After traversing some 5000 miles in the last month on a quasi religious zig zag to the east coast of the US in search of the holy triumvirate of the all-American road trip; beer, cheese and a coastline city, the allure of the road is such that is has become somewhat of a compulsion.
Periods of stasis, ostensibly opportunties to relax, unpack, and sit around, give way to restlessness and displacement, a funk from which one can only emerge when back on the road again. In this motion, however, lies the most frustrating part of traveling as so much is left behind.
In a normal day at home it is so easy to run into different people and not lament their passing by, moving on in their own direction as you go in yours. When traveling, though, there is a constant tension of loss and adventure, the singular sadness of leaving somewhere or someone behind tempered by the knowledge that beyond them lies something else to see, to engage with and to experience. Each new vista offers new opportunities at the cost of those left behind, people and places, to borrow the words of Kerouac, "going in the opposite direction in this too-big world of ours."
As the tales accumulate in the wake of our transcontinental movement, memories softened by intervening days and glowing in the warmth of that special kind of newly-formed nostalgia, the bittersweet reflections of travel are easy to fall back into in the quiet moments between incontinent drinking and responsible driving.
Our visit to Indinanapolis fell somewhere in the latter, a mere blip on the radar as a stop off between Columbus after Chicago. Passive aggressive hostel staff and a surprisingly avant garde pizza were the barely-worth mentioning highlights of our visit before we went off to Columbus the next morning with no idea what to expect.
Chosen simply because of its convenient geographic positioning, Otto bemoaned our emergence from the car for a two day stop over in what he thought would be a real hole of a destination. We found our hostel owner looking exhausted and cleaning up the grimy bottom level of his housetel where two nights previous had been a party, the remnants of which still required cleaning. Matt, a graduate of the local college, OSU - a quiet campus of 65,000 undergraduates replete with its own football stadium (the front of which was modeled like a cathedral, take it as you will) a basketball stadium, wifi-connected gardens, and endless dorms, libraries, gyms (with virtual golf) - was a charming gentleman who took us on a guided tour of the city and the campus en route to get some lunch.
It was also in Columbus that I saw my first frat house, as there was a street full of them two blocks away from us. It was not surprising, then, that it was in Columbus we were able to get a small taste of the absurd American college life. Indeed, as we wandered around the city, every street gave way to student accommodation, with every porch occupied by college kids drinking bud light and playing beer pong, corn hole, or some other tawdry drinking game otherwise exclusively relegated to B grade movies in the imagination of the rest of the world. Most impressively, this was on a Monday.
Indeed, that night we went to a couple of bars with Matt, the first of which served $1 jugs of beer (a pitcher in the US - an issue which caused a long and confused discussion with the bar maid), and at the second of which one bought a plastic mug from the bar which could then be refilled at $1 for a 22 ounce refill. As a result, both of these reputable houses of business were packed to the gills with grossly inebriated college kids. On the down side, it was here that I also discovered that light beer makes me unbelievably gassy, but that is Kip and Otto's problem.
Most obvious in this seething mess of people, however, was the unique college cultural derivation, the bro. Distinctly cast in either beige cargo shorts and a polo, or basketball shorts and a college-brand t-shirt, with optional wrap around sunnies worn around the back of the neck, baseball cap (highly recommended), flip-flops (American style), and sub-standard facial hair. Found either with Bud Light in hand or transporting themselves from one game of beer pong to another in an open top Jeep, the bro is something that really must be experienced. To be honest, there isn't terribly much wrong with the bro, but the sheer volume of beer-swilling bro-fisting enthusiasm and worrying homogeneity of demeanour and appearance began to weigh heavy on my soul as we approached the 2am lockout. My enthusiastic observation of the crowd eventually led to a rather passionate table-top speech following my teaching of some eager listeners about the refined mechanics of the straight arm scull, after which I received blessedly little recourse.
Adventuring into the German quarter of town the next day, one much maligned by my German roommate who bemoaned the low quality Americanisation of his home-land classics, we sought out one of the many alleged best burgers of America at yet another of the houses first visited by Adam Richman. At such a point I must take a moment to take issue at the preponderance of 'world best's offered by the US, with seemingly every city having at least one or two purveyors of a meat product and self-proclaiming such a title. I cannot blame the small proprietors, though, as the centre-of-the-world attitude that goes hand in hand with such naive claims is far more culturally wrought than that. Indeed, one need look no further than the currently played NBA playoffs, with the eventual winner proudly proclaimed the "World Champions".
Notwithstanding this somewhat annoying trait of Americans, one cannot doubt their hospitality, with our hostel owner Matt inviting us to a bonfire with his friends that night. A keg of beer and banter followed by a trip to a bluegrass dive bar can really endear a city to a man's heart, and thus it is that Columbus, while no one seems to know about it - something its occupants lamented to me frequently - seems to win itself very readily to all. Indeed, I too must confess to being smitten by its tawdry charm.
