| America the Barbieful | ||
| First published in The Hartford Courant | Select another essay | |
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I don't even mind walking, although unlike some American writers of note, I'm not a firm believer in heading down the road not taken. I figure: Nobody's taking this road for a reason. People aren't stupid. Maybe there are ditches or big dogs or even one of those houses with a huge porch where you have to stop to talk, asking how their kids are when you can't remember the kids' names, and so you end up being late, thinking to yourself, "I sure wish I'd taken that road that everybody else took! Who did I think I was, anyway?" But I'll walk, yes I will, just as long as I have good company with me and good weather and very comfortable shoes and I've just had a good meal and can look forward to getting home soon and putting my feet up and look forward to not going walking again for a good long while. So don't say I don't enjoy a walk. Yes, I've been traveling a bit lately and my travels have taken me to America. Turns out there are lots of things I didn't know. Having been born in Brooklyn, N.Y., I at one time flirted with the marvelous illusion that I was native to this country, but having driven slightly westward last month, I saw a sign welcoming me to Pennsylvania. The sign read: "America Starts Here." Oh, I thought, my travel agent didn't warn me about this. "I forgot the passport and foolishly have only the currency from my native land," I remarked to Michael. Then I thought, "I should talk to my accountant about getting back all those federal taxes I've been paying for 20 years." Finally, I realized, "Oh, they must be kidding: it's that rollicking Amish sense of humor for which Pennsylvania is so famous." It wasn't that I felt bad for myself, it's just that I didn't like to think of America as disowning the whole of the East Coast, What about nice little Rhode Island, which never hurt anybody? Or western New Jersey, even, which is spitting distance (and honestly, I'm speaking only metaphorically) from Pennsylvania? Can't they sneak into America, at least on weekends? I decided to take the Pennsylvania sign seriously. (I take most signs seriously. You should see how seriously I've taken signs such as "Falling Rock Zone" or "Bridge Freezes Before Road"; I've started life anew on several occasions simply to avoid having to travel through those treacherous places.) I decided to see America with a new vision, and I headed happily toward the Midwest. I passed places along the way calling attention to themselves with the names (I'm not kidding now) "Grampa's Cheesetown" and "Suzy's Antiques: New and Used" I saw a lot of white people, not that there's anything wrong with that, but it did look as a the melting pot had mostly melted together potatoes, butter, and products from Grampa's Cheesetown without too much salsa, paprika or oregano thrown in. Me, I'd have sprinkled in some fresh basil and a little sweet pepper, at the very least, just to increase appetites. Lots of people looked the same; it was as If a whole bunch of towns were populated by folks whose family trees hadn't forked. But who am I to say anything? This difference between the East Coast and America became most apparent to me when I was shopping at a flea market filled with fabulously gaudy, useless and tantalizing objects. I walked down row after row and delightedly looted the shelves in this foreign land where 1962 Barbie dolls could still be bought in their original packaging for three bucks. I bought bags of stuff for a couple of dollars and felt like a queen. Like the queen of another land, true, but I didn't much mind. I'll get back to America sometime soon, but for now I'll hang up my (very comfortable) walking shoes and stay in the lovely country of Connecticut. | ||