Since yesterday I’ve been nervous. A pit in my stomach and a glob of feelings in my throat.

On my last official day in Atlanta, I had to get my tires rotated, finish packing my car, get my phone screen replaced and pick-up a spare tire (which I ended up not needing, so I had to go back and return). I spent the day in traffic, from interstate to interstate, running errands. Adulting. Ran into someone from high school and wondered if he noticed my gray hair the way I noticed his.

And finally, after a few hours of sleep, walking Ruby and setting the alarm at my sister’s house (who was out of town for the night), I met my parents at my favorite breakfast place in Atlanta, West Egg. When I walked in, a song from my last cross-country road trip played: Send Me on My Way. A friend burnt it on a trip CD for me and I heard it for the first time driving from Seattle to San Francisco. For the longest time I thought he was saying Simeon The Whale. At 9:15am I pulled out of the parking deck with a full belly, a full car and 9 and a half hours ahead of me. I can drive that. I can do a lot of things I used to think were a hassle without being hassled, now. (My dad slipped a smoothie into my car for the ride. Too precious).

As I pushed my foot to the gas pedal, I pushed my feelings and thoughts from my mind for the first 40 minutes. I didn’t let myself listen to whatever it was that was going on inside because I had to be strong. I had three days of driving ahead, and the destination: grad school. A new town, roommates, climate, environment, colleagues, responsibilities and homework, homework, homework, loans and bills. I didn’t have room for sadness or grief, though I felt them welling up like acid reflux, I just decided to sit and drive and let it all pass.

The drive started off with memories I’m glad are memories and far away: college. The road between Birmingham and Atlanta reminds me of college and only college, and the inchoate person I was during all of it. Samford University was not the start of my adulthood, it felt like an addendum to adolescence. I was still not ready for the world at 18, nor 22, and it all crashed on my shoulders after my move to Seattle where independence nearly swallowed me whole. It took me a long time to clean up the mess inside. And so, I don’t like to think about college much. But when I drive this road, it’s hard not to remember the younger me who drove home for visits and breaks during four formative years: 18-22.

My mind was churning with the impact of Peace Corps, my departure from Guatemala set against the backdrop of my younger self. Then I thought about Seattle, the last time I did this road trip was in reverse. I drove from Seattle to Atlanta when I moved home: Seattle being the beginning of a dark period that took me years to crawl myself out of. But I also wasn’t strong back then, I was used to being protected and provided for and adulthood didn’t furnish either: protection or provision. Not to mention Seattle is the grayest, rainiest place I’ve ever lived. And terribly unfriendly if you compare it with the South. (Most places are when compared to the South). So I layered on memories of my 24 year-old self, driving home from Seattle, with the impact of doing the Peace Corps, all jumbled together in my mind as I drove.

In the meantime I’m dusting off my heart.

I listened to a CD I made from 2009 “Summer in Seattle.” The music took me back to shadowed corners of memory that hadn’t seen light in years. I thought some of the music sounded moody, simple, representations of a less-evolved ‘me.’ Other songs I still love, and think I always will.

So I tried to ease into this drive and lose my thoughts on the repetitive asphalt of the USA.

I thought about how this is the ‘land of dreams’ according to many Guatemalans, and here I was ‘living the dream’ alone in my car, going to an unknown place where I know no one. This must be what an immigrant feels like, but worse. I speak English and I blend-in. What does it mean to be in the land of dreams and go it alone? I thought about how many people I talked to during the day. I interacted, face-to-face, with only the Dunkin’ Donuts cashier when I bought my old faithful, the caramel macchiato. Other than that, I pumped gas into my car without making eye contact with anyone. And I drove.

This is America. Flat, controlled trees, radio static and wealth. Alone.

I’m not complaining. I made the decision to move across the country. But I can’t help but compare these coveted wide open spaces to the pueblo where I was recognized and, even as a foreigner, loved, accepted, known. In the USA we’re so focused on arriving that everything between yourself and your destination is a paved highway.

Por el otro lado, kind souls are offering to host me every step of the way from Atlanta to Texas to the point where I won’t have to pay for a single night’s lodging (thanks to Couchsurfers and friends of friends) during this whole trip. (I’m being very cautious about who I stay with, don’t worry). So maybe it’s not such an unfriendly, closed-off place at all. People are opening their doors to me who have never met me, without getting anything in return but my company. Maybe there’s hope after all. Or maybe I’m tired of pavement today and it’s time for sleep.

Uncertain, Texas and Chunky, Mississippi are the names of actual towns.