If dreams really did come true, I would win the lottery, and the vessel I would choose for 1/48/50 would take the form of the newest Cadillac ATS - the ultimate touring vehicle, by my estimation, amongst the breed of cars I will probably never be able to afford (or feel comfortable trying to afford). On this list there are several series of BMW as well, also a class or two of Mercedes (a few of these actually get me a little aroused), but I would - in that instance - feel a strong impulse to buy American. I would feel pretty fruity driving a high-end European sports car on a 14,000-mile road trip across America.
But truth be told (and I never thought I'd say this) I just might feel a little fruity traveling across the country with all that money at my disposal. Maybe it wouldn't be a dream come true, after all. Maybe it would be the anti-dream come true. Money being no object sounds nice in theory (and hey, I certainly wouldn't refuse it), but I think being super rich would soften 1/48/50, to a fault. I don't pretend to be envisioning myself roughing it, but I don't like the thought of sinking into some impossibly luxurious bed in some sickeningly luxurious hotel each night either, my every impulse and desire well within reach. I'm not sure what I expect to see, hear, or have happen on this trip, but I do know there should be some kind of challenge involved, some momentum I have to work up to in order to a) make it happen, b) make it deeply satisfying.
I needn't worry, of course. The chances of me winning the lottery are infinitesimal, and no matter what my financial situation is at the time of departure, short of being super rich, I'm confident I will be able to rely on a healthy dose of 'having to make it work'. I will have to save money, and more importantly make efficient use of those resources along the way, and I'm looking forward to the challenge.
To that end, however, my accommodations are going to have to be as carefully considered as my mode of transportation. And I have found that the two keep wanting to cross paths.
The plan is to be gone four months - May through September. This would equal roughly 120 nights of hotel stays if that's what I decided to do. Assuming I found flea-bag motels to stay in, and assuming these hotels offered rooms for $40/night, that's still $4800. Nothing to sneeze at, and $40/night is not only hard to come by these days, but doesn't really get you much. It's been my experience that the less you pay for a room, the sketchier the cleaning service becomes, and the more likely you are to find yourself sleeping amongst the previous occupant's leftovers. Moreover, I will be traveling during the summer season, so the services of websites like Priceline (which I have used in the past, and scored stellar deals with) are not as likely to be of much use to me during peak vacation time. If I want $40/night in the summer, it's going to have to be a fleabag, and that will get old real quick.
The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes I will need to be self-sustaining, and that too is something I never thought I'd say. Years ago, when I first read Travels With Charley, I rolled my eyes a little at Rocinante, Steinbeck's camper-on-a-truck-chassis hybrid. There seemed to be something old fogey-ish about it, almost precious, the great author in his safari hat (or so I imagined), camped out by the side of a river, catching his fish and cooking them. I wanted to travel like Steinbeck, and write about it like Steinbeck, but I didn't want to roll like Steinbeck. Back then, I actually pictured myself taking this journey on a motorcycle and sleeping on the side of the road whenever I got tired. Eventually, that dream (delusion) gave way to driving a car and staying in hotels.
But now - and this perhaps is the very, very last thing I thought I would ever say - I've started entertaining the idea, and considering the possibility, the feasibility, the practicality, of the dreaded RV.
Yikes, the motorhome! The loud spicy belch of vacation options! 8-tons of too much of everything, clogging up lanes, shearing off intersections, creating blind spots, transporting some kind of stereotype - either the quintessential Griswold-style family, numbering in double digits, achieving triple digits in decibels, hellbent on having as much family fun in as many miles as possible, or a perfectly lovely retired couple - the woman, Lorraine, rocking her Winnie the Poo sweatshirt, the man, Danny (everyone calls him Harley) rocking his socks with Birkenstocks (and definitely wearing a safari hat), simple salt-of-the-Earth from Albert Lea, Minnesota in the summer, Sarasota in the winter, off to see America in a Winnebago, lawn chairs affixed to the bike rack in the rear.
Not for me, dude, not for me...
