Thursday, July 26, 2012

Ghia Monster


It was 1971. We were young and hairy, driving from Washington, DC, to San Diego. We were out to taste the dusty road, to see what lay beyond the next bend, to eat a burrito with green chilies. Our mount was a Karmann Ghia ragtop, a mix of German and Italian technology that came together in a lovable little car we called Carmenito.
      It was 4 a.m. when we reached a roadside diner outside of Nashville. Inside were farmers gorging on bitterness and fatty bacon. As we sat down, we felt their hostile gaze. "Who are these long-haired city punks—and why do they get to be so free?" their deadened eyes seemed to ask. We mumbled obscenities, ate our eggs, and shuffled out, defiant and unbowed. We moved west, ever west, blown by a fevered wind, as the landscape flattened and dried up. Ragged little towns petered out along the highway, like our stillborn dreams. We crossed Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, driven by a yearning we could not define. It was like a wild animal—a monster—thrashing around in a burlap bag, and we couldn't decide whether to kill it or turn it loose. Finally we reached San Diego, and we knew we'd reached the end of the line (I mean, basically, past that is ocean). There was only one thing left to do: Turn around and go home.—Dan Bowman, Bethesda, MD.

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