The highway between Ludington and here was fairly uneventful--I got lost two different ways. The first time, I got lost because I asked for directions. I was already going the right way, planning to go perpendicularly across Michigan to Detroit, but a woman making pizza in Nowhere, Michigan told me I had to double back and take another highway. I hadn't been able to find a map of Michigan anywhere--not on a placemat, not at a reststop, never at a gas station. So I was going by memory from what I could see of Michigan on the Wisconsin map. And I was going the right way--down highway 10, a little highway that crossed through the state perfectly, and rejoined with the big highway that ran all the way to Windsor.
But I turned around, trusting someone who'd lived there for all their lame and lonely life.
Far too late to change course, I finally got my hands on a map. I realized I was driving almost parallel to Lake Michigan. My trip was going to be the sides of a right angle, istead of a straight, perfect line. The whole point of taking the ferry was to cut some time out of the American leg of the trip. And I was fucking it up again.
Whatever.
So I'm driving through Michigan, gritting my teeth, listening to music, and passing through what would be lovely country if I didn't want to build a highway through all of it at a 45 degree angle to cut three hours off my trip. I speed to get out of there faster. It's fun.
Detroit finally looms. That's not really true--Motor City is so incredibly big, buildings and malls have already blighted the countryside long before I get anywhere near it. But I keep driving. But it's time for gas.
Here's an exit.
Get off.
Get gas.
Scary man comes up to the station. He's got a lot of gold chains on.
Another scary man comes running up to the gas station. He looks excited, or nervous. Or druggy. Regular people are also getting gas, unconcerned.
What the hell am I so scared of?
Off across the overpass, I hear shots. Or bangs. Who knows. It was almost the fourth of July. I go in to pay, and make a joke to the clerk that he looks like he's in an aquarium, with all that plexiglass around him. He hates the joke, and says that it's bulletproof glass, not plexiglass.
I peel out of there, with the trailer in tow, and go off down the highway again. Forever.
Finally, signs for the Ambassador Bridge, my link to sanity and peace of mind and the lack of the right to bear arms begin to appear. I get closer and closer, watching the odometer to make sure I don't overshoot it. As I drive, I realize I'm veering away from the bridge. I look frantically out the side window, and eventually through the rear view mirror, watching the bridge shrink from sight. Where the hell am I?
An overpass appears. I roll up it into a wasteland with a red light. Boarded-up houses surround me, and, from the scrub and weeds on the driver's side, a crazy-looking woman gets up from her bucket-chair, fixes her hair, and runs off behind the trailer. Some kid rides by on a bike that is way too small for him. I am fatigued, and paranoid, and panicked. It would be horribly ironic or dramatic or cathartic if I were to die right here, so close to Canada, my home and non-sketchy land.
The light turns green, and I squeal the tires getting around that corner. My heart skips another beat when I get back towards what looks like a downramp, except it isn't going down towards the highway. More scary-looking people pop up, or walk around, going about their business, not really paying any attention to the insane man pulling the vacation-train through their ghetto neighbourhood. Finally, a block down, the ground slopes down a ramp back onto the highway. I stop sweating.
I make another wrong turn. Not majorly bad, but I've already had enough.
Finally, I'm approaching the brigde. That's the point I'm at now--it's not really me controlling the truck any more, it's the truck, with me cradled safely within, rescuing me from this horrible city where it was born, or at least, assembled. We reach the booth of the toll bridge, and the woman says "that'll be $6.75."
"Whatever you want. Want more? Just get me out of here."
She looks at me blankly, chewing her gum, her round, early-20s face sort of contemptuously indifferent, until I throw $6.75 worth of quarters and bills at her and roar away.
On the downslope of the bridge, I breathe much easier. I can feel maple leaves and poutine and friendly passive-aggressive Canadian vibrations soothe my soul, and sedate my nerves. I talk to a dirty-looking kid and a limo driver in an empty McDonalds parking lot, completely without fear. They tell me that, no, they won't let you in to go to the bathroom, because it's too late. I can order food, though.
"Can I order an empty cup? I'm not really hungry. I need the bathroom."
They get the joke. They smile. I'm back in Canada.
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