyone who lives in these parts of the woods drives a very large car.

Since not many people do live around here, you meet few cars coming from the opposite direction, but you do meet some; and unless you are extremely lucky, somebody has to back up to a spot where the road widens a bit, so the oncoming car can squeeze by as you pause along side a 50 foot precipice, biting your nails.

Following Perrin’s explicit directions we start a steep climb with numerous switchbacks, see an entrance to a summer camp, a couple of trail heads, a beautiful alpine meadow with plenty of cows grazing, and finally the trailhead which according to his directions abuts his property. We are there!

Talk about secluded!

The house, which they built about 15 years ago, is a gem, worthy of a cover story in Architectural Digest—natural materials, multiple porches and nooks, huge fireplace, cozy but elegant. My guess it is about 2,000 square feet—medium sized. It is situated in a small clearing surrounded by huge spruces, Douglas Firs, and Aspens with views when looking almost straight up of peaks towering to 12,000 feet above sea level and 3,000 feet above the cabin. Below the house is a roaring trout stream which creates a soothing, never ending ,white sound. Humming birds are ubiquitous.

Peggy and   Perrin are old friends from Chapel Hill graduate school days when I was in planning school, Embry in the School of Public Health and Perrin in law school. They are great outdoors people with whom we have enjoyed many white water canoe trips and cross country skiing weekends in West Virginia. They bought the vacation property— an outparcel in the middle of the Gunnison National Forest—almost on a whim. Due to a snow storm preventing them from skiing in Aspen, they went instead (for the first time) to Crested Butte, and when cross country skiing fell in love with this part of the mountain forest. It turned out that one small outparcel was for sale, and they jumped on it without even seeing the property. The rest is history. They spend several months here each year, and it is easy to see why they love it.

We spend the afternoon hiking on a tiny path next to the trout stream, then onto a vast, alpine meadow with breathtaking views of peaks surrounding the valley. The next morning we drive for breakfast to the town of Crested Butte, an upscale, charming tourist community with a wild West theme and plenty of coffee shops, cafes and boutiques, along with music festivals, food festivals, wine festivals and other cultural activities.

After breakfast, we say our goodbyes and head out to Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park in what will be our last –and perhaps most spectacular–national park.

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The travel from Bryce to the Arches National Park is in some respects among the most challenging of the Road Trip with at least three mountain ranges to cross with countless switch backs and hairpin curves, most without guard rails. It is also the most spectacular. We take Utah State Road 12, which is billed as one of the most scenic in the state, which takes us past three state parks, several national forests and one national monument. For the first 100 miles or so we can count the number of cars we see on two hands. We pass through only two towns—Boulder and Torrey—both old mining towns with current populations in the 100s. These tiny hamlets did not even get paved roads or electricity until the 1950s. You have to wonder how people get by—where kids go to school, where people do routine shopping, what they do all day.

We also pass through several ecosystems—bone dry desert, grass lands, thick mountain forests of Douglass Fir, Ponderosa Pine, and Aspen, and several alpine meadows. The toughest climb is Mount Boulder. We finally cross the pass at 11,000 feet with temperatures in the 50s. An hour later when we reach the valley on the other side, the temperature is over 100.

Our destination, Arches National Park, is located just north of Moab, Utah, an old mining town, turned out-of- doors, adventure, tourist town. Since there are no overnight tourist accommodations in the national park, Embry has booked us in a “luxury tent camp,” called Moab Under Canvass. The only problem is that as we roll into Moab in search of the tent camp, the temperature on the dashboard reads 106 degrees. We are talking Death Valley temperatures here. In a tent? Are we serious? For a moment I think we may be saved by the bell, since we can not find the camp. It has all the aspects of a scam—inaccurate directions, limited information, etc.—but just as we are about to give up and head to a Motel 6, there it is, perched on a cliff overlooking the valley. Doomed.

