The Lack of Female Road Narratives...and Why I Shouldn't Care

Yesterday, I read Vanessa Vaselka's essay about female road narratives, which discussed in depth how the archetypal young man is finding himself on the open road while the archetypal young woman is running away from something horrific at home.  When a woman travels alone, the thinking goes, she is setting herself up as a victim, perhaps even of rape or death.  Some of her commenters disagreed, providing Hollywood narratives and personal anecdotes of positive experiences on the road.

Intriguing.

I've traveled a fair amount as a solo woman.  Unlike Vanessa and many of her readers, I don't hitchhike and I carry a nice camera and purse, so my experiences are skewed with the knowledge that I look like a better target for theft than anonymous murder.  I am confident that I can handle that threat.  I know I have the memory to describe a thief accurately and the wherewithal to notice one in the first place.  I can get out of sticky situations that threaten me physically.  I believe that, generally, people are helpful and well-intentioned.  Most of the time, they are.  Still, I always have that niggling voice in the back of my mind telling me to look out for danger.

WANDERLUST: Ragnar Relay

Last week, my Facebook feed started populating itself with pictures of tutus and custom signets, motivational running quotes, last-minute pleas for a runner, and the back-and-forth typical of any large group traveling to a new city.  Who's in town?  When and where should we meet for dinner?  What are you guys doing anyway?

The Ragnar Relay.  200 miles (more or less), 4-12 friends, 2 vans, 2 days, 1 night.  My lovely, insane friends were about to run from the Rocky Gap State Park in Flintstone, MD (think Western Maryland, beyond the narrowest part) through Hagerstown, Frederick, Rockville, Bethesda, DC's Rock Creek Park, Virginia's Arlington and Alexandria, and across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to National Harbor, MD.  And because this is the type of event that encourages fun, and because the team name was "Red, White, and Tutu," they were going to do so in red, white, and blue tulle.

Go West, young (wo)man

The road less taken.  No regrets.

When I graduated from high school, my father asked if I wanted to take a gap year.  Silly Dad, I said, I'm American.  Americans don't take gap years, and besides, I've already received scholarships for next year.  I can't defer them!

When I was in college, Dad asked if I wanted to go abroad.  Dad, I said, I can't.  I switched majors, and now I won't finish my requirements in time if I go study in France/Egypt/the UK.

And when I was ensnarled in an office job in DC, but on vacation with my parents, my American father offered this previously unknown story about his own gap year:

"A bunch of us Americans were in similar programs in London, and we decided to hire a van and go to Istanbul."  

Really?  That's quite adventurous in the pre-EU days.

"Well, you see, we all had two weeks off at the same time.  The van wasn't very well kept, though, and the driver was what you would call sketchy."

What do you mean, Dad?

"We're pretty sure he was smuggling."

Say what?!