|
|
Perhaps not such a noir-ish account... for once. Road trips are a staple of life for me. Not the cram-the-tailgate march for the paycheck... but the grab-the-camera, fill the cooler and the flailed atlas kind. Find a road and destination unknown. I'd read an article in the Post, weeks ago, describing Monterrey, VA as the "Switzerland of Virginia," going on about the Maple Festival (maple trees=syrup). Glowingly related scenic adjectives coming from DC journalists looking to make good copy don't usually arouse my interest. Neither does the thought of festivals of any description... and when you exhaust the subject (syrup-candy-edible underthings), it all becomes an excuse to sell Garfield-painted woodcrafts, cell phone subscriptions, and bales of suffocating potpourri, and promote clogging as entertainment, dunnit? That isn't the stuff of my dreams. Jaw-dropping scenery, neglected neon signs, the odd names that are forever associated with places on the map, and twisty sports car highways... now THAT gets the go-pedal foot itchy. Plus, the beach (despite the charms of seafood and the wonders of Aphrodite) is an absolute clusterfuck on Fourth Of July weekend. Gotta be mountains. Monterrey... a Mexican name. Highland County... sounding Scottish. A chunk of the state that sits like a lonely blip on the western border ... and could so easily have been surveyed into West Virginia. Mysteries. And, so... fresh roll of 35mm Portra, full tank of gas (and thanks to Hank, the SAAB turbo owner who clued me into the heater control fix), and a late start. The road calls. After a brief stop at my mother's home (after her first-ever call for cash, to refill her empty well in the Sahara that the Piedmont has become), Miss Jane in tow (Wayne Hancock's lyrics "my baby's just a tagalong" describing perfectly), it's time to ascend. A killer day of radio... 80's angst turning to reggae (Scottie B's turn, this week) until the encroaching hills shred the signal to white noise. Then Porter Wagonner troubadors us along the blue highway of 250 West... through the traffic morass that is Friday Charlottesville, reducing the hill country landscape to hazy patchwork on the climb up the Blue Ridge. Passing the prairie-style homes of Waynesboro, and twining through the one-way maze of provincial Staunton the asphalt rose, the heat dissolved, and a subtle crispness insisted itself through the open windows. The mountains crept nearer to the highway and the polished boulders in the "river" alongside... flashback to the Cascades and Rockies. A corridor of rock, and the white lines. Leading to the Mother Of All Sports Car Roads. From Churchville (a sobering spot) to the end, Jah provided the most outrageous thirty miles of switchbacks and glimpses of wave-upon-wave of steep undulation... like this part of the world pretended it would challenge the ocean and make tidal waves... and froze that way. Curves so steep and snaky that you almost had to come to a halt before launching through the apex and flooring it to keep the rhythm. Where's my MINI now, or the Cortina? Dreaming about this. Down into Monterrey (yes, it's name taken from the city in Mexico, after Zachary Taylor's exploits... whose heirs own most of my hometown) for the breather. And, yes, Switzerland is a good comparison. Souvenirs? Diner food at Maple's Restaurant (whatever else?)... when faced with dining choices, always go for the place with the faded neon fish on the roof. The flaking ex-grandeur of the Cox Hardware store sign. Glam architecture that no one can afford to build anymore, or whose concepts evade the present designers. The best frame caught for the day: Background... back in the day in Maryland, PCP (the crippler of a generation's braincells) was referred to as "green." A party, years ago, left me with schemes of manslaughter when an asshole passed some around, unannounced. Therefore, I have no appreciation. But not according to the sign in Fishersville. There, the passersby are told, "Scotto's On The Green." Or so it appears atop the metal columns. Miles of miles. Towns undiscovered. A constant stream-of-consciousness from my tireless vocal chords, passing over my "navigator," who meditates silently to a religion of which I have no knowledge. But beauty is there. Sights to behold. Curves to conquer. Winnegabos to smoke. And another day to search them out. _________________________________________________________________ Totally unrelated: Ever heard of Anne Rice's Interview With The Vampire? I hear she's working on a new project, Interview With The Mummy. Chapter One: "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm." Chapter Two: "Mmmmmmm... MMMMMMMMmmm!" The End. Shoulda asked him to unwrap, first |
|
|
