For dinner, a friend suggested Cattlemen’s Steakhouse in Oklahoma City. As everywhere in Philly is offering outdoor dining, I expected the same. Not that I’d participate, but I also expected indoor dining with limited capacity.

Nope.

I went in and placed my order. The staff was masked. Customers were required to wear masks upon entering. I quickly learned, as I made my way to the bathroom, that there were no capacity laws in OK. The restaurant was packed, tables in close proximity to each other, all occupied with unmasked patrons. I used the ladies room, scrubbed my hands, and told the hostess I’d wait for my order outside. When it was ready, I attempted to eat in the car, but cutting my rare filet mignon with plastic utensils on my lap in a plastic container was not how I wanted to enjoy my steak. Instead, I boxed it up and made my way to my Airbnb. If I nuked it when I arrived, my rare steak would be medium at best, but I knew eating it at a proper table would be worth the wait. The fries, however, did not make it to the Airbnb. They were finished before I hit the first exit on I-40.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from my Airbnb. I selected a property off the main roads, located on a 140 acre farm. The hostess seemed nice and concerned for my safety. She even offered to meet me in town and let me follow her back to the house. When I politely declined, she offered prayers for my safe arrival.

Prayers.

Now, I’m not a religious person. The best I can offer someone is kind thoughts, good vibes and positive energy. But if a believer is willing to offer me prayers, I’ll take it. How altruistic of her to put in a good word for me with her deity. It’s good to have as many players on your side as possible, just in case.

When I arrived, she met me outside, masked and distanced. She gave me a rundown of the farm, what I could explore and what was off limits, and told me about my accommodations – the Bunk House. While we chatted, twin cats appeared like the welcoming squad, rubbed up against me and sat on my feet. Later when I went for a walk around the property, one of these cats led me like my own private four-legged tour guide. My experience at the farm was the highlight of my time in Oklahoma, followed closely by the fact that I was able to check another state off my list.

CNN called it.

The phone rang. It was my mother. The nightmare was over, she said. Philly saved the world.

And I was on my way to St. Louis.

I wanted to be home. I wanted to be dancing in the streets, properly socially distanced, with the rest of the city, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief into one of my masks du jour, all of which now had the perpetual odor of coffee and rye. Instead, I was entering Illinois, enjoying sights like this:

Alas, like so many things in life (marriage, children, perfunctory disillusionment) I would not be following the crowd as I was preoccupied choosing my own adventure. I was on my way to meet a good friend/Philly transplant for lunch in her new hometown, St. Louis, Missouri. I always preferred low-key, one-on-one interactions and was excited to see my buddy We ate barbecue and had a lovely visit.

Next I stopped to see another St. Louis friend. We debated how long it had been since we last saw each other and decided about thirteen years. Her son was almost twelve and didn’t even exist as a concept at our last face-to-face interaction. I met her and her family at a park near their home in The Hill.

“This is Beth, and I’ve known her for a long time,” she introduced me to her children. “We were roommates when we both lived in a monastery in Rome twenty years ago.” Clearly one of the best introductions I’ve ever received.

At dusk, I got back in the car and headed to my Airbnb just outside of Rolla, MO. It was located directly on the old Route 66 and exceeded all of my Airbnb expectations.

Finally on the road at 10:15, I settled into my journey on the familiar 76. My destination: Indiana. I had never driven to Indiana before. Flew there once. Indianapolis. Drove to Michigan on a couple occasions. Traversed Ohio more times than I care to remember. I always listen to Frank Sinatra when I drive through Ohio. I heard the recently departed Sean Connery repeating in my head, “We named the dog Indiana.”

My initial plan was to stay with a friend outside Columbus, but due to the rising cases of Covid, we decided it would be better not to burst either of our bubbles. Four days before I left Philadelphia, I decided to book an Airbnb. But where? I asked my friend for suggestions. Still not knowing the outcome of the election, I was trying to stay away from areas sure to erupt in civil war. Her first choice for me was Yellow Springs, OH, but nothing was available.

