SHE WAS A DAY TRIPPER
How to find hope, humor and cheese on the road

Story by Sarah Steimer // Photography by Elizabeth Biris

I’m almost positive the two gentlemen in the car to the right of us are sophomores in college. I don’t have any real proof of this. No solid proof, at least. I’m just usually good at determining how old people are. Right probably 61 percent of the time. That’s above average.

What I’m not usually good at guessing is why the one with his hood up (we’ll name him “Gary” for clarity’s sake) is playing theair guitar so ferociously. Three years ago I could have easily said that Gary was merely very involved with whatever is playing on the car’s stereo. Three years ago no one had Guitar Hero.

Gary is playing with little-to-no rhythm as he goes. I can tell this because he is rocking back and forth with no concern for finding a beat to stick with. I just see a few fingers flying. Flying like a secretary’s fingers on a typewriter, that is.

I notice his buddy is dancing as well, with better rhythm. From what I am witnessing I am able to strike the following theory:

Guitar Hero has ruined the once-great practice of air guitar.

A song, also featured on Guitar Hero, must have come on the radio. Gary’s friend is interested in the song for the song’s sake. Gary has recognized the melody and insists on “going through the motions,” recreating the fingering pattern he uses during the game for the song. Actually, on a larger scale, Guitar Hero is also ruining music in general — at least every song featured in the game. GH will have the same effect as commercials sometimes have. For the same reason I think about pickup trucks when I hear “Born to be Wild,” many people will probably think about their game console when they hear “Free Bird.”

My thoughts run rampant when I take road trips. Luckily, Leah understands. She is the driver today, but more importantly the person whom I will be bouncing ideas off. Someone like Leah makes for the perfect companion on a trip. We became good friends when we met last year, but this year she lives in Chicago. She’s visiting for the weekend, which means there will be a lot of discussion, a lot of overindulging in each other’s reactions. It also helps to have a road trip partner who is one of those people willing to do pointless things. Today we are on our way to a cheesebarn.

But back to my current train of thought. Now I’m not so much concerned with Gary’s reaction to his stereo anymore as I am with the stereo in our car. “Throw it All Away” by Zero 7 just came on the mix CD I made specifically for the trip (more on this later). I need Leah’s opinion on the song because for the past two weeks I’ve been enduring the worst love-hate relationship with it.

When I told Leah the name of the band, she immediately asked, “Didn’t they have a song on the Garden State soundtrack?”

Yes.

Which is part of the reason I don’t know if I can really like the band very much. Not to say I automatically dislike anyone who appears on that album. For example, I’m an avid Simon & Garfunkel supporter. It’s just that the album became the average person’s “indie CD.” I have no idea why or how, but that’s what it became. I know this because I’ve heard more than 14 people say, “I don’t know … I don’t really like indie that much, but I do have the soundtrack to Garden State.” Also, I know at least six people whose mothers own a (sometimes burned) copy. This is because all indie music circa 2003 sounds like something Paul McCartney would have written if he were 24 in 2003. Everyone’s mom either still loves Paul or otherwise is willing to settle for him if they really would have preferred John or George. Indie songs off this album in particular are little more than reasonably well-written (i.e. “catchy” but not necessarily bubblegum “poppy”) love songs. This is Paul’s specialty (think “Silly Love Songs”).

As the Zero 7 song played quietly in the background, I explained my dilemma with the song. This is an important detail. Always play the song quietly in the background while you narrate over it, then again at regular volume afterward with little or no interruptions. This is very VH1 Classic “Classic Albums” narration, which conveniently makes your audience subconsciously believe you more. You sound like a total musical intellect. Convenient.

My issue is simple. I’m a huge fan of basically every aspect of the song except the refrain. I don’t know what happens. The instrumental aspect — not bad at all. The vocals — pretty beautiful. The lyrics — not awful. But the refrain happens and it sounds like absolute shit to me. Gets too light and airy for the rest of the song. Becomes Mandy Moore when it’s been pulling off a respectable sound otherwise. As if with this refrain they now have a shot to not only have been on the Garden State soundtrack, but now maybe even the “Grey’s Anatomy” soundtrack.

