Signs of Civilization

Leaving W-Town on Friday morning at 7:15 packed into my boss’s SUV and nursing my Dunkin Donuts coffee, I had high hopes for the road trip. I had resigned myself to the early hour, the hated process of packing, the surrendering of a day of my weekend and the leaving Kudzu behind. I had decided to meet it with open mind and humor. Thank God for the humor.

Our first stop was a small town to be sure, but a booming metropolis in light of what was to come. As we progressed down the road, I came to regard that first small town as the benchmark for civilization. The subsequent towns educated me on what I call civilization through their absence of any markings of it. I don’t consider myself a “city person”, but as the towns of far eastern North Carolina taught me, I’m a sight more bright lights, big city than I thought. It was mildly horrifying but more so, it was uproariously funny. There was no other way to deal with it, and I was glad that both my boss and the coworker I went with have a wicked sense of humor. So here we go with my new appreciation for the signs of civilization:
1. Gas
The convenience store, an American institution and a much-overlooked luxury among travelers, was not to be found along our little highway route. No QuickTrips or BPs or 7-11s in sight. No Slurpees or Icees or Big Gulps. I began to yearn for the rows of neatly boxed candy bars, the spinning rack with an assortment of beef jerky, and the cooler with an endless supply of frosted Diet Coke. And the public restroom – however scary and germ-infested – a place to pee that didn’t require me to choose among the leaves for toilet paper.

2. Food
I wouldn’t say I’m a lover of fast food, but I’ve never had such an appreciation for the Golden Arches as I did this weekend. For miles and hours, we didn’t see food of any kind. Not even a Mom-and-Pop type diner. Until one town, where upong entering the little hole-in-the-wall of a diner, we were told the dining room was closed. After eating two Carolina Hots (a kind of hot dog) with chili at 11:3o before leaving civilization, thoughts of a cheeseburger and fries on about 4 or 5 sounded very appealing.

3. Lodging
We had reservations at a motel about half way along our route. But after seeing the hotel, we had reservations about our reservations. We passed it once, drove back by and instantly had a very Bates Motel feeling about it. We literally sat in a parking lot across the street from the hotel and called in to cancel. We had no idea where we would stay. There wasn’t a Holiday Inn or a Days Inn or even a Motel 6 to be found along our route. We eventually found a bed & breakfast about an hour away from the first hotel. For one anxious moment, I thought I was going to have to share not only a room, but also a bed with my boss. But a third room came open and we all had our own bed. My poor boss was so desperate, she booked the rooms without even asking how much they cost.

It was a truly bizarre trip in so many ways – these little towns that have an odd sense of being lost in time and people who obviously weren’t open to outsiders. It was an amazingly untouched area, with acres and acres of corn, soybeans, peanuts and marsh grass. Hardly a soul in sight. I was surprised, as someone who has always loved nature, that I was more unnerved by the solitude. I wanted to weep at the first neon sign when we got back into town.
And lastly, I’d like to mention that the bed and breakfast where we stayed had poor water pressure, and the shower went from a trickle to nothing at all. I’m standing in the shower, staring up at the head, wondering whether to laugh or to cry and trying to decide how to solve this dilemma, seeing as how I was wet and already undressed. My solution? I got on my knees and stuck my head under the faucet. Welcome to the late summer blockbuster, National Lampoon’s Business Trip.