Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I was on the road again. It was a little after 7:30 A.M. on a bright but still wintry Monday
morning in April. I drove west out of Des Moines on Interstate S0, intending to zip across
the western half of Iowa and plunge deep into Nebraska. But I couldn't face Nebraska just
yet, not this early in the morning, and abruptly at De Soto, just fifteen miles west of Des
Moines, I pulled off the interstate and started wandering around on back roads. Within a
couple of minutes I was lost. This didn't altogether surprise me. Getting lost is a family
trait.
My father, when behind the wheel, was more or less permanently lost. Most of the time
he was just kind of lost, but whenever we got near something we were intent on seeing he
would become seriously lost. Generally it would take him about an hour to realize that he
had gone from the first stage to the second. All during that time, as he blundered through
some unfamiliar city, making sudden and unpredictable turns, getting honked at for going
the wrong way down one-way streets or for hesitating in the middle of busy intersections,
my mother would mildly suggest that perhaps we should pull over and ask directions. But
my father would pretend not to hear her and would press on in that semiobsessional state
that tends to overcome fathers when things aren't going well.
Eventually, after driving the wrong way down the same one-way street so many times that
merchants were beginning to come and watch from their doorways, Dad would stop the
car and gravely announce, “Well, l think we should ask directions” in a tone that made it
clear that this had been his desire all along. This was always a welcome development, but
seldommorethanapartialbreakthrough.Eithermymomwouldgetoutandstopapatently
unqualifiedperson-anunonanexchangevisitfromCostaRicausually-andcomebackwith
directions that were hopelessly muddled or my father would go off to find somebody and
thennotcomeback.Theproblemwithmydadwasthathewasagreattalker.Thisisalways
a dangerous thing in a person who gets lost a lot. He would go into a cafe to ask the way
to Giant Fungus State Park and the next thing youknew he would be sitting down having a
cup of coffee and a chat with the proprietor or the proprietor would be taking him out back
to show him his new septic tank or something. In the meantime the rest of us would have
to sit in a quietly baking car, with nothing to do but sweat and wait and listlessly watch a
pair of flies copulate on the dashboard.
After a very long time my father would reappear, wiping crumbs from around his mouth
and looking real perky. “Darnedest thing,” he would say, leaning over to talk to my mom
through the window. “Guy in there collects false teeth. He's got over seven hundred sets
down in his basement. He was so pleased to have someone to show them to that I just
couldn't say no. And then his wife insisted that I have a piece of blueberry pie and see the
photographsfromtheirdaughterswedding.They'dneverheardofGiantFungusStatePark,
