Could it really be? Could this really be the end of the mindless journey we set out upon almost six days ago? I wish I could say the trip ended with a roar, but unfortunately, the final leg was more of a whimper than we expected.
The western half of Virginia is the skinniest part of Virginia, meaning we were not on the road very long before we careened in to the home of Pitt's rival: West Virginia. The first thing we noticed was mountains; undoubtedly the largest we had seen in several states. It looked like the chorus of "God Bless America" no matter where we went.
Our first stop led us to Beckley, a small but dense town in the southern swing of West Virginia. After taking the exit ramp, I phoned my Grandma and asked for her recommendation on the best place to eat in Beckley. Granted, IHOP looked comparable to the other fine establishments in Beckley, but we nonetheless decided to press on. Around this time, I began trying to persuade Marc to take exit 47 to the local casino, knowing that table games were legal in West Virginia. Apparently, we stumbled into the Bermuda Triangle of West Virginia, and watched as exit 46 quickly evaporated into exit 48 without warning. My wallet thanked me as we headed to the next eatery.
The road north through West Virginia is - in comparison to others we had seen - a scenic route. Indecisive topography made for decisive photography, and we would have been crazy to pass on such miraculous sights. A quick detour led us to the second largest arch bridge in the country. Words can not do it justice, so I'll let you decide if the stop was worthy of a blog post:
As we passed through nameless town after nameless town, we eventually came across a quaint little strip of strip mall to our left. My stomach gurgled and quickly persuaded us to stop.
I never thought I would find authentic Mexican food in West Virginia, but given the circumstances so far, it really did not seem so far out of the ordinary. We took a quick exit aka left turn in to a strip mall directly off the interstate. We opened the door to La Carretta, which is Spanish for "delicious Mexican restaurant where the only other patron is a young mother with four screaming kids" (source: Wikipedia). I was skeptical, right up until the point where a God-gifted hostess led us to our table.
I ordered a plate of crispy chimichangas, and Marc ordered a plate of random Mexican ingredients aka fajitas. The great thing about Mexican food is this: the ingredients pretty much stay the same, while the mix of these ingredients changes with each dish. After almost no time, my two cylinders of deliciousness arrived. They were packed with steaming beef tips and covered in a bevy of quacamole, queso sauce, sour cream, and lettuce. I barely blinked before I deposited every morsel on my plate in to my eager stomach. Marc followed suit. It seemed almost rude not to.
What else was there? After such a good meal, the rest of the trip seemed like a bleak, foregone conclusion. I secretly hoped for a casino that never came. Believe it or not, there are no casinos between the southern half of West Virginia and the northern half, at least via the interstate (further research revealed several "really?" locations, none of which were blatantly advertised). Green signs flew through the rear view mirror until finally we reached our final state: Pennsylvania (sorry for the lack of state sign - I was slow on the trigger finger).
For the first time in the trip, I recognized our surroundings. I saw familiar road signs. I saw familiar surroundings. For the first time in the trip, I saw something I had seen before. It was miraculous that we had survived so much. The final stretch to Pittsburgh felt more like a victory lap than anything else. There would be no unnecessary road stops; there would be no random departures from the interstate. This was the last stretch of road before home, and frankly, it felt like the longest stretch of the trip. For the first time in the trip, we hit traffic. Hundreds of hesitant-to-drive-through-a-tunnel Pittsburghers stood between us and home.
It was here that I began to feel a strange feeling; something I had never expected to feel throughout the entire trip. In a word, I can only describe it as: roadsickness. I didn't want this to trip to end. I yearned for the road. I craved the uncertainty of an unfamiliar destination. I desperately sought a place where citizens looked at me as the stranger.
As Marc affixed the playlist to the most appropriately depressing songs he could find, we made our final trek in to Oakland. It had been a long, unforgettable trip. If I could describe it in one word; well, I can't. I'll save that for another post, for one word can not do it justice. I had just been on one of the greatest journeys of my life, and to try and sum it up in one word would be doing a terrible disservice to the adventurous spirit of all travelers of the world. I looked up at the Oakland sign and in that moment, I saw home.
At the same time, I saw the most unfamiliar place I had seen in seven days. I realized after traveling for six days with no plan, that my only home was the road. Roadsickness is a disease that never goes away. It stays with you until you make the next pitiful attempt to satisfy its unquenchable thirst. No number of untraveled miles will ever satisfy this thirst; however, the beauty of life is constantly trying to satisfy the unsatisfiable, while at the same time having absolutely no idea why the hell you are even trying.
I came, I saw, and I will never conquer, and that could not make me more happy.
Road is where the heart is,
CPS
