So, I did.
NEW YORK CITY → ASHEVILLE, NC
DRIVE TIME: 12h 17min
RULES OF CONDUCT
Wear sunscreen, especially on left arm.
Call parents, assure them you are fine.
Stay hydrated.
Stick to the plan but try to allow room for spontaneity.
Do not listen to Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” Ever. Don’t even think about this song.
Try to find ways to move your body. Sitting in a car for 5–10 hours a day isn’t part of your health plan.
Try local fare, but don’t go NUTS.
Follow your gut.
Follow your gut into even the rest stop bathroom. Not shitting when you have to shit is bad news. Get it out of your system, like everything else.
Bring Purell.
Do not listen to Sia’s “Breathe Me.” If you must, do not be driving, especially not in a beautiful landscape. If you are, and it plays, do not by any means put your window down and picture your car driving through the expansive terrain from an aerial drone shot.
If Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” somehow plays by accident, immediately play “Nick of Time,” right after. You might be all right.
When in doubt, play Tom Petty.
No texting and driving.
Try not to work. This is your break. Try not to work.
If you do end up getting an idea, write it down, but for later, after the trip.
Don’t drive at night if you can help it.
Scope out hotel pools before going in. There are too many articles about kids shitting in hotel pools. Beware.
Learn one new word a day on the new app. Try to use in conversation.
Avoid becoming irascible by little things along the way. Take them as they come and move on.
Find silence wherever you can.
Don’t pull a Thelma and Louise.
ASHEVILLE BED & BREAKFAST
My main objective was to get as far away as soon as possible, so on day 1 of this solo journey outward and inward, I drove all the way to Asheville, North Carolina. Which, if you stop for lunch in Baltimore and briefly wander the blocks of your alma mater, is roughly a twelve-hour drive.
I landed at my bed-and-breakfast at about 10 p.m., and it was everything I had imagined: chimes hanging down from the Victorian carport, a massive veranda with multiple rocking chairs, and homemade sweets, kept fresh under Saran Wrap on the table in the foyer. It was old-fashioned, with wood finishes and cozy knickknacks the owners probably collected over the course of their life together. The friendly woman that was there late to meet me gave me my keys and showed me to my room. They were actual keys! A large, clunky, old-school key was for the front door, and another actual key was for my room—not one of those plastic electronic touch-cards that hardly ever work on the first try. So far, this was exactly like Gilmore Girls.
Gilmore Girls was my main reference point for bed-and-breakfasts—I’d never stayed in one, but I had heard Asheville was full of verandas, and that led me directly to my Sookie and Lorelai fantasy—I’d stay in a B&B! I can talk fast if I really try, and I already drink heaping amounts of coffee! This was what I needed—to be thrown into a house full of strangers, homemade jam, and, fingers crossed, an available rocking chair. I wondered what weird characters I’d run into while dodging those double swinging doors into the kitchen? Which type of produce would be overdelivered, forcing the chef to have to create an entire menu using only zucchini!? Which handyman was hooking up with which housekeeper? Would a mysterious package arrive and they’d have to figure out who it was for? Could it be for me!?
I never watched Gilmore Girls when it aired, I binged it on Netflix only a few years ago. It was that comforting fantastical nostalgia for the early 2000s that hooked me, the will-they-won’t-they between Lorelai and Luke—SIDENOTE, “will-they-won’t-theys” are always will-theys, right?! They will end up together. It’s exhausting, but we fall for it every time: “The timing for them just isn’t right…” or “they’re so great together, but she has to focus on work—makes sense.” But we know. We knew the whole time! If you’re in a real-life “will-they-won’t-they” scenario, are you aware of it? Do you think Ross-and-Rachel situations are happening all over the place? Maybe I should try to get in one of these will-they-won’t-theys? It seems way more dramatic than my everyday life, full of stolen glances, passionate handwritten apologies, and hours spent staring longingly out of windows as it rains outside. I hardly ever spend full hours staring out windows, but maybe I should. Maybe my Rachel or Ross is out there staring longingly thinking about me? Wow. Maybe my new confused and noncommittal romance will begin right here at this B&B…? Their dog could steal my shoe and I’d have to chase it around the property, or I’d choke on a hot zucchini croquette and they’d give me the Heimlich—so many meet-cute, will-they-won’t-they opportunities!
My room was the corner, at the top of the stairs, with a big bay window, a claw-foot tub, and creaky wooden floors that felt “authentic,” which, when dealing with floors, is important. Some wood floors, even though they are wood, are just bullshit, right? It’s like…these are fake? Someone has gone out of their way to make these floors seem wooden, and they might technically be, but you’re not fooling anyone. They’re dipped in plastic gloss and have been manufactured up the wazoo. Those wood floors are basically the equivalent of an Oreo being considered food. Yeah, I can ingest it, like food…but it ain’t the real deal. Long story short, the room was quaint and adorable. There were ample nooks and crannies filled with books about Asheville’s local history, recommendations on where to eat in town. A special-seeming chocolate was in a dish on the nightstand. I was so tired from the drive, I got in bed almost immediately, staring up at the painted vaulted ceiling—a mural of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was doing it, putting myself out there in this new interesting place. I fell asleep picturing the beautiful and impeccably stacked homemade blackberry scones in store for me tomorrow morning at breakfast. Or rhubarb. Or…both!
