Even though I've traveled widely on the Eastern seaboard and into the South as well as overseas, I'm still surprised and somewhat amazed at our varying landscapes, foods, language, and subtle ways of doing things differently. Living in New England, we tend to think sometimes that the entire U.S. is like our six states (ok, and New York!)--or should be--despite our knowledge to the contrary.
On this trip, we moved from the humid days of Massachusetts to those in Virginia, noting nonetheless our climb into the Blue Ridge Mountains, which seem to be embracing you on the highway. Traveling through West Virginia, where I had not been before, extended our mountain views with the added challenge of curvy highways and steep inclines and the beauty of lush green trees and rock that appeared to have been sliced through with a giant saw. And by the way, did I mention the 70 mph from Virginia and beyond? You'd think it would make the traffic even more dangerous, but it had the effect of slowing things down, strangely enough, as opposed to Boston, where the limit is somewhere between 55 and 65, and a large number of folks go 80 and zigzag across the lanes.
As we continued south west, metropolises faded, giving way to smaller towns and fewer facilities along the road. The intensity of Boston, New York, and the Jersey Turnpike were way behind us, replaced by more natural sights and our first encounter with anti-Obama signs, billboards, and bumper stickers. Note that I said "anti-Obama," not pro-Romney. The focus of the signs was about the coal industry and policies that West Virginians feel are taking away the vitality of their coal industry. Even though they were against the President, I delighted in the fact that they were about an issue, a policy, rather than his birth certificate or his religion.
Kentucky was our next destination, a place I would very much like to visit but did not have the time this trip. Lexington and Louisville were the two major cities we passed through on 70?, the first renown for the Kentucky Derby, which I would love to see someday. Getting off the highway for lunch, we spotted a place with an outdoor patio that could be entered from outside, so that our dog Oreo could be with us. Once we sat in the shade on high stools at a table, the waitress brought a Bud Light aluminum bucket full of ice water for Oreo. The waitress did not just wait on us, she visited with us, a phenomenon we noticed from Virginia through to New Mexico, asking about our trip, the dog, talking about the weather and so on.
Louisville was next on the journey, apparently a city of bridges crossing the Ohio River. We had already been experiencing serious thunderstorms, from Pennsylvania on, but the premier storm was here. The storm clouds moved in and sheets of rain fell, sometimes requiring that we move to the emergency lane, since visibility was impossible. We drove out of the storm, only to realize as we stopped for the night that it had followed us at a slower pace. Coming back from dinner, we sat in the truck with pea-sized hail falling on us.
From West Virginia on, the farmlands were a dominant feature of the landscape, dotted with precisely-coiled bales of hay and cattle. Houses, when you could see them, were farther apart. And as we moved into Indiana, evidence of the drought that has plagued the Midwest began to appear--fields of withered corn, acre upon acre, pale yellow and brown in the intense sunlight. Stopping for lunch in Nashville, IN (yes, you read that correctly!), we had what for an Easterner was a remarkable experience. Seeking something--anything--other than McDonald's and a place in the shade (a rare pleasure), we spotted a little ranch house of a restaurant advertising sandwiches. There was no shade that we could see except on private property surrounding the place, but we decided we'd get sandwiches and picnic somewhere else. When we parked, a black Lab approached the car, wanting to be friends with us and Oreo. Not far behind him (Sam, we later found out) was his owner, riding on a tractor across the lot to another structure housing farm equipment of various kinds. He stopped, greeted us, and recommended the restaurant. When we mentioned we were going to drive on because of the lack of shade, he said "Well, I've got a couple of chairs over there under that tree. You're welcome to have your lunch there." We had to go into the restaurant one at a time so one of us would stay with the dog; while we were waiting, each of us had a long chat with this gentleman, who, it turned out, had traveled to Boston at some point. He said he loved it except that he'd been disappointed in one thing--Plymouth Rock. "It was so small," he said, and I admitted that it is a bit of a letdown. He told us of his travels a bit and shared how good it was to live in the Midwest because in any direction you could find a different climate and activities--just anywhere from 6 to 10 hours away!
Sandwiches in hand, we sat in the shade of his tree, marveling at his openness and courtesy. He gave us space, but came back now and then to see that we were comfortable and share with us the devastation of the drought in Nashville, saying that the corn and soybeans were entirely gone, the corn not even suitable for fodder. He also offered us freshly picked watermelons for $3.00, telling us the best way to eat them is to just smash them on the ground, open them up, and enjoy. We were clearly in another world.
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