Long Way Home: On the Trail of Steinbecks Americaby Bill Barich
where he has lived for the past eight years, and it inspired him to
explore the mood of the United States as Steinbeck had done almost a
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"We do not take a trip; a trip takes us," John Steinbeck noted in his 1962 classic, Travels with Charley. In the summer of 2008, Bill Barich stumbled upon a used copy of Travels in Ireland,
where he has lived for the past eight years, and it inspired him to
explore the mood of the United States as Steinbeck had done almost a
half century before. With a hotly contested election looming, and in the
shadow of an economic meltdown, Barich set off on a 5,943-mile
cross-country drive from New York to his old hometown in San Francisco
via Route 50, a road twisting through the American heartland.
Long Way Home is
the stunning result of his pilgrimage, an illuminating and perceptive
portrait of America at a dramatic point in its history. Where Steinbeck
returned from the road depressed about the countrys soul, Barich-while
not uncritical of the narrow-mindedness and incivility of our present
culture-finds brightness among the dark and rekindles his belief in the
long view, as exemplified by the unbridled optimism of some high school
kids in Hutchinson, Kansas, and by the undaunted spirit of an
eighty-year-old barber he chanced upon in Jefferson City, Missouri. "The
world truly does renew itself while were looking the other way," he
From the Eastern Shore of Maryland to the spectacular
landscape of Moab, Utah, to Steinbecks own Salinas Valley, filled with
memorable encounters and redolent with history and local color, Long Way Home
is a truthful, inspiring account of the country at a social and
political crossroad. "The highway snakes into a tunnel," Barich writes
about a stretch of Route 50 in West Virginia, "then erupts into the
light with the force of revelation."
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Read an Excerpt
Long Way HomeON THE TRAIL OF STEINBECK'S AMERICA
By Bill Barich
Walker & CompanyCopyright © 2010 Bill Barich
All right reserved.
Chapter OnePart One
hen I was in my late teens and hungry for the road, ready to sign on as an angelheaded hipster if only I knew how or where, I bought a copy of John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley and whipped through it in a couple of days. The idea of rambling around America carefree and independent, with no particular destination in mind, appealed to my deepest fantasies. Like Steinbeck, I'd drink applejack with fruit pickers, tour the Badlands, and crest the Rockies, perfectly content to survive on cowboy coffee and corned-beef hash and sleep by a fast-flowing stream.
That never happened, of course. More than forty years went by before Travels entered my life again when I stumbled on an old paperback edition at a thrift shop in Dublin. The cover illustration showed a rugged-looking Steinbeck sitting on a grassy hillside next to a French poodle tinted an odd shade of purple. In the distance, you can see the camper he called Rocinante after Don Quixote's horse, along with a vineyard and some mountains that resemble the Gabilans near his birthplace in Salinas, California.
"The #1 National Bestseller Now Only 75 Cents," cried a banner over the title. I paid two euros myself, eager to share Steinbeck's adventures again after almost a decade in Ireland, but the book let me down. It bore no relation to my youthful memory of it, except for the affectionate portrait of Charley. The colorful characters I'd enjoyed seemed cut from cardboard, and their dialogue sounded wooden. Travels was melancholy rather than merry, steeped in loneliness and fatigue.
Puzzled, I consulted a biography of Steinbeck and a volume of his letters. He'd deliberately intended to distract his readers, I discovered. His wit and warmth were manufactured, a product of his skillful sleight of hand, or so he confided to his editor, Pascal Covici. At the core of Travels is a bleak vision of America's decline that he chose to mitigate by telling jokes and anecdotes.
In reality, the United States suffered from "a sickness, a kind of wasting disease," he warned Covici in private, and Americans, overly invested in material toys and saddled with debt, were bored, anguished, discontented, and no longer capable of the heroism that had rescued them from the terrifying poverty of the Depression.
"And underneath it all building energies like gasses in a corpse," he mourned. "When that explodes, I tremble to think what will be the result."
His words had the ring of prophecy when I came across them in August 2008. With the economy in free fall, it appeared as if the gasses had exploded, leaving the survivors to wander haphazardly through the aftermath with no leadership or sense of direction. That was the impression the media created, at any rate, but I couldn't vouch for its accuracy. I had lost touch with my own country during my time abroad, the same reason Steinbeck gave for taking his trip.