It turns out that tent camping in these conditions could be worse. The tents are actually pretty nice, better than those in Yosemite; and ours has a wood burning stove (great for 106 degree temperatures) and even a shower and toilet. While there is no electricity, this gives the tent a cozy feel. My guess is that about 10 of the 40 tents are occupied. After checking in and getting help with the bags by a young woman riding in a golf cart, we head to the Arches after which we head out to find an air conditioned restaurant in Moab, activities which take several hours and get us back to the tent at nine p.m. when the temperature has dropped to 103. It’s still hot but could be hotter, and the temperature is going down. We pull out a couple of chairs and sit on the small porch, watch the evening sky as it turns pink and lavender and have a glass of wine and more water. By eleven we are still alive, so our plan is working. The night sky is now dark with few lights anywhere to obstruct the vision, giving Embry the opportunity to use her spotting scope. The Milky Way is overhead. We are spellbound by the beauty of the sky and the desert at night. By midnight the temperature is in the mid 90s, low enough to turn in, and by early morning will be in the mid 60s before it starts to soar again. Sleeping is not impossible—probably due to our exhaustion– and we manage to make it through the night. Victory!

We ended up spending a couple of hours driving through the park that evening. Like all the other parks we have seen, it is fabulous, similar in some ways and different in others. It is probably 2,000 feet above the valley where we are staying, a little cooler, and includes hundreds of rock formations, many with arches (hence the name) and many which are named due to their unique shapes. Best of all are the vistas of the vast valley below. Another treasure of southern Utah.

The stay in Moab Under Canvas and visit to Arches National Park will be our last in the desert. We have been zigzagging over mountains and across deserts ever since we entered the Mojave Desert on our way to Santa Barbara weeks earlier. I never understood how vast, rich and beautiful it is and how much variation exists from one desert location to another. Even more striking is how uninhabited the desert is.

We will miss it and doubt that at our age we will ever return—certainly not to an immersion experience like we have had. But how fortunate we have been! To have missed this experience would have been such a shame. If you have not experienced the American desert, put this on your bucket list.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Tuesday, July 19-Wednesday, July 20

If we received warnings and cries of disbelief about putting Death Valley on our itinerary, we received even more about Las Vegas. “You, Las Vegas? You have got to be kidding! Why would you put the country’s most garish, over-the-top, and obscene city on your trip?”

For that very reason. Plus what really puzzled us on our trip around-the-world last year when we chatted with scores of European and Asian travelers, every one of them who had visited the U.S. had been to Las Vegas. And they loved it! What is it about this city in America that is appealing to foreign visitors? What will this tell us about the Real America?

After our high stress drive across the desert due to the gasoline issue, we find ourselves on the outskirts of this sprawling desert city of two million. We are headed to Bellagio, an upscale casino resort, located on the Strip across the street from Caesars’s Place, and recommended by Dr. Killebrew, my friend and sailing companion, who is best known by his nickname—Killer, perhaps not the best nickname for an orthopedic surgeon but whatever. “Hey, he said, “If you are going to Vegas, you have to do it right, and Bellagio is doing it right.”

After a few missteps and false starts taking us through several seamy and rundown neighborhoods, we finally find ourselves in the bustling Strip. A replica of the Eiffel Tower rises in front of us, with the Arc de Triumph beside it, and we are surrounded by sky scrappers with names like Trump, Harrah, Flamingo, Caesar’s Palace and Bellagio. We drive up a ramp which runs alongside a large, elevated, man-made lake and then up to a 12- lane porte-cochere, where dozens of taxis, limousines, buses, and cars like Rolls Royces, Jaguars, and BMWs are lined up discharging passengers, and bell hops are scurrying about carting off luggage at a feverish pace. A half dozen cars are ahead of us in line; but within five minutes, we are greeted by a friendly bell hop, who welcomes us to Bellagio, takes our baggage and escorts us to the check-in area.

The minute you set foot inside the lobby of Bellagio, you know immediately that you are in another world. The lobby is huge with a gold ceiling and some sort of gold flower arrangement, a large fountain, a casino off to one side, and a large aquarium next to giant figures of fantasy creatures created with fresh flowers. Contrary to what I was expecting, I find the décor tasteful and attractive, even bordering on artistic.

