I went for three walks on that first day, just around the block; not far.

As the day got later; the clothing became more provocative. Every woman I see is eyeing me up and down, smiling, and asking how I’m doing. I see Diablo again; that fucker. I walk away. Two black Dominican women cross the street and call at me. Diablo runs over to play pimp. Fuck off Diablo.

The chicas are dark skinned and beautiful. I see police on the corner paying no mind to the skin and narcotics for sale on the street. The companions-for-hire put their arms around me and say, “You ever have two girl suck yo dick same time. Oh Papi… we suck yo dick real good”.

A Spanish speaking tongue calling me ‘Papi’ is hot; not sure why – but it’s certainly a turn on. Something about that native tongue spouting such a suggestive and masculine term in such rudimentary English is on-putting. I posit this is how one advertises their services while employed in such a profession. Pimping is illegal in this country; but hooking is not.

Both their arms around me, one pulls out her right breast while the other grabs at my business. The police don’t care… at all. Diablo is playing goalie.

Fuck this shit, I need to get out of here.

Temptation is tricky. There’s something about that chocolate-cinnamon skin and those skinny hands grabbing my junk while I do everything in my power not to ask how much.

When I finally walk away from these women; I really start to notice all of the others – just like her and her friend.

“How can shit like this exist in the world?” is something I asked myself in Dubai. The answer, quite frankly, is supply and demand. There’s always a supplier for our vices. I’ve been here less than 24 hours and I’ve been offered pussy, pot and cocaine. Our species is one of experience and temporary satisfaction. If I was less spiritually fulfilled than I am; I’d have gladly taken the cocaine. My understanding is that the Dominican Republic is a transit point – so you know the marching powder would be pure. I can smell fresh pot from my hotel; surely it’s not Canadian grade but it can’t be that hard to locate.

Animals; the whole lot of us. Monkeys who’ve figured out how to build things.

Part Three
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Somewhere in Indiana

Never fuck on the road. Temptation is tricky; but logic trumps the allure.

Solo, I headed back to my hotel and got an early sleep.

Upon hitting the road at the crack of dawn, I find a huge sign reading “TOBACCO” at the next exit. Brilliant – this is why I took this route. I pull over and buy a carton of Marlboros. Legally, I can bring one carton back with me across the border; alongside one bottle of hooch.

I wonder how much more I can manage. Should I risk it?

Hitting the road; I enjoy the scenery and drive until I hit Minnesota. A few minor stops were made along the way – to take pictures and relieve myself.

On this day I used a piss jug. Only once; but I really didn’t want to stop the car again. Keeping control of my small car while engaging in such a vulnerable action provided some mild and unexpected comedic and entertainment value.

I was wearing sweatpants after all; fuck it.

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PART 7

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Somewhere in Indiana

I pull off the highway; onto an old country road with three modern hotels. There’s a Cracker Barrel too.

The only advertising displayed were three large signs; one posted on the pole in front of each establishment – $59, $49 and $39. There may have only been ten dollar gaps in the price; but the quality was orders of magnitude more varied.

I choose the cheapest room; pay for it; and unpack. There’s a spider in one of the beds and a piss stain on the other. I choose the spider-bed and get in the shower.

Time to eat. I light a cigarette and wander across the old country highway to the Cracker Barrel. I’ve been in one of these before; somewhere along the East Coast as a child – driving to Florida with my parents. In case you’re unfamiliar with this establishment; you enter into a grandiose candy store; filled with branded merchandise and American pride paraphernalia; eventually making your way into the Cracker Barrel restaurant.

A cute yet slightly heavyset waitress seats me. There’s those eyes again.

She brings me a menu and I order a beer. She laughs.

“Honey, you ever been to Cracker Barrel before?”

“No.” I said

“This is a family restaurant; we don’t serve beer here. Where you from, cutie?”

“Canada.”

She proceeds to tell me her whole life story. She’s from Georgia; used to be a long-haul truck driver; moved to Indiana to start over.

“Well there’s a bar up the road, they open at ten.”

“I’d rather a liquor store. What’s the drinking age in Indiana?” I asked her, knowing full-well that I was under-age.

“Twenty-one, how old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty.” I said

“You have a hotel for the night?” she asked suggestively.

“Yeah… the dive across the street.”

“I’m off at ten; I’ll buy you some beer. What’s your room number?”

Part Six

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Albany, New York

I wake early; it’s imperative to get wakeup calls when you’re travelling.

Always operate using a dual-authentication method of timekeeping. Your primary method of waking up on time must always be the alarm; with your secondary method being the wakeup call. Some hotels have great wakeup call service; others don’t. Most establishments just add you to the computer or switchboard and it’s automated – but this isn’t always foolproof.

Either way; it worked in Albany.

I returned to the same gas station where I’d filled up my tank and made an illicit alcohol purchase; the gas station that employed the cute New Yorker with the fuck-me eyes.

A fat Italian guy, receiving his weekly milk order, rang in my coffee and breakfast sandwich. Friendly enough; but not as friendly as I’m accustomed to in rural Canada. Cultural differences, I guess.

What a beautiful day for a drive; a great day to be alive. Traversing the open road on the ass-end of the spring season with no idea what lies ahead on this beautiful day.

