This flight into Chicago was entirely different from the one seven months prior, when I was sentimental about touching down on American soil. There was no time for sentimentality this time around--I hit the ground running. I had a ton of stuff to do in preparation for Alaska. First and foremost, I had to buy a car. There would be no epic drive if I didn't have a good set of wheels.
While in Britain, I searched the internet for used cars in the Chicago area. After doing some research, checking the advice from seasoned Alaskans, I learned that Subarus were the way to go in the great white North. With a stroke of luck, I found the exact car I was looking for at a dealership in DeKalb, about a mile from my parents' house. It was the right model, the right color, and most importantly, the right price. It looked great online, but how would it measure up in person? If everything checked out, my car search would be very short.
Within hours of landing at O'Hare, my dad and I pulled into the parking lot of Brad Manning Ford, under the shadow of Interstate 88. And there it was--the perfect Alaskan car. An all-wheel 2005 Subaru Forester. It was love at first sight. I'm one of those car buyers who goes on intuition; when it's right, it's right. Two minutes behind the wheel and I knew the car was mine. The man who sold us the car was a lovely gentleman who gave me a great deal, seen as how I was paying with cash. I found out the next day that he had retired; mine had been his last sale. Either I had been a nightmare customer, prompting him into early-retirement, or he felt he had done his last good sale, and he wanted to end on a happy note. Honestly, I feel it was more the latter, as the whole process had gone smoothly and there had been some rapport between us. It just felt like it was meant to be. I drove my new car home with an enormous weight off my shoulders. After informing Chris about my purchase, he said I should name the car Buck, after the dog in The Call of the Wild. It seemed a fitting name for this Alaskan-bound car. The name stuck.
Though my driving experiences over the past 3 1/2 years had been minimal, I figured driving was like riding a bike--you pick up where you left off. I had a 2,600 mile journey ahead; this driving thing had better come naturally to me! But two moments shook me up prior to my epic drive. The first one happened in the parking lot of a grocery store, where Buck decided to take a snooze while cruising for a parking spot. He just sputtered and died. I hadn't had him more than 48 hours, and he was already dying on me. This was somewhat of a concern. Would this be happening in the middle of North Dakota, or on a busy freeway through Minneapolis? This was not good. Still, I tried to suck it up as a one-time occurrence, part of Buck's growing pains under a new owner. The second moment happened in that same parking lot, this time when I was pulling out. Though I had never properly driven in the U.K, I had been a keen observer as a backseat driver. I was used to pulling out of intersections into left hand lands. This is exactly what I did while pulling out of this said grocery store. There was a divider between lanes, and I found myself in the wrong lane with cars coming directly at me. I made a quick turn into another lot to avert disaster, but the experience still shook me up. Was I really prepared to make this epic drive?
Well, ready or not, I was leaving. I had secured my job in Haines, thanks to a phone interview with Mountain Market. I would be starting work there on November 12th, fifteen days after pulling out of my parents' driveway in Northern Illinois. Was I nervous? Hell yes I was! But I was bursting with the excitement of starting out on this adventure. This was bigger than the adventure of traveling six months through Europe and Asia; bigger than selling everything and moving to Britain; even bigger than meeting a stranger off the plane in NYC. Yes, in a lifetime of adventures, this was the biggest one yet.
A Royal Tea Party
I had a few days before my departure. Though these days were busily spent with preparations, buying stuff for the journey and sorting through the boxes I had stored at my parents over the years, I wanted to do something nice for my nieces. Who knew when I'd see them again.
There was some contention. Not overly, but enough to be felt. This was felt from my mom who couldn't understand why I was going to Alaska. Why so far away? First, I had moved to Britain. That was bad enough. But that was only a six hour flight away. Even though my mom has some kind of fascination with Europe, she never came to see me when I lived there (though her and my dad had toured much of the continent that past year, even making a stop in Ireland). It was hard to understand why she wanted me to live closer. Didn't she want to visit these cool places? Didn't she want an insider's tour, something that couldn't be found off a cruise ship dock? There wasn't much support from other members of my family. Why Alaska? It's so cold there!
Why could no one see just how awesome Alaska was? There was only one friend of mine who understood it--my old manager, Ray. Good old Ray. What a history we had together. Though he was a good fifteen years older than me, I used to have a sort of crush on him. He had reminded me of Midwestern version of Morrissey with his tall stature and chiseled-chin good looks. I went to visit him at the old workplace, and he must have sensed my wounded soul. "I totally get why you're going," he told me. And I knew he got it. He was only person from my past who was giving me a genuine thumbs-up on this adventure.
Anyway, back to my nieces. Yes, I had no idea when I'd see them again. I talked of reunions in places like Yellowstone National Park. Isn't that what our family did so well? Grand reunions? Well, the Lane side of the family, who had been dispersed across New England and the Midwest. Under my grandparents' guidance, ever since I was a wee thing, our family came together every few years for a bonding experience. Some of my greatest memories are of these reunions: the Catskill mountains, the Florida Keys, the Caribbean cruise. I thought this was a legacy that my parents would carry on. But no matter how I tried, I couldn't get my mom to be excited about the prospect of a reunion. The reality of this didn't hit until a few months later, but at the time it was very discouraging.
