It’s been some time since that last mile of our trip, but the memory of roads traveled, places explored, and people met has yet to fade. Whenever I get the chance, I retell those stories of the trip to curious listeners. It’s great to see their faces and hear their reactions as I get to relive those ‘glory days’ of the Fall of 2005.

Currently, I am living and working in Washington D.C. I like what I am doing and I am learning a great deal. It’s no roadtrip though. Nothing really is. However, if you can’t be travelling at your whim and have to settle in one place for a little bit, D.C. is a good place to be. A leaf in the wind has to fall down somewhere, I guess. Well, for however long it may be, I am enjoying this first chance at making a home away from home.

Whenever I get the opportunity, I try to take in the intricacies of our nation’s capital. I often walk along some State-named Avenue like Pennsylvania, Florida or Wisconsin, and think back to all the places we went to and all the experiences we had. That always brings a smile to my face and a lot of times a good chuckle, and for that I am forever grateful.

Sometime in the not too distant future, I look forward to catching another sunrise at Cadillac Mountain in Maine, and taking the first step into another adventure. The wind will pick up again. I am sure of that.

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Oh yeah, I’m off to Alaska in in three weeks. That’ll make 50.

Adventures never truly end. They just keep growing larger in the memory bank. I’m sure going to enjoy retelling our tales for all who want to hear. Thank you to everyone who has helped along the way. Though I might not remember you’re name, I’ll remember your face and I’ll remember your place. America truly is textured beautifully, filled with all sorts of interesting people. I encourage everyone to go out and explore it. Take to the road.

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I’ve been asked a couple of times what ‘good joss’ means. Well, I really can’t articulately define it. I’ve intended for it to be a good luck/cheers/karma type word but also something else. Technically, I think ‘joss’ is a Chinese idol of sorts, but it doesn’t really mean that to me. There’s more of a story behind it. When I was born out in California , we had a boat named Joss and chocolate lab named Joss . It’s largely because my Dad took a liking to James Clavelle’s book Taipan and ‘joss’ is mentioned in it.

So one day up in some port of the Pacific Northwest my Dad came across an old, salty wood-carver. My Dad thought that a wood carving emblazoned with the boat’s name would be a good ornament up on the captain’s deck. He asked the woodcarver the price and he replied $10. My Dad thought that was a good deal (probably priced too modestly for such hand-crafted work), so he proposed a deal. They’d flip a coin. If it came up heads, the woodblock would be $20 and if it landed tails, it would be free. They flipped and it landed tails. Now the whole time my Dad never intended to get this carving for free, he just wanted to make the day more interesting. So he reached in his pocket to offer $20 to the carver. The man refused and said that his word is well more valuable than any money. With that, he gladly carved the woodblock and gave it away for free. We still have the block to this day.

Long story short, it’s people like the salty woodcarver who we’ve been fortunate enough to meet along our way. To me, good joss is kind of a salute to all those people and the places they live.

It’s been a grand adventure.

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Yesterday morning at around 12:30 am, we drove from Charlotte to Durham. Three uneventful hours later, we pulled into a large wooded RV park and tried to find a place to park. That probably took another half-hour. When I finally went to bed, it was raining hard and cold. I woke up a few hours later and it was still raining and cold. In my gut, I got the feeling that it was just going to be one of those days.

Because we got in so late, we hadn’t paid for our stay yet, so we drove up to the front office of the park to settle our balance. Standing outside in the pouring rain was a man of Asian descent. He had big workman’s boots on and was fully decked out in camouflage gear. He was barely pushing five feet and sported a mustache and a wide grin. I walked up to him, hopping from puddle to puddle, and asked where I could pay. He told me he’d take care of it. That’s how I met Pham, the owner of the RV park. He was a gregarious fellow, with a heavy Vietnamese accent who laughed aloud a lot. I was sure if I just spent a little time with him, I’d get a good story or two.

In between paying for our stay and getting Harvey filled up with propane and water, I learned a decent amount about Pham. His papa started the RV park and handed it down to him. Pham told me that a great many of the more permanent residents at the park are Duke Hospital patients waiting for a transplant or in between cancer treatments. That quickly put the rainy day in perspective.

After graduating from high school, Pham served as a sniper in the Vietnam War. He told me he fought with the Americans and killed thousands of men. All the while, he mimicked throwing a hand grenade in a hole or jumping out of a plane. He then explained how after the war, he left Vietnam on a packed boat. Pham suffered through no food or water for three weeks just to reach America. That definitely put things in perspective.