I chain smoke Marlboros and match up with pace-cars so as not to be bait for a state trooper. My strategy is simple – don’t be the first guy in a line of speeding cars; and don’t be the last. If you find a comfortable medium in which you’re the third or fourth car in a series of five or six – chances are the guy in the front or the guy in the back will be the one to submit to the will of state troopers setting up speed-traps between the endless toll booths.

I chose this route to gain access to cheap American cigarettes and booze; though the more toll roads I encounter, the less economical this decision appears to be.

Part Five

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Albany, New York.

The Mass-Turnpike was insane; these hoards of up-state drivers and New England tourists raced along at 20 miles over the limit. I made it to Albany in no time.

The petrol stations offer only pre-pay. Is gas theft really that much of an issue here? 

Laptop busted; Trip Advisor and Urban Spoon are useless. Fuck food; I need to find a repair shop. What use am I without my keyboard?

I score a seedy hotel beside the gas station. It was large and looked like it may have been something special one day; but that day was many moons before today. A few things are definite;  I need my laptop; beer; and food. Best to tackle these requirements in order.

Driving aimlessly through Albany; I find many things that are new to me. Side-streets full of unkempt lawns; grass growing between side-walk bricks; boarded windows and closed businesses; and I’m being followed by a jet-black Cadillac Escalade with chrome rims and tinted windows.

Your friendly neighbourhood dope-man, no doubt.

Locating a computer repair shop was unsuccessful. Moderately lost and then casually finding my way back to the motel; I want a beer. I walk across the street to the petrol station and see that they have forty-ounce bottles of Heineken in the cooler; beside the soda and orange juice. I grab two and set them on the counter beside the beautiful gas-maiden attending the counter. She smiled and stared at me. She had those fuck-me eyes; but fucking a random isn’t my thing.

She ID’s me.

She sees it’s foreign; and tells me I’m supposed to be twenty-one to buy beer in New York.

I smile and pretend to play dumb. She knows it’s an act. A sly grin and politeness go a long way in convincing a pretty girl to bend the rules for a mysterious foreigner.

She rings me through and bags my beer. I thank her and walk back to my hotel room, forever alone.

Never fuck on the road. Best worst case scenario; you pass on your genetic material and unknowingly exist as a DNA fragment in a bastard child you never knew existed. Worst case scenario; herpes.

I think I’ll pass.

I drop my sleeping pill, topped with Heineken; and forego a meal for some sleep.

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Part Four

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The border police were nice; though I hadn’t yet tanned from the next five days of travel and neglected to shave.

The first guard looked at my passport; smiled and waved me though. Then his supervisor stopped him and waived me over for a closer inspection. He smiled and asked to see my papers, “Where you headed?”.

ME:   “Edmonton.”

DHS:  “Why are you driving through America?” he asked.

ME:    “Marlboros, sir; and I’d heard it was faster. And here’s the thing, dude; I’ve got about five ham-and-cheese sandwiches with me”

DHS:  “Okay? What do you mean ‘about?’”

ME:  “Well; I’m not allowed to bring food am I?”

DHS:  “Don’t worry about the sandwiches,” he hands me my passport, “have a nice day, sir.”

Be polite and everything will be all right. That’s usually what I try to do in those awkward situations with passport-Gestapo.

I’m either a genuinely awkward or a generally ludicrous individual; depending on my mood that day. Neither character trait seems appropriate for dealing with the Gestapo.

I’ve seldom had a problem at the border; they look at the numerous squiggly stamps on my passport and the situation progresses in one of two ways:

• They wave me through and barely look at it OR
• They REALLY look at it

I’m of a blend of European ancestry; some Irish, some French, a splash of British; anyone with European ancestry is a blend of numerous other human qualities. I’m not sure which genetic sub-group causes it; but if you stick me in the sun for a few days without a razor; I’ll appear to be from whichever country you choose to believe I’m from.

I go from Irish to Iraqi in about a week. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Thankfully I’d been sitting indoors all winter and shaved before I left; let’s see how I look in five days. The drive is 53 hours; spread out amongst twelve hours behind the wheel per day; and if I stick to a perfect schedule I’m looking at 4.2 days to be exact.

It will take about that long to reach Edmonton; but I bet I can do it in four.

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Part Three
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Three o’clock in the morning; nearing the end of spring.

The car is loaded; the cooler is packed; the fuel has been purchased.

I linger; temporarily embracing this moist evening with the cigarette I had lit while the police were opening their doors to pull over a red truck, beside the church in front of my dad’s house. Why rush out? Surely this is more entertaining than that next five minutes would have been if I was driving through the rest of this old town just a few minutes earlier.

People rip on this microcosm of ours.

But honestly – it’s pretty sweet.

We’ve got it pretty good here; all but for the economy that constantly fucks us brutally in the rectal region and into our souls. If you can’t see that; then you’re missing something.

Travel arrangements were work related, not pleasure; but incredibly pleasurable nonetheless. It’s unfortunate that many of our generation don’t  have the manufacturing jobs that built this part of the world; that they simply don’t exist for us any more.

Many of us have to leave in order to support ourselves and our families. Yeah… I’m sure some people want to leave; but I’d bet many of us would choose to stay; provided we could financially do so.

Not the point… sorry for rambling.

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I turn on the engine of my grey Chevy Cavalier to embark on a solo trek; 2/3 of the way across the continent.

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Part Two

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