We hopped in the jeep on this past wooly Sunday, my husband and I, on an impromptu roadtrip. I have never been to Oregon before, and he loves Pinot Noir for its earthy, mushroom flavours, so it was set. I must admit, shortly into the drive, I realised as much as I love to travel (and I love it even more Pinot Noir, believe me!) I am a homebody. Meaning, driving past those little farmhouses, as the dusk settled in and filled the air with a gray blurriness, I wanted to be in those homes. Cuddling up to a hearth inside is me. Regardless, we sped by, fighting my primeval need to break and enter, and I am so glad we did, because I had almost forgotten the joys of an American road trip. Starbucks drive-thrus slowly give way to Java Houses and Zippy Cups – the mom and pop-alikes of small town America. I started out counting the fast food joints, until I got dizzy. Jack and the Beanstalk roadsigns tower ahead, waving at us, pulling theirs heads through the gaps in the trees for miles ahead, against a competing billboard backdrop. On the American interstate highways, bigger is always better, and I love to marvel at the giant lorries, pickup trucks, and sometimes, people. But if friendliness counts for something, small town America wins that prize, and we were charmed from head to foot. Jack In The Box, Wendy’s, Carl Junior, McDonalds, Burger King, Jack In The Box, Wendy’s, Carl Junior, McDonalds, Burger King…it feels as though we are driving in circles. And it’s all so not fair. 2 burgers for $3. The Dollar menu. Not a sushi bar in sight. Healthy is hard. So eventually we caved, and on the backseat we began to mound our Sour Patch Kids and Subway wrappers, like squirrels hoarding for the winter. Ad there’s always that wonderful American efficiency. By this I mean the odometer testing, brake checking, altitude notifications, snow chain shoulders, and inspections. It’s hard to explain my wonder to kids who grew up with all this and sophistication. In third world countries, you just drive, swerve for cows, and hope for the best.But this Oregonian landscape is beautiful – far more vivid than any painting, we veer dangerously into oncoming traffic, cooing at the white-capped mountain tops, and valleys of green and blue. In San Francisco, we don’t get Fall, and we realise how much we miss the shower of red and gold leaves. The streets are a bridal path of Mac make-up palettes of yellow, gold, red and purple. Oversized trucks lit like Christmas trees make me think of trannies showing just a trace of stubble. Everybody pulls aside like friendly housewives navigating a crowded supermarket, and we count down the last few hours. I’m sad we did not see the bears promised on warning signs, but feel rewarded with passing towns named Weed, Susanville and Eureka.
