HOME // 12 for 12

It's a fickle idea, home. Something that I've wrestled with for quite some time, and an idea that never seems to leave my mind. I've realized I'm not there yet. And with that, an adventurous year opens up: 12 trips in 12 months. I'm more than ready to see what this country has to offer. I'm only assuming during my travels in the coming year that it will worsen, but hopefully along the way I can find a place to belong. 

(Maybe).

Nashville, as it turns out, was nothing that I had hoped it to be. There are few opportunities, few things that interest me, and no communities that I feel like I can be a part of. There are plenty of opportunities for some, lots of things to do for others, and communities already established, but I just don't see myself as part of the "big picture". I've met some really great people, but I've also met some terrible people too. Nashville seems to have more of the latter, at least for me.

When I arrived in Philly, I took the train into the City Center. I gazed out the window; I thought of how much I missed riding trains. The train would go through tunnels and for a brief second I gazed at my reflection before the graffitied buildings came back into view. It was so colorful and the urban decay had so many stories. Nashville doesn't have that for me. I don't wander the streets (which is hard to do anyway, there aren't a lot of sidewalks; this isn't a city for pedestrians) and want to take constant photos, or write down what I'm seeing. I've barely taken any photos of this place; in fact, I think my favorite photo I've taken is the one above, and it was while I was leaving Nashville. I'm just not inspired. 

But I'm glad that's something that I've realized, it only took me two years. I'm not sure what it's going to take to make me happy. Skyscrapers? Mountains? Oceans, rivers, or lakes? At any rate, it's still out there. And it's nice to know the journey continues. 

THOUGHTS OF A LONE ROAD TRIP

"Oh Hannah, this one's nice. And it's a Toyota, great fuel milage, plus they run forever." My mother has always been very economical. "Oh yeah, it's fine." I replied. We left that cold parking lot full of shiny new 2015 cars with a lesser exciting, 2007 beat up silver Carolla. I had spent the better part of the past five years on various modes of public buses and trains, so there wasn't anything too exciting about a car. "It just needs to get you from Point A to Point B," my mother repeated.

And that's what a good car always does, gets you to Point B and back home again. In between, of course, was seedy and small parking garages of downtown Nashville where my car received her fair share of dings and bruises, but I couldn't care. But it wasn't until this trip, my first solo venture on the road, that I gave a shit about her. Was it because I was lonely? Was it because I was emotionally recognizing that this was the vessel that took me to Point B and beyond? At any rate, she became my companion on a trip that took me 1,377 aimless miles around Appalachia. I would come back to her, continuously getting in and out of the car for various overlooks, always eagerly returning to her to venture on to our next stop. She was my only comfort- not only the temperature control to battle the unwaivering temperature of the mountains outside, but she became a familiar face. We've been to eight states together now, and I'm looking forward to many, many more. 

We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us. - John Muir

The mountains became a constant comfort to me. They greeted me with open arms. They had beckoned to me, yet I found myself surprised to see them as I turned corners. I drove along the crest in a blind sighted haze, struggling to believe that the surrounding scenery rolling out in front of me was real. Each mountain was different, yet somehow familiar, they became a friendly face as I drove along. Each curve brought a new scene, and a new face to meet. The mountains presence soon took the full state of my mind. When it was time to get off the parkway and I drove down to the bottom, I felt like I was unsafe, unsure of my surroundings. There is a peacefulness at 3,000 feet, that kept me happy, kept me curious, that kept me warm. 

I suppose I missed home, but I didn't miss Nashville, but I missed the boy from Nashville. He was my annoying ghost companion of a solo road trip; I was always lonesome, yet he followed me everywhere. Although I made a hefty amount of mix CDs for the road, I found myself only listening to one: Once I was an Eagle by Laura Marling. Her album was one that I had listened to so many times before, but only resonated with me now. You weren’t my curse, she bellowed again and again. It’s like she had known all these years that our story would happen. She's the only person I feel understands my plethora of problems with my friendships and relationships and the life I have miserably built for myself.

I have succumbed the feeling that I now equate my whole existence in Nashville with him, and my only option now is to find a new home. The mountains are calling, and I must go.  

