I needed to get away. From what, I’m not sure, but my thirties so far have not been especially kind to my existential comfort level, so I felt that a prolonged change of scenery was in order. I would rent a car and drive: see a host of things I had always wanted to see, sleep outside, know no one, plan nothing, and, being wholly outside of my usual context, thereby learn something about myself. Or something like that.
I spent a week crisscrossing Michigan in a black Nissan Sentra, which I affectionately nicknamed “Baby” - after a horse in a fanfiction piece, which was named after its analogue - a car - in the source material. (Don’t judge me. I’m beyond shame.) I aggressively avoided any sort of planning for the trip, intending to let myself appreciate the moment and take detours where appropriate, instead of spending all my time thinking about the next target. This turned out to be a partial success, in which I would appreciate the moment and then spend a half hour in the current location deciding on my next move. I’d give myself a C+ overall, but practice makes perfect, and I did spend a week solidly outside my comfort zone. That has to count for something.
I set out at around 9am on a Thursday morning, July 4 - taking advantage of the long holiday weekend. I did worry that everything would be crowded beyond all reason, and in most cases, I wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t interfere as much as I thought it would. The advantage to traveling solo is that you really do take up a minimum of space.
Kalamazoo was my first stop - a self-indulgent rehash of a recent enjoyable trip - but I dropped by Warren Dunes first, On Principle, so that I could dip my toes in Lake Michigan and claim that I had visited it. I would be hitting two more Great Lakes on this trip, and I had a need to greet each of them, just so I could say I did. It was here, sitting in a patch of shade with my back against the pilings that kept the parking lot from being washed out to… lake, that I felt something like a wheeze or a rattle finally release in my chest. It might have been a rumble from the aforementioned parking lot, but this felt like the first moment of vacation - a deep breath and a letting go, while staring out at the banded green of Lake Michigan.
It was incredibly hot on the 4th, and here in the Yankeelands the sun stays up in summer until obscene, unnatural hours. The Kalamazoo Growlers double-header was delayed by rain, but by the time I took my front-row bleacher seat, the sun had returned with a vengeance, and all the rain was just so much humidity. The stadium was a crusty local creature of corrugated metal and uneven concrete, a recent victim of Michigan’s severe flooding, with a barricaded area in right field dubbed “The Swamp” - ground rule double territory. My brat was blackened at one end, and in the tent that served as a team shop, all the caps in my size were suspiciously water-stained.
These aren’t complaints, mind. Minor league baseball is an experience that I cherish: a hot summer night; an enthusiastic emcee; ridiculous between-innings audience games; proximity and community - these are the cocktail of a perfect minor league game. The rest just adds character. And I’ll say this for Kalamazoo: they had a beautifully edited sizzle reel of team highlights. For a summer collegiate league, that’s going the extra mile. Well done, Growlers.
I left midway through the second game of the double-header. Just as the sun began to dip and the temperature finally - mercifully - dropped, a cloud of mosquitoes descended to feast on my flesh, and I could only stick it out for so long. I watched my fireworks from the freeway, driving through the dark to a hotel somewhere in the open space between Here and There.