The lobby is jam packed with people of all sizes, shapes , colors and languages breezing by, often laughing, mostly smiling, and naturally taking selfies. The line for check-in is set up like the line for screening people at airport security. I count over 100 people ahead of us, but with 37 clerks frantically working, the line moves fast and we are registered in about 20 minutes.

Think Disney World on Steroids for Adults.

To get to your room, you must first go through the casino area. I later find out that this is how all resort casinos in Las Vegas work. You can’t go anywhere—to your room, to a restaurant, to a café, to one of the upscale mall stores, to a bar, to the street, or to a restroom—without traversing the casino. As we make our way to the guest elevators, we pass hundreds of gambling options in full swing. The black jack tables, poker tables, roulette tables are all comfortably full as are the endless lines of slot machines. Many gamblers are smoking cigarettes and sipping drinks. And it is only five in the afternoon! We soon find out that the area of the casino we walk through to get to the guest elevators is only a fraction of what is available as one gambling room leads to another and then another, where all you can make out are ghost-like images of people standing around or sitting at tables or pulling levers on weird machines with blinking lights of all colors in what otherwise is a dark and mysterious space.

Meanwhile, cocktail waitresses in skimpy dresses are hurrying about with trays carrying drinks as wave after wave of people stroll past in search of the guest elevators.

For the record, Bellagio, is an average size casino hotel in Vegas with 4,000 rooms and over 115,000 square feet of gambling space. But that is only the beginning. There are at least a dozen upscale restaurants, probably at least as many bars and cafes, and there are auditoriums and theaters, scores of fancy shops selling expensive stuff, a huge fitness center and a court yard where you will find four giant swimming pools, more cafes and bars, and out in front, a man-made lake with a world famous fountain and water show. There is even an art museum. Once inside this giant, fantasy cocoon you never have to leave. I suppose that is the point. Probably most don’t.

Disney World on Steroids for Adults.

We make our way to our room, which is large, tastefully decorated, with a large, fancy bathroom with a separate shower and tub with marble floors, mini bar, giant flat screen TV, and buttons next to the king size bed that turn on and off everything including opening and shutting the drapes on the windows. The check-in lady asked if we would like to upgrade to a nicer room for only $50 (or $100 for one even better) per night, and when I accepted Embry looked at me aghast. I explained that I wasn’t going to stay in any hotel room wit no windows. Embry responded that I misunderstood what she was saying (She actually said $50 for a “better view”), so we stayed put. It was just fine.

Actually “just fine” is not quite the right word. This place is so far over the top that it defies description. I have got to hand it to the shrewd people who came up with the idea of creating a fantasy world in the middle of a desert. Only in America, as they say. There is, I suppose, no place on earth quite like Las Vegas, hence its appeal to a world-wide audience. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” we are told; and from first observation, there appears to be a whole lot happening in Vegas.

There is something profound about all this, which tells us about human nature and about the Real America—perhaps even about the meaning of life itself.

But I have no idea what that is.

***

We soon learn that being in this fantasy cocoon has many dimensions. One is that since it is so difficult to find your way out of the hotel, what is available for consumption on site is really your only practical option. We pay the following: $28 for one pastry, two coffees and a small (not fresh) orange juice, $18 for a small (premade) ham and cheese sandwich and a small (not refillable) ice tea, and over $100 for the least expensive dinner we could find from room service—but that was for only one dinner, which we split. Drinks in the bar or minibar are $15, sushi is $12 per piece, and a la carte dinner entrees start in the $60 range in the nicer restaurants. Once you are inside, they have you. You might as well hand over the keys to your car or house. And I am not even talked about gambling (which we avoided).

So we find ourselves in a bit of a dilemma: how to eat without having to declare personal bankruptcy. And even more significant, how does a hard core Scots Irish Presbyterian like Embry stand this without drowning in a pool of guilt?

