BLOOD, WHEELS, & TEARS: MY WEIRD PILGRIMAGE TO SALT LAKE CITY

Yesterday, I packed the next three months of my life into the back of a 1999 Dodge Stratus. Freshly graduated and ready for a new environment, I set off on my 12 hour drive to Salt Lake City, Utah. I'd never been to the city before. I wasn't (and still am not) Mormon. And I hadn't quite figured out where I'd be living. But, the promise of an internship doing what I truly loved started that Monday and I couldn't waste another day. 

The drive east through I-84 is stunning. You cruise past the lapping turquoise of Hood River and the magnificent Multnomah Falls. Giant rugged walls of rock run alongside the highway  as I drove 75 mph, listening to the audiobook Walden on Wheels, a very real tale of the post-grad battle with student debt: a war I would soon be too familiar with. 

My first stop was Pendleton, home of the Pendleton Roundup, and like the white girl I am, I found the nearest Starbucks to recaffeinate. I restocked my car with fuel, cherishing my last fill up by a gas attendant, and pushed on. I stopped in Ontario, Oregon, a funny little town on the border between Idaho and Oregon to visit my friend Lindsay.  My old workout buddy was now living in a three bedroom house with her fiancée and a full time job as a math teacher at the local middle school. Damn. I pushed on to make it to Boise by nightfall and as soon as I crossed the border to Idaho, the speed limit jumped an extra 10 mph. It was around 9 pm that I arrived at the Motel 6, right outside the airport. The street transitioned into an intrepid gravel road  as I pulled up. Checking in, I was told my room was in the smoking section of the establishment, and there were no other vacancies. I sucked it up. I was exhausted, and felt unnerved as I locked my car for the night, packed to the brim with half my life's belongings. It looked like a hoarder's car, or definitely like I was living in it, with pillows and comforters strewn across the back seat. I moved the valuables to the trunk and locked my car three times to be able to walk away peacefully. 

The hotel room was clean-ish. It smelled like pine and lemon and stale cigarettes. The front desk recommended I turn on the A/C and open the window to ventilate the cigarette smell, making the room a chilly 54 degrees and echoing with the sounds of noisy truckers and frequent unnecessary spitting outside. Cigarette burns made holes in the bed's duvet, and on the sheet were a few foreign hairs. I lived.

The next morning I was eager to 1) shower, and 2) get to my car to make sure no one had broken in. I fulfilled both by about 9 am and set off. I stopped over in a little town called Burley to successfully pump my own gas for the first time and then promptly spill coffee over my leggings. So awesome.

I was pulling into Salt Lake City around 2 pm, with ample time to touch base with my Craigslist prospects and verify they weren't scam artists and/or serial killers. Before moving in, my parents helped me book an extended stay at the Econolodge sort of by the airport. Basic amenities but hey, ideally I wasn't staying long. 

I don't know why it wasn't a red flag that there was a shirtless man in the lobby demanding that the staff had stolen his clothes as I tried to check in. An oversight, let's call it. I picked up my room key and drove over to the other side of the building, positioned conveniently behind a low grade Chinese restaurant. I stepped outside my car and began collecting things by my trunk. As I placed toiletries into my purse, a middle-aged tattooed man stared at me, beer in hand not 15 feet in front of me, taking long drags of his cigarette as I increased the pace of my packing. I hurriedly locked my car and rushed up the outdoor stairs to my room location as he grinned at me, watching. This is okay, I'm okay I told myself, frantically unlocking my door and trying not to make eye contact with him. I closed the door behind me and locked the dead bolt. I noticed the swinging lock had been ripped off the wall- huh. This room also smelled of stale cigarettes and something I couldn't quite place. I saw an air refreshener at a gas station the day before scented "Black Ice." I imagine this was what it smelled like. There were holes in the lampshades and big black stains on the carpet, complete with scratches on the wood-paneled dresser, straight from some Halloween-themed Ikea model room. This is fine. I moved to the bathroom and was almost okay with setting up camp until I saw the smeary blood fingerprints on the door. Nope nope nope. 

I chucked all my stuff back into my car as the same man continued to look on. I booked it to a coffee shop far from that side of the highway and parked, taking a few deep breaths. I made a phone call to my parents explaining how I was alive and wanted to continue living, forcing the Econolodge out of the equation. I got an iced coffee and shot a few desperate emails out to my potential future roommates, crossing my fingers. One of them- a girl named Temmy- responded back within a few minutes, and eagerly I started to head to her location.

I parked in a non-reserved spot in the Palladio Apartments parking lot, trying to breathe in this unfamiliar dry heat. "I'm wearing a striped dress," says Temmy on the phone. "I'm wearing a...shirt..." I reply, tired and stupid. I paced awkwardly outside the doors of the building before they opened. Seeing Temmy was the breath of fresh air I'd been longing for in this new place. She was smiling, well-dressed, and I was 80% sure she was not a serial killer. As soon as I saw the apartment, I knew it was a winner. It smelled like carpet cleaner and was completely void of furniture as a bright sun streamed through the sliding glass doors to the balcony. There was a washer and dryer, all kitchen appliances, my own closet and bathroom, and elsewhere in the complex, a fitness center and pool that I promised right there I would use at least once this summer. Even my room had an air mattress for me, ready to go. We shook on it, and within an hour, I'd paid her for a first week of rent and I was moving my things in.

Although my car was packed to the brim, I still felt I was leaving so much behind. And yet, as I started to unload my things and carry them to our new place (thank god for the elevator), I realized I had already packed way too much. Temmy, only having arrived a day before, was so minimalist in comparison, experienced with years of moving every couple of terms. We eventually moved everything up into the apartment, and laid on our backs on the living room floor to cool off in the frosty air conditioning. We decided we should christen our fridge with some well-earned groceries and headed back to the parking lot. And then, problem: my car was no longer there. I kicked myself for not buying a car with a working alarm system, assuming the worst of my fears had come true. Sensing our anxiety, a young resident informed us that it was probably towed; the city towed automatically everywhere downtown, without a call or anything. I found a sign in the parking lot with the tow company written in fine print and gave it a call; it was confirmed, my car had been towed not 10 minutes before we had come downstairs. I weirdly felt relieved, although this was hardly ideal.

Already prepared, Temmy summoned an Uber for us and within minutes, a giant SUV pulled up right by us. The window rolled down, and a skinny white-bearded man cracked the biggest smile and waved us down. "Name's Bob! Come on in!" Bob was at least 75 and still believed in working every day of his life, his true passion. He used to be a military man and had lived just about everywhere in the United States, although Salt Lake City was his favorite. He told jokes about his raucous family members and whoopee cushions, about what to expect driving around these parts. Our route was detoured twice by an immobile freight train but when we finally pulled up to the abandoned lot, desolate and depressing, I saw my car peering through the chain linked fence. The owner was nowhere to be seen. We waited. Bob took long drags of his cigarette as he refused to leave our side, no longer running the meter. Finally, a squat dark-haired man pulled into the lot in his sinister tow truck, with an equally stocky preteen riding passenger. I tried to explain my situation, I really did, pleading. He was useless. He suggested we bring it up with his manager on Monday, and as if signing in my own blood I paid $275 to redeem my vehicle. It was a bullet in my side, but at least I had wheels once again. We waved goodbye to Bob, I mentally flipped off the tow guy, and we headed back home, not sure if we felt defeated or accomplished.

We did end up getting groceries; we had to at that point, out of principle. I unpacked my things, put blankets on my air bed, cringed at my bank account once I checked online. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. But, with all the drama and uprooting of the past 48 hours, I exhaled and pictured that the next 12 weeks would be far brighter.