The I-5 and Why I Love It

from Cindy Sherman's Film Stills

Or Do I?

I've driven this portion of the I-5 countless times over the last 17 years. With three different vehicles of my own (a 1976 Toyota Corona without reverse; a 1984 Jeep Cherokee that bled oil; my current trustworthy Toyota Tacoma) a number of rentals, and one or two driveaways. I've been a passenger, I've taken the bus and I've been a stowaway in the back of a pickup. I've probably stopped at every gas station there is. I know exactly which stop houses the In-N-Out (Kettleman City), which one the Pea Soup Andersons (Santa Nella, silly), where one can eat at the new Indian Restaurant (that formerly was Mexican), where one might find the single Starbucks (if that's your thing), and which turnoff brings you to the fancy restaurant with the freshest steaks (conveniently owned by the largest cattle ranchers). I've spent the night on the side of the road shaking as every truck whizzed by while someone's dad drove up to tow us away. I've broken a fan belt twice at the bottom of the Grapevine. And I've waited patiently all along that rumbling interstate, coolant and water bottle in hand, for my car to stop overheating.

And who doesn't love a journey even if it is one well-trodden? Who doesn't love to get away even if it seemsnothing new here can be possibly seen? This portion of the I-5 is straight and dusty. Unmemorable in so many ways: no ma and pa diners, no breathtaking vistas, it offers nothing but the shortest route from here to there. Nonetheless, it is my passage home and I am never more full of hope and despair, anticipation and anxiety then when I am driving it. Each time I wonder: am I coming home for good? The drive down is more of a pulling. The drive away, an escape. My mind wanders, opens up and splits into a million fragments of memories and before too long, my lips are mouthing the title words to that Oates short story: Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

Did I mention that I have no air-conditioning? That this drive is mesmerizingly straight and flat? That I love each and every one of the truck stops with their tiny chapels doubling as cineplexes, the shower stalls you can rent by the minute, and the mind-boggling selection of self-help and cowboy books-on-tape in the store?

More than anything, this drive is familiar. This drive is mine. And the fact that I share it with so many others can be surprisingly consoling. I love seeing the license plates from Oregon, Washington and Vancouver and imagine them driving, driving, driving North in a straight line until they reach the tip of the Americas. I take refuge in every car I see full of furniture with its promise of a new beginning, a starting over. I watch the little girls in the back of the station wagon waving at the drivers facing them. Their cheery message, their joy at any response, their ability to hold on to their end of the bargain.