I found no resolution. Leah didn’t really know what to tell me about my hot/cold relationship with the song. Only that it made her want to snap her fingers, which I don’t think she ever actually did.

What the song did make me realize is the significance of having a mix tape made for a road trip. This is one of the single most crucial elements of the road trip that makes it different from any other trip that has a simple “from point A to point B” quality. A trip with a desired physical destination has a map to take you to this place. A mix CD is the psychological map. It is the closest you can come to determining where you’ll go in your thoughts. For the most part, that is.

For example, Bob Dylan came on after Zero 7. This automatically launched Leah and me into a discussion on how he is one of the very few artists we can listen to regardless of place, time or general mood present. This instantly led to determining other artists who work in this manner. This then led to immediate pleadings from both sides for the other party to download a certain song “as soon as we get back.”

Not to mention making a mix tape is a very communal project. Usually, everyone in the car has a specific song or group of songs they wish to share for the sole purpose of taking everyone’s thoughts somewhere, whether it’s discussed or not. Finding a physical destination is always something that must involve mutual concession. Everyone can choose an emotional place to visit at some point during the trip when music is the vehicle.

The only thing I will warn is that just like going somewhere, and maybe wishing you’d remembered to pack something or wish you’d stopped at the last rest stop, you’ll forget songs. I say this only because the second I finished burning the CD I was almost in a blind rage that I forgot to add this fantastic cover of Bob Dylan’s “This Wheel’s on Fire” performed by Julie Driscoll, Brian Auger and the Trinity.

On the subject of leaving things out, we were thrilled upon discovery of this cookie we bought earlier to split. It was organic and vegan and whatever else makes you feel the least guilty you ever have in your life about eating. With this cookie, they apparently leave the egg out and I think the sugar or something. I don’t know — it was good enough (oatmeal-raisin, by the way). But it was certainly not something I’d be too thrilled about if my mother made me a batch. Cookie recipes shouldn’t be toyed with too much. Organic will never replace regular baked goods, just as tofu will never replace turkey in terms of meat. Make me something with tofu that tastes half as good as barbecue pulled pork and so-help-me-God I will become a full-on, no-exceptions vegan. Or maybe just full-on, no-exceptions vegetarian.

I think if I did become a vegetarian I’d have to get a car like Leah’s (she’s not a vegetarian, though). It’s a Prius hybrid and quite possibly one of the coolest cars I’ve ever been in. It feels like a little spaceship floating around on the highway. Almost seems like a fake car. You push a button to make it start, and it sounds like it turns off entirely when you stop at a light. Very Jetsons, very chic. The only thing that makes me nervous is the fact that it has one of those GPS systems. Not because messing with it while you’re driving might cause an accident. But mainly because when you don’t go the way it wants you to, it drives you legally insane. No pun intended.

We arrive at the cheesebarn. This is not your average cheesebarn. This is Grandpa’s Cheesebarn.

I suppose I trust “Grandpa” in terms of cheese more than I would cousin Charlotte. I guess he would seem the most knowledgeable in terms of dairy products within the family.
           
The first person we encounter threw us off entirely for what we were about to experience inside. Leah and I were taking pictures of one another in front of a sign for the Barn. A man, finding this quite unreasonably entertaining, rolled down his window and yelled “Tourists!” and chuckled.
           
I didn’t totally get it, I’ll admit. This cheese haven is on a random exit off I-71 South. You yell “Tourist!” at people snapping pictures at regular, non-touristy spots — like the post office — for it to be humorous. A Cheesebarn off a highway is meant to be a tourist trap. I’m sure it has regulars, but how good is this damn cheese that people commonly and consistently get on the highway just to buy their cheese here when they sell pretty edible cheese at most grocery stores?

On the inside of Grandpa’s Cheesebarn I noticed there were far more crappy knick-knacks than I expected. Think of every bad souvenir you’ve ever gotten. Now write your name on it — that’s the kind of stuff you can buy here. I honestly thought I’d be walking into some sort of cheese haven where everything from cake to chairs is made of cheese. That was upstairs. And it was just basically a lot of cheese, as well as many, probably pretty deliciously average, homemade preserves, soups and sauces. Quaint one way or another.
           