Easy. You don’t eat. That is, you do not eat the way you are supposed to. You take some short cuts like splitting a meal—there is way too much for one person anyway—and using leftovers for future meals. There was bread left from our room service meal so we saved that; and when Embry went down to buy the $6 cup of coffee for breakfast the next day, she returned with plenty of butter and additional rolls and pastry that were just sitting there on a cart in our hallway waiting to be picked up by room service. Is this an example of creative recycling or what? This little maneuver can be used for any meal, if you are careful, and can save you a lot of money. If you don’t get thrown out of the hotel.

We only spend two nights and one day in Vegas so it is an overstatement to say we understand the soul of this city. But the following story should provide some insight: I am in need of computer equipment so I use the internet to discover that there is anApple store literally across the street, in a mall that is part of Caesar’s Palace. Perfect. I tell Embry, who is lounging by the 75 meter swimming pool, that I am running a quick errand and will be back in a few minutes.

I walk through the Bellagio casino, eventually find the front desk (not a small accomplishment), and then walk down the ramp to the street. There are four intersections in front of Bellagio that should allow a pedestrian to walk across the street to Caesar’s Palace. But there is no crosswalk and do-not-walk signs are everywhere. In a couple of places there is not even a sidewalk, and I notice that practically no one is on the street, only bumper-to-bumper cars. I am witnessing an urban planner’s hell. Watching me stand there trying to figure out what to do, a young man taps me on the shoulder saying, “Don’t try it, buddy. You’ll be arrested or run over.” He explains that the only way you can cross the busy streets in the Strip is to use  pedestrian  bridges and pointed to two. The only way to access the bridge, however, is through your hotel.

Back to the hotel lobby. One of the bell hops gives me careful instructions, which involve going through at least three casino rooms, making several turns and then going down a mall, which opens onto the bridge. I make several failed efforts at this, ending up in dead-in hallways, trash rooms, and more endless rooms of slot machines and black jack tables. I try Google Maps, which is as useless as I am, and continue to ask for directions until finally I manage to stumble out of the building. I feel like I have just broken out of prison. There is only one problem: I am back on the street, more or less where I started. Someone comes up to me and warns me not to cross.

“Yeah, I know.”

This is now becoming a challenge: is it actually possible to go from Bellagio to Caesar’s Palace, separated by a distance of some 100 feet? It would probably even be a fun challenge if my knee wasn’t hurting. So I start over, ask more directions and finally, about an hour after setting off from the pool, walk triumphantly across the bridge going to Caesar’s Palace.

This should be the end of this nightmarish ordeal, but actually it is only the beginning. If Bellagio is Disney World on steroids, Caesar’s Palace is Bellagio on steroids, except a bit down-at-the-mouth, darker, and more crowded. It appears to me to outsize Bellagio by a factor of ten. Eventually, after going through one casino room after another and past hundreds of upscale stores selling lavender purses for $499.00 and purple shoes for $799.99 and gold jewelry for $999.99 and perfume for….I stumble on the Apple Store. During this ordeal, I am convinced that I am a character in a real time realty TV show called something like “Quest.” I have passed through at least a half dozen crowded, dark rotundas with giant statues of Greek gods, Roman heroes, emperors and replicas of Michelangelo’s David. Weird lights come on and then disappear and smoke comes out of bubbling fountains. This must be a dream, I keep telling myself. It can’t be happening. My aching knee reminds me that it is real.

Naturally Apple does not have what I want, try Best Buy.

No problem, I respond, just tell me how to get out of this building. The tone of my voice is desperate. I look at my watch. The Quest is now nearing its third hour.

Easy, he says, just take this corridor and then that one, turn and go trough the restroom area. You’ll find the street. It is a shortcut.

I follow his instructions exactly and within fifteen minutes find myself gasping for air, feeling the bright sun and 106 degree heat. I am in the middle of a narrow, deserted alley. I follow it to another empty street, look at my Google Maps, which obviously has no idea where I am, and then hail down an employee, who is leaving Caesar’s Palace, heading for his car. When I ask how to get back to Bellagio (keep in mind that I am talking about a building across the street), he replies that I can’t. It is not possible from this location. I have got to go back through the casino. When he senses that I am about to lose it, he motions for me to follow him. He will show me the way. He is like a forest ranger finding a lost child in the woods and returning the child to her parents. He gently leads me through more underground corridors, a parking garage and finally to a place where I can see the elusive bridge. This act of kindness reminds me of how decent and caring we as humans can be.