Pham told me that he’s traveled a fair deal around America, but his favorite place to have good cheap fun is Mexico. He also likes Bourbon Street. I asked him if he was a fan of Duke basketball. He laughed and replied, “no. It’s just a game.”

Sopping wet, I thanked Pham, and boarded Harvey. I won’t soon forget him.
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When we reached Duke, we decided to play some hoops. We found an open court next to Cameron Indoor Stadium and played some two on two. All through the game, the Duke men’s basketball players walked in and out. I’m sure they got a kick out of our unique playing styles and hopefully maybe even learned a thing or two. After the game Coach K himself walked by. We exchanged mutual head nods and then I walked outside.

It was rainy and cold and just one of those days, but it wasn’t that bad at all.

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I woke up in the Buckhead section of Atlanta, not having gotten much sleep the night before. I pulled myself out of bed and plugged in the address for the Georgia Aquarium into Harvey’s GPS system. The aquarium, which opened on November 23rd has received high acclaim. After waiting in line, then going through metal detector security checkpoints I entered the aquarium solo, eager to get a glimpse at the 120,000 fish or so. I walked past the information center, around a turn and stepped into a great cavernous hall filled with people of all ages, sizes and colors. At the far end was a huge dining hall, and the sides were flanked by exhibits named ‘Walk with the Giants,’ ‘Tropical Diver,’ and ‘Georgia’s Sea Coast.’ I explored all the exhibits and saw some of the biggest (Whale shark) and smallest fish in the ocean. There were also Beluga whales, sea otters, penguins, Nemo-eqsue fish, an octopus, huge Japanese spider crabs and a lot more. Did you know that of the 600 fresh water fish species in America, 450 can be found in the Mississippi River. Huck Finn had quite the assortment to thrown a line at.

Overall, I was impressed but not awed by the aquarium. No matter how well funded or how well it mimics natural habitat, feeding schedule and water temperature, there is just something more powerful about seeing a creature in nature.
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We left Atlanta and drove north to Nashville, Tennessee. We slipped slightly west, went back in time and crossed into the Central Time Zone. A couple of hours later, we explored Downtown Nashville. The first thing I noticed was that the skyline is dominated by a building (The Bell South) that looks straight out of Gotham. It has such a strong resemblance that local Vanderbilt students refer to it as the Batman Building. That’s something I didn’t expect to see in the country music capital of the world.

At Robert’s, we took front row seats for the Don Kelley Band. They played an assortment of country and blue grass. We heard some good tunes and some great country music lyrics. Something like: ‘My right foot is dry and my left foot is soggy with dew because my boot has a hole in it’ and other great lines like that. I especially enjoyed the upright bass player who simultaneously smacked away at his strings and bobbed his head.

At one musical interlude, I overheard a conversation in which a girl said, ‘I really like it here.’ I thought hard for a moment about that statement, then completely blanked because I couldn’t remember where ‘here’ was. I guess that’s what happens when it’s your 43rd state in a row. Traveling around the country from state to state you kind of throw aside the sense of place that one feels in a familiar town and you embrace the unfamiliar as the only constant. For that brief blanked-out moment, for all I knew we could have been in Anywhere, U.S.A. I guess to expand, America is a great and diverse nation, regionally specific for sure, but every once in awhile if you let your mind slip, all you know is that you’re in America and nowhere else, but other than that, you have no clue. I think that’s a good thing. That’s the underlying pulse of America.
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Oh yeah, and the Giants won in overtime. So long from NashVegas.

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We left Hattiesburg, Mississippi and drove south and east along route 49. Our next port of call: Mobile, Alabama. Along the way we made a couple of stops.

