San Francisco, CA—

Among thousands of acres of land, a private airstrip, several species of exotic wildlife, and many millions of dollars worth of imported works of art, today belonged to Hearst Castle. I’m speaking, of course, of the incredible and excessive home that newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst built for himself over the course of more than twenty years in the early-mid twentieth century. As far as I know, it is the closest thing this country has to the level of monarchial extravagance on display in castles across Europe, and I’ve been looking forward to visiting ever since I first saw the place fictionalized in Citizen Kane.

The main castle (Casa Grande) and the three large guest houses that surround it are designed around and filled with an amalgam of mostly classical European styles of architecture, painting, sculpture, furniture, and textiles. Julia Morgan, the architect responsible for realizing Hearst’s vision, had an incredibly fickle client, who often requested big changes mid- or post-construction.

The National Geographic film that accompanied the tour may as well have been a canonization. It paints Hearst as an eccentric, joyful man who dreamt of sharing his love of animals, the arts, and his family’s beautiful land with others. It conspicuously overlooks the fact that Hearst shared his home almost exclusively with people of tremendous wealth, power, and fame. The notion that this structure, like the European castles that inspired it, is a towering monument to unchecked vanity is likewise ignored.

Regardless of how or why Hearst Castle was accomplished, the accomplishment is worthy of respect, and it must be seen to be believed. Just do your best not to see it with a massive group of aging Japanese tourists who can’t get their heads around the fairly simple concepts of “Do Not Touch” and “No Flash Photography.” I wouldn’t know, but I expect you’ll enjoy it more that way.

Today’s drive was by far the prettiest of the trip so far. If I could, I’d take it out to dinner and a movie. I’d bring it home to meet my parents. I’d buy it a blood diamond and audition wedding DJs with it. We’d honeymoon at Disneyland, put a down payment on a mortgage in a Toll Brothers gated community, and have cute disagreements over paint chips. We’d have three kids named after our favorite movie villains who would each play one musical instrument and two seasonal sports at our insistence. We’d shed tears of pride when our youngest child was presented with her MD. I’d tenderly hold the drive’s wrinkled hand as the motorized chairs on our front porch gently rocked us into twilight.

But I wouldn’t photograph it. No, sir. I wouldn’t want to make it uncomfortable.

The day began with a nice breakfast with my cousin Rachel, which led to a visit to Santa Monica Pier, which led to a Los Angeles exodus via the Pacific Coast Highway. A glorious drive up the coast followed, with nearly every moment finding us surrounded by some combination of postcard mountains, beaches, and vast, sparkling ocean. As the city became more distant, the view was extended with the slow dissipation of the smog.

We stopped in Santa Barbara to have a look around and get some lunch. There is a Sliders episode concerning an idyllic beach community which secretly feeds people to giant underground worms and consumes the worms’ subsequent secretions to achieve eternal youth. I got the impression the people of Santa Barbara harbor a similar dark secret, and the key to the mystery lies somewhere in the lack of public toilets. I had to ask six different people to trade me a quarter for a dime and three nickels so I could use a McDonald’s bathroom five blocks from the unaccommodating pizza place that fed us. Maybe that new X-Files movie is actually a documentary about Santa Barbara.

The day ended in a creepy Motel 6 with paper walls, which should contrast nicely with the obscene opulence we expect to observe at tomorrow’s regal destination.

Los Angeles, CA—

Yesterday, as we sped along I-15 en route to LA, signs started pointing us toward a ghost town called Calico. Naïve tourists that we are, we were startled to find people working there and asking us to pay them six dollars for admission. A town with employees, an infrastructure, a web site, and its name painted in giant letters on the side of a mountain can’t rightly be described as ghostly, so we continued on our way. We wouldn’t find any more “ghost towns” before making it to LA, but the city offered plenty of places that had admission fees and were upfront about their vitality, so we patronized some of them today.

