March, 1998
Milepost 115,000
On the
Road and Online...
FOUR YEARS BEHIND THE WHEEL
Phoenix One meets Kissmobile in Los Angeles |
March 29,
1998, marks the fourth anniversary of the day the Phoenix One left Pasadena,
California, and headed for the horizon. We're still rolling, and, as Jerry
Garcia might have put it, "What a long, strange trip it's been."
Our assumptions
have shifted nearly as often as our location. For starters, we thought
six months would be more than enough time to cure our wanderlust forever.
But half a year after we started driving, we were in Idaho, which meant,
in the simplest geographical terms, we'd hardly begun. Idaho is separated
from California by only one other state. We'd been moseying for months,
and we couldn't even see the Rockies in the distance.
Megan
and Mark meet Ray Nitschke in Green Bay, Wisconsin |
It's not
that we had set any particular goals for passing a certain number of mile
markers or visiting every tourist trap between Key West and Fairbanks.
We had no particular itinerary at all, just a yen to hit a road and keep
on driving. Even so, I found myself assessing each new place with a view
to calling it home. Home had always been a geographical point, after all.
Wasn't that part ofthe definition?
Then one
day home wasn't a place any more. We were watching the dawn over the Sangre
de Cristo Mountains near Angel Fire, New Mexico. "If we're always
looking for home, we're always looking for the end of the journey,"
said Mark. "I'd rather enjoy the ride." A hawk soared overhead,
his wings illuminated by the rising sun. "Like him," he added,
and suddenly, the search ended. How can you look for home when you're
already there?
Marvin
the Road Dog meets Debi Mazar in New York City |
Since then,
we've been home for another hundred thousand miles. Last year, we gave
the Phoenix a rest and drove a promotional vehicle on a nationwide publicity
tour. It meant transferring our belongings to another truck, but it didn't
mean leaving home. Once you've become a true nomad, home really is wherever
you are, whether it's Times Square or Sequoia.
"But
what about people?" you ask. "Home's about family. Home's about
friends." It's true, and 115,000 miles of wandering has drawn our
circle wide. Our families, like those of most North Americans, are spread
across the continent. We have friends from Plymouth Rock to Drake's Bay,
from Sitka to South Padre Island.
And those
are only the ones we know in person. Our journey has coincided exactly
with the explosion of the Internet. Back in 1994, we were all learning
new jargon like "e-mail" and "online." In 1998, the
communication revolution is in full swing. Thanks to the World Wide Web,
our network of friends and family circles the globe.
We find ourselves
saying that we live in cyberspace. It's a fact that "www.RoadTripAmerica.com"
is our most permanent address, and the most reliable way to reach us is
usually e-mail. The line between virtual and actual often blurs.
But there's
nothing virtual about turkey, and every holiday season since we began
our migratory existence, we've found ourselves with family. The virtual
universe offers wonderful connections, but Mom lights candles and gets
out the good china.
Is home a
place after all? A hearth and hat stand? No, even Thanksgiving dinner
can't fool me. Home's not a place, and it's even more than people. We
can't claim credit for being the first to notice it, but home is where
your heart is.
Our hearts
are still on the road. Our front yard stretches to the Gulf of Mexico,
and the back goes all the way to Prudhoe Bay. That's the Golden Gate out
this window and Chesapeake Bay out that one. If you're in the neighborhood,
please stop by for a cup of coffee.
Yours
from the road,
Mark & Megan
