Note: Cross Country Journeys will be a series in which I record my version of Sarah Louise Olson, Beka Olson, and Rachel Olson's journey from the land of the humid and sweaty (aka New York) to the land of the drive-in movie theatres and the awesome Zen noodle soup, Cheesecake factory-style (aka Las Vegas, among other things). Apologies for spacey recollections and random interjected stories of other journeys. Our basic mission: reach LV without having died. Our more complicated mission: Get Sarah to reach all fifty states (her last being Arkansas) by her thirtieth birthday. Our route: mostly 1-40, down South. Our time limit: Monday of last week to Friday, July 23rd, 2010. Our question: Are both goals possible to complete? Our answer. YES. This is our story.
(This is what our house looks like when it's sunny outside. Okay, not really.)
On the day we left for Las Vegas, it rained and rained and rained for about an hour, and then stopped. The rest of the day was sunshiney and beautiful, but the rain had begun just in time for Mom and I to get soaking wet making our way back to the house. "One, two, three, go!" I yelled, as we sprinted from the Saturn into the downpour. Mom and I had been running errands - namely bringing triple chocolate Ghiradellis' chocolate brownies to my friend, Hertz, at his new house in Rockeville Centre.
I had been the proud driver through the venture, but obviously my mom was not impressed. Later, sitting in my soaking wet clothes, mom opened the door to the bathroom and handed me a little toy truck, completely yellow. The conversation went as follows:
Mom - "Rachel, I don't think you've played with toy trucks enough."
Rachel - "I don't understand. What are you trying to say?"
Mom - "Honey dear, your parking leaves a lot to be desired. [It's true. It does.] Now would be a good time to practice."
Although I can drive pretty well, have crossed the country twice, and joyfully plop into the front seat of the car, while (sweetly) asking, "Are you sure you don't want to drive?" to whoever is in the passenger's seat, it has become evident to many that a. I cannot park. and b. I cannot pull out a u-turn at will. These are deficiencies which I suppose mom believes will be fixed by visualization. Hence, the truck. (By the way, I think the brownies will be immensely enjoyed).
After Beka and I hurriedly packed our clothes and bathroom supplies for the cross country trek, we went out to face the car, yellow truck in my expectant hand. A dark blue, new, sports-ish car which Sarah had happily bought just days before sat in our driveway, waiting to be taken onto the open road. It soon became evident that the journey would be a squishy one. The entire car, save the driver's seat, the shotgun seat, and a cubicle-shaped seat in the second row, was filled to the brim with the contents of Sarah's life - baskets, clothes bins, suitcases, floating poker pool table, bike helmet nix bike - which is pretty miraculous, if you consider how much Sarah has consolidated her belongings.
(The car looks a little bit like this - sort of).
"Well, mom, I love you," I said, as I got into the passenger seat and staked out my territory. Dad had left for work earlier that morning, and wished us luck. Beka sat in the seat behind me, almost completely shielded from view behind two red suitcases and a large golden comforter. Work finished, Sarah slipped into the front seat, put the keys in the ignition, and started the car. Besides a quick stop to the public library for some books-on-tape and the post office for a drop-off, we were off into the midday sun, the sounds of Sarah's mix CD, triumphful, sweet, expectant, enveloping us in the songs of adventure. Our journey has begun.
P.S. Also, although I will try not to, in certain instances, and for dramatic effect, the tense of my recollections will change, as with the last line of Part One. "Our journey has begun" sounds way better than "Our journey began." Apologies. Though only sort of.
(This is what our house looks like when it's sunny outside. Okay, not really.)
On the day we left for Las Vegas, it rained and rained and rained for about an hour, and then stopped. The rest of the day was sunshiney and beautiful, but the rain had begun just in time for Mom and I to get soaking wet making our way back to the house. "One, two, three, go!" I yelled, as we sprinted from the Saturn into the downpour. Mom and I had been running errands - namely bringing triple chocolate Ghiradellis' chocolate brownies to my friend, Hertz, at his new house in Rockeville Centre.
I had been the proud driver through the venture, but obviously my mom was not impressed. Later, sitting in my soaking wet clothes, mom opened the door to the bathroom and handed me a little toy truck, completely yellow. The conversation went as follows:
Mom - "Rachel, I don't think you've played with toy trucks enough."
Rachel - "I don't understand. What are you trying to say?"
Mom - "Honey dear, your parking leaves a lot to be desired. [It's true. It does.] Now would be a good time to practice."
Although I can drive pretty well, have crossed the country twice, and joyfully plop into the front seat of the car, while (sweetly) asking, "Are you sure you don't want to drive?" to whoever is in the passenger's seat, it has become evident to many that a. I cannot park. and b. I cannot pull out a u-turn at will. These are deficiencies which I suppose mom believes will be fixed by visualization. Hence, the truck. (By the way, I think the brownies will be immensely enjoyed).
After Beka and I hurriedly packed our clothes and bathroom supplies for the cross country trek, we went out to face the car, yellow truck in my expectant hand. A dark blue, new, sports-ish car which Sarah had happily bought just days before sat in our driveway, waiting to be taken onto the open road. It soon became evident that the journey would be a squishy one. The entire car, save the driver's seat, the shotgun seat, and a cubicle-shaped seat in the second row, was filled to the brim with the contents of Sarah's life - baskets, clothes bins, suitcases, floating poker pool table, bike helmet nix bike - which is pretty miraculous, if you consider how much Sarah has consolidated her belongings.
(The car looks a little bit like this - sort of).
"Well, mom, I love you," I said, as I got into the passenger seat and staked out my territory. Dad had left for work earlier that morning, and wished us luck. Beka sat in the seat behind me, almost completely shielded from view behind two red suitcases and a large golden comforter. Work finished, Sarah slipped into the front seat, put the keys in the ignition, and started the car. Besides a quick stop to the public library for some books-on-tape and the post office for a drop-off, we were off into the midday sun, the sounds of Sarah's mix CD, triumphful, sweet, expectant, enveloping us in the songs of adventure. Our journey has begun.
P.S. Also, although I will try not to, in certain instances, and for dramatic effect, the tense of my recollections will change, as with the last line of Part One. "Our journey has begun" sounds way better than "Our journey began." Apologies. Though only sort of.
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