We didn’t really have a game plan for our day in LA, but luckily our personal tour guide, the amazing Lauren Isaacson, is a master of improvisation. Here are some of the places she was kind enough to show us:

• La Brea Tar Pits: Incredibly well-preserved fossils and skeletons of mastodons, wooly mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and other prehistoric creatures.
• Los Angeles County Museum of Art: A large and varied international collection of paintings and sculptures from many different periods. The highlight was a wonderful exhibition of Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s extraordinary woodcuts.
• Hollyhock House: The second Frank Lloyd Wright structure whose interior I’ve been denied access to due to insufficient planning (they weren’t doing tours today).
• Griffith Observatory: High in the Hollywood hills, offering some astronomical education and a great view of the skyscrapers in the distance and the famous Hollywood sign nearby. Actually, it offered a better view of the smog in front of those things.

Lauren did all the driving today, which was a godsend, because it allowed us to a) not worry about finding our way around the city, b) get a good look at the areas of the city we passed through, and c) remain sane in the traffic of a city where everyone drives. Lauren was the hero of the day, and the main reason it was a really fun one.

After she took her leave of us, we turned off our good behavior and did some wicked, wicked jaywalking, which nobody ever seems to do around here, regardless of whether or not there is a moving car in sight. Karma repaid us with a parking ticket, reminding us that those three hours of the week that parking is forbidden on that block for street cleaning were, in fact, today. Los Angeles, I swear we east coasters can read. We just don’t interpret.

This was the second of three cities on our route that were already oddly familiar thanks to Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. We’ve been able to resist stealing cars and murdering cops and prostitutes so far, but something’s bound to give eventually, so stay tuned.

We have reached the ocean! I was excited to begin the historic documentation of our discovery of America’s west coast, and perhaps begin plans for the construction of a city here with a thriving entertainment industry. I guess I missed the issue of National Geographic that covered someone beating me to it. Apparently I have friends here, too!

Imagine my surprise when I set foot in southern California for the first time and found it to be quite chilly. I mean, doesn’t wearing long sleeves to the botox clinic seem untoward? My dear old friend Pete and his fiancé Bethe (who are kind enough to put us up for our two nights here) have assured me that this weather is an anomaly and that tomorrow will be more pleasant. A proper exploration of the city will take place then, but now it’s time to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Last night, we ate Italian food at a western-themed restaurant run by Asians. This can only happen in America. Early this morning, Wayne’s stomach revealed itself to be decidedly anti-American. His freedom-hating innards kept us from getting back on the road until well into the afternoon, but we prevailed in their crusade against our schedule, arriving in Las Vegas shortly after seven o’clock.

To get as well-rounded a Vegas experience as I could in the short time we’ll be here, I decided to begin by taking in a show. It consisted of several young women with plastic vampire teeth undulating haphazardly to a range of rock hits from the last forty years. They weren’t wearing any shirts. I was seated at a table with a handful of people who, unlike me, had not come alone. Remember when you went to see Monster’s Ball, and you wondered what the deal was with the creepy guy in the front row, and you suddenly understood when the very non-titillating sex scene with Halle Berry and Billy Bob Thorton hit the screen? As far as my table-mates could tell, I was that guy, despite the fact they were much more entertained by the show than I was.

Las Vegas is exactly the carnival I expected it to be. Instead of children carrying around the plush toys they won at the ring toss booth, this carnival is populated by adults carrying around cocktail cups shaped like the casinos that robbed them blind. Each casino is carefully designed to be inadvertently wandered into and very difficult to leave. Every last speck of dust in this town is a cog in a machine fueled by tastelessness and tasked with emptying bank accounts. It’s breathtaking.

Grand Canyon, AZ—

It is Mother’s Day, and I am far away from my mother. She and my godmother, my Aunt Pat, are celebrating with the family today just outside Philadelphia, PA. I, of course, am at the Grand Canyon, and according to Google Maps, the distance between the two is about 2,020 miles as the crow flies. I’d love to spend the day with them and be back here in time to get to Las Vegas tonight, but it’s quite a distance. Still, the boundlessness of human ingenuity and imagination inspired me to find a way to spend the day with them.