He'd been living in New York and England and felt cut off from his subject matter, so he devised a plan to explore the heartland and refresh himself. He once referred to it as Operation Windmills, another reference to its quixotic essence. In September i960, right after Labor Day, he'd set out from his home in Sag Harbor, the historic whaling village on Long Island, to rediscover America. Initially, his morale was high.
"I'll avoid cities and hit small towns and farms and ranches, sit in bars and hamburger stands and on Sunday go to church," he enthused to some friends. "I am very excited about this. It will be a kind of rebirth."
For a man of fifty-eight, the wish to be reborn suggests a deep unrest, and that was true of Steinbeck. He was more frank with his agent, Elizabeth Otis, dropping the jolly pretense as his departure drew near.
"Between us—what I am proposing is no little trip or reporting," he admitted, "but a frantic last attempt to save my life and the integrity of my creative pulse."
According to his biographer Jay Parini, he was depressed, spiritually adrift, and fearful his best work had all been done. His health was fragile, too. Normally robust, he'd been rattled by a pair of minor strokes that were never properly diagnosed, his wife, Elaine, said. Already the dark thoughts were brewing, but Steinbeck tried valiantly to conquer them. As Americans will do, he looked to the road for a cure.
In spite of its flaws, Travels ignited my old fantasies, and I began to think about making a similar trip almost half a century later. As a voluntarily displaced Californian, I understood Steinbeck's craving for some contact with the heartland. Along with rediscovering America myself, I could put his prophecy to the test. If the nation hovered on the edge of ruin, I'd record it faithfully, but I hoped to prove him wrong. In an election year, with the fabled winds of change trying hard to blow, the future was up for grabs.
Steinbeck spent about eleven weeks on the road, while I'd have to settle for six on a tight budget. I considered renting a camper, naturally, but the cost proved astronomical, especially after I factored in the soaring price of gas, so I'd go by car instead and swallow the bitter pill of motel living. In fact, Elizabeth Otis had advised her client to do the same, concerned that Rocinante would isolate him from others and compromise his intention.
For my primary route from coast to coast, I settled on U.S. 50. The highway, lightly traveled in many stretches, runs for about thirty-two hundred miles from Maryland to the Pacific through the middle of America. The back roads would grant me access to plenty of small towns—Coolville, Ohio, say, or Peabody, Kansas—as well as farms and hamburger stands. There'd be no shortage of churches, either. When I saw that Chesapeake Bay, the Missouri River, the Santa Fe Trail, and the Great Basin Desert were all on my itinerary, I nearly broke into a ballad from the Pete Seeger songbook.
With those decisions made, I had just one more issue to address. What about a dog to act as Charley's stand-in? I must have fielded the question fifty times at least. Most people were joking—I don't have a dog—but a few diehard literalists meant business. One woman even offered to loan me her hairless terrier Beanie, an amusing little guy who wears clothes outdoors to protect his sensitive skin from the sun.
As much as I appreciated her generosity, the chance to play valet to a terrier over thirty-two hundred miles struck me as absolutely no fun. Although I'd seized on Steinbeck as a model and an inspiration—I explained this to the kind woman—I did not feel compelled to duplicate his trip in every detail, a dull exercise in comparing and contrasting. What intrigued me was the relative validity of his prophecy.
Travels with Beanie? No way. I'd go it alone.
IN EARLY SEPTEMBER, I booked a ticket to New York on Aer Lingus and a humble Ford Focus with Budget Rent A Car at JFK. For my first night's lodging, I reserved a motel room in Dover, Delaware, perilously close to a harness track and casino I'd already begun to steel myself against. If I hoped to be in San Francisco in time for the presidential election, I'd have to be steadfast. A taste for low entertainment has derailed many an expedition, after all.
