I often dreamed of the great American road trip as a young girl. I imagined that I had friends and that we would gleefully pile into a giant Winnebago and tumble to the ground, rolling around and playfully swatting at each other while an adult, who didn't mind the Spice Girls at all, drove all of us to some random tourist destination like the Grand Canyon or the Juliette Gordon Lowe House.
At thirteen my great vision evolved to include myself and three of my best girl friends. We would all wear pink plastic tube tops and hop into a lime green Volkswagen Beetle where we would blare my awful mix-cassettes with the homemade commercials. As we cruised through the USA, we would discuss about kissing tips from Seventeen Magazine and dance around the topic of practicing on each other.
I didn't go on my first real road trip until somewhat recently. There were no buddies, no revolutionary tales of girl camaraderie. I had gotten an callback for a micro budget film shooting in Louisiana and I drove there alone. With nothing but a few tanks of gas and a good feeling, I set off down I-20 in hopes of getting a small part in a film about scientists and Satan. A massive snow storm hit the south on my way back and I became stranded in a Marriot in Alabama for three days, only venturing outside to grab wine and value priced SmartOnes from Target. I booked the film and made another road trip to and from the wondrous land of Louisiana. That story is being saved for my imminent publishing deal.
Then I actually went on a real cross country road trip. You know where that thing began? Waffle House.
|James, my significant other and roadtrip mate, sitting in a Wa-Ho for the third time in his life.|