The End of the Road

A few minutes ago, at 10:26PM, I pulled my traveling companion, the trusty Dodge 1500 pick-up that I nicknamed "Nokota," into my familiar parking space at the Ft. Lauderdale condo that I've kind of called home for the past couple of months. The place belongs to a very dear family-member who isn't using it and has graciously allowed me to for as long as I may need it.

The final stats at journey's end: 17 days, 13 hours on the road; 4,479 miles covered; dozens and dozens of great memories made.

Like most good road trips, this one was everything I'd hoped it would be and much more: therapeutic, cathartic, life-affirming and enhancing, a reminder that constant change can occasionally be a very positive thing. To be honest, I didn't want it to end and it'll take a while to get readjusted to life in slow-motion -- to going to sleep in the same place I woke up. But I'll take the experiences I've had and the people I've met over the past two-plus-weeks with me, and carry them in my heart and head as I go forward from here -- admittedly at a much more boring pace.

The road always seems to change those who travel it -- often for the better. I'm hoping that this will certainly be the case for me.

But I'll think about that tomorrow.

For now, there are no more miles to go before I sleep.

At the Edge of the Ocean

Spent the night on Amelia Island, just south of the Georgia border.

After all the incredible sights I've seen during this little journey, coming up over a ridge into a clearing and finding the Atlantic Ocean on the other side, unfurling off into infinity, still managed to take my breath away.

Listening Post

Yesterday at 11:25AM, I passed 4,000 miles on the trip meter -- after 16 days on the road.

This morning I'm back in Florida, heading south.

Here's Phil Collins -- Take Me Home.

In the Heat of the Night

"Now I know I'm ready. Pour the night into a glass. Can I sip it slow and make it last?"

-- Norah Jones, Above Ground

I get the impression that it's impossible to be ambivalent about Savannah.

I pulled into this town around sunset; I'm only now settling in for the evening. From what I've been told by the locals -- or at the very least an attractive bartender from Pittsburgh and her comic foil, a server from my hometown of Miami -- it's the hottest day and night of the year so far. It sure as hell feels like it. Having grown up in South Florida I figured I was pretty familiar with heat and humidity, but I've never experienced anything even remotely similar to the punishing, damn near overpowering sauna that is Savannah, Georgia in August. Every window I passed tonight -- each keeping out the oppressive wet air and keeping in the comforting chill of an overworked AC -- seemed to be crying condensation. It's an image that fits this place perfectly; the entire town feels as if it's in a state of beautiful, sensuous decay.

The trees drip moss. The primordial brick walls bleed color, as if the details had been freshly painted on and some unseen hand were now pouring water on the canvas from above. The cobblestones that make up the narrow gaslit roads and endless alleyways look like islands surrounded by glistening black moisture that seems to have appeared from nowhere.

It's as if everything is sweating -- your own body included.

To be uncharacteristically, although somehow appropriately, blunt -- Savannah makes you want to throw open the doors and windows, let the living, breathing night flood in, and fuck until there's nothing left inside of you. Maybe not even your soul.

It's Southern Gothic at it's most wonderous, dangerous and mysterious. There's a reason so much gorgeously malevolent poetry has been written here: It's literally, in the most exquisite and alluring way possible, a ghost town.

And as I look out over its dark, quiet streets from my hotel room window -- it strangely feels like home.

Sometimes the Odds Don't Win

There's a really good sushi restaurant in Atlanta called Zuma.

Tucked away on the bottom floor of a brick apartment complex in the Inman Park area of the city, the place can rightly claim to serve fish that's fresher than any establishment a couple of hundred miles from the nearest ocean deserves. The food is always fantastic, the sake is plentiful and exceptional, and the atmosphere -- all deep woods and subdued lighting -- is nothing short of seductive.