The girls working behind the counter were college-age and noticeably annoyed by most everything. I know this because the second I started looking at some mozzarella, one came up and asked, “What can I get you?” in the most irritated voice. Whether she was irritated because she worked at the Cheesebarn off the highway, wasn’t getting a raise from Grandpa, or because she was trying to close is still up for debate. Either way, please don’t rush me when I’m trying to make a decision on $5.99/lb. cheese.
           
I decided on a half pound of “salsa cheese.” (They had these “Thanks for not asking us to cut less than a ½ lb!” signs everywhere. As much of a joke as the “Thanks for not smoking!” signs. Don’t act like it is my decision, please.)
           
I wanted to keep wandering about, but while I was trying to look at serving crackers, the same girl who sliced my salsa cheese came over and turned the display light off. Things were getting tense now. I picked a box of crackers out in the now-dark corner of the store. Mainly out of some sort of guilt trip — I somehow couldn’t hold up these girls buying merely a half pound of Grandpa’s finest.
           
The tenseness boiled over in the shop when I reached the counter (this was the only place, by the way, that I’ve ever seen a replica of those Staples “Easy Buttons”). While I panicked that they maybe couldn’t take debit cards with their ancient register (they do), I overheard a worker tell their boss (Grandpa?!) that “Cynthia stole your music box.” I assume they meant CD player or radio. The boss immediately whirled around and started asking questions about his “music box.” Too awkward.
           
Horribly enough, they had locked the doors, so while we were trying to leave the Barn, the boss had to come unlock it. He was cheerful but still noticeably unsettled.
           
The entire ordeal ended the way a good sitcom that lasts two episodes does: with a bad punch line that is meant to break the tension in the air. A man who was leaving/escaping with us said (far too confident of his one-liner):
           
“Good thing we’re not locked in — we’d have nothing to eat!”

           
On the way back home I noticed a school bus and made an unofficial vow to myself while I listened to Regina Spektor. If I ever get even a small fan-base of readers as a journalist, I will write at least one column advocating seatbelts on school buses. Children, by nature, are very stupid. A school bus, to them, is a playground on wheels. I know this because I was a stupid child on a school bus before I progressed to a stupid young woman in a car. Not only is there this expected childhood stupidity, but also the fact that we expect one person to drive a massive hunk of metal on the highway, and suburban side streets, as well as busy city streets. On top of this, they must baby-sit however many kids fit on a bus as they sit behind the bus driver. This is ridiculous. Do not forget that the bus driver tends to be a 40+ tired woman.
           
But maybe I shouldn’t bother. Like hell I’d wear a seatbelt on the bus in fourth grade. Plus, sometimes Regina Spektor makes you take yourself far too seriously.
           
It was getting dark and I felt like I was at that point where you feel like Meg Ryan looks in most of her movies. Calm, breezy (this might be mainly because of the blue eyes and blond hair thing), curious and about to fall in love with Tom Hanks. Minus the Tom Hanks part.

Nighttime driving does something to a person. It makes for an almost excruciatingly self-reflective time. Without the sun there is almost nothing to look at to distract, so all that’s left is you.

           
I stop taking notes here. Leah was playing her songs now, and I wanted to give them my attention. I did what I could to keep my thoughts focused enough throughout the trip in order to write about them. But a road trip offers you so much in terms of ideas.
           
A road trip gives enough stimulation to keep your thoughts constantly moving. Yet there aren’t any true distractions once a thought begins. It is free to roam and grow when, in any other environment, it would have been stifled nearly immediately.
           
Going on a road trip has very little to do with making it to a destination. It’s far more important that you took this time to free your thoughts. No one takes the time to stop work or play long enough to merely doddle upon their own ideas. There is always something that needs done at home or the office. The second you get into a car and “hit the road,” you cannot do laundry. You can’t check your e-mail. You aren’t left with anything but your own thoughts and the shared thoughts of whom you’re with. You leave the trip with this newfound understanding of something — yourself, your car mate, Genesis, the Cheesebarn, whatever.
           
Road trips allow you to steep in your own thoughts, igniting that which you never expected, be it funny, insightful or presumptuous. It doesn’t matter what it leads to. The important part is that what was learned came from the purest form of knowledge ... personal conclusions.

Sarah Steimer is a sophomore magazine journalism major. This is her second story for The Burr.