So I wanted to do something for my nieces. Something memorable. At the time, I was nurturing the thought of opening a tea room. I had done some research on British tea rooms, going out for afternoon tea at some posh locations. Hell, I had even worked at a place that did afternoon tea; I knew the appeal of tea and finger foods. My original plan had been for Boulder, Colorado, in the university area. Chris had supported this vision of a tea room. He wanted to name it Lady Lane's. I wanted a literary theme with a Victorian feel. I'd call it Great Expectations and have classical books lining the walls. My employees would be dressed up like characters: Pip, Estella, and I would be Miss Havisham, in a ramshackle wedding dress. I would be the baker. Chris would handle the finances. He'd play the part of Mr. Pimplebottom (or something like that, I can't remember), an eccentric (and entirely made-up) character. Though it was fun to play around with these ideas, there was a seriousness there. I had worked in catering so long--why not do something with it? It only seemed right to want to open my own place. How Alaska fit into these plans, or how these plans fit into Alaska--we'd just have to see.
In an effort to test out my afternoon tea skills, I determined to put on a tea party. Mom had this great British baking book with all the classic recipes. I'd be making everything from scratch--scones, shortbread, a Bakewell tart, and of course, finger sandwiches. My nieces weren't tea drinkers. I decided to try out the jasmine buds I had bought in Vietnam (for presentation purposes, if anything else). I made the party as formal as possible, and played Mother (it's a British thing). We wore our Sunday best, with hats and pearls and all (faux pearls, more like), and acted like ladies. "Tea is to be taken very seriously," I told them, taking on the seriousness I had encountered with the old, rich ladies at House of Fraser, where I had worked in Manchester. Mom had all the right equipment for such a party, with the platters and china, even a perfect tea pot so we could watch the jasmine buds in action as they expanded in the hot water. To my delight, the girls liked the tea, and everything else too, from what I could gather. I don't know if the party was as special for them as it was for me. It was a perfect moment with my family--my nieces, my mom and my sister.
I haven't seen my family since I left in October 2012. Though we're not really emotional people by nature, there was that moment saying goodbye that sparked tears, particularly with my mom. There's always that feeling when we say goodbye that it might be the last time we see each other. We kept up communication for awhile; I gave updates about life in Alaska, and I got the news from back home. This went on for a few months, but somewhere a corner was turned. It may have come from my side, as I continually perceived a a lack of interest in my life. I suppose Facebook didn't help with this, as I constantly had to read about my mother's ambitions to travel. She was obsessed with Italy. Italy-this, Italy-that. She was planning for more trips to Europe, and among those plans there wasn't one damn mention of coming to see me. Even though I tried to rouse enthusiasm in a reunion, there was no enthusiasm from the other side. I felt I was a one-man show in trying to muster family bonding. Because of this frustration, I decided to unfriend my mom from Facebook. I didn't need that constant reminder that she wasn't interested in my new life. Does that make me a horrible person, unfriending my mom like that? The jury's out on that one, and by that, I mean my own personal jury. But there are other reasons I did this, and it was a long journey to that point. Forever I've held onto the hope of gaining my parents' acceptance, of being understood by them. Others noticed this long before I did. Why are you always looking for their approval, Sarah? You're never going to get it. I came to the point where I realized it was no longer important to me, what they thought of me. Because I left their religion, I'll always be a little less to them; not entirely dead, but flawed, no matter what I do with my life. I have to go ahead and live my life, without that baggage strapped to my back. Unfriending my mom was just the first step toward liberation. Soon after, I wrote a letter to their church, making an official break with the religion. This action may have prompted a complete cutting off of communication with my family, as they have their rules to follow. Though my parents will respond to emails (credit especially goes to my dad on that one), there is complete silence from my sister. After hearing through the family grapevine that she might have MS, I sent her an email to share my sympathy. In that email, I also extended an invitation for the nieces to visit. Nothing. I have no news of my nieces or what's going on in anyone's lives. So I guess that's that.
In the words of Forrest Gump: "And that's all I have to say about that."
A Rough Start
I was packed and ready. Buck was filled to the hilt with boxes, all that was needed to start my new life in Alaska. I left on a crisp fall morning. My driving goal was ambitious for the first day, somewhere near 600 miles, from DeKalb to Fargo, North Dakota. I'd be on the road for 10 hours. At first, it was the familiar highway past the Wisconsin border. There was a sense of unease to my journey, maybe because of Buck dying on me in that parking lot. I felt as if something out of blue was going to strike me, and all the dead deer lying along the road weren't helping. I made a deal with Buck: "If you get me to Alaska, I'll spoil you with a tune-up."
