Notes From The Road

I cannot abide a seat kicker. Seat kickers should be strung up by their seatbelts and forced to watch Bride Wars repeatedly on a flickering screen the size of a postage stamp. Seat kickers should be force-fed six dollar "breakfast snack packs" until the bile rises in their throats after one too many slices of Hormel meat.

I am on an early morning flight from San Francisco to Dallas and I have a seat kicker. I inhale deeply. I exhale deeply. What would Oprah do in this situation? I think. Oprah, I think, would be serene. I inhale deeply again. I turn around. I have a smile on my face the size of Texas---appropriate, as that's where I'm going---and I use my most polite, most English, most Kate Winslet-like voice.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "I'm sure you don't realize it, but you're kicking my---"

"Haven't touched it," snaps the man.

"What's the problem here?" barks his wife, flipping her head up from her magazine, her face an enormous frown.

The two of them stare at me, uncompromising. We are starting to attract interested looks from other passengers.

"Oh," I say. "I just said that I'm sure you didn't realize it, but you were kicking my seat."

"Haven't touched it," repeats the man.

"He hasn't touched it," confirms his wife, and now her arms are crossed across her chest in defiance. "Your seat is probably just wobbly."

"Yeah," I say. "My seat is probably just wobbly. That's probably it."

I turn back around. The kicking continues.

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In Dallas, I have forty minutes to get from Terminal D to Terminal A, where I am catching my connection to Tulsa. I have never been to Tulsa; in fact, I have never been to Oklahoma. Oklahoma will be my thirty-fourth state. For a while, I believe that Oklahoma will be my thirty-sixth state, but this is while I am still under the impression that I have been to Arkansas. After a little while, however, doubt about my presence in Arkansas begins to creep in. We've driven across the country three times in nine years, taking slightly different routes every time. Have I been to Arkansas, or do I just think I've been to Arkansas? I have to admit, after some time spent trying to summon up any memories I might have of Arkansas, that I have probably not been to Arkansas after all.

Okay, I think, then Oklahoma will be my thirty-fifth state.

I look again at my list. Arkansas has made me nervous. Nebraska, all of a sudden, is starting to seem suspicious.

I IM Sean. "Have I been to Nebraska?" I type.

"Yes," he types back.

Good, I think. So I have been to Nebraska.

"Wait, no" he types two seconds later. "I've been to Nebraska."

Thirty-fourth, then. Oklahoma will be my thirty-fourth state.

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At the gate, a younger woman is giving an older woman suggestions for her trip to Tulsa.

"Tucci's," she says. "You have to go to Tucci's. Write it down. It's like Gucci's but with a T."

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In Oklahoma, the sky is so big. We drive and drive and the country opens up, all greens and blues, and I think why didn't I know about this? Oklahoma is hillier than I thought it would be and also wider. "Yes, ma'am," says a man to me when I ask him a question. The land sprawls out in front of us and behind us as we carve deeper into the countryside; we're the only people for miles around.

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That night, we meet Cowboy Josh. He tries to get me to eat calf fries.

"Calf fries!" I say. "Those sound like fun. What are they?"

"Bull nuts," he says. "The balls of a bull."

There is some discussion about whether or not I will try the ball of a bull if he brings one over. "I've got some in the freezer," he says. "We'll just put it in a pot of water and defrost it."

Jenny declares that she will try the bull ball. Karen, a vegetarian, declares that she will try the bull ball too. Can I be upstaged by a vegetarian when it comes to eating bull balls? I decide that I cannot. "I will also try the bull ball," I say. Carpe diem and all that.

But the plan slowly disintegrates, as plans like this often do. The bull ball in the freezer is too far away to go and fetch, it is decided, the defrosting process too arduous. Next time, we say, we'll do it next time. Bull balls for everyone! It's a date.

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In the Tulsa Airport on the way home, a gate agent goes bar to bar, warning passengers that their flight is about to board. How about that for some service.

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In Dallas, I have two and a half hours until my flight to San Francisco. I wander around, considering all the healthy options for dinner, and suddenly it occurs to me that I could do something very naughty. Who would know if I went to McDonalds? It must be time for my annual pilgrimage anyway. 

At the counter, I discover that it's impossible to order a meal with just one cheeseburger; a person has to order a #1 combo, which comes with fries, a drink, and two cheeseburgers.

"But I only want one cheeseburger," I tell the 12-year-old behind the register.

"Then only order one cheeseburger," he says.

I order only one cheeseburger, the smallest fries, and the smallest drink. It works out more expensive than if I had just ordered the #1 combination meal with two cheeseburgers.

But then: grease and salt and pickles, intermittent sips of an ice-cold diet Coke. I can see why people who quit smoking have a sneaky cigarette now and then. The sweet, soft bread of a McDonalds bun reminds me of being seven and eight and nine: sitting on a beach in Hong Kong at sunset, the glow of the golden arches behind us. The food tastes exactly the same. The beauty is that the food has always tasted exactly the same.

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Sean picks me up in San Francisco at 11:30pm and I am exhausted, beyond exhausted, my contact lenses sticking to my eyes like packing tape, a suspicious soreness in my throat. I have been away for 36 hours, taken four planes, driven 200 miles, walked twice through security checkpoints in my bare feet. I down a glass of water, throw my clothes on a chair, speed-brush my teeth, and fall, gratefully, into bed. Three best words in the English language: your own bed.