A trip spawns advisers in schools, Steinbeck observed, and he was dead right. Without having to ask, I collected tips on hot springs, fishing holes, scenic drives, geological oddities, topless bars, and obscure museums devoted to eccentric pursuits. There were roadside attractions I dared not miss—the UFO Watchtower in Hooper, Colorado, say, just a fifty-two-mile detour from U.S. 50. My pals recommended both fine restaurants and greasy spoons, including the best spots for five-way chili around Cincinnati.
Avoid Indiana on a Sunday, someone counseled me. It's against the law to buy any beer to take home.
On my own, I tried to get up to speed on the America I'd left behind. At times I felt baffled as I trawled the Internet, reading about TiVo digital recorders and Kobayashi, the hot dog eating champ. American Idol had passed me by entirely, although for that I was grateful. I'd never visited at an Applebee's, either, where about two million of my fellow citizens chow down every day, nor had I seen a Prius, shopped at Costco, or watched a cage fight. I'd been deprived. Or maybe spared.
In my rare moments of anxiety, which I hated with a passion and refused to ascribe to advancing age, I wondered if Steinbeck's "monster land" would overwhelm me just as it did him. The country he went searching for, a figment based on his nostalgic childhood memories, scarcely existed anymore. The open space of his beloved San Joaquin Valley was rapidly disappearing, for instance. About 1.5 million farms in the United States had gone under since i950.
Our cities also had been transformed beyond recognition. Of the fifteen largest metro areas, only Los Angeles had gained rather than lost residents over the same period of time. By i960, Americans had decamped to the suburbs, and one in every four families occupied a house that had been built in the previous decade.
They were in hock to the banks now for their mortgages, auto loans, and such material toys as a television set. Eighty-eight percent of all households owned a TV, as opposed to just 11 percent in the 1950 census. In exchange for their comforts, though, they'd sacrificed a degree of independence. They labored, more and more, for corporations, while the ranks of blue-collar workers and the self-employed were at an all-time low.
For Steinbeck, a self-reliant type, it must have been galling to see the soft underbelly of the nation exposed.
"Over and over I thought we lack the pressures that make men strong and the anguish that makes men great," he griped to Pascal Covici.
He longed for the America of his youth, I believe, and the integrity of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, whose values he shared. In his inaugural address of March 1933, Roosevelt had the audacity to urge his often destitute constituents to keep their financial losses in perspective. A plague of locusts hadn't descended on them, he chided, nor had they endured the hardships of the forefathers.
"Our common difficulties concern, thank God, only material things," FDR intoned. Happiness doesn't lie in the mere possession of money, he added. It lies instead in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort. The unscrupulous money changers "have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish."
Roosevelt's speech captured the excellence Americans once aspired to, so I packed a copy for my traveling library. FDR joined such old favorites as Emerson, Thoreau, and Melville, but I gave Walt Whitman a break, figuring he must be tired after riding shotgun with so many pilgrims before me. I brought along some Henry Miller, too, and also Sinclair Lewis's George F. Babbitt, who'd have been knee-deep in the subprime mortgage scandal.
"He made nothing in particular, neither butter nor shoes nor poetry," said Lewis, "but he was nimble in the calling of selling houses for more than people could afford to pay for them."
Steinbeck loaded his camper with tons of junk he never used—padded subzero underwear, for example—so I stuck to the basics. I took a flyrod, a sleeping bag, some hiking boots, binoculars, and a first-aid kit, as well as my laptop, a cell phone, notebooks, and a thick Rand McNally road atlas. Though Steinbeck stocked enough booze to float a fraternity party, I knew the treachery of lonely nights in one-horse towns and exercised caution in that regard.
IF I HAD any doubts about the universal appeal of a road trip, the cabbie who drove me to the Dublin airport put them to rest. When he heard my accent, he regaled me with an account of his recent family holiday at Disney World in Orlando, where the "actual amount of sunshine"—his very words—stunned him and, needless to say, burned him to a crisp. He sighed and wished he could go with me, although that would mean deserting the wife and kids in Ballybrack.
"In a big Cadillac convertible, that'd be the way to do it," he chirped. I didn't have the heart to puncture his daydream by mentioning the Focus.