And with the first light of the morning sun—I shot up in bed:
MOTHERFUCKER!
They didn’t own and operate a bed-and-breakfast in Gilmore Girls, it was an inn! It was the Dragonfly INN!
What have I done?
Right. Bed-and-breakfasts aren’t where you go to be alone, or to make space and room in which to process what may or may not, later in life, be considered one of the most transformational years in your entire existence! No! You don’t do that. The mere mention of staying at a bed-and-breakfast makes some people uncomfortable—it did when I told them! It’s not like a hotel, it’s more intimate, friendlier, upbeat, and inviting. I wasn’t currently any of those things—what was I thinking? I don’t even like people that much. I prefer being left alone, I’m hit or miss with small talk, and awkwardly trying to make myself at home in a stranger’s house is close to being my worst nightmare. I don’t want to insert myself into the drama about the zucchini! What the fuck am I doing at a bed-and-breakfast?
Okay. All right. This was going to be fine. In some night sweat, Google-search-fever-dream, I apparently made the wrong call about my lodging situation, but if anything, the breakfast had to be good. I’d figure out the rest of my day later, but I hadn’t eaten anything since the hard-to-swallow nut bar in the car last night—I needed coffee, badly, and I was going to find those homemade scones.
I could hear rumblings of other guests downstairs as I opened my door. Be cool. It’s fine, smile and just be friendly. In my hesitation to rush downstairs, I almost forgot to lock my door—right, I have to lock it. All of a sudden I felt like a kid, upstairs in my house, listening for activity down in the kitchen, locking my room before I left for school. I would never have done that though—I’d never locked my room in any apartment I’d shared, and both my childhood bedrooms never had locks, not even on the inside. My main childhood bedroom—what would later be “my mom’s house”—had Pepto-Bismol–pink walls wit
h plush, turquoise carpeting, colors that would drive an adult insane—granted my parents did choose the colors, so who knows. The built-in shelves on the wall above my trundle bed were filled with books and my extensive collection of troll dolls. What a terrifying toy to collect. The thought of that shelf now feels like the preface of a nightmare, or the beginning of a Law & Order episode—before they find the body, someone screaming as we pan across fluorescent troll hair. But I was enamored of these little monsters, and I should specify that I was into the old version of trolls, the originals—they were redesigned at a certain point, and I could tell the difference. No one else seemed to be able to spot the detail in the texture of the plastic or whatever material their bodies were molded from, but I could. I’d hate to call myself a troll expert, but at the time, I guess I was. If you take anything from this anecdote, let it be my eye for design.
I’m going to go farther away from the B&B for a moment, because tangents are the most effective way I have to stall going to what I feel might be an extremely uncomfortable breakfast full of me halfheartedly making small talk over mediocre pastries. This pink childhood bedroom of mine was the first place that felt like my own, but as I became a teenager, I started to feel like I needed more privacy. Because there wasn’t a lock, and asking for one to be installed seemed like an acknowledgment of guilt, I’d hide things all over the room to feel like I had more control over my space. I’d slip my journal under the bed, out of sight. I don’t even know what I was hiding. At fourteen, I had zero secrets, definitely nothing good enough to hide—I think for a time, a lot of my journals were about championing a drug-free lifestyle, which I eventually, if you’ve followed my work over the years, veered from ever so slightly. I imagine my mom or dad finding this journal, looking for juicy sex stories or catching tales of me sneaking out to crazy parties, only to find how strongly I was inspired by the D.A.R.E. initiative. The entries eventually got juicy though, don’t you worry about me…I did pretty good. As I got older, and moved away from D.A.R.E. into the Truth or Dare, hiding weed around my room proved to be my main challenge and priority. I’d bury it in drawers, inside shoes, packed away in backpack pockets, but these all felt too exposed. Not to mention the smell. The smell gave it away. And then finally, a hiding spot came to me like an epiphany sent from God herself: my Kiddush cup.
My Kiddush cup was given to me by my synagogue when I had my Bat Mitzvah, the one gift I held on to because it seemed significant. It was metal or brass and drinking anything out of it made that liquid more important. I should mention that the Kiddush cup is used to sanctify Shabbat and other Jewish holidays and is for wine (or grape juice), and not a crazy cup in which you’re intended to test out other liquids to see if they feel more “holy.” But being Jewish is all about asking questions, and my curiosity was piqued: Did water become holy because it was in the cup? Would it be okay to put ice in it? Would I dare use it to eat ice cream out of? Would people be intimidated if I was using the cup in a casual manner at the kitchen table? And it wasn’t just the cup that felt significant, it was also its container. It came in a purple velvet box with a cutout inside fitted perfectly for the cup. As I was examining the scope of my room for the ideal place to stash my…stash, it came to me: I could hide weed in the cup itself, so even when the box was opened, you couldn’t see it. It was truly a holy experience. I realize this confession is intense for some, extremely enlightening for others, and possibly sacrilegious for many, and I’m okay finding that middle ground. I needed a safe space and found it in my Kiddush cup. I feel as though my rabbi would somehow be proud that my weed was consistently sanctified.