In another ten minutes I am back in the Bellagio lobby. I refrain from spreading my arms in a victory gesture and glance at my watch. It has been over two and one half hours. I swear I am never leaving the hotel again.

Welcome to Vegas!

But as it turns out we do leave the hotel that evening to go to a show. When in Vegas you have to go to a show, and we select Brooks, Dunn and Reba, three country music icons performing at Caesar’s Palace. Now that I know sort of what I am doing, we walk there in only fifteen minutes. The sold-out show is fabulous. The music is the best country has to offer, and the rapport the performers have with their adorning audience is extraordinary. What is perhaps most impressive is the staging with the most startling use of lights that I have ever seen.

We skip the steaks and the sushi and buy two small salmon salads, which will suffice for a late dinner and breakfast and save us $250.

Tomorrow we are off for the Grand Canyon. Have we found the Real America here in Vegas? In some ways I think we have—at least a small part of it: our continuing optimism, innovation, excess, self-indulgence, diversity, kindness, and hope. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. People are having fun. They are loving the experience even if it is fleeting, even if it is a fantasy. For a few brief days, you are a part of this nether world where anything goes and where you have a chance to be rich beyond your wildest dreams. This is hope and it is part of being human. That when you leave you are actually much poorer than when you came is ok. You have had your shot. You were in the game. Next time maybe you will be lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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As I write, it is Sunday, July 17, and we are just past the mid point on our journey. When I compare this trip to our around-the-world-no-airplanes trip of last year, the thing that stands out most is what is going on in the world around us. During that four-month journey, I can’t recall any news of extraordinary significance. In the past month, here are the news headlines: Brexit, police killings by white officers of unarmed black men in Minnesota and Louisiana, the killing of five police officers by a black army veteran in Dallas, two more police killings today in Baton Rouge, the Paris truck massacre, and the failed coup in Turkey. On top of that, we are engaged in what may turn out to be the nastiest and also the most significant presidential race in our nation’s history with many people expressing dislike for both candidates. In our travel bubble we have missed some of the shocking headlines; but as a news junky, I can’t help reading the Post and the NY Times on line and certainly get the gist. At times I confess that I even feel a little guilty about being removed from the action, not that there is anything that I could be doing to help.

The contrast is what gets you. On the Road Trip and on our around-the-world -adventure last year, we see a country–and a world– that is beautiful and vast and–I believe–basically good. I know that our country and our world have certainly been good to Embry and me. I also know that the “good experience” is not evenly distributed and that many are hurting. The stakes seem to be so high right now. There is so much that is beautiful and good; but if we can’t somehow make this planet we inhabit more equitable, the whole world will pay a big price. In the U.S. it is as if we have the option of celebrating our diversity while acknowledging our failures (slavery, Jim Crow, race and social class, greed and excess) and moving on to make things better, or the option of turning back to the dark side of human nature, to tribalism, authoritarianism, and violence. Let us hope and pray that we can somehow muddle through and choose the former.

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Joe asked me to contribute my thoughts to the blog. We have been going 3 weeks so far on our trip driving around the U.S. He is calling the blog: “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in the Age of Trump,” so I will contribute my thoughts along that theme.