WEST VIRGINIA

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Rainelle was looking much better than when I last visited. With the railroad and lumber business booming, the eventual addition of the highway in the 1960s that cut across southern West Virginia had prevented visitors from coming through. The lumber business died down, as did the railroad, and what was left was a husk of a once thriving mountain town. Shop after shop on the main street sat empty. The old King Coal Hotel, with its signature giant piece of coal sitting outside, had burned down. The walls still stood, but once you stepped inside it was a hollow shell, with shower rods still poking out from the walls. It's just a rugged piece of land now, and the piece of coal is long gone.

It was mid afternoon, and the light was hitting the church is just the right way; the dark wood walls glistened and the front was blazoned with flowers and autumn decorations, which made chilly room seem much warmer. In the middle sat my grandfather's old military photo. The photo must have been taken sometime around the 1930s, once black and white but it was colored in, as were much of the photos of the time. He had his signature smirk, but it was such a young, handsome face that I never experienced first hand in real life, but you could see his personality never waned. A slide show was playing, recounting his 97 years of photos of him with his old Harley Davidsons, with his plane that he would fly through the mountains, with his four kids and multitude of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a sullen affair, but my mom told me that though he's gone, the best parts of him are still with us.

We spent every summer driving to WV. As a child, the days in the car seemed long, but was surprised to hear that it only took less than 6 hours. My grandparent's home was nestled in between blue mountains. I remember their farm well; their RV that they had driven all over sat under a massive car port, and the barn sat in the middle of the land and we would go exploring in there. I haven't been to that house in years, and it's been a long time since I was in the state itself. As I drove back to Nashville, the highway twisted through the mountains. The fall light was perfect, never too bright and hit the changing leaves in such a beautiful way. I thought back on an old photo my dad sent me shortly after my granddad died; a sepia toned photo of him holding me. I couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, but his broad hands cradled me as a sat against his shoulder. The colors of the photo matched perfectly with the colors of the mountain. It's an odd sensation to feel so connected to a place that was never home.

ROAD TRIP: BLUE RIDGE PARKWAY DAY 1

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I drove South to Mt Pisgah, but my modern attachment to technology failed me miserably. I found myself on a dirt road, only to find the end with a DEAD END and a malicious looking handwritten sign that read “THIS IS NOT THE ROAD TO MT. PISGAH”. Already out of signal range, I slowly found my way back to a road that at least was paved and had lines on it. I kept driving on a hope and a prayer that it would lead me somewhere. I drove up a tiny, twisted, and seemingly endless road buried deep within the forest. I spotted a sign for the Blue Ridge Parkway and I meandered on. I looked over to my side and saw the most beautiful sight- miles and miles of blue and gray mountains with the colors of fall already sprouting in the trees. My first reaction was nothing more than a profaned “holy fucking shit”. I stopped at a secluded overlook. I stumbled out of my car and collapsed onto the soft ground and started crying. How lucky we live in a world with mountain top roads. How lucky we live in the South, with all of its idiosyncrasies,  that can provide such a scene.

There is a definitive sound that comes from the mountains, more so there’s a storied silence at 6,000 feet. Mt. Mitchell is the highest point in North Carolina; it was a 5 mile drive north even from the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a good 15 degrees cooler up there, and my southern comfort to temperature hasn’t waned from 75 degrees. I drove away from the crowds and found myself in a secluded area with nothing but a few picnic tables and dead trees.

It was nothing but silence. The wind was blowing, yet somehow it made no noise. It’s the most welcome and solitary feeling. Time didn’t exist, and I don’t remember how long I stayed. It’s a feeling that I want to chase- the sounds of the mountains.



ROAD TRIP: SMOKY MOUNTAINS

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I had meticulously planned for a road trip through Arkansas, as I’m trying to get to all 50 states. Plans fell through, however, with a family emergency and I had to plan on being in West Virginia during that weekend. I shrugged off my vacation, thinking that I would stay home and get some stuff done, but the bug bit a few days prior to the trip and I took off on my own.

Where to, was the question. The quickest route to WV was straight through Kentucky, but that wasn’t something I was interested in. I needed the mountains, which is something I’ve been craving more and more recently. Luckily, the Smokies are only a three hour drive.

I spent the afternoon chasing mountain tops. It was a drive I had done only once before, but it’s strange familiarity made it seem like home. Everywhere was speckled in brown and yellow, and the closer I got to the top, the more insignificant I felt. The road twisted up the side; gaps in the trees provided fleeting glances of the mountain, as if we were all driving straight into them. I spent the afternoon chasing the light as I reached the top; chasing some kind of dream of the idea of home that I have.

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