I-10 is dauting. I have this unnerving desire to hop on and just head west. It’s a very solid 10 hours to the other side of Texas. 1500 miles and a lot of coffee later, I’d find L.A. I have no desire to see L.A., but just north of the city of angels, you find hwy. 1, and a seemingly endless strip of oceanside California towns. I’ve always wanted to drive up that coast and visit all of the perfect towns I imagine are there. To feel the breeze. And end in Seattle.
East, though…I’ve been east. I-10 east for 8 hours takes you to an idealic, coastal Alabama town, and at a very clear point between a pecan orchard and an ironically fitting polo field, you find my home. It’s not Santa Barbara, but I hear it’s awfully pretty.
Why do I want to drive across the county to see something that bears a striking resemblance to the place I call home? Who knows. But I’m happy to report that I’m getting on I-10 midday Friday. And heading East.