In New York, my cabbie wore a turban and spoke not at all. He dropped me on the Upper West Side, where I'd stay with friends for a brief while before picking up the car. After the dismal news reports, I expected to see evidence of the apocalypse in the streets, but the miracle of everyday life still went on. The mailman completed his rounds, a little girl fell off her bike and skinned a knee, a furtive couple slipped into a seedy hotel, and so on. I found this somehow comforting.
In sunny Central Park, the ice-cream vendors were doing just fine despite the plunging value of 40i(k)s. My friends opened a bottle of wine, and we moved to a terrace and watched dozens of joggers circle the reservoir, trying to outrun any phantoms pursuing them. The talk was of politics, not economics, and how Sarah Palin had lately been meeting with world leaders, among them Asif Ali Zardari, Pakistan's flirtatious new president, who called her "gorgeous."
In Travels, Steinbeck used the Spanish term vacilando to describe a peculiar kind of wandering. "If one is vacilando, he is going somewhere but doesn't greatly care whether or not he gets there, although he has direction."
I became an expert vacilador in Manhattan, visiting museums and galleries and treating myself to lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar, where every table was occupied. Shoppers were still splurging on Pescatore's lobster at the station's market, too, and Queso del Tietar from Murray's Cheese at thirty bucks a pound. The prime aged beef at Gallagher's nearby, displayed in all its marbled splendor, had lost none of its allure.
Maybe New Yorkers were in denial, but that was true only in the bastions of privilege. A long line of youths, mostly African American and Hispanic, stood outside a Circuit City on Broadway one morning, clutching their resumes beneath a "Now Hiring" banner. The lucky few to land a job would lose it a few months later when Circuit City went belly-up, a symptom of the nation's woes.
On my last day in Manhattan, I boarded a train at Penn Station for Westbury, off to see the America of my childhood. I'd grown up in one of those instant suburbs of the 1950s, in a tract slapped up on a Long Island potato field. Our Levitt house looked much the same as it did when Mickey Mantle played center field for the Yankees, with its postage-stamp front yard, droopy rhododendrons, and aluminum siding. In the pigskin weather of late September, footballs should have been flying through the air, but the kids must have been indoors tapping at their computers.
I walked to a nearby luncheonette where the senior citizens, dinosaurs of the print era, still reported like clockwork for their papers. Perched on a stool, I drank a cup of coffee strong enough to peel the rust off a bumper and ate an old-fashioned grilled cheese sandwich. The headlines were strictly contemporary, though. NEW YORK COPS TASER NUDE BROOKLYN MAN, shouted the Post. FATE OF BAIL-OUT PLAN UNRESOLVED, countered the Times.
At our old Little League field, I sat alone in the bleachers and defied Satchel Paige's advice by looking back to recall my first trip across the country. After college and a Peace Corps stint, I wheeled away from Mellow Lane in i969, ready to help the hippies in San Francisco save the world. My mother worried that some rednecks like those in Easy Rider would shoot me on account of my hair, not yet as long as any of the Beatles', but a balky Corvair did the only damage.
As I climbed Stanyan Street toward the Haight-Ashbury, high on flower-powered dreams, the clutch cable snapped, and I managed to roll back to a Chevron station on Geary Boulevard. I still remembered the station owner's name: Irwin Ching. When he gave me a bill for the repairs, he signed it at the bottom I. Ching. I was young enough to interpret this as a positive sign.
OMENS. THEY STILL had me at their mercy. A storm to match Steinbeck's hurricane dumped five inches of rain on New York the night before my departure. The wind howled so wickedly I couldn't sleep, and the road that once beckoned now seemed like a dead end.
Excerpted from Long Way Home by Bill Barich Copyright © 2010 by Bill Barich. Excerpted by permission of Walker & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Bill Barich has written for many publications over four decades, including The New Yorker. He is the author of numerous books, including A Pint of Plain, about the decline of Irish culture as revealed by the demise of the classic Irish pub, and the horse racing classic Laughing in the Hills. He lives in Dublin, Ireland.
Bill Barich has written for The New Yorker and other publications for many years. He is the author of the classic Laughing in the Hills, as well as Crazy for Rivers, Carson Valley, and most recently A Fine Place to Daydream: Racehorses, Romance, and the Irish. He lives in Dublin.
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