Our first stop was the Route 49 Flea Market. I thought maybe we could find a cool southern trinket to take back with us to the northeast. However, once I stepped inside, I wasn’t too impressed with what was for sale. One thing did catch my attention though. Somewhere, down a nearby aisle, were the yelps of dogs. From the sounds of it, they were little dogs. I didn’t know why so many dogs would be in such a concentrated area of the flea market, so I followed the noise. I didn’t expect to see what I saw, but then again, we were at a flea market in Mississippi. Next to a hunting knife booth and t-shirts that exclaimed ‘Southern by the grace of GOD’ were small cages that housed little puppy Chihuahuas. One in particular caught my eye. He was grey, but according to the lady, he was a rare ‘blue’ Chihuahua. She took him out of the cage and handed him to me. The little fella clung on to my shirt and wouldn’t let go. Now I have never really wanted a Chihuahua nor did I stop at the market with the intention of getting a dog, but I just have a hard time seeing dogs caged up like that. I think most people do. So, I came awfully close to buying that guy and taking him with us, but eventually cooler heads prevailed. I think it was the right decision at the time. We’ll see if any more needy dogs come along the way before we get home.

Our second stop was the town of Wiggins, Mississippi. We didn’t stay too long, but we did eat at the Whistle Stop Café right in front of the train station. When leaving the restaurant, I called back to Wiggins (Matt) for the keys to Harvey, and nearly half the restaurant turned around. I got a kick out of that.

Our last stop before Mobile was Biloxi, Mississippi. We parked Harvey at a local church and walked toward the shore. We were greeted by a gentle off shore gulf breeze that made it difficult to truly understand the rubble and debris that lay before us lining the coast.

Biloxi was one of the worst hit places by Katrina. What once were gulf-front casinos and apartment buildings were now hardly recognizable. The Hard Rock Café guitar was unplayable- all of its strings were broken. One dilapidated, yet accessible, building warned in spray paint: Danger. Enter At Own Risk.

I walked inside and heard the clink of what sounded like wind chimes that turned out to be broken metal pipes hanging from the ceiling. I then walked out onto pier and interrupted a gathering of some seagulls and pelicans. I wonder whether they were talking about what had happened to their town over these last couple of months. I’m sure they’ve noticed the impacts. I left the birds alone and headed back to Harvey. We left Biloxi and were again in awe of the power of Mother Nature.

We arrived in Mobile with a couple of hours of daylight to spare. (side note: Alabama has my favorite license plates in the Nation. Their motto is ‘Stars Fell On’ and then underneath is says Alabama). We dropped Adam off at a local law firm to profile Will Grayson, a young, southern, defense attorney and left to drive around town. We drove under old, and large overhanging live oak trees wrapped in some kind of moss. We passed wide-open antebellum porches complete with rocking chairs and swinging benches. We ate fried seafood baskets at the Original Oyster House and took in a gentle southern breeze. All in all, we were in no rush to leave Mobile.

Tiger Yellow Apple Pear enjoyed itself in Sweet Home Alabama.

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I woke up in Houston, Texas sore. The night before, just before midnight, I had gone to the gym for first time all trip. I worked out with Mike Castillo, a stout U.S. marine who was recently back from Iraq. While I was profiling Mike, he put me through a good military regimented lift. It was quite tough and my body felt the worse/better for it. In the locker room after the lift, my arms shook so much that I could hardly take my shirt off. As I write this now, my arms are still sore and typing is less than ideal. That workout was one I won’t soon forget. I feel like now I don’t have to workout until 2009.
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We left Houston and headed east. Soon we left Texas behind and crossed the border into Louisiana. In light of Katrina, I stared intently out the window for signs of her/its devastation. As we approached New Orleans, I spotted numerous indications from the roadside that hinted at the storm. There were piles of woody debris strewn about in bunches, green highway exit signs twisted and contorted in all kinds of ways and billboards were, well, missing boards

In New Orleans on I-10 East there were noticeable signs that something was amiss. The SuperDome, the bubble that dominates the New Orleans skyline, had a huge white patch on its gray exterior shell. Brick apartment buildings had severely damaged roofs, palm-like trees were uprooted and tilting at unnatural angles.

We finally parked Harvey in the Warehouse District and took to walking the streets. We walked down to the French Quarter and along Bourbon Street. I saw shirts on sale that exclaimed “I survived Katrina and all I got was this lousy shirt.” Or one with a picture of a bull on the toilet captioned by big bold letters that spelled FEMA. It was only 6:30 pm, and despite all the hotels, shops, bars, and restaurants, Bourbon was eerily empty. Of the few people we did pass by, many donned police uniforms. Walking down a street notorious for debauchery, we didn’t see anyone else our age. As for the pastel painted French influenced buildings, there wasn’t too much noticeable damage. But then again, I knew the French Quarter was one of the least hit parts of the Big Easy.