Zuma is owned by a Korean couple, Richard and Gina, who emigrated to America not more than a decade ago and who built the restaurant -- their dream -- from the ground up. Back in 2004, when Zuma first opened its doors, Jayne and I were some of the first people to discover this hidden gem and we quickly became good friends with its proprieters, immediately playing the role of their eager publicists -- sending anyone and everyone who would listen to our favorite new sushi spot. As time went by, we even began hanging out with Richard and Gina, that relationship culminating in one very drunken night at a local karaoke bar, where we discovered that Richard could do a mean, if not flat-out hilarious, impression of Frank Sinatra (had Sinatra been Korean).

After leaving Atlanta in early 2005, I thought quite a bit about the many good friends we left behind, especially Richard and Gina, who I always warily understood had undertaken a daunting venture by opening a restaurant of their own.

Most big city restaurants fail within the first year.

Today, I drove through Inman Park in Atlanta -- and Zuma is still there.

For some reason, this fills me with both incredible joy and overwhelming sadness.

Going, Going, Gone

11 days into my trek, 2,677 miles on the trip meter.

Driving through Maryland after leaving DC.

Thanks to Caren, David and Samara for putting me up (and putting up with me) and the wonderful Miss Jacki for showing me around. And to the Girl on Film -- it's the marks on the inside that last.

Back in the New York Groove

I'll be crossing into Jersey and then New York soon -- on my way to the city, and my daughter.

Can't wait to see her.

This Little Piggy

I've been lucky enough to have a few truly excellent meals since heading out across the eastern U.S.; a couple of them have already been mentioned around here. But I'd be remiss if I didn't highlight an off-the-beaten-path place that I have a feeling I'm going to remember for a very long time.

It's called the White Light Diner, and it's supposedly the oldest restaurant in Frankfort, Kentucky -- run by an "opinionated" gentleman named Rick, who would be a dead ringer for Ernest Hemingway if Hemingway had decided to forgo the cable-knit sweaters in favor of Crocs and baggy pants with pictures of jalapenos all over them. The White Light is barely more than a single worn lunch counter, but the whole place exudes so much charm and history that it feels like the walls -- which are plastered with old pictures and various relics of the area -- are breathing with life. There's so much genuine nostalgia on display that you get the feeling you've walked onto a set in a Tarantino movie.

And the food -- just freaking incredible.

The cook's name is Slim and he fries up a mean crab cake, with a remoulade that's so spicy it'll melt your tongue. He serves fresh corn chowder in mismatched mugs and makes barbeque sandwiches with pork that's been smoked on a massive barrel-style covered grill that sits right out in front of the place. (Needless to say, the entire block smells fantastic.) The customers are pretty much all regulars and the conversation just adds to the whole experience. I could spend the next twenty minutes trying to explain what makes a place like the White Light so damn special, but it's really one of those things you have to see and taste for yourself to fully comprehend.


If you're ever passing through Frankfort, Kentucky -- this is one stop you have to make.

Gotta thank Drew for making sure I did just that.

Hello, Cleveland!

Rolled into Ohio yesterday at 1:41PM, with 1116 miles on the trip meter.

Cleveland gets an entirely unfair rap -- the place is great. Had dinner last night at Iron Chef Michael Symon's restaurant, Lola. Beef cheek pierogies with horseradish creme fraiche and lamb heart with whipped and truffled potatoes. Damn, damn, damn good. Props to Stephen and many thanks to Carly, for playing tour guide. You're right -- your city rules.

Heading east now, toward New York.

The Bluegrass State of Mind

Crossed into Kentucky at 2:18PM yesterday, 890 miles into my journey.

Spent last night eating, drinking and being merry (oh yeah, and getting my ass kicked in pool) with Drew Curtis and the lovely and charming Cheryl Robbins.

Seriously one of the best dinners I've had in a very long time -- at Baker's 360 in Lexington -- followed by a couple of glasses of obviously spectacular bourbon and a trip to a kick-ass dive bar that apparently used to be a firehouse. I really can't say enough about this place: nice people, green pastures, horses-a-plenty.

This morning it's coffee, breakfast, then back on the road.

Next stop, Cleveland.

