48 Hours in Atlanta

Route

Wednesday, October 21st. Rhea slept in bed with me last night, snuggled up against me. She would never do this at home; she only sleeps on the floor in her own bed. She’s always been a little independent lady. Or so I thought.

We had a productive morning at the Airbnb. I got a lot of needed work done and prepped for my trip while Rhea snoozed through most of it. When we climbed into the truck, I noticed small paw prints scattered all over the windshield and hood. We had a visitor looking for snacks in the middle of the night. It might have been a raccoon, but who knows.

My mom was graciously flying in to watch Rhea while I flew to Atlanta for a quick 48-hour work trip. It came up a bit unexpectedly, though not really out of nowhere. She was up at 3am to catch a 7am flight out of JFK and hadn't eaten all day, so we picked up two wraps, two kombuchas, and some groceries for her on the way to the airport.

It was wonderful to see her. She was happy to see me, but she was over-the-moon excited to see Rhea, her favorite granddaughter. We sat in the Bozeman airport parking lot for a bit, catching up and eating our sandwiches. Then we swapped seats; I set her up with directions back to the Airbnb, and she drove off with my girl.

Bozeman's airport is particularly small. It reminds me a lot of Long Island’s MacArthur Airport back at home. One terminal, one small security line, two little places to get food on the other side, and that's it. No lounges, no frills. A real mountain town airport.

It was weird to trade my truck for a plane. I sometimes fly a lot for work, so in a way it was back to normal. But Rhea and I have really settled into a routine over the last week and a half, and it was a bummer to ruin it.

We landed at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta airport, the busiest airport in the world, with about 106 million passengers last year. I've been through it more times than I care to count, but this time hit differently. No one says hi. No one says thank you. Everyone's heads down, doing their own thing. It's ironic. You have so many people in one place, and there's no community. Bozeman has far fewer people, yet the sense of community is strong. I feel like I’m becoming drawn to these smaller, slower-paced, community-based towns on this trip.

The hotel outside the airport reminded me of the motel Steinbeck rented outside Bangor, ME, a spotless room where everything was plastic. He disliked it so much that he slept in his truck instead. After Al & Sally's roadside motel by Lake Michigan, this place felt fake. I wish I had my truck to sleep in.

Thursday, October 22nd. By 7:15am I was on I-285, heading north from the hotel to our work onsite. It felt like being back on the interstate by Chicago. More commuters and fewer semis, but still plenty of trucks thundering down the highway. I love my work, but I was already ready to get back west.

Our whole senior leadership team was there to review the final engineering plan for our first big project, to be built outside of Atlanta. It was a taxing day, but a successful one. I'm very glad I flew in for it. The core team got beers and some bites afterward, and it was nice to have a casual catch-up with everybody. I've been working with these guys for two years now. They’re good people.

Friday, October 23rd. An easy morning outside Atlanta, then food and coffee in the airport lounge. A nice way to start the day. The 11am direct flight to Bozeman was easy and uneventful, and I got a lot of work done.

We landed in Bozeman to unexpected sheets of rain pounding the plane and pavement. My mom and Rhea were waiting for me in the truck, then it was back to the Airbnb to load up. She had already checked out, but she'd left a bunch of her stuff there. Honestly, I didn't know how we were going to fit it all in the truck. It was packed to the gills when I left Long Island. Rhea sacrificed half of her back seat, my mom had bags piled on her lap, and we had stuff on the center console. But we made it work.

We drove an hour and 15 minutes south to a little Airbnb in Gardiner, right by the north entrance of Yellowstone. Gardiner is a speck of a town on the Yellowstone River. Almost nothing was open in the off-season, but we found a little local spot and sat at the bar. The food blew us away. I had a mouth-watering elk burger with sweet potato fries, while my mom chowed down on a bison burger, and we had two smooth stouts. It was cold and raining, with ice starting to form, by the time we got back to our room. But tomorrow in Yellowstone was supposed to be beautiful.

People

I had a wonderful Lyft ride back to the hotel with Herron. A nice middle-aged man, originally from up island on Long Island, who's lived down here since the early 1990s. He got laid off from his engineering job and has done a bunch of odd jobs since. He enjoys driving and has quite the list of elected officials and famous people he’s had in his car. He's also quite the talker and very inquisitive, so we chatted the whole hour back. An extremely well-traveled, great fellow.

He gave me some great tips on Georgia. If I haven't been to Savannah, I've got to go. They've really preserved the culture there from the 1800s, with cobblestone streets and a town square every few blocks. James Oglethorpe laid out the first four squares when he founded the city in 1733, and 22 of the eventual 24 are still there. It’s also one of the biggest shipping ports on the East Coast. Callaway Gardens is another place he said I absolutely have to see.

Then, down by Jacksonville on the coast, there's Cumberland Island, with wild horses and only one inn. Go when there's a little bit of a breeze, he said, because otherwise the gnats and mosquitoes will get you. Those horses are the only feral herd on the Atlantic coast that the Park Service leaves completely alone. No feed, no vet, no population control. Its yearly surveys count 120 to 148 of them.

We talked about Los Angeles, New York City, Maine, where he has family, and my trip. Such a genuine, good human.

Rhea

These were Rhea's first two days apart from me since she joined the trip. She stayed with Grandma, which is what we call my mom for Rhea. If I ask Rhea, "Where's Grandma?" she immediately starts looking for her. It's quite adorable. They're two peas in a pod. I'm pretty sure my mom loves that dog more than she loves me.

She needed the downtime too. All that time in the truck is taxing on her. But she's come a long way. She lies down in the truck now and doesn't pant much, except on the highway. She sees it as a safe place where she and Papa get to explore this great country. Even at dinner in Gardiner, she chilled in the truck. She's so good. She loves the truck.