I’m sad to say there isn’t much to report from Mississippi. One great lament of the Dwight Eisenhower Interstate Highway System is that you can never quite tell what state you’re in. Kimmy mentioned that everything looks like Texas. With the highways lined with trees, you’d have to be a botanist to determine exactly where you were.

Soon enough our hour in Mississippi has passed and we’re in Alabama. The nap in New Orleans has helped me and I’ve got no trouble making it the rest of the way to Montgomery. Shawn would later mention that he was “tired in Austin–and then we drove to Alabama.” This sums up our trip: We were tired and then we drove.

We do what we can to pass the time. Shawn has hooked up his phone to my computer and is surfing the web (technology!). Kimmy is reading a book and Michelle is avoiding our indie music by listening to mid-90s alt rock on her iPhone.

Amidst a discussion of favorite things, Shawn offers up the question: “Favorite ice cream flavor?”

Kimmy gives us her answer, Michelle provides a dissenting opinion, and I provide the group with mine. The question has now fallen to Shawn, who, as the person who asked the question, is required to have a good answer.

Except Shawn isn’t moving. He’s folded over with his head on his knee. We’re just outside Montgomery and Shawn isn’t moving. His parents are going to be angry with us.

“Guys…Shawn isn’t moving.”

“Is he breathing?” asks Kimmy from the back seat.

“I don’t know. I can’t really tell.”

“Maybe someone should poke him.”

“I don’t want to poke him. You do it.”

Kimmy doesn’t want to, either.

“Michelle?”

“Oh, I’m not poking him.”

There is, of course, only one mature way to handle this.

“Ok, on three. Last person has to poke him and see if he’s dead.”

“1…”

“2…”

“3…”

“Not it.”"Not it.”"Not it.”

Someone was last. I think it was Kimmy. It wasn’t me.

“We’re only fifteen minutes from the hotel. We’ll check on him then.”

This seems valid. I mean–if he’s dead fifteen minutes won’t do anything to help. And if he’s asleep, that’s fifteen extra minutes of sleep.

As soon as we come to this consensus, Shawn starts to lift his head. Mazel tov!

“Shawn, we thought you were dead. Also, you never gave us your favorite ice cream flavor.”

Fifteen minutes later and we’re finally at the hotel. This is what we’ve been looking forward to since we left Austin. We go inside to check in.

“I’m sorry, you want the other Motel 8.”

“Where is that?”

The woman at the front desk points out the front door. Across the parking lot. Two Motel 8′s, separated by parking spots. And, in case you’re wondering, no they can’t talk to each other.

But we’re here and we’ve got a swimming pool and two queen beds. Life is looking good. Shawn and Kimmy lay down for a nap while Michelle and I decide to check out the Motel 8 swimming pool. This adventure lasts an entire fifteen minutes as we quickly determine that the pool–either through the urine of Southern children or simply a poor cooling system–is warmer than any swimming pool should be on a summer day.

While Shawn continues to nap, Kimmy, Michelle, and I decide to check out what Montgomery has to offer some hungry travelers. While Kimmy and Michelle choose Carabba’s (where the waitress mistakes them for a lesbian couple), I opt for Taco Bell. Don’t judge me. Sometimes when you’re in the Deep South, you just want a $.99 taco or two.

Before I left Austin, I mentioned to a few people that I always thought I might fall in love with a quaint Southern town on the way to Brooklyn and just decide to plant my flag there. This was more my way of dealing with the fear of moving all the way to Brooklyn, but I left the possibility in the back of my head. It would make for a great story one day at the very least.

From what I’ve seen so far, Montgomery is not that city. Flat like an East Texas town, we’re surrounded by what looks like a city of strip malls. I keep telling myself that we haven’t even seen the Capitol and that any town that’s a state capital can’t be that bad.

Newly full of cheap and quick tacos, I make it back to the hotel and start chatting with friends from back home. I’m being told about the parties I’m missing and the events that are going on while I’m sitting at my computer in a $50 a night motel. Everyone wants to be where I am, but I want to be where they are.

Kimmy and Michelle both join Shawn in sleeping and I make the decision that with or without them I plan on seeing if Montgomery has something to write home about. I follow the highway signs to the Capitol and–sure enough–this is pretty nice. Actually, this is really nice. I’m a Texan as much as one can be a Texan and I have to admit that Mississippi has us beat when it comes to Capitol buildings. There is–of course–the obligatory Confederate war memorials, but overlooking that the grounds are majestic, with flags from all fifty states and an eternal flame.

