My first solo road trip

What are road trips?, I thought, significantly reducing my speed from a ghastly 100mph to a slower 60mph as I faced curvy uphills and downhills. Reading Kerouac sprawled on the bed of some comfy room in Jeju, I'd imagined myself in the backseat of Dean and Sal. Would I have been one of their girls? Probably not.

I wasn't headed to 'Fresno' nor was I going cross country. After a heartwarming yet snowy evening, I packed lightly (because obviously I couldn't afford to check my bags in all the time!) and headed to JFK in an uber. I was blocked by a garbage truck on the same block, on my block for fifteen minutes and almost freaked out because I thought I was already late for the flight. Fortunately enough I got in in time and made it to LA safely. Followed by driving sessions in LA and buying a wine I really liked (Lulu Vigneron, Jura).

Sunday morning (Dec 17) I headed to Joshua Tree and that's where my perusings of Kerouac began. Trashing my car. Littering everywhere so candy wrappers found their way in the backseat where no one sat and I'd imagined, the paranoid that I was, someone sneaking in inside the car when I wasn't looking. Mud stains on the back of the car because I'd driven off-road.

The following days were a huge slice of Americana, of varying time periods -- charred burger joints/diners where I had biscuits with gravy; tie-dye shirts, hoodies and jackets that I hadn't seen in more than a decade, and even then only worn by a *certain population* at school; family "resort" inns that seem to have been built when the middle class actually existed. What do these all belong to? But strangely enough my wanting to 'visit' a diner was only established through a Hong Kong filmmaker starring Americans (probably?).

On my last day in Joshua Tree I hiked to 49 Palms Oasis. There was barely an oasis. The sign in the beginning of the trail had read -- oasis water not drinkable, bring your own -- and the lack of water in the oasis made that warning sign look too laughable. I sat in the shade under some sketchy tall palm tress -- hence the name 49 palms -- when a family approached and the father started speaking to me. You here by yourself? he asked, and further asked what I liked the most. I didn't supply such a helpful answer -- not because I was mean, though. They left before I did to try another spot and the girl (the daughter) had left her hat on the edge of the rock. The mother called Jessica Fay--, and instantaneously I was reminded of fifth grade when my crush told his friends that whenever he does something wrong his mother calls him by his full name. Like if you were called Tom then she'd call him Thomas something something.

I left soon after the family left, and ascended and descended again to get back to my car. I'd grown affectionate of the car. (contd)