Not much happened in that first day of driving. I played my CDs, I sang, I drove, I ate granola bars, I dodged roadkill. I encountered a massive traffic jam outside of Minneapolis, which put me behind schedule. I drove like a maniac, just wanting to get to Fargo. I had booked a night at a Super 8 in West Fargo, and I wanted nothing more than to collapse on a bed. I have never driven such a long distance in my entire life. My eyes had somewhat of a deranged look as I crossed into North Dakota, road-weary and unnerved by the miles. I pulled out my print-out from Google Maps with directions to the hotel. Unfortunately, Google Maps led me to an empty cement lot. I circled that block in Fargo for ages, rubbing my forehead, trying to figure it out. "It doesn't make sense!" I shouted and cried, banging the steering wheel, as if this would help anything. Finally, I found the number to the hotel and called them. "Oh, you're on the west side of Fargo," they told me. "You need to go to West Fargo." Turns out West Fargo is an entirely different place, a few miles down the highway from the actual city of Fargo. I couldn't believe I had wasted an hour--a whole hour I could have spent soaking in a hot bath or relaxing in a comfy bed.
Back on the highway, I sped towards the signs of West Fargo. I was in farm country, with silos everywhere. A full moon was rising over the horizon, giving me a moment of the spectacular before I cruised into the Super 8 parking lot. As I was pulling into a parking spot, Buck died on me. He sputtered and just died. What a perfect end to my day. At least he had decided to die on me at the end of the day. Poor Buck. I had pushed him hard on that first day out.
I was still stiff and tired and I set out the next morning. Perhaps that's why I drove the wrong way down a divided highway. Yep, I did it again, pulled into the left lane. I drove through a red light at an intersection to correct myself. What an awesome way to start my day! That woke me up good and proper.
I headed into the grasslands of North Dakota. On Interstate 94, it was business as usual, with semis and billboards and whatnot. At some point I turned off, heading north towards the Canadian border. This is when I felt I had left home behind and had entered a whole new world. The sun was hitting haystacks and turning the land gold. Though the landscape was monotonous, it was thrilling for me all the same. I was the only one on the road. Hours went by where I didn't see another single car. I cranked my music up and sang at the top of my lungs. This truly was the open road, the road I had craved. I don't know how I managed it, but I made a wrong turn (how this is possible in a place where there are few turns altogether, I'll never know), putting me out of line with the border. So I aimed for another entry port into Canada. Did it matter? I wasn't too sure. But one thing I was worried about was my gas situation. I had filled up in Fargo, but hadn't seen another filling station in hours. There has to be something, I thought. People out in the middle of nowhere need gas too. I scoured the map, looking for towns, but as I passed through these towns, there were no gas stations. They'll be something near the border, I thought. There has to be. Nothing. Absolutely nothing but a flat line of road which gently rose and fell between fields of golden grass.
I came to the border. It was my first time driving across a national border. Needless to say, I was a little nervous. I stopped at the building on the American side. Other than a few guards, nobody was about. "You need to go through Canadian customs," I was told by one of the guards. "This is the American side." I got back in the car, and circled the lot. I came to another door, which I pulled on. I encountered the same guard. "You're still on the American side," he told me. I felt like such an idiot. Squinting around, I couldn't see the Canadian side. The guard pointed to a shack, just a few meters away. "That's it?" I asked, not believing it to be true. How can you have this massive building for the American side, and a simple shack for the Canadian side? I guess there's a lot to be said there.
Canadian customs took no longer than two minutes, and there I bloody was, in Canada. At the outset, Saskatchewan didn't look much different from North Dakota. The desolation, and the gas situation, were about the same. Luckily I came across a gas station just as Buck expressed his abject need for fuel. Once I filled up, my road was open to me once more, and I drove it with pleasure, almost whooping at the freedom it gave me. Canada was a new country for me. Sure, my family had driven through a portion of Ontario when I was just a kid, on a scenic route to Niagara Falls. But I don't remember much from that trip, other than a diner, so I hadn't really counted it. This--this was Canada. Miles were now kilometers. The maple leaf was found on highway signs. Other than that, the difference was hard to make out.
My stop for the second night was in Medicine Hat, just across the border into Alberta. I hadn't reserved a hotel room, so I was surprised at the price of accommodation for the night. The first hotel I checked was $150. That seemed outrageous to me, so I popped across the road where I found the other one to be the same price. "They're all the same," the lady at reception told me. So Canada was expensive, I was finding that out.
As I was just off the highway, I was concerned about the safety of Buck. Not that I had anything terribly valuable in the car, but I had a lot of personal stuff, like photo albums and journals. I didn't want anything happening to them. I didn't sleep easily that night, as I would get up and look out the window, making sure Buck was still there under the parking lot light. I was still in Northern England mode, where you can't so much leave a bag on a seat without the threat of getting a window smashed in. In the morning, Buck greeted me in his reliable way. I was forming a bond with him. He hadn't died on me that day. And he wouldn't again for the duration of the journey. "Alright, pal, let's go," I told him. I had broken both myself and him in. Two days under our belts, and eight more to go before setting foot in the Last Frontier.