My privacy is even more sacred now, although I’m certainly sharing more of myself in my work than I ever have. Staying at this B&B instead of a hotel all of a sudden felt like a loss of privacy, and locking this door was all I had left between me and whoever was downstairs. Would I be able to have whatever shitty scones they had in peace? Should I try to bring my meal back up to my room—that seems like it’d be frowned upon at a bed-and-breakfast. And then, just as I realized I was still standing in the hall, quietly weighing my options, I noticed the door of another guest room ajar. I couldn’t help but take a peek inside. Of course, nothing was out of the ordinary—when doors are left open like that, there’s never something going on. Never an open briefcase full of cash, never a bloody knife dripping from the bed, never old people slow dancing. I’m always really hoping for the last one.
Finally, I made it down to breakfast. The old-fashioned wood finishes and cozy knickknacks now felt more like a friend’s parents’ house in high school, lived in and full of stuff from whatever beachy destination they went to for a week every summer. My clunky keys hardly fit in my jean shorts pocket, and an ache of anxiety started to grow in my chest. I saw the coffee area was self-serve and I went right for it. It’s widely known the best thing for anxiety is always coffee.
I filled a fancy porcelain coffee cup as high as I could. You know the ones, each a different pattern with their own saucers. My mom has these—antique coffee cups that she brings out only after dinner at special occasions and holidays like Thanksgiving and Rosh Hashanah. These cups are extremely delicate and can store only a few sips of coffee at a time. You can’t fit a finger through the handle. Not even a pinky! Not that you’d ever pick up a coffee cup with your pinky, but when the finger you usually use doesn’t fit through the handle, you test out the other fingers. It’s the obvious next step. It sure sounds like I have major beef with these coffee cups, and I guess I do. The mere presence of them makes me feel somehow ignorant of what civilized people are supposed to be like, as if the cups are telling me my hand is too burly to be in their presence. They’re fancy for fancy’s sake.
While we’re here, I also want to touch on the whole saucer issue—I’m going to cut to the chase and say I believe they’re on the outs. They’re reserved for these fancy coffee cups at bed-and-breakfasts, diners, and special occasions. I don’t need a place for my spoon after I stir my coffee, and even if I did, when you put it down on the saucer, which I believe is what the rules and guidelines of saucers and spoons are, it just creates a mess. The spoon has just been stirred around in the coffee and now it’s just going to drip into the divot of the saucer so every time you lift the cup, the bottom is soaking wet because it’s filled with coffee the spoon brought in. We could blame it on the spoon, but I firmly believe in the importance of the spoon so I’m not going there. I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. I know this is controversial (typical bed-and-breakfast controversy here), but I just don’t feel like we need saucers. THERE, I said it.
I took a few sips and refilled my tiny floral-painted, bullshit coffee cup and found a small table by the wall. You ever try to carry a full cup of coffee by the saucer? You thought I was finished with this and apparently, I’m not. The sound alone is enough to drive you mad, the clanking of ceramic against ceramic, hinting at an inevitable spill, a future crash on the floor, havoc! This is the type of thing I linger on for too long.
The table itself was covered with glasses, so many plates, too many knives. The proper table setting. Bed-and-breakfasts seem to be one of the last places on earth that hold fast to the traditions of fine dining. We shall use all the silverware, have courses, be dignified! I sat there in jean shorts, a T-shirt, and Tevas. I don’t usually wear Tevas—I thought there might be water involved at some point along my trip, me walking into water to be more specific, and I could think of no better option than Tevas. While I waited for a menu that never came (bed-and-breakfasts apparently don’t have menus), I scoped out the dining room and remembered something I often forget until it’s staring me in the face: I was by myself at a place where one usually isn’t. The mediocre small talk I was anxiously anticipating upstairs wouldn’t have been a thing if I was with someone—because I’d be making terrible conversation with them. And then I took a closer look at the dining room and an even more obvious realization came over me: Right. Bed-and-breakfasts are a thing co
uples do. Wonderfuckingful. I sat there alone, my main relationship at the moment being the passive-aggressive situation with my cup and saucer, in a room full of people staring into each other’s eyes, weaving their arms through the many glasses that covered their tabletops to hold hands.
Breakfast at a bed-and-breakfast as a single person traveling alone is not great. It’s not something I would highly recommend. It’s as if you’re struggling to lift a fancy coffee cup up to your mouth, with a spotlight directly on you. The sound of your fingers trying desperately to fit through the tiny handle, amplified so other conversations can’t continue. People looking in your direction. Small gasps, horror! This is what fueled my inner dialogue, one side arguing how stupid I’d been to make this choice, and the other worrying what those other people, those pairs might think of me there, alone.
I Might Regret This Page 4