It turns out it’s really simple. A few years back, NASA built the fastest free-flying air-breathing aircraft in the world and called it the X-43. I assume you can rent it just like you’d rent a car. It goes Mach 9.8 (7,456 mph) and would put me in Philly in about fifteen minutes. Perfect! I could fly over there, spend the day with my family, and be back in time to ride the roller coaster on the roof of the Stratosphere. I’ll be calling NASA momentarily. See you soon, Mom!

Update

NASA says the X-43 is not available for rental. Unbelievable. Mom, Aunt Pat, and mothers around the world: I hope you have a wonderful Mother’s Day, and I’m sorry NASA is a such a bunch of stupid jerks.

Grand Canyon, AZ—

In AC/DC’s 1976 classic “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” the late Bon Scott gleefully lists a handful of his favorite methods for ridding his clients of their enemies, including concrete shoes, cyanide, and TNT. He makes no mention of the Grand Canyon, probably because its Arizona location is geographically inconvenient for an Australian like him. But boy was he missing an opportunity.

Most people who visit the Grand Canyon are stricken by its arresting natural beauty, and there can be no question that I am among them. Its history, shapes, colors, textures, and—most importantly—its scale slackened my jaw like nothing in memories recent or distant. However, upon reflection, it’s the canyon’s relationship with its visitors’ mortality that I find most compelling. Here is essentially an insensate hole in the ground that has claimed hundreds of victims, almost all of them lulled into its famously dangerous depths by what amounts to a Siren song.

I can attest to it being quite a song.

Wayne and I hiked the South Kaibab Trail down to Cedar Ridge for a manageable round trip of about three miles and a descent of 1,140 feet below the canyon’s south rim. Less than a quarter of the distance to the bottom, our little hike barely registered a blip on the canyon’s massive radar. It was a great way to feel insignificant in the best way possible, to better recognize how tenuous our hold on life really is, and to keep the sunscreen people in business. Next time, I’ll be camping by the Colorado River at the bottom.

Despite the Philadelphia International Airport’s best efforts to the contrary, my traveling companion and longtime friend Wayne Kobylinski arrived to meet me in Albuquerque today, only about three and a half hours late. This meant our drive up to Flagstaff was much darker than it was originally intended to be, which gave us a chance to learn not only that one of my headlights is out, but that Arizona is less beautiful when you can’t see it.

I’ve known Wayne for almost twenty-six years, which makes him one of my oldest friends. He devoted several of those years to securing a PhD in English Literature, and I’m hoping he hasn’t figured out that the only reason I let him join me on this trip is that it’ll be an optimal opportunity to consume his brain. His encyclopedic knowledge of many, many subjects is also bound to come in handy. And I kind of like him, too.

Wayne is particularly fond of Irish modern poetry, so in honor of his arrival, I’ll sign off with the closest thing I could muster in the wee hours of the morning at a Motel 6 after five hours of driving. It’s a limerick I wrote about a movie I saw today called Iron Man:

There once was a defense contractor
Who was deftly portrayed by an actor
The guy from Less Than Zero
Is now a super hero
Who weighs more than sixty-five tractors

Albuquerque, NM—

I seem to be hitting my stride; the four hours in the car today were nothing. The fact that the drive was equally as scenic as yesterday’s but more populated and less lengthy helped quite a bit. However, had I known what Albuquerque had in store for me, the trip probably would have seemed much longer.

I knew next to nothing about Albuquerque before today, and I now know slightly less than nothing. The little bit of new knowledge I have comes thanks to Mark Bixby and his excellent girlfriend Jody, my generous hosts. They have a beautiful home with beautiful cats and dogs at the base of the beautiful Sandia Mountains. This place of residence is the most foreign this unabashed city boy has had the pleasure of coming across so far. The pueblo-style architecture, the high altitude, the vegetation scarcely taller than me, the threat of scorpions—these are things we don’t have in Philadelphia. We also lack the world’s longest arial tramway.

