Craigslist Travelin'

Originally written December 2010 • Uploaded to Facebook on Dec 31, 2010, 8:59 PM

It is of no mystery to anyone who knows me that I enjoy working on cars. That I dream about new and innovative ways to fix old mechanical problems on diesel engines is a different matter entirely, but my obsession moves me thus. Over the past year, I have traveled to many places and enjoyed the company of many different people. Believe it or not, with none of them have I been able to fully indulge my passion for automobiles, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. I recognize there are other things in this world besides girls, beer, and cars—even though I spend a massive amount of my time touching upon these exact three topics. But it is the automobiles that have, first and foremost, taken me places. Pun not intended.

Throughout this past year, I have taken chances surfing craigslist.com, tracking down the peculiar people, places, and mechanical items that are worth seeking out. Craigslist is undeniably full of garbage, incomprehensible jargon, political propaganda, and phishers. I recognize that while there are millions of new classifieds uploaded there every day across a wide variety of topics, millions of others directly validate the old adage that "one man's trash is another man's treasure." Craigslist makes it possible to engage in that exact brand of economic relationship: one person posts a blurry photo and a brief description, while another takes his own sudden longing or mechanical need and searches out that exact text. For some, browsing these forums functions as a modern iteration of window shopping or perusing old storefronts. For me, it has become something much deeper.

I am not an American, and by the exact same metrics, I am not a traditional Mexican. But I do constantly strive to go out into the world and find my unique niche—a place where I can feel genuinely comfortable. After all, endlessly drifting has never been my happiest of states. In my effort to become closer with my American friends, who have generously adopted me as a brother, friend, or acquaintance, I try to deliberately visit the exact places where they were raised and see the ways they live. I don't do this because I find it passingly amusing; I do it because it brings an immense structural depth to my friendships and the regions they inhabit. The more depth there is to these bonds, the more I can cherish them and grow alongside my peers. Yet, driving out into the rural coordinates where they are from and engaging with complete strangers is a different matter altogether.

This is precisely why I have devised a simple, reliable framework that allows me to interact with total strangers in far-off locales without it feeling awkward or forced. I have chosen to shop.

I shop in many digital spaces, and I'll admit there are eras where my addiction to eBay is hardly productive or sustainable. There have been weeks when the piles of cardboard shipping boxes arriving in the mail towered significantly high above the rest of my worldly possessions. The staff at my local post office fondly remember me picking up heavy truck tires, exhaust manifolds, rims, and other incredibly bulky mechanical components. But my most rewarding commerce has consistently come from Craigslist—if only because the sellers flat-out refuse to accept out-of-state money orders or cash-on-delivery schemes. Frankly, I don't blame them, knowing how many friendly "Nigerian princes" offer to ship massive certified checks in exchange for peanuts or whatever hardware you happen to list. Because Craigslisters refuse to deal with shipping, it is up to me to physically drive to where the treasures live and, believe it or not, interact face-to-face with the vendors. Even though the vast majority of these transactions are completely straightforward—you arrive, inspect the condition, agree on a final price, and swap paper currency for material goods—you can never quite escape the casual, local chit-chat that emerges from face-to-face transactions.

The various rural towns, farms, and isolated counties I navigate always feature the exact same layout: small strip malls and shopping centers anchored by the same corporate fast-food joints over and over again. It is because of this monotonous architectural repetition that one of my standard questions to the seller is always, *"So, I've driven all the way out here to buy this part from you—is there a local spot nearby where I can eat something unique to the area?"* Most of the time, people point me toward an old café operating in the historic downtown of these small municipalities. Nearly all the downtowns I have navigated are in varying states of economic decay, yet they all seem to possess a gritty, identical charm: a thrift store that opens at entirely odd hours, and a diner. This is the café locals always recommend, and I don't fully understand why. Every time I walk inside, I secretly expect to find weird, regional cuisine or some sort of beverage unique to the territory. But no. Most of the time, the person behind the counter—for I always occupy a stool at the bar when traveling alone—simply offers me the daily special: a burger and fries. I have absolutely nothing against burgers, but I always attempt to order the most adventurous item on the menu. Sadly, not much excitement ever comes of it. I have ordered many uniquely named dishes, only to discover they are just varying degrees of the exact same comfort foods—like the time I ordered a funny-sounding regional specialty, only to receive a standard roast beef sandwich and instant mashed potatoes cleverly concealed under a mountain of brown gravy. Usually, I walk out having consumed coffee and some variation of potatoes, eggs, toast, and non-descript meat.

As you can see, the food is rarely memorable. But the people sure are. There are always fascinating characters sitting on the stools right next to me. The bartenders are almost universally friendly. I sit there, enjoying a hot meal after a grueling three-hour drive, and even if I don't actively strike up a conversation, I can still listen to the ambient dialogue—sharing in the raw cheer, the sudden sadness, or the shock that these regulars bring to the local counter. Occasionally, the people I buy the car parts from will join me at the diner, telling me extensive stories about their lives, about the machinery I just loaded into my trunk, or random fragments of their past that I puzzle together in my mind to make sense of who they are. Then again, equipped with only a mechanical item and an hour of conversation, you don't really get to know a human being. But at least you get a brief, unfiltered glimpse into their world.

The characters I meet, the stories I overhear, and the vintage goods I acquire convince me that what I am actually purchasing is a trip somewhere—a chance to surround myself with new environments, and a brief opportunity to inhabit the lives of others whom I would otherwise never cross paths with. The prices I pay include conversation, transportation, and arbitrary fees simply because I choose to let them. Sometimes, when a heavy mountain of academic homework shadows everything I do and professors seem to completely dictate my life, my mind drifts back to the people out there on the grid, the peculiar things they list for sale, and the stories they have to tell.

A few months ago, I walked into a small tavern and spotted an old man sitting alone at the counter, quietly enjoying a cold beer at 12:30 in the afternoon. I took the stool right next to him, but he barely noticed my arrival, remaining hopelessly focused on flirting with the woman working behind the bar. He was cracking jokes and self-deprecatingly belittling his own age the way only old men can, but he carried a sharp glint and a natural charm that was impossible to ignore. I ordered my standard burger-and-fries special with a black coffee, arriving just in time to see a couple of elderly women walk through the door. They occupied the stools on the other side of the old man and immediately ordered a round of beers for everyone sitting at the bar, myself included. Suddenly, I found myself with a cold beer, a burger, a plate of fries, and a room full of people who had absolutely nothing better to do than sit together and enjoy each other's raw company.

I sat there for a long while, watching the three of them casually drop two hundred dollars on lottery scratch-off tickets. I watched how a select few of their cards were minor winners, but the vast majority were complete losers. Continuing an endless, frantic cycle of winning and losing, they would watch their money vanish and reappear in a matter of minutes. I finally stood up, paid my tab, and walked out to my car, thinking about how their daily habit had just become my afternoon entertainment. But it was my own mechanical shopping habit that had driven me out there in the first place.