April 25, 2014

Like a Band of Gypsies

When I was 19, my best friend and I took a road trip across the desert. Our destination was Keystone, Colorado, a small ski town in the Rocky Mountains that I had visited often with my family growing up. We didn't have smart phones to help us get there, wifi (let alone clean towels, letsbehonest) at any of the motels, Facebook to tell all of our friends about our trip, Twitter to entertain us, or Pinterest to help us pack. We had a map or two that I picked up from the AAA Club, when car insurance included those perks, and MapQuest driving directions from Redondo Beach, California to Dillon, Colorado (because Keystone didn't come up in the search). We made mix cd's and packed a cooler of snacks. There was just enough room in my mom's car that she graciously let us borrow (No, we're simply not going to be as cool as our parents are) to fit my dog, Arthur, acoustic guitar, SLR camera, and a few rolls of film
We talked, about who knows what, for hours on end and stopped at all photographic points of interest. 


We took bathroom breaks at greasy truck stops and paid cash for weird motel rooms in tiny towns. 
When in doubt, barricade the door with all moveable furniture.
We hung out with the locals. 


But mostly we did something new, and exciting, and probably a little dumb but who has time to think about that? We trusted ourselves and each other, my mom's car and MapQuest, and set out on the first real adventure (our stay in a San Francisco hostel over spring break is a story for another time) of our young adult years. And I'd do it all again, though with slightly higher accommodation standards, in a heartbeat. 
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