We finished the night by eating a good burger at a famous local establishment called The Port of Call. We then listened to some jazz at the Maple Leaf Club and then called it a night.

I went to bed confused. I knew this city just had a major catastrophe, but I hadn’t seen it yet. I only saw some signs here and there. Little did I know that I hadn’t even scratched the surface. I was looking in all the wrong places.

The next day, what I saw in East New Orleans, and especially the Lower Ninth Ward would prove to be unimaginable.

That said, the people of New Orleans are awful friendly and have already proven resilient.

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Yesterday, we woke up in Amarillo, Texas and drove east towards Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. The drive was quite flat and for the first time in awhile, the sky was gray. Nevertheless, I was excited to get to see Oklahoma. All I knew of it was either written in The Grapes of Wrath, performed in the namesake musical, or from watching the Sooner football team.

Our first stop in Oklahoma City was The Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum. This year, marks its 50th anniversary. The architecturally elaborate museum houses paintings, sculptures and all sorts of artifacts from cowboy and Native American culture. With wing upon exhibition wing, the museum is the ultimate artistic introduction to the Wild West. For us though, it served as a conclusion, for we were coming back from west and had our own experience with which to compare. It was still a worthwhile stop.

I wish I had more time to explore all the wings, but we got to the museum only 45 minutes before closing time. Rather than spread myself too thin trying to take it all in, I focused the majority of my time on a temporary exhibit featuring Gene Zesch’s clay cowboy caricatures. Each miniature clay sculpture depicts the way of the cowboy and his ranch life. Zesch though, sculpts with a humorous touch. For example, one caricature has a cowboy speaking with a bank loan officer. The cowboy is holding five spade playing cards representing a royal flush. The caption reads, ‘Collateral.’ Another has two unhappy and underfed cowboy/horsepackers huddled together, shivering under a cold dark sky. They’re reading a magazine about vacation getaways. The caption has one cowboy saying to the other, ‘Says here, people pay money to do this.’ Lastly, my favorite has a rancher out in an open grassy field standing next to his horse . The horse happens to be tangled up in barbed wire fence. The caption below has the cowboy asking, ‘See, is the grass that much greener?’

One museum piece that left a lasting memory was a wall-hanging of a traditional Navajo quilt. The quilt was knitted in Navajo pattern and colors but had at its centerpiece, the Twin Towers. The quilt was knit by a Navajo lady in memory of 9/11. If any American city could possibly relate to the enormous tragedy that was September 11th, 2001, it would be Oklahoma City. On April 19th, 1995 at 9:02 am, the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building was bombed and 168 people lost their lives. The Oklahoma City National Memorial, located where the Federal Building formerly stood, is designed with a simple elegance. Much of the granite used in the Memorial was salvaged from the wreckage. The entrances to Memorial on the east and west end are called the Gates of Time. The East Gate represents 9:01 am (a time of innocence), while the West Gate represents 9:03 am (a changed time forever). Between the Gates is a shallow running reflection pool that reflects much of the Memorial. As a tribute, people often dip their hands in the water and leave their handprints on one of the gates. Neighboring the pool, on the exact spot where the Federal Building used to stand are 168 bronze, stone, and glass empty chairs. The chairs represent those that were killed and each has someone’s name etched on it. There are 149 large chairs and 19 smaller chairs. The smaller chairs represent children. The chairs glow and seem float above the ground. If you catch them at the right time, you can see them reflect in the pool.

The Memorial allows visitors to pay tribute, reflect, be educated yet still wonder why. It serves a great purpose in that it’s soothing. It also serves a great purpose in that it is frightening reminder. By being built on the same spot that ten years ago was the site of complete devastation and horror, one can never forget.

Here are the words of the Memorial Mission Statement that were the cornerstone in shaping the design and development of the Memorial:

WE COME HERE TO REMEMBER THOSE WHO WERE KILLED,
THOSE WHO SURVIVED AND THOSE CHANGED FOREVER.
MAY ALL WHO LEAVE HERE KNOW THE IMPACT OF VIOLENCE.
MAY THIIS MEMORIAL OFFER COMFORT,
STRENGTH, PEACE, HOPE AND SERENITY.

That it did.