And yet, *sigh*, maybe it is. I'm forty. By the time I take this trip I will be approaching fifty, closer to 'retirement' than I ever thought I'd get. I have in recent years begun to accept my age and the accompanying limitations - of lameness if nothing else - and when I look at it logically, an RV really does make sense. And just because I'm driving one doesn't mean I have to become a stereotype, right? Doesn't mean I have to perch myself in the cockpit wearing what Niles Crane on the sitcom Frasier once described as a 'hat made out of Miller Lite cans...!'
And really, who cares about the stereotype? Who am I to judge Harley and Lorraine for anything? That makes me the one with the problem, not them.
But for every way that an RV makes sense, I can find an equal and opposite way it doesn't. For starters, I don't want to drive something so thirsty for gasoline. Every dollar I save not sleeping in a hotel might wind up getting dispensed into the gas tank. Nor do I want to be responsible for all the tasks attendant to owning one - finding fresh water and disposing of waste, charging generators, et cetera. All too quickly it can start feeling like owning an actual home, and I do not want to be bogged down with so much responsibility.
Doing chores is not living nebulously.
Mostly though, it's a matter of aesthetics. RV's are huge and ungainly, and anything even approaching enhancements can render them downright obnoxious on the road. Living nebulously means being as inconspicuous as possible, and that means avoiding those things that might scream, 'I'M TRAVELING!!!!' No annoying bumper stickers (no 'my Rolls is in the shop', 'shit happens' or 'best day of fishing beats the best day of...'), no bobble heads, no fuzzy dice, no musical horns, no decals or detailing, and no driving something the size of an ore freighter for 14,000 miles.
No socks with Birkenstocks.
The only indication that I am traveling - that I'm somewhere I'm not normally - will be my license plates and my accent (more on that in another post...)
I could camp, I guess, if I want to save money, bring along a tent and some gear and whenever possible sleep under the stars. That would allow me to revisit the possibility of driving a car. But nah, I don't want to camp. I don't want to sleep on the ground any more than I want to sleep in some previous occupant's leftovers. There are snakes and bugs on the ground. It's cold and rocky on the ground. Call me a pussy, that's okay. I'm secure enough in my manhood to admit that while I don't want luxury, I do want to be comfortable on this trip. Inconspicuous and comfortable need not be mutually exclusive.
The only thing that really makes sense, with everything considered, is an RV. And there's good news. I've found, much to my delight and relief, a happy medium. I have discovered that not all RV's are the size of an ore freighter. There are smaller size vessels, Class B or C, which are built on a truck or cargo van chassis. Many of them offer the same self-contained amenities, just in less space. Not unlike Rocinante as it turns out, but without having to be special ordered. New models are pricey, of course, but cost less than the full-sized models that have for a couple decades now been causing me to shy away from the idea, and used ones abound. When the time comes, it might just prove MORE than worth the expense.
There will be certain things any such vessel will be required to provide: a CD player and AUX jack (by the time this actually happens, I'd say my need for a CD player will be completely defunct), air-conditioning, readily accessible overhead lights, some kind of GPS navigation (although I have that on my phone, so no dashboard mount is needed really). I've never much been a fan of cruise control, so that won't be necessary, but a compass of some sort would come in handy (even though I pride myself on my sense of direction). I've also become a fan of satellite radio, so that might be something to consider, although again, if I'm really of a mind, I can have it installed on my own. Any used vehicle is unlikely to have it.
As to sleeping arrangements in this as-yet undetermined RV, they can actually be fairly primitive. The simplest mattress on a board would suffice, as long as the pillow is firm. A power source for a mini-fridge would be much appreciated, and a shower would make checking into a hotel far less of a necessity, but that's when you run into money (and the aforementioned responsibility of 'home' ownership). A bathroom, too, would be a nice feature, but again, the dreaded over-responsibility rears its head, and there's something about taking my bodily waste along on the trip with me that grosses me out.
But that is, in any case, the extent of it. I have no need to turn my motorhome into a pleasure palace any more than I'd want to be able to afford to stay in pleasure palaces along the way. No TV, no mini-bar, no laundry, no other comforts or conveniences necessary. I really like the thought of having no television, actually; for better or worse, that might prove to be the greatest challenge. And I have been flirting with the idea of doing away with Internet as well, being completely disconnected.
The thought of that terrifies me a little bit. But that might just be a fricking reason to do it.