Labor Day

Crossed into Tennessee at 10:55AM, 650 miles into my trek.

Worth mentioning is that on this day -- tonight at around 9PM actually -- one year ago, Jayne went into labor. She would deliver Inara the following morning.

Very pretty country up here.

Move Along

Day two and ready to get back out there. Heading north through Chattanooga and Knoxville on to Lexington where I'll likely be stopping for the night to spend a little time and down a few beers with Drew Curtis.

Had a wonderful night in Atlanta. Thanks, Gina, for the Guinness, pinball and of course, Crunch bars. You're the coolest.

Familiar Ground

Pulled into Atlanta at 6:15PM, 510 miles into my journey.

This is an interesting place for me. Jayne and I lived here for a full year back in 2004 and, as much as each of us complained about it not being New York, we really enjoyed our quality of life during the stay. Traveling through here after all this time -- seeing the places we used to visit and even driving past the loft building we once called home -- stirs a whole lot of emotions in your humble narrator.

For the moment, I've set up shop in an inexpensive hotel not far from our old neighborhood (simply because it's centralized) and I'm getting ready to see a couple of old and new friends. Once again, I'm doing quite a bit of thinking about where I was just a year ago: Jayne would go into labor just a little over 24-hours from now. But while I'm here, I'm also considering something else: What would've happened if we'd never left this place to go back to New York? What if I'd turned down CNN's offer to move up north and had chosen instead to continue with my very nice gig as senior producer of CNN Live Today -- with our very comfortable life here in Atlanta?

A hell of a lot of "what-ifs."

Oh and by the way, on my way in here a couple of guys -- one big and fat, the other almost a midget, both dressed like indentical twin cowboys -- offered me $80,000 to go pick up a load of Coors in Texarkana, Texas and bring it back here for them in a little over 24 hours.

Think I'll take them up on it.

Peachy Keen

Crossed the Georgia state line at 1:27PM, 386 miles into my journey.

Sitting at a Stuckey's in scenic (not really) Valdosta.

They're hiring night managers. I'm so giving the guy at the counter a resumé.

Road Show

"My witness is the empty sky."

-- Jack Kerouac

There's therapy in movement -- serenity in freefalling headlong into the unknown, particularly when what's known isn't so great. This is why, for a lot of people, the road is an anodyne. There's something indescribable about setting out with no particular destination in mind -- or with an eventual destination but no clear plan for how to get there -- and simply traveling. Going literally where the road takes you.

As it turns out, that's what I'm going to be doing for the next couple of weeks.

Beginning tomorrow, I'm hitting the road. I'll leave South Florida at sunrise and head north. My only clear goal is that by next weekend I want to be in New York City for the first birthday party that Jayne and I have put together for Inara. (Sadly, I'll miss my daughter's actual birthday, which is this coming Wednesday.) I've spent a lot of time lately turning over in my head where I was at this time last year and where I am now -- how drastically things have changed and how difficult that change has been. So for lack of a better cliché, I'm gonna clear my head a little by getting the hell out of town.

I've loaded up a roomy Dodge 1500 pick-up that I've been driving while in Florida -- after jokingly christening it "Nokota," named for Sitting Bull's famed breed of war-horses -- and I'm ready to road trip. I figure I'll start by heading up I-75, driving through Atlanta and so on, then, after I leave New York -- likely at the end of next weekend -- I'll come back down the East Coast, stopping in DC and who knows where else.

Somewhere north of me and interested in getting a drink or, you know, letting me sleep on your couch or something? Feel free to contact me through the comments, my e-mail or Facebook. I'm taking my laptop and mobile broadband hookup with me, as well as my digital camera, so I'll be updating regularly from the highway -- turning Deus Ex Malcontent, at least partially, into a bit of a road blog for awhile.

If nothing else, it should be interesting. I don't have any real plan or itinerary -- and that's sort of the idea.

To put a twist on another tired cliché: It's both the destination -- my little girl -- and the journey.

See you on the road.