"When are you flying out?" many asked, when I told them I would be beginning research at Caltech over the summer. But what sense would that have made? Shipping all of one's possessions seems like it would be quite a hassle, and everyone says that Los Angeles is really only navigable by car. So I needed not only to transport myself across the country, but also to move my belongings and the much beloved Nissan 200 SX of which I have custody; it would be more far efficient to combine them all. Besides, if a cheese steak hankering is reason enough to drive from New York to Philadelphia at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night, starting graduate school on the opposite coast obviously demands a grandiose road trip scheme.

When I first started planning the foray, I looked up the route on Mapquest, just to get a rough idea of how long it would take and where it would lead. The directions began:

And that was only halfway. The rest of the directions continued right past the Grand Canyon and through Las Vagas (both of which would necessarily be stops on the way).

Yet, it began to look as though it might be a solo trek. Excitement, adventure, and roadside attractions seemed not to be sufficiently alluring for those cohorts who had initially vowed to accompany me, and who declined with pitiful excuses such as "employment" or "fiscal responsibility." Fortunately, the intrepid Patrick Francis Thaddeus Ahern did not have to worry about either of these, and mere days before departure announced that he would be coming along for the ride. (My mother rejoiced at this development, having been monumentally worried - even for her - at the thought of me driving across the country by myself. She had even begun volunteering miscellaneous family, friends and acquaintances to join me: herself, my father [who was rather surprised to hear about it later], my sister, my friend from high school who was in the midst of job hunting, one of the other professors in the math department at John Carroll...)

Additionally, it turned out that Scott Tesmer (a fellow physics major and Scrabble player) would be journeying from Indiana to Las Vegas during the same time period in his Volvo. Hence, we had a caravan.

Departure had been scheduled for Monday, 21 June, 2004. Naturally, this meant that we left on Tuesday.

Being away for the weekend probably wasn't the ideal way to prepare for a cross-country trip (though it did allow me the chance to experience the Ohio Valley Opry, a showcase of country music talent in the southern part of the state, one of the highlights of which was the 11-year-old singing "Stand By Your Man"). Also, I refrained from packing the car fully until Patrick was retrieved from the bus station Sunday night, in order to check just how far back the passenger seat would have to be positioned. (Last time, I failed to do this, assuming that if a refrigerator had fit there previously, naturally there'd be plenty of room for my sister. She spent the entire ride from Cleveland to New York reminding me, none too charitably, that refrigerators don't have knees.) Once this parameter was established, the intricate process of fitting as much as possible into a small, two-door car without compromising use of the rearview mirror proceeded into the wee hours of the morning. Finally, I still needed to visit AAA, which is apparently not open at 3:30 a.m.

Thus it was established that the quality of our trip would be greatly improved by postponing it by a day. The extra time was not wasted, however. Provisions were purchased, and we were able to obtain a fantastic TripTik from AAA. Besides the step-by-step directions (with construction areas marked), it came with four tour books. Of course, there were also a bunch of maps, including the one with our entire route highlighted - the smallest one it would fit on - a map of the entire United States.

By the light of day, any crevices left when packing the night before were discovered and promptly filled. Ultimately, as I gazed ruefully at a small gap behind the headrest of the passenger seat recently vacated by my knives and knife block (which Patrick had insisted be moved elsewhere), we declared the car packed.

Dinner that night was at La Fiesta, the excellent local Mexican restaurant whose flan I've been enjoying since I was a toddler. My father began the meal with a toast, "Westward ho!"

Jesus and Touchdown Patrick

The bugnuts episode

Having never watched much college football, I had never heard of Touchdown Jesus before. Patrick, however, had a desperate yearning to see the famous icon. Thus, South Bend, Indiana was our first stop after leaving Cleveland.

Upon arriving on campus, we were able to locate the mural fairly easily. It's on the wall of the library, across the lawn from the stadium, and above a pond. On one side of the pond, there was a small bridge going over the pond wall, from the sidewalk into the water. Patrick speculated that it might be for the ducks (a male and female mallard) that were napping there, afloat. I wondered why the ducks couldn't fly instead. And why they needed lane markers. He then suggested that perhaps it was for amphibious, remote-controlled vehicles. Finally, I went into the library and asked the security guard if she knew the purpose of the bridge. She told us it was for the baby ducks (which weren't out at the time), who couldn't fly yet. Apparently, baby ducks need lane markers.

We also visited the museum (which had, in addition to an interesting collection, a half dozen antique race cars on display) and the church (which had a dandy holy water fountain), thereby rounding out our tour of Notre Dame's significant points of interest.

Although Scott was coming from Indiana, he had decided to meet up with us in Iowa, in order to avoid Chicago (which I-80 skirts). He advised us to do the same, because he'd gotten stuck in traffic jams the last two times he drove through that area. I was hesitant to do so, especially since there wasn't a convenient detour.

"What time of day did you get stuck in traffic?" I asked.

"Well, the first time it was the middle of rush hour..." he admitted. The second, however, had been late at night, and due to construction. I was still debating when Scott remembered that the traffic in question hadn't actually been on I-80. I decided not to detour. Yet despite gaining an hour, it still turned out that we'd be going through the Chicago hour uncomfortably close to rush hour. It's not that I would've minded heavy traffic so much as Scott being right; fortunately, the only appreciable delay was a single slow-down, preserving both our schedule and my pride.

At we neared the Iowa border, I decided (somewhat belatedly) that it would be a good idea to take pictures of all the "Welcome to {State}" signs we went by. Since I was somewhat occupied with the process of driving, Patrick suddenly inherited the task of using a digital camera for the first time to photograph a stationary object we'd be passing at about 70 miles per hour. "The people of Iowa welcome you" turned out to be a bit too elusive a target. Ah well, there'd be a good 300 miles to practice before we hit Nebraska.

It was rather late by the time we rendezvoused with Scott, since we'd had to stop when we saw the sign for the world's largest truck stop (complete with a variety of stores and eateries, as well as a "drivers den" and movie theater, in addition to the standard showers). We stopped for the night at the next hotel, and then proceeded to play the longest Scrabble game ever, which was exacerbated by some tiredness on the part of the players. After convincing us that "jirry" was a word, Patrick wondered if he could turn my "gnu" into "ingenue." I informed him that he couldn't, and Scott suggested that it would instead be lengthend to "bugnuts," causing Patrick to laugh hysterically for a solid five minutes. Thankfully, the game ended shortly thereafter, and we all went to bed (Patrick still chuckling.)