Mark and I rode in a box dangling from a cable for 2.7 miles to reach the 10,378 foot Sandia Peak. On a clearer day, it apparently offers an even more incredible view than the incredible view we had today. A short, photogenic hike (which was a good warmup for the forthcoming Grand Canyon) prepared our appetites for an outstanding Mexican dinner at the very charming El Pinto. It was good enough that I didn’t even mind that it was too late for Mario Kart by the time we got back (though I wouldn’t be surprised if my hosts were woken up early tomorrow by the sound of screeching tires and Italian-accented cries of “Here we go!”).

Of Anthems and Traveling Companions

Tomorrow marks a new chapter in this story as my good friend Wayne will be joining me for the next nineteen days. I’ll tell you all about him tomorrow, but for now, I want to mark the occasion by revealing what I’ve decided to be this trip’s theme song, chosen simply for the fact that it gets stuck in my head every time I see the name of this site. Enjoy!

I took one for the team tonight, folks. With apologies to the citizens of El Paso, their city is merely a stop on this trip, not a destination, so I didn’t bake in time to research local cuisine. I did get a very specific recommendation from Austin’s own Scott Sims about a good Tex-Mex place less than a mile from my hotel. But by the time I checked in, I couldn’t bring myself to get back in the car, and this unfortunately just isn’t a walkin’ part of town. So, in the interest of having time to write about today’s events, work on a little something for Mother’s Day, and maybe even get to bed at a reasonable hour, I took the path of least (edible) resistance: I strolled scowling into the Chili’s restaurant across the parking lot.

Chili’s welcomed me as only Chili’s could—with splatters of vomit on the sidewalk, a bartender whose laugh could cut glass, a flirty hostess who failed to seduce this taken man, and a TV with unreadable all-caps serif captioning. Oh, and the “food.” But I did it for you. This trip is a big deal to me, and it’s very encouraging to know that people are enjoying following along at home. It helps me not only document the trip, but also feel less isolated on the road. So keep those e-mails coming. Even if I’m not able to respond to them all, they are all very appreciated, and they all contribute to what’s making this trip worthwhile.

Anyway, that was all just a long way of saying that I ate some crap food to expedite today’s post, whose actual content is shorter than its introduction. I should go into politics.

Much like yesterday, the majority of the day was spent on I-10. Unlike yesterday, I was not in a rush to get where I was going, partly because of the aforementioned stop vs. destination thing, and partly because I found my surroundings so interesting.

Leading up to I-10, I did a good stretch on 290, which led me through a handful of tiny towns and about a million peach orchards. The amount of ground I’m covering on this trip doesn’t give me much chance to get off the interstates and get a taste of people’s day-to-day lives in the locales I’m traveling through, and it was great to get a closer look into the fishbowl, especially in an area whose geography alone requires its inhabitants to live very differently than the way I do. Though it slowed me down a bit, it was a nice change of pace and scenery.

Once I did get back on I-10, the remainder of the day was spent hurtling through sun-baked desolation. It’s quite humbling to drive for hours at a time being able to see for miles in every direction but still seeing little evidence of civilization beyond the road you’re on and the vehicles sharing it with you. Recognizing that humility at 80 miles per hour with a device in my pocket containing music from every continent and up-to-the-minute communication with friends half a world away gave me a new appreciation for the profound achievement of the generations of frontierspeople that made a trip like this possible. I’ve got Michael Jackson and Google Maps at my fingertips; they didn’t even have a road. (I would not have made a good frontiersman. I got a sunburn today from indirect sunlight. Think about it.)

When I crossed into El Paso County and actual communities started popping up, I almost had to scoff. How pedestrian, this “settled land.” After hundreds of miles of plains, desert, and mountains, the billboards and buildings were sudden and disquieting. So I guess that Chili’s thing is what you call irony.