Looking at the map, I decided to focus on college towns. Whereas Covid may be wider spread in these areas, I wasn’t exactly planning to attend any fraternity parties or ingrain myself in the campus community. My objective was to find spots where it was less likely my car would be damaged simply for displaying a Pennsylvania license plate. I settled on Richmond, Indiana, home of Earlham College, hoping liberal arts students in the Quaker tradition wouldn’t smash my windshield if the election outcome wasn’t what they hoped.

I like lists and I like to check things off lists. I make little projects for myself, like visiting every presidential museum, or seeing a movie in every theatre built prior to 1945, or eating at the top ten best restaurants for…whatever. One of my lists contains 50 items – the goal is to visit every state in the union. Before this trip, I had 38 items completed. On my first day, I would check off another – West Virginia.

Ok, so I was in West Virginia for less than 15 miles. Guess what. It counts!

Nearing my destination, I began to get nervous. What would I find? Did I make a mistake driving across the country at this very moment in political history? Should I have stuck to more populated areas? The host had texted me earlier saying he would meet me at the property and give me a tour. Would he take the same safely precautions I would? When I arrived, he was waiting on the porch, properly masked and ready to orient me to his space.

Quickly I realized that this man was a kindred spirit. He was also an artist, identifying as a trained graphic designer, a photographer, and a painter. He was professor at the local college and hosted paint parties with wine at the local art museum. “They call me the boozy Bob Ross!” he stated proudly. A passion project for many years, he carefully restored the bungalow to it’s 1919 glory. Even the paint palette and furniture were period, with modern amenities incorporated. What most impressed me was his art and media collection. There were so many books to choose from, all writers from or subjects relevant to the house’s era. I brought a book about Weimar Cinema to bed with me, but fell asleep before finishing the second page. Should anyone need accommodations in Richmond, Indiana, I highly recommend this Artist’s Retreat Guest House. Despite our country being divided, the host reminded me that it is possible to find like-minded people anywhere if you know where to look.

“Yes, I’m still going.”

My next door neighbor/associate ruler in the all-too-familiar dystopian political entity that is a condo association/closest quarantine friend and I locked eyes just a little too long in one of those silences louder than words as we performed an autopsy on a doorknob at least a hundred years old.

Of course you’re still going, her eyes said. You’re Beth, you wander.

I’d like to say I have no qualms about driving across the country in the middle of a global pandemic at the beginning of what may be a Civil War, but I can’t. I’m appropriately nervous and concerned, but not terrified enough to cancel my trip. In 36 hours, I will begin my trek from Philadelphia, PA to Los Angeles, CA. I will traverse the continent in my small SUV in six days, mostly through red states. This is important to note because, as of this writing, Pennsylvania still has not counted all votes. Currently Trump is leading. My hope is that this will not remain the case.

I decided to take this trip about two months ago when the world was a much different place. The virus seemed to be under control. Everyone I knew in my liberal bubble seemed certain that Biden would win the election by a landslide. For me, it was finally sinking in that no one expected to see me in the office again, ever. My job could be done completely remote, opening up a whole new lifestyle of extended travel and exploration…once the borders open.

In my pre-Covid life, I traveled at least once a month. In my prior job, which I held for my entire adult life until two years ago as what was essentially a traveling salesperson for higher education, I spent more nights away from home than I did in my own bed. Facebook Memories reminds me that On This Day eleven years ago, I had remarked that in the past week, I slept in six different beds in five different states in two different time zones. Ah, the good old days.

For the past two years I focused on traveling for fun rather than traveling for business. Guess what. It didn’t suck These days, my only time away from my home has been twice two nights at the Jersey shore and two nights with my parents after we were all Covid tested and cleared of suspicion. “You’re always up to something!” my mother always said. “You can’t sit still. You’ve got ants in your pants!”

Like many of you, to say I have ants in my pants is an understatement.