It's actually a 12-year old Judy Garland, the actress who played Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, whose skills I now question. You know the scene. It's famous. After a wicked tornado drops Dorothy and her dog, Toto, into the magical world of Oz (Not to be confused with the Dr. or the HBO drama about prison), Dorothy, as if the dog can speak and understand English, utters this:
"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."
Ugh ... cut!
Let's take that scene again, this time without a Greatest Generation tweeny-bopper butchering what surely was the original, intended screenwriting:
"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore ... thank the Lord Jesus Christ."
There are places I've seen that have taken my breath away. Then, there are places that have slowly and painfully sucked the breath out of me. To get to one of the former places, I had to endure one of the latter.
The former, of course, is Colorado Springs, a city more picturesque than George Clooney in a tux (And yes, I'm comfortable with that analogy). The Springs is eye-maddening harmony between civilization and wilderness, a booming urban sector nestled at the base of the towering, snow-capped Rocky Mountains. I now live here, and I like that just fine.
The latter, of course, is Kansas.
Now, you could argue that there's a lot to see in Kansas, because Kansas is the 15th largest state in America. That's out of 50. And make no mistake: Kansas is huge. Oh, is it ever. But never have I seen a state paint so little with so much canvas. Kansas reminded me of an old Italian restaurant back on McKnight Road called the Italian Oven. It was one of those places that had paper tablecloths that you can scribble and sketch on with crayons. (Thank God it went out of business before any of us hit puberty). Well, imagine getting the party table at the Italian Oven, beholding below your eyes and elbows a vast expanse of smooth white, then getting no crayons. If that table were a state, it would be Kansas. Unmarked. Unmolested. Blank.
My dad and I didn't fully realize just how barren Kansas is until we saw it for ourselves. However, that's not to say we didn't have an idea. My father's acquaintances from work, who apparently have driven across the country (which is odd, considering they all work for an airline and can fly for free), offered this advice upon hearing of our then-forthcoming drive from Pittsburgh to Colorado: Just wait'll ya see Kansas.
Before we saw Kansas, we saw the rest of southwestern Pennsylvania, the greasy panhandle of West Virginia and all of Ohio, Indiana, southern Illinois and Missouri, most all of which look the same, save a few cities every here and there -- Columbus, Indianapolis, St. Louis. In each of those states, there was a benchmark to aim for. We'll stop for gas in Columbus. We'll stay overnight near Indianapolis. We'll look for food around St. Louis. The cities are like the blueberries in pancakes. They break up the monotony of a bland landscape (blandscape?) and give you something to look forward to. For most of our trip, we shot from one blueberry to the next.
What, then, when there are no more blueberries? Is it just pancake? Will there be at least some syrup (river)? This is what goes through your mind when you're sitting in rush-hour traffic around Kansas City, the last large piece of fruit on the plate. The Kansas City skyline (which is one skyline for which I cannot, in good conscience, describe as 'majestic') lingers in your rear-view for some time. When it's gone, oh boy. (Well, not really. There is Topeka, the Kansas state capitol, which is where we stayed our final night. But Topeka is the equivalent of Harrisburg, and no one in PA counts Harrisburg. Same logic applies here.)
When we readied to leave Topeka, it was like venturing into choppy, uncharted seas in the dark. Just wait'll you see Kansas. Before we pulled out of the Holiday Inn Express (which apparently is the Holiday Inn's answer to Snoop Dogg) I plugged our final destination, Colorado Springs, into the GPS. A nice feature of the GPS is that it tells you how long you have until you must change direction. Leaving Topeka for The Springs (I'm a local now, I can call it that), the first change in direction you make comes in 450 miles.
Four hundred fifty miles. And not one turn.
Minutes after we left, my father and I reached a crest on I-70, which slices Kansas in half, hot-dog style, and saw the road continuing on to infinity in front of us. To the left and right, endless green and brown fields so impossibly flat that you think God, after all, was one one us and just got a little lazy here (If you're into creationism).
Upon seeing this, this exchange followed:
Dad: Jeez, you could see for a hundred miles in each direction.
Me: (Raising my arms in front of me, palms-up) This is America!
Dad: This is the part of America I like to fly over.
Seeing Kansas with your own eyes makes you wonder about things. About why they settled on Iowa for the Field of Dreams. If the Field of Dreams were in Kansas, would Shoeless Joe/Ray Liotta have asked Kevin Costner, 'Is this Heaven?,' or, instead, 'What the hell is this?' Would James Earl Jones have said, 'People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come,' or, instead, 'People will see it from the highway, Ray, and just keep on driving.'
Kansas makes you wonder how Bill Self recruits good players to play basketball in Lawrence, and if he choppers them in and out from the Allen Fieldhouse parking lot in front of every hot girl on campus. It makes you wonder whether Frank Martin really does make recruits offers they can't refuse.
It makes you wonder whether or not this trip is actually worth it.
Ah, that's better.
FIRST ANNUAL CROSS-COUNTRY ROAD TRIP AWARDS:
Award for Largest Indoor Structure Seen: Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis. That place is huge.
Award for Worst Rest-Stop Chicken: Popeye's somewhere in Ohio. Just avoid all Popeye's in Ohio, or all Popeye's's' everywhere, would be my advice.
Award for Largest Power-Generating Windmill Farm: Wha ... Kansas? Kansas won something? Yeah, well, you know the line of those windmills on the PA Turnpike? There's like 7 of them? Well, Google 'Kansas Windmill Farm' and look at some of the photos. Only thing in Kansas that prompted an 'Oh, my goodness' from me that didn't sound like Charlie Morton had just given up another bomb.
Award for Best Roadside Sign: Kansas again, but this is an award in complete futility and unintentional comedy. There were a lot to choose from in this category, all of which grace the roadside of I-70 in Kansas, including: 'Rock City: A National Landmark!' ... Russell, Kan., actually erecting a billboard proclaiming it to be the proud home of both Arlen Specter and 'Bobby' Dole ... The Triple J Campground's rotting wood sign advertising free WiFi ... 'Come See the Greyhound Hall of Fame' ... A sign tempting you to veer off 70 to see the world's largest Prairie Dog and a live, 6-legged steer (As opposed to a dead, 6-legged steer) ... And a myriad of God signs, one of which simply read ETERNITY on one side and WHERE WILL YOU SPEND IT on the other.
It was tough to choose just one, but the winner drew the biggest laugh out of me when I actually saw it. It was supposed to read, 'Abortion stops a beating heart,' but it didn't spell out 'heart.' Instead, the word was subbed with a drawn, cartoon heart. So, at first glance, the sign read 'ABORTION' at the top and 'STOPS A BEATING' underneath it. And for a second, I thought it was about child abuse.
Award for Sketchiest Neighborhood Stopped In For Food: North St. Louis. I looked it up when we made it through to Topeka, and St. Louis is apparently one of the most dangerous cities in the country. Was that Steak N' Shake really worth it? Probably.
Award for Most Tumbleweeds Seen in One State: Colorado, with 5. Tumbleweeds seen before Colorado: 0.
Award for Highest Speed Limit: Again, Colorado. 75!
Award for most Adult Superstores: Oddly enough, Kansas. There was even one right across the road from the Russell Stover chocolate factory.
Award for Most Indulgent Rest Stop: Russell Stover's on one side. Porn on the other.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Kansas can't be THAT bad. Well, see for yourself with a camera-phone shot snapped through my windshield.
- Now, just because the Jose's Mesa World Headquarters are now 2 full hours behind the East Coast doesn't mean Jose will go all Derek Bell and order an Operation: Shutdown. Jose's Mesa, in the exact same capacity as the Death Star, is still fully operational.
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