The Gas Canister Saga

“We’d be lousy explorers. A few days out and we get the mullygrubs. The first white man through here…his little jaunt took eight years. And he himself didn’t make it this far. Four of his men did, though…We’re soft, Charley.”

Epic battle of wills

I feel the need to tell you a story. This is a bit of an interlude, but I think it’s an essential aspect of the trip. Matt disagrees, but that’s as good a reason as any to insist on telling it.

This is the story of our gas canister. Somewhere in the middle of New Mexico, with the sun beating down and the two of us each drinking close to a gallon of water every day, Matt decided we needed a gas canister. Something to carry in the trunk just in case we ran out of gas on some god-forsaken two-lane road and were found weeks later, nothing but dry bones and a great big pile of molten metal and burned rubber.

So we stopped at True Value. This is a compromise between the Mom-and-Pop hardware stores that used to proliferate in small towns across the country and the giant Home Depot warehouses that currently sit just off the highway outside most major cities.

What we found was a place air-conditioned by a series of large oscillating fans, where there is still a gumball machine at the entrance, and they give away free American-flag keychains at the cash register. After searching up and down the aisles, we finally found a large red plastic gas canister hiding atop one of the shelving units against the back wall.  It was $10.99. Matt was horrified by the exorbitant price. He actually uttered the phrase, “I remember the day…” I pointed out to him that “the day” was approximately 12 years ago, which didn’t help. In any case, the gas canister was deemed essential to our emergency provisions, so we bought it, along with two gumballs, which were wonderful and horrible in equal measure.

We went next door to the gas station, filled up the canister, and I left Matt to cap it while I went in to pay. I came out to find him wrestling with the canister while a large man watched from the bed of his pickup truck in the next parking space. I offered to help, but since I am far from expert in these matters, I wasn’t much use. I sat on the hood of the car and drank my rootbeer while Matt wrestled with the recalcitrant plastic hose. After what seemed like forever in the baking heat, he wedged the closed canister into the trunk and we were off.  Temporarily.

Several miles down the road the car began to smell like gasoline. We pulled over and Matt pulled out the canister to find that it had been leaking. Several more minutes were spent in the sun, prodding and pleading with the red plastic demon. We were pretty sure we had it beat, but we wrapped it in a plastic bag just in case, in an effort to save the camping gear from being soaked in gasoline. While our tent is supposedly made of non-flammable material, it seemed best not to tempt fate.

We drove on through the desert and stopped at various points for photographs. At one of these stops, in my search for Wheat Thins and licorice, I made the tragic mistake of opening the trunk. The smell that wafted out was overpowering. I didn’t have to say a word. Matt made a sort of growly sound and yanked the by-now half-empty canister out one more time, laid it on the ground, and proceeded to contort himself around it in an effort to figure out “how the *#@$ ^&%” to make it close.

I helpfully suggested that perhaps if our emergency fuel turned out to be nothing more than a huge fire hazard, it wasn’t actually so necessary to our well-being. Matt did not find this suggestion helpful, so he ignored it and continued grappling with the obstinate canister. I tried again, suggesting that perhaps we should set it free to roam the desert rather than keeping it cruelly caged in the trunk. Matt grunted, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and went right back to it. Now it was a contest of wills, with both the red gas canister and my husband in his red shirt pigheadedly determined to win.

I had taken an endless string of photos and finished most of the licorice when Matt yelled, “Ah HA!” The canister went back in the trunk, and we got back on the road.

When we stopped for the night, the damn thing had leaked again, but only a little bit. I pretended not to notice. So did Matt. But as we drive along taking photos and notes, I’m sure that diabolical thing is smiling quietly to itself in the dimness of the trunk, biding its time.

So now if you read that two unidentified road-trippers have gone out in a blaze of gasoline and glory, taking their RX8, a bunch of camping gear, and one little red gas canister with them, you’ll know why!

Preparing for the Journey

“A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”

Mexican food. Those probably aren’t the first words you expect to see on a blog about reconnecting with America. But for us that’s what it’s all about. The first thing we want when we step off the plane from Scotland is a big, greasy, smothered burrito. Which isn’t really Mexican food anyway, at least not as they know it in Mexico. In Mexico, it’s gorditas y poblanos, pozole y chilaquiles. This version of the burrito is a hybrid, a cross between authentic Mexican cuisine and what appeals to your average gringo. A melting-pot burrito. A microcosm of the macro-America we’re trying to get to know all over again. A welcome home.

As a starting point, we should introduce ourselves. We’re expats, people who live outside our country of birth by choice rather than necessity. People for whom wanderlust is a way of life. We live to experience rather than accumulate.  Our savings accounts are not dedicated to a new car or a down payment on a house but to the excitement of slinging well-worn backpacks over our shoulders and stepping onto a train. Or the tingling sensation of take-off, half fear and half anticipation. All the little nuisances and annoyances of security lines, ticket checks, passport control, and checked baggage weight limits fall away in that moment of departure. For wanderers like us, train stations and airports are cathedrals, holy places of transition and in-between-ness. The start of a trip is a blank slate, a chance to re-invent ourselves. Each one is a mini mid-life crisis, a vain attempt to realize a permanent desire for change.

Several years ago, we read John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley in Search of America for the first time. It was a revelation, a vision through a glass darkly. In 1960 Steinbeck was living in New York, far from the characters who filled his novels. He felt he was missing America, that he didn’t know his country or his people anymore. So he kitted out a camper shell on a customized pick-up truck, stocked it with more stuff than he could possibly need (as we all do when travelling), and took off on a four-month trip around the continental US with only his brown Standard Poodle, Charley, for company. He wanted to reconnect with the America he used to know so intimately.

That loss of connection is something we also felt.  As colonials living in Scotland, our knowledge of America was mediated by emails from friends and family, the BBC website, and the common stereotypes perpetrated so enthusiastically by Yanks and foreigners alike. We no longer had a personal connection with the real America. In a way that is perhaps typical of thirty-something Americans, we were searching for ourselves.

We spent months planning our trip. We watched ticket prices rise and fall and kept hoping for the big fall that never came. The morning ritual of checking Expedia, Last Minute, and Opodo to see how the prices had changed from the night before became as addictive as the daily caffeine hit. We planned routes, booked hotels and camping spots, contacted family and friends to beg for couches and spare rooms, all before we’d even purchased plane tickets. And of course, the minute we stepped out our front door, all that planning was at the mercy of the personality of the journey itself. Steinbeck was right about that.

In fact, Steinbeck was right about a lot of things. One of the things that strikes us as we read an re-read Travels with Charley is how prescient he was about the future of the America he went in search of. Another goal for us on this journey of ours is to see how America is faring 50 years on. Have we as a nation lived up to Steinbeck’s expectations? Have we fulfilled his best and worst predictions? Would he recognize himself in the people we meet? Would he recognize himself in us? In a way, we are travelling with Steinbeck in search of America.