I return to the hotel and Kimmy and Michelle have awakened. I convince them to come with me to downtown Montgomery. On my way back to the hotel I had seen an area that looks like it could possibly have a restaurant and maybe a bar. The only problem is that we get down there and it’s disappeared. I suddenly feel like I had a Bigfoot sighting. I know it was there. I’m not making it up!

Kimmy and Michelle console me, telling me that of course they believe it was there. We had back to the hotel after deciding that the local CVS probably isn’t the kind of nightlife we’re looking for.

Meanwhile, Shawn has come out of his five hour nap and is eager to get some food. We go in search of some nourishment and I decide that I’m going to find this mythical area. After driving around for fifteen minutes, I see something that looks familiar.

“Turn left here, Shawn.”

A couple more blocks and… there it is. I knew it.

I take a couple looks at the area and while I’m still not in any rush to settle down here, I can see why people might. This is a nice area, with restaurants and bars, and it looks like just the place you would want to be after an Alabama football victory.

We finally find a bar that serves food. Well, it served food. All they have left are rib sandwiches. We’ll take three.

I ask Shawn, “For tomorrow?”

“For tonight.”

We each order a beer–a brand I’ve never heard of and I’ll likely never see again. Mine’s dark and I make sure to go slow. I watched Porky’s as a child and ever since then I’ve had a more-than-healthy fear of Deep South cops. I don’t want to be thrown in any Montgomery jail tonight. That would put us even further behind schedule.

Shawn manages to finish his two sandwiches in about the time it takes me to finish my one and we head back to the hotel. It’s time for sleep, again, as we have two more long days of driving ahead of us.

I wake up around 2 am. Or maybe I hadn’t slept. Shawn and I switch driving duties just west of the Louisiana border. Or maybe we’re east of the Texas border.

I’m not really sure where we are. If not for my phone, I wouldn’t know the time, either. I know simply that we aren’t yet to New Orleans and we don’t yet have sunlight. I’m hoping my third low carb Monster of the past twelve hours will keep me driving until then.

How did my parents do this? Our yearly summer trips to South Carolina must have gone a similar route—Columbia is right there on our projected path to Brooklyn. In their mid-30s with three children crammed in the backseat of a ’92 Grand Marquis and no money to spare for a hotel, they drove straight through each time. And here I am about to pass out west of Jefferson Parish.

+1 in the “Not as adult as my parents” column.

(As if being married, having a child—on purpose—and being settled in the town in which they would reside for the next 25 years at the same age which found their man-child of an eldest son traversing the globe in order to discover “what he wants to do with his life” hadn’t already closed that debate.)

But enough of that—focus on the road. With everyone else asleep in the car, my body seems eager to join them. Maybe a change of music will serve me well. Yes, that helps a little. But I’m still tired. Alright, the Tiger Truck Stop is the next exit. Let me get out and walk around and that’ll wake me up.

I pull the car off and get out when I notice Shawn has woken up. Kimmy and Michelle, too.

“I’m just getting out for a second.”

This fails to impress Shawn, who thinks we should stop here and sleep.

“But, Shawn, we’re already behind schedule. And if we’re going to spend time in New Orleans, we need to keep going.”

“Safety first,” Michelle volunteers from the back seat as I begin to wonder who invited her. (Several times in the coming day I would be notified that I was indeed the person who suggested she join us.)

Shawn steps outside to smoke and I join him to discuss what we’re doing next.

“Shawn, I know we’re tired.”

You might have read that we’re at the Tiger Truck Stop and have this image in your head of where we are. I’m assuming you probably are thinking of something like your local Tiger Mart. Clean, well-lit, with those fancy 44 oz. sodas to which you can add flavors like vanilla, lemon, or cherry by pressing an extra button. And at no extra cost!

“But I’m wide awake now.”

This isn’t one of those places. This is a truck stop. Nevermind glass ceilings or wage gaps. Places like these make me grateful I was born male. I’d be afraid of getting hepatitis by using the restroom here. I scan the grounds to make sure I know all the possible escape routes.

“If we’re going to get to Macon on time—“

No, I really can’t be so tired I’m hallucinating. I’m at least five hours away from that.