“The Good:” there is so much to say about this part of the theme. For me the trip has been a walk down Memory Lane, and I am blessed that many to most of my memories are good ones. The trip started off with a drive through Bristol, TN/VA, where I spent my first 5 years. Incredibly, when we drove by the house where we lived then, I remembered it! How does that happen—the brain’s memory function is mysterious and miraculous. Many other wonderful memories have been triggered through conversations with lots of old friends and many relatives. I took a tally. Through several reunions, we have reconnected with 9 close friends (most of whom we have not seen for quite a while—3 for more than 50 years!) and 26 family members. Among our family members are: one aunt and one uncle (who put us in touch with many memories of our parents’ generation), my brother and his wife, six first cousins (3 each) and their spouses, a second cousin, and numerous “cousins once removed” (our children’s generation) and their spouses and children. And that doesn’t count the great week we spent with our grandson, Jasper, at Ghost Ranch, which I imagine you have read about through Joe’s blog. We are very blessed to have such an incredible number extended family and friends, so diverse and interesting. We love you all! Happily, we have many more such reunions coming up along the way, including the upcoming reunion of many work colleagues from the 1970s and 1980s in Santa Barbara, and visits in several more friends’ homes. We don’t mind mooching!

The other thing that stands out most in my mind about “the good” part of the trip is the amazing scenery we have passed through on our drive West. The spectacular, varied landscape of our vast country is something you do not fully appreciate when you fly around for business or pleasure, as I have done for many years. Our path has taken us through the lovely Appalachians, the beautiful rolling hills of middle Tennessee, the Ozarks which are like the Appalachians but have their own unique beauty, and the slowly rising plains and arid deserts of the West. The latter landscape, with its mesas and mountains in the distance, is so vast and so amazing, with the sky and the clouds above and all around it. It is something that you see when you are driving along in a way you do not ever appreciate in a city or from the air.

“The Bad and the Ugly:” Unfortunately there are a few things to say about this, too. I believe Joe has mentioned our impressions of the “uglification” of the American landscape through the many strip malls, billboards, parking lots, and big box stores that we see as we drive along. Many of these are even abandoned and deteriorating, becoming a form of trash along the highway. (The saddest of these are the abandoned rest stops that have been closed due to lack of funds, I suppose.) Whenever we come to a place where humans have settled, we see this “uglification.” Why—although we train our children not to throw trash out the car window—have we have allowed this other form of trash to accumulate on a massive scale along our roads, destroying the otherwise-beautiful landscape? It does not have to be this way (as we learned from our travels through Europe last year). This form of destruction could be prevented through better planning and stricter regulations on development. But we have allowed the god-almighty-dollar (in the form of money in the pockets of developers, merchants, and those selling the land) to dominate political decisions. Ok, I’ll get off my high horse now.

As a public health researcher, I have also been shocked by the poor nutrition and high rates of obesity that I have observed as we make our stops. It is hard to find ANY healthy food (fruits and vegetables) at a typical rest stop/convenience store along the way. The shelves are full of soda, chips, and candy, none of if healthy or nourishing. The person behind the counter is likely overweight, as are most of the customers. It is especially sad to see an overweight mother giving such food to her child, who may already be overweight. Last night we indulged in Popeye’s for dinner. Hey, it’s cheap–$14 for a chicken dinner for two. Behind the counter were numerous poor, overweight staff cooking for the poor, overweight customers. Recent statistics show a decline in lifespan for some groups of Americans, including low income people. A lot of the decline is due to diseases associated with poor nutrition and obesity. Again, the almighty dollar has something to do with this problem; it’s cheaper to process, ship, and store this kind of food, than to sell fresh fruits and vegetables, so prices are cheaper and profits are higher. On top of that, people become addicted to sugar and fat, and prefer it. Somehow, our next president should tackle this huge public health problem. The best way is to use the model that worked for the tobacco epidemic—a combination of intense public health education with regulation of manufacturers and vendors. Ok, I’ll get off my high horse again.

“The Age of Trump:” we set out to try to find out why people (about half the American population!) are for Trump. We thought if we got outside the Beltway, we would find people to talk to who could explain this phenomenon to us. But we have yet to do so. We have seen only one Trump sign in anyone’s yard (or any bumper stickers, and I guarantee we have seen a lot of bumpers!). We have between us several Republican cousins, and not one is voting for Trump. So we’re still mystified. We’ll let you know if we find anything out!

That’s it for now. Thanks for reading the blog, and I’ll weigh in again somewhere along the way.

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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