Armchair Adventures
as published April 29, 2012
in The Free Lance-Star
by Paul Sullivan
New Twists in the Old Road Trip
It was
drizzling when I set out solo from home for Arizona
recently. It looked like four days of grinding out the miles but-somehow-there
were many new places and faces to discover along the way.
The weather
gurus called for little more than scattered showers, yet-surprise,
surprise-it rained all the way to Kingsport, Tenn.,
where I met high school friend Jim Holston for dinner.
And when we
still hadn't solved all the world's problems over a meal, we reminisced some
more at his place on a scenic mountain near the city. We bid so-long just after
daybreak, Jim heading to Charlotte
for a car show and me hitting the road once more for Prescott,
Arizona.
East
Tennessee's hill country ranks right up there with the country's
finest scenery, to my way of thinking, but west of Nashville
on that state's long traverse to the Mississippi,
the land begins-gradually-to flatten out.
On day two,
the weather gods shone on my route, and by mid-afternoon I was rounding busy Memphis
on that storied town's bypass. I'd like not to always diss Memphis
like this, especially given its place in the world of jazz and history-two old
flames of mine.
There is a
certain discipline to this kind of solo drive. The idea is to divide up the
total miles into the total days you want to spend. That meant day two would be
the killer day of this effort.
Circuiting Tennessee's
River City
is a strange experience. One minute you're dodging crazy city drivers (DC makes
anyone expert at this); the next minute you're soaring out over the wide
expanse of the Mississippi River, passing beneath a big
banner: "Welcome to Arkansas."
If the Tennessee
side of the Mississippi retains a
gentle roll to the land, Arkansas
does not. The transition is abrupt, and you are in no doubt this place is
different as the car sails past mile-upon-mile of rice fields and bottomland
hardwood forest, all laced with quiet, winding rivers.
North
Little Rock was my minimal day two stop, but I hoped
to do better.
I've heard
folks say they didn't like Arkansas,
but then, they make jokes about West Virginia,
too, and I find enchanting beauty in those mountains.
Although I
had a GPS for this trip, it's impossible to
get lost. Once on I-40, stay on I-40 till I'm nearly at my Arizona
home. The GPS just counted down the miles.
It was dark
by the time I stopped in Clarksville, Ark.,
15 hours and 20 minutes and some 725 miles from Kingsport.
Just up the
hill from the motel was a little Italian place, Pasta Grill. It didn't appear
to be anything special but, I was starved. They were busy closing but welcomed
me, nonetheless. Restaurants, like books, should not be judged by appearances.
My simple meal of mushroom-and-onions spaghetti with a side salad and garlic
bread was as good as I've had.
Spaghetti,
so simple a child can prepare, yet doing it right remains strangely elusive for
so many. The difference between the child's and the master's is in the smallest
details, and the seasonings.
My server,
from Boston, as in Mass.,
was as good as the food. Clarksville,
she apologized, is dry, thus no chianti to complement my dinner.
No matter,
a good meal, delivered with smiles ends any day well.
Next week: Nukes amidst
the Sooners.
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