Ruminations of an Expatriate

Perhaps my readers who enjoyed the story of my 1977 freight train trip will enjoy the story of my 1974 break-neck, cross-country drive in a Super Beetle.

I had been working for a few years as a mechanic at an independent VW/Porsche garage in Falls Church, Virginia, when in 1974 I had decided to return to Washington State. A client of the shop, an airline stewardess, had mentioned that she wanted her Super Beetle driven to Los Angles, as she had transferred from D. C. to L. A. Having a week of paid vacation coming, which I didn’t want to lose, and always up for an adventure I jumped at the chance.

The stewardess provided me with gas money, a letter authorizing me to drive her car in case of an encounter with the police, and an airline ticket for the return trip from L. A.

I had been living in a home (a commune as we called back then) in Clarendon, Virginia with a group of folks, the number of which varied from three when I moved in to fifteen folks and nine dogs a year later. There was a dog fight everyday. There were all sorts of other exciting things that occurred there, but I will save those stories for another time.

I talked one of my roommates into accompanying me on the trip and we agreed to drive round-the-clock.

So on the appointed morning, a Saturday at 9:00 AM, we left Falls Church and off we went. That evening we had dinner in Nashville; the next morning we had breakfast in Oklahoma City; that evening we dined in Tucumcari, New Mexico; and early the next morning we arrived at Zion Canyon National Park in Utah, where we had decided to stop for a rest. So far the trip had consumed just short of 48 hours.

Rather than resting, we hiked around the hills during the day and joined a party at the next camp site that evening, consuming “white lightening”, amongst other substances, until rather late that night. Eventually we did manage to get a bit of sleep.

The next morning, early, we again hit the road and twelve hours later arrived in San Francisco, where we spent the next few days visiting with a couple of former roommates of the Clarendon comune. So, in terms of actual driving time, we had gone cross-country in about sixty hours.

The day before our scheduled departure from the L.A. airport for the return home, we cranked up the Super Beetle and off we went. By this point we had just about driven the tires off the poor Super Beetle.

Somewhere between San Francisco and L.A. we were pulled over by a California Highway Patrolman who had noticed the extreme shimmying of the from wheels of the car. I dug into my backpack in the backseat for the paperwork the stewardess had provided, exposing the pile of Coors beer cans behind the driver’s seat. Coors was at the time unavailable in the East, so we had consumed it with gusto; and, not being the littering types, we accumulated the empties behind the driver’s seat.

As it turned out, the Trooper said nothing of the beer cans, as we were at the time quite sober; looked over the paperwork; encouraged us to drive carefully; bid us adieu; and off we went.

The next morning we arrived at the L. A. airport, parked the Super Beetle at the appointed station, and checked in for the flight home. We did clean the car, but I’m sure it was never again the same after its cross-country tear.

Just a couple of weeks ago, in fact, I contacted the fellow with whom I shared the adventure and had a few laughs at the recollections.