30

Rolled back into NYC on Tuesday and entered my apartment around 5:45 pm, 33 days and 10,059 miles since I'd last been home. I had just enough time to take a deep breath and a quick shower before heading out to a birthday dinner with my parents and sister.

I'd been trying to time it so that I walked through my front door at 5:13 pm, the exact moment I entered this world 30 years earlier. Alas, midtown rush hour traffic was non-compliant and it took me more than half an hour to get from the Lincoln Tunnel exit on 34th between 9th and 10th to my apartment on 34th and 1st (not including extended stops to catch up with my garage guys -- Santiago and Milton -- and pick up my mail). At 5:13, I found myself inching eastward on 34th, somewhere between 5th and 6th avenues, staring at the Empire State Building through my sunroof with renewed awe.

Those initial moments back in NYC were a little jarring. I don't think I heard a single car honk during the entire 4 1/2 weeks I was on the road... I heard more than a few during my first minutes back on the isle of Manhattan, the result of petulant drivers unable to suppress their angst. Then there was the army of incompetent traffic officers scattered across 34th street, doing what they do best: creating congestion rather than alleviating it -- I couldn't help but yearn for the North Umpqua Highway in Oregon... As I sat at a red light on 34th and 7th, next to Penn Station, I was confronted with a mobbish throng of commuters who weaved their way in and out of traffic as if the roads were for people and not cars. It dawned on me that the assembled crush of humanity at that intersection probably exceeded the total population of some of the towns I had driven through during the previous month.

In the time that it took me to go the 1 1/2 miles from the tunnel to my garage, I could have covered nearly 50 on US-18. I was content to be home, but the sudden immersion in hustle and bustle for the first time in 4+ weeks had me longing for open prairies, never ending straightaways, and whatever soundtrack DJ Mother Nature saw fit to play through my rolled down windows.

Dinner was at one of Bobby Flay's restaurants: Bar Americain. As far as I'm concerned, the man can do no wrong when it comes to food. I saw my parents seated off to the right as I walked in, and they were a sight for sore eyes. I've traveled quite a bit over the years, but never for this long. And having gone to college locally and never having lived anywhere but Westchester and Manhattan, this trip represented the longest I'd been away from home since, well, ever.

I made out pretty well in the gift department. Among other things, my parents got me a framed copy of what's arguably my favorite picture of all-time: Andreas Feininger's epic roadside photograph taken on Route 66 in 1947. I hope you've seen it somewhere else besides here, because I don't think a postcard size image on a computer screen can do it justice:


It was a timely gift; every time I'd pressed the shutter button on my camera during the previous 33 days I had that image in the back of my mind, hoping that maybe 1 of the 2000+ photos I took would come even moderately close to roughly approximating the tranquility captured in the image above. I think I snapped a few good ones, but I ain't no Feininger.

Along those lines, they also gave me a framed copy of my favorite picture taken during the trip; you can see it here. As I type this, it's sitting next to my computer, a reminder of my time on the road. I think it will remain there for the foreseeable future (read: forever). Feininger I may not be, but Erbsen I surely am.

Tucked behind the photo was a note from my mom. I'll keep its contents between the two of us, but it reminded me that she's a saint and that I'm lucky to have her -- she's been far better to me than I to her for the past three decades, something I will work to remedy. Dad, if you're reading this, you're not so bad yourself.

My sister gets the award for most unique gift. She's a partner at the same law firm as Senator George Mitchell, as in the guy behind "The Mitchell Report." Say what you will about the document, or about the state of baseball, but it's a piece of history, for better or for worse -- and I've got a copy with his John Hancock on it and a note wishing me a happy 30th. Pretty effin' cool.

My brother was at home in Minneapolis, but he and my sister-in-law sent me some cookware that I will be putting to good use. I was reminded when cooking for my friend Rob and his wife in San Jose how much I enjoy it, and how infrequently I actually do it.

I didn't do much of anything today, content simply to be home and not have 400+ miles of driving or countless things to see. I'm in dire need of a shave, my last one coming nine days ago in Abilene, TX. My "road beard" is fun to play with, but its itchiness has begun to exceed the joy that I derive from it and it needs to go. Also, I look like a vagrant, or at least more so than usual.

I still have plenty more to write. If you've been reading, you know that I've lamented not having enough time to post while on the road. Now that I'm home again, I'm back to having more hours in the day than I know what to do with, a stark contrast to my 18 hour days while traversing the country. Over the next week or so I'll work to fill in some of the gaps from the trip. After that, I'll somehow try and wrap things up in a neat and tidy epilogue of sorts.

I don't know that I'll really be able to fully reflect on all the things I've done, places I've seen, or people I've met over the past month for quite some time. But, I've gotta start somewhere, so stay tuned.

p.s. Thanks to everyone for the multitude of text messages, wall posts, e-mails, and voicemails wishing me a happy birthday. All were appreciated, and if I haven't responded to you yet, I will surely do so in the next day or so. For everyone else, let it be known that I am accepting belated birthday wishes until Sunday, July 13. After that, I will transfer your name on my "Enemies List" from pencil to ink.