Periods of stasis, ostensibly opportunties to relax, unpack, and sit around, give way to restlessness and displacement, a funk from which one can only emerge when back on the road again. In this motion, however, lies the most frustrating part of traveling as so much is left behind.
In a normal day at home it is so easy to run into different people and not lament their passing by, moving on in their own direction as you go in yours. When traveling, though, there is a constant tension of loss and adventure, the singular sadness of leaving somewhere or someone behind tempered by the knowledge that beyond them lies something else to see, to engage with and to experience. Each new vista offers new opportunities at the cost of those left behind, people and places, to borrow the words of Kerouac, "going in the opposite direction in this too-big world of ours."
As the tales accumulate in the wake of our transcontinental movement, memories softened by intervening days and glowing in the warmth of that special kind of newly-formed nostalgia, the bittersweet reflections of travel are easy to fall back into in the quiet moments between incontinent drinking and responsible driving.
Our visit to Indinanapolis fell somewhere in the latter, a mere blip on the radar as a stop off between Columbus after Chicago. Passive aggressive hostel staff and a surprisingly avant garde pizza were the barely-worth mentioning highlights of our visit before we went off to Columbus the next morning with no idea what to expect.
Chosen simply because of its convenient geographic positioning, Otto bemoaned our emergence from the car for a two day stop over in what he thought would be a real hole of a destination. We found our hostel owner looking exhausted and cleaning up the grimy bottom level of his housetel where two nights previous had been a party, the remnants of which still required cleaning. Matt, a graduate of the local college, OSU - a quiet campus of 65,000 undergraduates replete with its own football stadium (the front of which was modeled like a cathedral, take it as you will) a basketball stadium, wifi-connected gardens, and endless dorms, libraries, gyms (with virtual golf) - was a charming gentleman who took us on a guided tour of the city and the campus en route to get some lunch.
It was also in Columbus that I saw my first frat house, as there was a street full of them two blocks away from us. It was not surprising, then, that it was in Columbus we were able to get a small taste of the absurd American college life. Indeed, as we wandered around the city, every street gave way to student accommodation, with every porch occupied by college kids drinking bud light and playing beer pong, corn hole, or some other tawdry drinking game otherwise exclusively relegated to B grade movies in the imagination of the rest of the world. Most impressively, this was on a Monday.
Indeed, that night we went to a couple of bars with Matt, the first of which served $1 jugs of beer (a pitcher in the US - an issue which caused a long and confused discussion with the bar maid), and at the second of which one bought a plastic mug from the bar which could then be refilled at $1 for a 22 ounce refill. As a result, both of these reputable houses of business were packed to the gills with grossly inebriated college kids. On the down side, it was here that I also discovered that light beer makes me unbelievably gassy, but that is Kip and Otto's problem.
Most obvious in this seething mess of people, however, was the unique college cultural derivation, the bro. Distinctly cast in either beige cargo shorts and a polo, or basketball shorts and a college-brand t-shirt, with optional wrap around sunnies worn around the back of the neck, baseball cap (highly recommended), flip-flops (American style), and sub-standard facial hair. Found either with Bud Light in hand or transporting themselves from one game of beer pong to another in an open top Jeep, the bro is something that really must be experienced. To be honest, there isn't terribly much wrong with the bro, but the sheer volume of beer-swilling bro-fisting enthusiasm and worrying homogeneity of demeanour and appearance began to weigh heavy on my soul as we approached the 2am lockout. My enthusiastic observation of the crowd eventually led to a rather passionate table-top speech following my teaching of some eager listeners about the refined mechanics of the straight arm scull, after which I received blessedly little recourse.
Adventuring into the German quarter of town the next day, one much maligned by my German roommate who bemoaned the low quality Americanisation of his home-land classics, we sought out one of the many alleged best burgers of America at yet another of the houses first visited by Adam Richman. At such a point I must take a moment to take issue at the preponderance of 'world best's offered by the US, with seemingly every city having at least one or two purveyors of a meat product and self-proclaiming such a title. I cannot blame the small proprietors, though, as the centre-of-the-world attitude that goes hand in hand with such naive claims is far more culturally wrought than that. Indeed, one need look no further than the currently played NBA playoffs, with the eventual winner proudly proclaimed the "World Champions".
Notwithstanding this somewhat annoying trait of Americans, one cannot doubt their hospitality, with our hostel owner Matt inviting us to a bonfire with his friends that night. A keg of beer and banter followed by a trip to a bluegrass dive bar can really endear a city to a man's heart, and thus it is that Columbus, while no one seems to know about it - something its occupants lamented to me frequently - seems to win itself very readily to all. Indeed, I too must confess to being smitten by its tawdry charm.
No comments:
Post a Comment