"If travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it's a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end."--Pico Iyer
The decision had been easy.It was the convincing that took awhile...a slow, steady effort to persuade, cajole...entice. It was a hard-sell. But then again, for most things worthwhile it took what it took. In his case it was time, and an effort to erode her doubts...her misgivings. In the end, it really came down to the simple fact that quite honestly there wasn't any other place that he would rather be...and that was with her.
The difficulty in finding the right vehicle was a major issue...the drive from Phoenix to Las Vegas is a perfect 300 miles. 300 in and of itself doesn't mean a lot for mileage, but there are some interesting items about the number itself.
It is said the Garden of Eden is protected by 300 "entirely brilliant angels" that continue to provide the sounds of Heaven.
In Hindu, 300 is the length of an eternity....300 mortal days form a mortal year.
In sum, the distance to Vegas will feel like an eternity with an angel.
Of course the decision had been easy.
But finding a 1972 Chevrolet Impala convertible with satellite radio had taken some time. Finally he found a rental place of exotic vehicles that the owner drove himself. He paid mightily for it and had none of the usual rental car insurance features but it was jet-black with black interior and a white roof with whitewall tires. It was perfect.
He of course had to reset the satellite channels...the owner was seriously into bluegrass and he had no intention of hurtling northward with their hair in the breeze listening to a banjo.
He had told her to pack a small bag
A weekender? she had called it. It was the perfect name for the perfect amount of time. He also told her he'd buy her anything she might overlook so that part of the conversation was easy.
What was much harder was the rest of it.
Like picking out the driving songs...sure, he had a bunch to choose from, but the outset had to be perfect...it had to arrive at her in the moment when she got into the car and then it had to set the mood for the first few twists and turns until they reached the open highway of US 93 north.
And there was a moment...a moment when he pulled the lever on the steering wheel into drive, a familiar gesture from his youth, and he pulled out into the silver-black highway, shining like a penny in the sun. He had lowered the white convertible top into its resting place, and the air was like an unopened package...dewy, morning, the sky a light vanilla color and the butterfly flowers in full bloom...the wind carried a hint of a fresh start, a bit of newness...it was lavender, filigree and the scents of a warming tub all mixed in with a freshly scrubbed sky. It smelled like her. He leaned back in his seat, his head on the headrest and breathed her in.
It never stayed. It just drifted, aligned with him and then moved on.
So the first song. He had tried and pried but didn't come up with an answer. Rather, he had to pick her up at her hotel, turn onto traffic and boulevards, deal with lights and stops. It was staccato. It wasn't elegant.
He chose Rob Thomas' "Hold On Forever" for his drive up song...his song that would be playing as she walked alongside and entered his world like a satellite...circling him until gravity pulled her closer.
He hoped it would work.
It had the right beat, the light guitar riff, the upbeat tempo, the high goal of the lyrics...it could handle traffic, it could handle the stops and starts of a departure. It was a good song. It was a reach. But in her ears maybe it was comfort, soothing and safe. She could swing into the seat, settle in, sit back and relax. He hoped that...he hoped it would.
She looked small as she came out of her hotel entrance, a place where work had brought her but was now a place that was her last connection to her world. She was about to go a bit off the grid. She had a bag on her shoulder, large enough to carry some items but small enough to not mean forever.
She heard the first few threads of the song and had a tight smile.
I like this song. She sat in the seat, her purse clenched to her chest.
I'm glad. It just happened to appear.
Yeah. Just happened. Just coincidence.
I like to predict such things he said, pulling the lever into DRIVE and turning out of the lot.
As it happened traffic was a breeze, an anomaly, and they were quickly on the highway. They didn't talk much, rather like strangers in an elevator they merely bumped slightly against each other...they rode along...they moved with the movement of the pulls and tugs. Every now and again they glanced at each other, and soon her purse was placed between them.
The road was black ribbon and the surroundings a cream color. Small splatches of green shrubs appeared....he waited for his next song...from Mr. Probz...called Waves...it was a great driving song...a nice back guitar...his gravely voice...his description of waves and slowly drifting...he wanted her to feel like she was being pulled away from a shore...away from a beach. Departing.
He wanted her undone.
Slowly drifting...but feeling like drowning.
Only to perhaps wake to a sunrise in the city of Sin...and be puffy-eyed with sleep and tousled hair memories of an evening rediscovering.
