When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one person to realize that, while he wants to travel the world he’s already got a pretty big backyard of his own, and as he talks a lot of shit about his country he should probably put his money where his mouth is, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that he declare the narrative for all to hear.
On September 18, 2010, I set out on a cross-country sojourn that took me from shore to shining shore and back again. Thirty weeks and untold moments later, I landed back home $7,672 poorer, having tallied a total of 31 stops in 18 states on an estimated 7,900+ miles. I hesitate to describe the experience as overly self or life-changing. Suffice it to say, I left an English major with no particular affinity for writing, and returned a kid with a story to tell.
Like many emerging-adults of my socioeconomic background, I found myself building up my bank account with the intention of demolishing it on travel. The prospect was more attainable for me than most, as my circumstances were uniquely apt for saving money. After emerging debt-free from four years of undergraduate education in the Genesee Valley of upstate New York, I moved into my grandparents’ guest-bedroom on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Thus, I was afforded the luxury of earning New York City wages without the burden of paying New York City rent. Furthermore, I had been accepted into an apprenticeship program with the New York City stagehands union, which would provide me with two years of paid work, as well as a union card upon completion. However, the program had an extremely open-ended start date due to waiting lists and limited spaces, and I felt unable to seek full-time employment elsewhere, as my number could (theoretically) be called at any moment. After a few months of working odd jobs, I asked the union office if they had an e.t.a. on a start date, and was told that I was unlikely to be placed within the following eighteen month. Hearing no objections from family, friend, or foe, I decided to bide my time in a big way.
I can’t say exactly when the notion of traveling the United States of America came into being. I knew I wanted to travel the world, but as enticing as a backpacking trip of Europe or South America sounded, both felt cliché. Who was I to romp around overseas when I hadn’t even explored my country? And wouldn’t I gain a better appreciation of a foreign land once I truly understood mine own? America is a fucking huge place, with more then its fair share of diversity, land, and excitement, and I was certain I had plenty to discover here at home. The fact that I already spoke the language and had a pretty good understanding of the culture didn’t hurt either.
Furthermore, I’d been privy to the shortcomings of the U. S. of A. for as long as I can remember. By age 21 I would readily invoke the phrase "I hate America" when conversing about patriotism, current events, or a myriad of other such topics. So, if a trip was in the cards, might as well use it to kill two birds, put money where mouths are, etc.
[With the experience behind me, I’m much more hesitant to use the term “hate” in regards to my feelings about America. I still detest everything I used to, and I’ll never stop voicing my criticisms. However, when I’d say I hated America, I was talking about a theoretical, historical, governmental-type entity and narrative. It’s still there, and it still deplorable, but it’s only half of who she is. The other half is me and you and all the wonderful people and places I came to adore on the road. And how can you hate something with a punim like that?]
So traveling America it was. By the spring of 2010 I was thinking about what the trip would look like and how I would actually pull it off. By that summer I had decided to set the proverbial sail before September’s end.
As time was virtually limitless, the only constraint I had was a fiscal one. With $8,678 to my name, I put $1,750 into a flight-home-first-month’s-rent-not-to-be-touched savings account, and planned to spend the rest on America. I had no idea how long the money would hold out for, but I trusted it would outlast the weariness of the road. While I would’ve been disappointed if I found myself back by Thanksgiving, four months of freedom sounded spectacular. When others crunched numbers and said I had a shot of swinging six months, I refused to believe them.
I traveled alone. Had I close friends or significant others to travel with, I would’ve had no problem rolling one or two deep. But no such people existed. It turned out for the better; I’ve traveled both alone and with others, and for a flight of such magnitude, the freedom of being unbound by other humans’ needs and opinions most definitely outweighed the pleasures of a shared experience.I went without a car. While licensed to drive since the age of sixteen, I’d never owned a car, nor had the money to purchase one. And while I wanted to see as many national parks, abandoned meadows, and dusty plains as I could lay eyes on, my true interests lay in the America that lived on the bus. Or the train. Or posted the $80 ride-share from Vegas to Phoenix on craigslist.
I sent a message to every facebook friend I had, whether I knew or not. The message read as follows:
"While this is indeed a mass message, it is truly of a personal nature; I am looking to travel the country this fall, and was wondering who I know in what random corners of the lower 48. Do you currently live in the US, but outside of the New England/New York State area? Do you have a couch I can crash on for a night or two? If I happen to be rolling through your neck of the woods, could you spare an afternoon and show me around town? If you answered yes to ANY of the above questions, please get back to me, even (especially?) if I hardly know you or we haven’t spoken in years. [Truth be told – this is partially an investigation into the practicality of this whole social networking thing we’ve got going on]. Much love, Isaac."
I received upwards of fifty responses. Some just wished me luck or expressed fascination with the idea, but many contained offers of hospitality. With each viable or exotic response came a marker on a Google map.
I signed up with CouchSurfing.org, and decided to pay the $25 that would make me a “verified member.”
I bit the bullet and bought a space phone, trusting that the $200 device and its $25/month data plan would be well worth the expenditure. And dear lawd was I right. Having the entire world (in internet form) fit in my pocket turned a trip into improvisational travel.
I bought a blue and grey 65L Osprey backpack with a mesh back for around $250. She was so pretty I literally held her on my lap while watching TV the night I bought her.
Finally, my trip was just that: a trip. It had a beginning and an end; a home I was leaving from and was to return to. As such, there was deliberate documentation. Every night (or if I was too tired or stoned or drunk, then the next morning) I took a minute to record the itinerary of the previous twenty-four hours. I used the date-book that in my normal life serves as planner rather than record. This wasn’t writing, it was note-taking. By week five I found myself spending another minute or two every night reliving days gone by. One night in San Francisco I realized I would eventually need to turn the minutes into prose.
So here we are.
As for this blog - it is first and foremost for me. My attitude towards life revolves around clichés of living days to their fullest and treating them as last. And I fucking knocked that one out of the park for two hundred and twelve consecutive days (if I do say so myself). As I rambled round your city I took delight in the variety of ways people viewed the endeavor. One of the most insightful manifestations came from a girl who told me that the trip would prove to be “a great investment.” She was completely right. And the most effective way I see to capitalize on that investment is to write it down so I’ll never forget it. In short, I’m looking to live vicariously through myself.
But shit, if I’m sharing the experience with myself, might as well share it with the world.
So the plan is to meticulously go through that date book, and, day by day, reconstruct a comprehensive narrative. Day one is mostly in the bank, and took me the better part of a summer to get down, so I promise nothing relating to the frequency of posts. But I am determined. So if you’re interested, please be patient. I’ll toss up 9/18/10 in a week or so, and we’ll take it from there.
Since I’m doing this for entirely selfish reasons, I’ve decided to write in the true spirit of my memories. As such, I’ll be using real names (with a few exceptions, I’m sure), and maybe even telling some secrets. If you anticipate a mention and would prefer to be identified by a nom de plume, please play the informer. And if you see yourself in here and don’t like it, I sincerely apologize.
Clearly, this is a first draft of a book. Or a revolution. Or something. As such, all any and every comment, edit, shout-out, addition, remembrance, hope, dream, fear and aspiration is both appreciated and encouraged. Post away and support the cause.
Seriously, let me know when spell-check fucks me over.
Enjoy.
Isaac Silver
