New thoughts about older cities

There are fewer and fewer cities left in the United States that can claim to possess an identity of their own. As all national travellers know, great swaths of land are being eaten alive by monotony, an effect of the automobiles' impact on our land. The great freedom to travel captured not only our passions and dreams, but also the interest of corporate America, and our national treasure known as the interstate system became a massive tunnel of advertisements, chain stores and restaurants. The idea of breeding familiarities between distant and distinct territories resulted in one long road to nowhere. Every Mcdonalds is the same, everywhere. Except the one we stopped in yesterday, which served mcbiscuits and gravy. But every other one is the same. Every Starbucks sports the same colors, serves the same drinks. This works because it gives comfort. We know what to expect, we don't have to wrestle with new choices, we know what we're getting before we even walk in the door. This works and a lot of people actually appreciate it. The sour effects are evident, though. The obvious, such as the death of the local store, and the insidious, such as the death of a citys' soul. It starts along the edges of an area, the outskirts of town, where the bland infections run unchecked. The monotony slowly works its' way into the citys' bloodstream, strangling the limbs and working its way to the heart, which will either shrink and harden if strong, or wither and die if weak. I'm seeing this every day as I travel, and have learned to appreciate and love the desolate areas, the places where few if any live, because these places have been left untouched, not enough consumer base to warrant any attention. Quiet places where I would never live, places where the animals turn and look at you, not having had enough contact with mankind to be afraid, or just simply not afraid. When you're that deep in, you're in their living room, and if someone is going to be asked to leave, it will probably be you.

Having said this, there are cities that exist with hearts so strong, geographic genetics so resistant to corruption, that no illness will erase their soul. San Francisco, New York, New Orleans, Boston, even old Chicago all carry on, oblivious to the disease that surrounds them, they've built up anti-viruses as strong as any outside influence. Sometimes stronger. Sometimes more poisonous.

I've seen two cities that fit this bill so far. St. Augustine, a place I'll revisit some day, and now, Charleston. Beautiful architecture, a completely unique accent, the ability to blend old and new, beautiful and friendly women, and somehow one of the friendliest places I've ever been to. You can't do anything here without getting into a conversation of some kind with someone. American history. A southern city that doesn't seem to mind yankees. It's nowhere near perfect-you can see it's history still clearly marked in distinct lines. The civil rights movement wasn't that long ago for most of us, and down here, it sometimes seems to have just entered into a reality, of sorts. There's a lot of work to be done, but in all honesty I could say the same about Milwaukee. It's just easy to ignore it there, simple as not leaving your neighborhood. Regardless, I felt good here. Not at home, like some places have felt, but like visiting a siblings' house, maybe even a close cousin. You know where the dishes are, and don't have to ask before looking in the fridge for a snack.

I spent most of the day alone, and enjoyed the solitude so much, even though I spent most of my time talking with residents, all curious about where I'm going and where I came from. I must have hit the point in any long, hard travel where you start to look like a nomad, like you're not from anywhere near. Also, I haven't shaved since I left, and haven't had a haircut in over two months. Also, I'm walking around with a fully loaded tour bike.

Everyone seems a little tired tonight. A little on edge. Not quite at the halfway point, the sensations of thrill and excitement are dying down, replaced with our daily routines. We can never really relax, we're always moving somewhere, even when sitting still, going over maps or figuring out distances, not to mention where we're going to end up sleeping any given night. Dealing with each other, all of us capable of strengthening or demoralizing the others so easily in our conditions, physically tweaked and mentally exhausted from constant motion and stimulation. I must admit, there's been several times when the idea of turning off and continuing on my own, even if it was to ride straight back to Milwaukee, almost became a reality. And then, we sit down together, someone tells a joke or a story and we're back on track, a team again, and we know that we all have to make it to the northern border together.

The actual riding, the physicality, has been adapted to, and now the new challenges are arriving.