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In light of the recent release of the fourth Harry Potter movie, here is an interesting observation from the road. It occurred in San Diego. We parked Harvey on a side street and lo and behold, smack dab in middle of the bumper of the car in front of us was a sticker that said “Voldemort: Republican for Senate.” I immediately laughed. I wasn’t sure if this was a serious campaign sticker or a joke. If anyone is familiar with Harry Potter, I’m sure that you see the humor in this. If you don’t get the reference, read the books.
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This past Monday, we rolled out of bed and drove among snow-covered peaks to downtown Aspen, Colorado. We were going there to be interviewed by a local television station. We met the production team at a coffee shop and started filming. We were asked all sorts of questions about the project. Here’s one I remember: “Is being a photojournalist comparable to being a fly-fishing guide?” I replied yes, but didn’t have a completely lucid explanation. I said something about patience and adaptability or something. It caught me off guard. The camera guy then made us walk across the street as naturally as possible back and forth a couple of times. All in all, it was definitely interesting being the interviewee as opposed to the interviewer. It provided good perspective. For now though, I prefer to be behind the camera.

We left Aspen and headed east on I-70 across northern Colorado. We turned off the interstate and jumped on Route 6, and then Route 93. 6 and 93 were darker, steeper, and more fun than the interstate. Just around 7 pm we arrived in Boulder and met our good buddy Parker. He took us to a local microbrew where I ordered burritos that were huge, packed with all sorts of stuff, and smothered in green chile. They were definitely concocted to dominate human stomachs.

Later that night we interviewed Parker’s buddy Alan. He’s asuper-laid back kid who clearly beats to his own drum. Very intelligent, very informed, and very into meditation. Parker calls him a 21st century merry prankster.

That’s about it. Before I go, I’d just like to reiterate how thankful I am for the opportunity to have seen so much of the country and to have met so many Americans. It’s already been a trip well worth it. 1 more month/16 more states to go.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Two days ago, we woke up in San Diego and jumped into the Pacific Ocean blue. The water was flat and chilly but felt great. Half an hour later, we hopped in Harvey, destination: Las Vegas. The drive wasn’t the breeze we planned it to be. Traffic somewhere between the sprawl of San Diego and L.A. forced us to inch northeast at a snail’s clip. What should have been a five-hour trip, took us probably double. We at last reached the dark Nevada desert, and after a ten-day stay, left California (the homeland) behind.
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Although, I had already been to Las Vegas once before, it was still hard to imagine a city thriving in such terrain. Soon though, those infamous neon lights beckoned from the horizon. The Luxor pyramid beamed its blue light up toward the heavens, and various flickering bulbs danced this way and that. The most notorious man-made oasis in the world was ready for us.

We drove Harvey down Las Vegas Boulevard, known more commonly as The Strip. We passed legendary casinos like Caesar’s Palace, MGM Grand, Mandalay Bay and The Bellagio. Near Circus Circus we found a good parking spot backlit by neon luminosity. Like the swingers we wished we were, we dressed our finest, fixed our hair best we could, and strolled chests puffed out toward the strip.

For such a renowned city, Vegas seemed pretty quiet, or maybe I was just expecting it to be louder. Most everyone must have been inside gambling, drinking, eating or possibly watching mud wrestling and/or bikini bull riding.

From afar, the casinos look magnificent, but once you got up close, you realize that they’re not particularly… real. The lagoon rocks in front of Treasure Island are plastic, the pillars adorning the entrance to Caesar’s Palace are hollow, and just about everything else is fantasy fake. I guess that’s part of the appeal of it. Walking the strip you transcend place and time, just not authenticity. You can walk under the Eiffel Tower at Paris, then cross the street and salute the Statue of Liberty at New York New York. You can visit Camelot at Excalibur, walk with pharaohs at Luxor, or experience the Wild West at Binions Horseshoe. No matter if you like Vegas or hate it, you can’t deny that there is no other place in the world like it.

