Rest Stops and Free Coffee

Two years ago, I went on my first trip with Alice. At the time, I was reading "Travels with Charlie" by John Steinbeck. Mr. Steinbeck wrote an amusing tail of driving his overloaded truck-camper (poor thing brought a whole encyclopedia... I have the Internet) around the country, camping in fields (rarely problems with trespassing and private property) with his giant poodle, Charlie. He brought with him an insane amount of coffee and alcohol, which he offered locals to entice them to come talk to him, or landowners if they were unhappy to find him camping in their corn.

I am most definitely not Mr. Steinbeck. For one thing, culture has announced that, even in this country, it isn't safe for women to travel alone. The idea of inviting a strangers into my trailer to chat, then getting him drunk sounds like the beginning of a disaster. No matter what joy I got from reading that book, that is an adventure this body and this century cannot repeat.

When I first got Alice, I did expect to be talking to locals a lot. I found I didn't. It made the ones I did talk to, more memorable, and it made me realize how much I like the zen-quality of the road and the silence of camping in the woods. I can't always be on the road, and there aren't enough woods left the retreat to, so I sometimes find myself in trucks stops or rest stops (I used to stay in Walmart parking lots, but since I have boycotted them, I avoid them to resist buying unnecessary necessities). I only started sleeping in rest stops this summer. They tend to be quieter and have cleaner bathrooms. (I know I just said something about travel not being safe for women, so the rest-stop thing sounds bad, but there are very few crimes that actually happen in rest stops. Bad for tourism.)

I'm in Iowa and needed to find a rest stop outside of Des Moines. Luckily, there was one 18 miles to the east of the city. I passed a nice looking one 30 miles sooner, but wanted less morning driving before going to the Iowa State Fair.

Just before the exit was a sign that said, "don't pick up hitchhikers," and I got a little nervous. In California, they only bother with this signs near prisons. The truck parking area (where I have to park with a trailer) was a scant 10 feet from the edge of the freeway, and the traffic didn't let up all night. Diesel truckers sleep with their engines running, and somehow, my neighbors had particularly loud engines last night. The door to the restroom had a missing poster on it, with a photo of an old couple. I sort of chuckled and imagined it was a couple who ran away together, perhaps at the disapproval of their kids, but then I remembered old people can be murdered too. I wasn't liking the vibe of this stop.

I returned to my trailer and was getting settled in the dark (I only uses lights if I need to... Most of an evening routine can be done in the dark) when I heard a light, scrapping noise. I stopped, listened, nothing. It was hot in the trailer and I had all the windows open. I heard another sound, like something scratching on the window screen. I thought, maybe someone is trying to steal my $6 bike? and went to look out the back window. Nothing. I turned and saw a man walk past the front window, then that light tapping again. Is he knocking? He doesn't really think I'm going to open my trailer door at 9pm? I put the bear pepper spray by the door, leaned against the kitchen window and asked if I could help hm.

"I want to give you a cup of coffee," he said, holding up a small packet of probably instant coffee.

"No thank you," I said twice before he retreated. Did he expect to simply hand this to me? Maybe a free sample he gives to all the people at the rest stop? Or did he expect me to invite him in and put on a kettle? No one has ever knocked on my door at a truck stop, and it shook my unfounded belief that truckers are generally safe to be around (my theory is most are good guys, with a few baddies that the good ones would protect me from). Why was I so jumpy? Would I regret not having coffee and reliving a moment in Steinbeckian history? But there was scrapping on the screen, like the horror story about the couple with the madman with the hook-hand.

I went to close the front window, and for the first time ever, the window was inexplicably broken and wouldn't close. This morning, it still won't, and I have to push it shut from the outside, where is sits flopping slightly. While this has been the summer of everything-breaking for Alice, I have to wonder...