“Wait, is that a tiger?”

Tiger Truck Stop. It all makes sense. Why didn’t I assume there would be a live caged tiger just off the highway at a gas station? That’s just logical.

The tiger party to our deliberations, we decide to drive until noon with an hour stop in New Orleans. The slowly rising sun is giving me an extra bit of energy and this will put us in Montgomery, Alabama close enough to our desired destination that this seems like a good compromise.

We pull away from the Tiger Truck Stop in all its glory and within a couple hours we’re in New Orleans. The latest round of liquid caffeine has begun to wear off and I’ve been to New Orleans enough that I opt to sleep in the car. I assume this means I’m going to miss bead throwing, jambalaya, and drunken revelry, but I’m informed upon their return that apparently none of these happened.

We take off from New Orleans and head to Montgomery, where sleep—in a real bed—and showers—in a real shower—await.

I wake up Thursday morning at 7 AM. I haven’t woken up this early since I left Tel Aviv and I’m sluggish in rising from the air mattress, clad in leopard-print sheets, on the floor of Shawn’s study. But if I’m going to get to Austin on time to get my hair cut, have lunch, and leave for Brooklyn as scheduled, I have to be up. Or—rather—I had to be up. I’m already behind schedule.

I’ve been living in Shawn’s house in San Marcos, forty minutes south of Austin, for the last five days and I’ve had fun. But I’m anxious to be in motion again.

My hair cut goes smoothly (I tell her to give me a haircut that’ll leave a good last impression and make a good first one.) and lunch is pleasant (Enoteca and La Boite). Shawn goes with me to pick up the car at Hertz and I’m beginning to think that we’re going to leave Austin earlier than we planned. I mentally high five myself for being an amazing planner and we walk into Hertz to get the car.

“Alright Mr. Coates, we have you in the Ford Car Too Small to Fit Three People. We can upgrade you to a Smart Car if you need more room.”

“What about that Nissan out there? How much extra per day would that be?”

“That would be an extra $8 a day, but we can’t rent that out. It needs an oil change. We have an Escalade for an extra $25 a day.”

“Do you mind if we take a step outside and talk about it?”

Although the thought of rolling into Brooklyn in an Escalade is temporarily appealing, I realize that I haven’t owned a car since the fall and—for all I know—gas is $4 a gallon these days. The Escalade is out. I head back inside.

“I know it’s a long shot, but is there any way the oil could be changed in the Nissan this afternoon?”

He thinks for a second. “You really want that car, don’t you? Come back in two hours and it’s yours.”

This means we leave a couple hours behind schedule, but we have a car that will fit the three of us and our stuff and won’t cost us hundreds in gas. I think it’s an acceptable trade-off.

The upside of the extra time is that it allows Kimmy the opportunity to get some food before we leave. Options along the way won’t be nearly this plentiful until we get to New York, so we need to take advantage while we can. Michelle joins us because it’s 2 in the afternoon and she needs coffee.

Somewhere on Congress, Michelle mentions that she wishes she could join us. She has every day off until Tuesday so she wouldn’t be missing any work. If she had only known sooner. I ask her what’s keeping her from coming. Her answer doesn’t quite convince me that she wouldn’t come if pushed in that direction.

“If I buy you a coffee, you’re coming on the trip.”

“I don’t know…”

“What do you get in your coffee?”

The seed’s planted. We call Shawn and ask him to find airfare (around $300 on JetBlue), Michelle decides to go home and pack, and we go back to Kimmy’s house to wait for the car.

“She’s not going to come,” Kimmy says after Michelle leaves, but I’m not as sure. Before she left, Michelle looked as if she was trying to convince herself every reason not to go and was coming up short.

Just then Kimmy gets a call. Michelle’s booked her plane ticket. She’s coming with us.

Around 6 pm, we finally have everything packed and we’re ready to leave. The hatchback is full of gear—my bike and suitcases and bags from the rest—and it has started to overflow into the backseat, encroaching on space occupied by Kimmy and Michelle. Our food will be taking up the center seat on this trip.

My phone vibrates—a text message. “How’s the trip going?” As if I needed another reminder of our lack of adherence to the schedule.

