I never really feel like a trip has started until I hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Crossing New Jersey feels pretty much the same as going to the mall. Once I hit the PA Turnpike – one of the nicest roads to drive in the whole country – then I'm really on the road.
A common conceit among road-trippers is disdain for the Interstate highways. Everyone loves to put them down, to present themselves as somehow above them. I am not one of these people: I love the Interstate. It's “home” to me.
They let me get where I'm going in a reasonable amount of time. There is usually someplace to use the toilet, or to stop for a break. Anything I need is nearby. I know the rules and customs. I can't get lost. There is no “local culture” to adapt to; I am part of the local culture. I enjoy highway driving and find it relaxing. This is where I feel at home.
You don't have to miss everything on the way. There are exits, after all, and you're allowed to use them. When I've purposely tried longer drives on the so-called “blue highways,” pursuing these virtues that must exist since so much is written of them, it is usually mile after mile of monotony, slow monotony, with nothing to see, and nowhere to stop, not even enough shoulder to pull off the road if you want to stop. And heaven forbid you have to pee. No, for travel, give me a nice Interstate any day. Leaving it is a trip away from home, often nice, but always ended by returning eventually.
This is especially true at the start (and end) of a trip. There just isn't much in the East that is of interest, so as I begin my journey I am faced with a good distance before I even want to stop for anything other than a rest or some food. There won't be anything worth stopping for till at least Illinois. Ohio and Indiana are basically just in the way.
Cruising Route 66 Grapes-of-Wrath-style may sound romantic, but I doubt it really was, overall. Sure, I'd probably have more to write about, but I'd also do it a lot less.
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