It was a most mystical night

True story. Before leaving Harvey, I reached into my pocket and realized I had a single quarter. I was about to drop it into the change drawer, when for some reason I decided not to. I walked toward the strip and forgot about it. At our first casino while I was waiting outside the bathroom for the guys, I noticed a miniature racetrack, with miniature mechanical horses. Being a fan of horseracing, I did some further investigation. Basically, you put a quarter in and then pick which two horses, out of five, will come in first and second. It’s called a quinella. Now the odds of getting it right are 2/5 for the first horse to come in 1st or 2nd and a 1/4 for the second horse to come in either 1st or 2nd. If you do the math the combined odds are 10 to 1. That didn’t bother me and for some unknown reason I picked the 1 and 5 horse. The 1 horse jumped out to a good start, but the 5 horse lagged far behind the pack. I saw my odds falling with every mechanical gallop. Suddenly, in one of the best comebacks in racing history, the 5 horse, swift as the wind, stormed back and finished a solid second behind the 1 horse. I had won. I had won in Vegas. I hit the pay me button and the machine spit out two quarters. What? I had 10 to 1 odds and all I got was a lousy quarter. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it.

A couple of hours later, while walking around The Tropicana I spotted this one corner slot machine that was red, white and blue and called something like The Great American Slot Machine. I had never played slots in my life but for some unknown reason decided I should give it a shot. I remembered the quarter in my pocket and dropped it in the machine. I pulled the lever and when it finished spinning wild, 7, wild came up. I didn’t know what that meant but soon quarters started spilling, clickity clank, out of the machine. When I left to redeem my quarters, the lady gave me $50.25. Not bad for one quarter. True story.

Triple 7’s

We stayed up the rest of the night and went to bed just as the sun was rising. The Vegas sunrise was far different from our first at Acadia. All in all, I experienced nearly all the casinos on the strip and had a good time. Come morning though, I was ready to leave. I needed a shower. I still do have some quarters left in my pocket but I feel like they could be better spent in a new place.

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Last night I hung out with my good ol’ childhood buddy Jason. We recounted tales of memorable basketball games, lake exploration, weeklong snow days and everything else that the kid in every man holds dear. It’s great to be back in touch with Jason because we had slowly drifted apart since he left to go to a different high school. A good friendship lost and regained is a blessing. Jason is living in San Jose with his girlfriend Annie. Her parents have a nice place way up on a high hill in San Francisco. They let me crash on the couch and the next morning I woke up to a panoramic view of San Francisco. After breakfast and saying goodbye, I drove out to Alamo to meet up with the guys at Matt’s grandfather’s house. Thank you to the Turner/Russell family for their gracious and warm hospitality.
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We left Alamo around mid-day destination: Salinas. I was excited. Salinas is one of the places in America that I checked off early in the project.’ John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors and Salinas and neighboring Monterey are his hometown stomping grounds that he forever immortalized. His vivid imagery is taken directly from the features of this place. When we reached downtown Salinas, I asked the first guy I saw if he liked Steinbeck. The guy was from Salinas and told me, “Not really. I don’t enjoy Steinbeck’s ‘doom and gloom’ style or his symbolism. The house he grew up in is two blocks down though.”

Just after arriving, we were met by a nice lady named Shelly, who was a friend of a friend of a friend. Shelly took us to he took us to the National Steinbeck Center. The Center is divided into two parts. One half is on Steinbeck, his life, and his works. The other half is on the agriculture of Salinas Valley. Both were interesting, but I spent the majority of time on the Steinbeck side. However, if Steinbeck himself were at the museum, I probably wouldn’t have seen him. There is little doubt in my mind which side Steinbeck would have visited.

In 1962 Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize for Literature. As a result, he was inevitably highly criticized this way and that. Unfortunately, after 1962, he wrote no more fiction.

The criticism didn’t stop Steinbeck entirely from writing. Travels With Charley is one of his most adored works. It’s about Steinbeck and his poodle Charley’s adventures across American during the Civil Rights era. They traveled in a converted truck named Rocinante (after Don Quixote’s horse). Travels, along with a couple of others books, was great inspiration for doing this project. The last exhibit on the Steinbeck side was a Dartmouth green painted Rocinante. I stood in awe. It wasn’t a replica, it was the actual truck. Steinbeck drove, slept and ate in this. I asked a fellow onlooker what he thought the truck was made of. I asked, just so I could reach over the protective glass and touch Rocinante without drawing attention to myself. I then walked around the back and peered in. The bed Steinbeck used was a fold down table, the same kind we have in Harvey.

Before leaving, I bought a paperback version of Steinbeck’s: America and American’s. I am excited to see what the man has to say.
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We left Salinas and drove down Coastal Route 1. It was breathtaking. Everyone should do it once, if they can. It reminded me of our first drive to Acadia, except with barbed wire and steep cliffs.

Harvey and Rocinante should hang out sometime.

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