Traveling in the Mind and on the Page

     The map of California stands in front of me. I drew it, so half of the state looks bent, and crackles of marker roads lead from one blob, San Francisco, to an X, Los Angeles. I stare at the marker trail and hum to myself.
     At the end of the room sits the professor and one student. She's asking for help on her essay, and while privacy is asked, I hear muffles of thoughts over from the white board in the center of the room. In front me, scribbles of thoughts, ideas and musings create noise in my brain.
      I've driven the road, Frisco to LA, many times. On my trips up north, I enjoy the desolation such a drive creates. There's nothing for miles; then highways become loops and drops. After thirty minutes, it's back to driving on a plain for hours it seems. I call it living-in-limbo.
     In a work-in-progess novel I have, one character is driving from the bay to southern California, and the landmarks are just as important as the scenarios the character faces. He's taking the Grapevine, a road that leads up and down slopes steeper than most get to drive in their lives. Half of the time, the Grapevine is closed. Weather conditions are so adverse that travelers must listen to the radio and news just to know what will happen.
     My eyes follow the trail I've scribbled, and I think of the small curio stores, the repetitive McDonald's and diner locations. My family's stopped at most, so I try to smell the grease hanging in the air, the sun beating down on our necks. At night, the hubbles are the only source of light for miles.
     Traveling is something that I love, for it gives me a chance to see new worlds, even if they're only an hour or more away. Family vacations have turned into horrifying, lonely settings for my characters, and desolate locations themselves have turned into themes of hope, promise.
     Americans, I argue, don't do it enough. Vacations are spent at Disneyland, New York, or somewhere so tourist filled one can taste the churros or street hotdogs. But real, American road trips have fallen out of peoples' repertoire.
     I wipe my hand over the scribbled road and destroy half of California. It's ten. I walk to my professor and pass him what I have. We talk, and we leave the room to head downstairs, where his dog and wife wait. We leave, and I'm back on a lamp-lit road, heading home.