“What was the best part?”
I hate this question. I hate this question so much. “What was the best part? What was the worst part? How did you do it? Why did you do it? That’s crazy!” Endless questions, endless statements, and two years later I still don’t know how respond.
See, today, November 9th, is the two year anniversary of the end of The Great American Road Trip. On November 9th, 2011 my brother, Daniel Bastin, and I drove into our hometown. Ross had been gone for five and a half months, I was on the road for a combined total of four months, and Daniel had joined us in Vegas for what would be the last month. We drove through twenty-three states or provinces in the US and Canada and covered over twenty-thousand miles.
Its two years down the road and I’m still trying to understand it. But I’ll never forget it. There hasn’t been a day in the last two years worth of days that I haven’t thought about it.
How do you explain waking up to a desert sunrise or sleeping in the front seat during a mountain whiteout? Is there a way to make you feel the awe and splendor of seeing the Teton Range for the first time the morning after that whiteout, and it being covered in a thick crust of ice and a blanket of fresh powder? Can I make you feel the desperation and freedom of eating cold, plain, canned tuna with your bare hands on the side of the road?
I can’t explain any of this. There was just road. Road and endless miles.
And then we came home. And everything was the same except that I left part of myself out there, on the road, still searching.