Our first stop is Bay City. We had planned on meeting with my father and getting dinner before driving up to New Orleans but Bay City isn’t the kind of town that has restaurants open at 9pm on a Thursday night, so we’ll make just a cursory stop. I give them the tour—“This is where I went to high school.”, “This is our Brutalist court house”, etc.—and soon enough we’re at my father’s house.

We make a brief stop and, for the first time, saying goodbye to my father is really difficult. Being in Bay City usually does nothing but embody me with a deep-set desire to leave as soon as I’ve arrived, but as we pull away I find myself wanting to spend a few more days with my father and my sister.

But we have to get moving and we head out, set toward Houston. I tell Shawn I’ll give him directions through the backroads, which will help us make up time. Once we get to Houston, I drift off to sleep. My stint of driving is due in a few hours—sometime around 2 in the morning.

“Have you ever gone cliff jumping? I feel a little bit like you do when you take a look over the edge, take a few steps back, then—after a pause—put your first foot forward and start running.”

There had been indications since mid-July that my feet were experiencing a slight drop in temperature. But I never expected what would happen once I got to Brooklyn.

My last day at uShip coincided with the annual river trip. I opted against going to dinner after the conclusion of tubing, which I felt would only lead to goodbyes that were longer than necessary. I had always felt a bit fraudulent returning to uShip’s Austin headquarters in July after the goodbye I received in March (signed greeting card and all). Like Huck Finn viewing his own funeral. I said a few quick words to a few select colleagues and I was soon in a car on its way to Austin.

I got home and I’m ready to start packing when I get an IM from Jo. Jo’s a future librarian who speaks quickly and with energy, loves the Muppets and Star Wars, and is going to Barfly’s with her roommate to meet with others from the Information School. Would I like to join, she asks?

How often do I get to drink with a bunch of future librarians? Of course I want to go.

Jo’s roommate Jamie joins us on our bike ride to the bar. A 23 year old from Utah, Jamie’s acute in conversation. She’s been in Cuba for most of June and this is my first time meeting her.  I mention to her the upcoming move to Brooklyn and she asks, “Do you have a place to live when you get up there?”

“I don’t. Not yet.”

“Where are you staying when you get up there?”

“That’s a good question. We don’t know yet.”

I had meant to figure this out. I really had. I just assumed that this would fall into place.

“I have a friend who just moved to Brooklyn. He’s helpful and he loves meeting new people. I can introduce you to him.”

This is things falling into place.

The night finishes not long after. I quickly say goodbye and bike home, ready to leave Austin.

Rinse and repeat.

Queso

Frito pie

Lone star

Chicken fried steak

Diet Dr. Pepper

My bike

Barton Springs

Before I came over here, I had heard native Israelis described as “sabra.” Cactus pears. Sweet on the inside and prickly on the outside. So far I’ve seen more of the sweet than the prickly–illustrated by what’s probably my favorite story so far.

During my first full week in Tel Aviv, I stopped at Takhtit for some coffee and to get work done. I seemingly made a wrong turn on the way home, because I ended up in a part of town I didn’t recognize. While trying to find myself, a girl asked me a question. Responding that I didn’t know Hebrew, she asked again, “Do you know, em, how to get to the central bus station?”

I told her, sorry, I don’ t know how and she asks if I know of any bus stops nearby, because if she gets there she can get to the bus station. The problem, I’ve discovered, is that she doesn’t want to walk to Central. After dark it becomes a fairly shady place and this girl doesn’t seem like the kind who is well-equipped for dealing with the prostitutes and dealers that make that their grounds come night.

Although I didn’t know any nearby bus stops, I figured that I would surely pass one before I found where I was going and I invited her to come along with me. Seeing an opportunity to “practice” friendliness in a new country, I asked her about herself and found out that she was in Tel Aviv studying for the SAT. Her name is Lior, she wants to go to art school in New York City and she commutes every Thursday afternoon from the suburbs into the city so that she can take a class that will help her with her score.

We finally crossed a bus stop and she told me that she thought she was at the right one. I told her that I wanted to make sure she got on the right bus safely and waited there with her until the bus came, seeing her off about ten minutes later before making my own way home.

A week later I was walking home again from Takhtit (the right way this time) and across the street is Lior. She waves me over and says, “I was thinking when I got on the bus that you said you didn’t know anyone in Tel Aviv and so if you want, maybe we can be friends?” Yes, Lior, of course I’ll be your friend.

