Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns … driven time and again off course, once he had set out across the country to journey home to California and then back again to the gorges of Ithaca.
While I’m no Odysseus, Homer’s invocation to Calliope seemed an appropriate way to describe what turned a mundane drive across the country into a journey through the fringes of American culture. It’s the kind of adventure you only find when you stop allowing the GPS to dictate your course, venture off the interstate and have the courage (and the gas budget) to explore everything from the offbeat stretches of Route 66 to the eccentric corners of the country.
One thing I learned over those thousands of miles is that America loves its musicians. The first notable landmark I encountered was Michael Jackson’s boyhood home in Gary, Indiana. Eleven people once lived in this perfectly preserved 876-square-foot, two-bedroom, one-bath house. A modest monument stands in the front yard, where a steady stream of visitors pay respect to the King of Pop. Yet the surrounding neighborhood tells a different story: boarded-up houses, wood rot, collapsing roofs, even a large tree that had fallen onto one home. While seeing the place where Michael’s musical genius originated was meaningful, seeing the poverty around it was heartbreaking.
In comparison to the King of Pop’s modest monument, Graceland is a grandiose, over-the-top tribute to the King of Rock complete with shag carpeting — even on the walls in places — television sets in nearly every room (a rarity at the time), the Jungle Room with its waterfall wall and a vast complex of museums, restaurants and shops across the street. Most impressive was Elvis’ plane, the Lisa Marie, which is far more lavish than the contemporaneous Air Force One on display at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library in Simi Valley, California. Elvis traveled better than presidents!
In the middle of nowhere in Iowa, I came across a giant pair of Buddy Holly’s iconic glasses. They were in a cornfield outside of a town called Clear Lake and marked the trailhead to the site of the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper in 1959. I had to walk a quarter mile into the cornfield to reach the humble monument marking the spot where, as Don McLean sings, “the music died.”
Finally, if you’re a fan of the Eagles’ “Take It Easy,” you can stop at the Route 66 town of Winslow, Arizona and see a statue of a man standing on a corner, looking at a flatbed Ford parked at the curb. Unfortunately for Winslow, aside from this corner, there’s not much else going on.
Unlike Odysseus’ men who placed wax in their ears to resist the sirens, I, a student studying government and history, couldn’t withstand the allure of presidential libraries and other similar places of historical interest. On the way to California, I took a two-and-a-half-hour detour to the Gerald Ford Presidential Museum, which sits in a beautiful location next to a river in downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan. I saw the Saigon Staircase, which once sat atop the U.S. Embassy and was used for helicopter evacuations during the Fall of Saigon in 1975.
Another place worth mentioning is Canton, Ohio. After visiting the Pro Football Hall of Fame, which I found underwhelming, I drove over to the burial place of President William McKinley. His surprisingly large monument is extravagant for a president most people only vaguely remember. He also has a museum but, unfortunately, like Herbert Hoover’s, it was closed when I arrived.
Speaking of closed, I stopped by the Little Bighorn Battlefield inside the Crow Reservation in Montana. Although I could see the monument to General Custer and his troops, the park was closed. Fortunately, Mount Rushmore was not. I saw it almost entirely alone at night and again the next morning with the usual larger crowds — two completely different experiences. Accessing it required veering off course and winding through the famous Black Hills on roads so windy they must have been designed by a video game developer. Mount Rushmore, along with the charm of beautiful Sioux Falls, sits in South Dakota, a beautiful and underappreciated state.
No cross-country trip would be complete without national parks. I was in awe of the extraterrestrial-like Badlands in South Dakota and saw boiling mud pits, giant elk and bison confidently walking next to my car in Yellowstone. They were close enough to touch, though I wouldn’t recommend trying.
My odyssey wouldn’t have been complete without food stops. Besides numerous Waffle House visits, I stopped in Madison, Wisconsin to try what was advertised as a world-famous hamburger. While it was good, I’m not sure what “world” they’re referring to. In Texas, instead of attempting the legendary 72-ounce steak challenge, I opted against a heart attack and for something less glutinous at Tyler’s Barbeque. Thumbs up! Finally, a place worth mentioning is Peggy Sue's 50’s Diner in Yermo, California. Even if you don’t eat there, it’s worth visiting just to see the decor. The food was good, but the vibe was better.
Unfortunately, my word limit prevents me from discussing much more — the incongruous grave of boxing legend George Foreman in Sioux City, Iowa; the home used in the movie A Christmas Story in Cleveland; my thoughts on Bill Clinton’s library in Little Rock, Arkansas; the solemn memorial of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing or the Breaking Bad filming sites in Albuquerque. Altogether, I traveled through 23 states. Although I didn’t encounter a one-eyed Cyclops, Helios’ cattle or lotus eaters, I took so many detours that my mother wondered if I was actually trying to reach my destinations or simply exploring the country. Maybe Odyessus didn’t need ten years to get home; maybe he just liked wandering as much as I do.
Aiden Gaddis is a member of the Class of 2027 in the College of Arts and Sciences. He is a contributor for the Arts & Culture department and can be reached at ajg335@cornell.edu.
