Here to There.

"From there to here, from here to there,

funny things are everywhere."
- Dr. Seuss

I drove to San Antonio last night and I'm not sure why. There was no one waiting for me, no appointment scheduled, no race I had promised to run. I wasn't going to stay the night. I wasn't trying a new restaurant [as if I ever do]. There was nothing for me in San Antonio, but I drove there anyways.

I filled the truck up with gas at some point last night, perhaps 11 pm. There is something liberating about having a full tank of gas; knowing that you are here because you want to be, that you could be there or there or even there and the only reason you're here and not there is a choice you have made, and at any moment you can choose to re-choose and no one can stop you because you have the keys and a full tank of gas. It's liberating because you need passports and bookshelves and law degrees and staplers and masters degrees and work experience and competitive test scores and a 401k and therapy and Brita filters and internet and cable; yes, you need those things, but tonight, as the pump counts and there beckons, they don't matter and you don't need them, not now at least. All you need is there and a road. I stood in the night and watched the gas pump count higher and higher. When the pump was done counting, I started the truck and thought about there. I thought about it so much that I found myself on the highway heading south, the windows down, wind and music filling the car, headlights in front and Austin behind.

As I passed through New Braunfels, I enjoyed the quiet, and I was glad Joe wasn't in the car.

He would have been talking about:

1) The increasing suburbanization of America

2) The efficient and informative interstate highway system
3) Predatory lenders
4) As football coach, he would want an incredible defense, a great special teams, and a dynamic offense.
5) Words that rhyme with "schmeenus".
6) Uninformed sports opinions (i.e. praising the Donovan McNabb contract [yes, he actually did praise the Redskins for the massive contract they gave their now-second-string quarterback, while Yours Truly (and now practically every writer in the sports world) called it absurd]).

But he wasn't in the car so I didn't listen to any of that. I listened to a little Zepplin and a lot of Pink Floyd instead.

The miles passed and I stopped to take these photos:

I don't know why I stopped, but I did.

I chose San Antonio because it was south and I was heading south. That's it. I wasn't after a beautiful view [if I wanted that, I could just close my eyes and think about The Lake in Guatemala]. I just wanted to drive until I was tired, and I figured San Antonio would do it. So I drove, and enjoyed the paradoxical stillness that comes from moving at seventy miles-an-hour.

I got to San Antonio and drove around the downtown area. It was 1 am, so I found a parking spot and got out. I walked around until I saw the Alamo, and then took the requisite photos.

It was closed to the public, (especially Mexicans), but would open up tomorrow, though I wouldn't be there. There were lots of gifts shops and hotels and bars around, which felt strange, especially when you knew that men had died there.


(Though I do have an excellent idea for an Alamo-themed bar... You could have specialty drinks called Bowie Bombs and The Last Stand... And you could sell t-shirts to people who drank 10 Bowie Bombs or 5 Last Stands [they would be much stronger], and the shirts would say "I don't remember the Alamo"... Anyways).

I took the photos, read a few plaques and got in the truck and left.

On the drive back, my mind wandered, as it does when it is dark and you are driving. I looked at the massive highway lamps and thought about how I have no idea how electricity works. I don't know how a price-scanner reads a barcode (when I drove by a Target), how an engine really works (drove by a Ford dealership), I don't know how to sew/make shirts or pants (drove by Gap outlet), or how plastic water-bottles are made (drove by an REI). I kept driving and I still didn't know, and eventually I thought of other things.

The fog that prevented people in Austin from seeing the lunar eclipse was still in the air as I drove back in. The truck rumbled through it, perhaps proud of reaching the century club. And then I was home.

I unlocked my apartment and walked upstairs and brushed my teeth and lay down in my bed, thinking about electricity and pants and price-scanners and water-bottles, about Pink Floyd and Led Zepplin, about Brita Filters and 401ks, about the road, about there to here and here to there.