Hello!
It’s been a while since I last updated you on my escapades. Not to spoil the storyline, but thanks to a perfect storm of perfect circumstances, I moved back to New York at the beginning of the summer. Don’t worry though, Betty the Bronco is still alive and well and settling into her new life parked on 93rd Street in Manhattan. And Cannon has quickly readjusted to her morning walks through Central Park, chasing away flocks of pigeons just trying to enjoy their breakfast. And I, of course, have gotten right back to scarfing down Bacon Egg and Cheeses and scowling at folks walking far too slow on the sidewalk and joyfully buying far too many tickets to all the broadway shows I’ve missed while gone.
But more on all that later. For now, now that life is in relative order again, I’d like to continue where I left off on my journey - Southern Utah.
It was late March as Cannon and I were driving from Los Angeles to our next stop in Cedar City, Utah. It was 70 degrees and rainy on that Saturday morning when we left Santa Monica. As we drove into the mountains and through the desert, across a timezone and past a gambler’s oasis, the temperature dropped to into the high 40s and the rain slowly turned to sleet. I had just finished reading All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren and (bear with me here) one of the passages stuck with me through the entire drive. In it, the main character, Jack Burden - after a particularly tense encounter - finds himself driving back home and contemplates:
“There is nothing more alone than being in a car at night in the rain. I was in the car. And I was glad of it. They say you are not you except in terms of relation to other people. If there weren’t any other people there wouldn’t be any you because what you do, which is what you are, only has meaning in relation to other people. That is a very comforting thought when you are in the car in the rain at night alone, for then you aren’t you. And not being you, or anything, you can really lie back and get some rest.”
As I made my way up Interstate 15, alone in the rain, temperatures dropping from 60 to 50 to 50, speed limits rising from 60 to 70 to 80, I found myself thinking about who I was - both to myself and all those around me. How much of me was me, and how much of me was me, and how much of me was who I felt I should be to others? I’d started this adventure six months before, nominally, to better understand myself. But across 10,000 miles and 29 states, how much had what I’d experienced been in pursuit of myself, and how much had been in pursuit of the narrative I’d built of myself for other people? Jack continues his internal monologue:
“It is a vacation from being you. There is only the flow of the motor under your foot spinning that frail thread of sound out of its metal gut like a spider, that filament, that nexus, which isn’t really there, between the you which you have just left in one place and the you which you will be when you get to the other place.”
I’m not certain I’ve ever felt a more liminal space, not quite here - not quite there, than the Fabulous Freddy’s gas station on E 100 S St. in St. George, Utah at 9:00 at night under the cover of night and a flurry of freezing rain. In that moment I was no one. The only soul around taking part in this entirely mundane task, over an hour from my final destination. I knew no one and no one knew me. When I made it back on the road, I had no sense of where I was or where I was going beyond what my GPS had deigned to tell me. That moment of solitude gave me the slightest moment to breathe, to unwind, and reflect on every aspect of my path so far. Jack wraps up by saying:
“You ought to invite those two you’s to the same party, some time. Or you might have a family reunion for all the you’s with barbecue under the trees. It would be amusing to know what they would say to each other.”
I made it to my home for the week (a bee-themed farmhouse) that night around 11:00 and, as if on cue, the sleet stopped right as I pulled into the driveway. My one self - uncertain and pensive and in search of my place in the world - had reached the point on the map where it met the other me - excitable and adventurous and ready to spend a week exploring some of America’s most awe-inspiring natural wonders. If there was a place on Earth where these two could coexist, the vast and open canyons of southern Utah were sure to be it.
The beauty and the scale of Zion and Bryce Canyon reminded me of my own sense of space and capacity in the world. Simultaneously alone in this massive expanse and surrounded by others seeking the same refuge as you, you’re struck by the singularity of the human experience. We’re all attempting to shuffle across versions of ourselves at various points on the map, hoping to find something true to our understanding of life. I can’t say for certain that I’ve sorted that sense of self out for myself - but what a joy it is to feel comfort inviting all of your you’s to even the most mundane barbecues throughout life.
By the Numbers:
1: Number of state approved liquor stores in Cedar City Utah
3.7: Miles from the center of town to it’s one liquor store:
18: Rock stores I drove past in a 5-day period
20,000: Total miles I’d driven by the time I got to Zion
400: Total hours I’d driven by the time I got to Bryce Canyon
1: Snowshoeing excursion canceled due to extreme weather conditions :(
World Review:
Having lived in New York for several years, I like to think of myself as somewhat of an old pro at understanding city grids. There’s plenty of variation across locales, but places typically stick with the standard: some sort of main street, then numbers counting up from there. Maybe throw in a “north” or “south” to go on both sides of the main street. Perhaps use numbers for one direction and letters for another. Hell, even throw in fun things like types of trees, names of former presidents, or states to mix it up a bit. But the structure is clear: clear numbering and layout with some cardinal directions thrown in every so often to keep the structure.
The state of Utah does participate in this system.
A brief history: when the Mormon’s first settled Utah while fleeing religious persecution in the 1800s, the ability to practice their faith was very important to them. So much so, that when they founded Salt Lake City, the first thing they did was build a temple in which to worship. Then, the streets of the city were laid out radiating away from the temple and named according to their distance from the it, in multiples of 100. So a street roughly 500 feet south of the temple would be called “500 S” or a street roughly 500 feet east of the temple would be called “500 E.” Seems simple enough.
But wait, you also have to indicate which side of the temple you are in the street name. So “500 S” east of the temple becomes “E 500 S” and “500 E” becomes “S 500 E” when you’re south of the temple. Then throw in house numbers? My AirBnB, for instance, was at 183 S 200 E. Sure, technically correct, but not entirely easy to digest at 11pm in a sleet storm.
The veneer continues to fall off as cities break out of the main grid but still insist on the number system. In suburban sprawl and spiral you get fun addresses like “713 W 1350 S St” - which itself sits at a corner with S 620 W St.
In the sprawling SLC suburbs, you can get up to massive street numbers. No one wants to live on E 11925 S St! This is situation where the logical simply doesn’t reconcile with the intuitive. Does it make sense for every street in a city to be named as if it’s on a coordinate grid? I guess. But in practice, how helpful is it to tell someone to meet you at the corner of E 500 S St and S 500 E St? Spoiler: it’s not.
Points for trying something new Utah, but if your state tourism board has to hand out flyers in the airport explaining how your streets work, the design may not actually be that great.
Utah’s street numbering system: 100N/500E Cannons
Photo Gallery:
What’s Coming Up:
After my quick Utah sojourn I meandered my way back up to Northern California. Stay tuned for stories about tent camping at the lowest elevation in the continental U.S., the moment I realized I probably should have invested in snow chains, and the worst AirBnB experience of my life that led to the best Texas BBQ I’ve ever had.
Talk again soon.
-Andrew