I have been making other friends, of course. Right before I ran into Lior that second day I had just left Takhtit (it’s like the Epoch of Tel Aviv, only with nicer furniture, better food and with the good sense to follow the Smiths with Ke$ha). For some reason I had decided it was a good day to wear a bowtie. As I’m walking up, a table out front says something to me. Again I counter with “Ani lo mevin Ivrit.” They respond that they liked my bowtie and invite me to sit with them.

In this group there were three: Nimrod, Asaf, and Renana. After discovering my provenance, Asaf mentions that his friends are in a band that played SXSW. Had I heard of them? Their name is Terry Poison and I hadn’t heard of them. But, fortunately, they’re playing a show the next day so I decide to go.

The show is at a club called The Cat and the Dog. In my research before the show, I find out it’s one of those places where the bouncers pick who comes in and who doesn’t. Gulp. Austin hasn’t prepared me for these kind of places. But I switch out my black American Apparel T with a dark gray button-up and my sandals with a pair of Vans and I imagine I have a pretty good chance.

Fortunately I don’t have to find out because I’m on the guest list. I get inside and don’t know anyone. The music is at approximately 120db, so I can’t even talk to anyone. From what I can tell, the Cat and the Dog is very different than bars I’m used to attending back home. When people describe Tel Aviv as New York meets LA, this is LA.

Terry Poison goes on and is great. I hang around a little bit longer and on my way out I see Petite, who sings and plays keyboard. I tell her the show was great, to which she responds “Are you Dustin?” Turns out Petite is Asaf’s girlfriend and the reason I’m on the guest list. I tell her I am and she says that I have to meet the rest of the band and they’re going to get pizza and then to a party and I should come. So I follow her, but not before a guy comes up and says to “Watch out for her, she’s a princess.”

I hang out with Petite and Asaf–during which I gain the nickname “Dr. Cowboy”–and then with the rest of the band at a bar called Taxidermy. (Supposed to make me feel at home because of the animal heads on the wall. And, to be honest, I did feel a little bit like I was back at Longbranch.) Anywhere you go you tend to run into a handful of people that really just surprise you with their friendliness–in a good way–and Asaf and Petite definitely fall within that camp.

I’ve become a lot more outgoing in the previous few days. It really isn’t about getting a phone number, making friends, or even learning the other person’s name. As I’m sure you remember, being in Austin I would have no qualms at all talking to someone I didn’t know, but moving to Tel Aviv has made me trigger-shy–even minor pleasantries such as “How is your day?” are unused.

The great thing I’m finding about talking to people without any goal outside of talking to people is that they aren’t any different than those back home. If anything they’re friendlier. And, really, what do I have to lose? If I embarrass myself (hasn’t happened yet), it’s not like that will spread through my social circle. Plus I’ve been told I have the “foreigner advantage.” I still can’t imagine my American accent–weak as it is–gives me much of a boost, but I wouldn’t pass it up.

In Jerusalem I went to the Old City, to the shuk (market) and to the spot where Jews first lived outside the walls. Within the Old City, we walked around a lot and ventured inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and stopped by the Western Wall.

The Church was certainly gorgeous, though if I did it again I would get a tour guide or take a paper guide with me. Everything was amazing, but I didn’t know what anything was. The Western Wall was much larger than I had anticipated. At the same time, it felt much more modern, as well. I hope this isn’t sacrilege, but I felt the same way at the Wall as I did my first time at the Alamo.

Being among all of the tourists was interesting. I sometimes see people here in Tel Aviv that I know are tourists, but as I go throughout my days, I’m generally the only American and the only gentile. I’m certainly not Israeli, but I don’t feel like a tourist, either. Tourism implies something very fleeting, necessarily brief. I’ve pushed back against that idea–I want to set roots here, not just have a story to tell back home. In fact, I’ve noticed that I’ve been very insistent on using the word “move” when I refer to this. That is very much in the air and will be much harder than I originally anticipated, but I feel that if I start to refer to it as something temporary, it will be more likely to become that thing.

[Removed some mentions unrelated to my move, but I think this next line is relevant.] The homestretch is always the hardest, I feel, because all of a sudden this becomes very real. And then it happens and you think, “Wait, aren’t I supposed to feel something here?” But there’s always something new to work on, to focus on, and to take your attention.