Iggy is the only anthropomorphized object in my life. Some people name their guitars, or phones, or at least their cars. I am not one of these people. Until, that is, I met Iggy. But more than me naming her, she came to me and introduced herself by name: Iggy. Why?

Because she's so fancy. 

You already know.

She's in the fast lane . . . from LA to Tulsa, yo. 
(If you say it fast enough there at the end, it works.) (kidding, and I'll stop now.)

Yup. But even the phonetics of the name worked—my little (actually, mid-sized) Lexus is stuck up like nobody's business, so the gross guttural sounds of "Iggy" were the perfect foil to her priggish attitude. She, I should have said, tried to introduce herself to me. To whatever she was going to say, I interrupted, and called her Iggy.

Gross google-image result reflects my feelings about Iggy in August 2015 when she became mine.

Why did I create all of this angst around my car?

Well, I had a perfectly neat little car, a Nissan Rogue. Sensible. Efficient. But . . . the lights didn't work, so my 10 hour drive home from college became . . . dangerous. So my dear father talked to my dear older neighbor, and she sold us her "old" Lexus. Which was a 2010. And was very shiny and new-looking. And didn't have many miles, not that I know what qualifies as many miles. And takes the kind of gas a Kardashian would take if she were a car.

And I was nineteen. And I don't know anything about cars, but I heard somewhere that this was a fancy car, and so I got a little self-conscious. Like, I'm okay with making fancy cakes, but otherwise, fancy is not really my wheelhouse. Except now, thanks to Iggy, fancy was my wheels. 

So I drove Iggy around at college, telling people every opportunity I got that I certainly don't identify with the schmancy-ness of my car. Not, of course, that they cared, but I did. Once last fall she got her bumper bashed in when I visited Viv at Vanderbilt and parked overnight in the Sigma Nu parking spots. I thought it brought her pride down a notch, so I didn't really mind. 

view from the dash, coming in on Oregon

And that was the extent of Iggy and I's relationship. For two years, I drove sweet Iggy around sweet Sammy U, and apologized for her every chance I got. It became a mental habit. A conversational crutch. Imagine:

~Coffee Date~
Person: *gets in car* "I like your car."
Madeline the Spazz: "wellthankyouitsnameisIggybecauseit'ssofancygetitlikethatpopsongfrom2011
butyeahit'snicebutit'salotbutmyoldcardidn'thavegoodlightsand
mysweetolderneighborsoldusthisonesoyeahsorry"
Person: *gets out of car* "bye forever crazy person"
or
Person: "my car is named Speed"
Me: k bye

So. Clearly I had issues with my car. But I of course was thankful for her; I was just dramatic. What kind of nineteen-year-old drives a Kardashian Lexus? [sidenote: the Kardashians do not, I am sure, drive a Lexus, and Lyd would want me to keep from defaming them in that way] Where can you go in life if you drive a Lexus when you're nineteen?

There's Iggy, hiding in a no-pay parking spot in Queens. She stayed there for a week while I shadowed and played. I snapped this when I re-located her after being not-quite-sure if I'd be able to find her again.

The answer to that question came when I started a website, and got some emails, and penciled some places on a map. 

Where can you go if you drive a Lexus when you're twenty?

Tulsa. Freedom. Boulder. Denver. Portland. Sisters. Seattle, San Francisco. Santa Clara. Los Angeles. Riverside. Lampe. Franklin. D.C. Queens. Simsbury. Charlotte. Demorest. Huntsville. Atlanta. 

If you drive a Lexus when you're twenty, apparently: Where can't you go?

View from the dash, last sunset of The Summer Shadow. 

I'm not going to make this an object lesson. No "drive whatever car life gives you" or "it's not what vehicle you go in but who you're with" (uh with just myself hi). I just wanted to tell you about the twenty-first century chariot that took me almost 10,500 miles across the country this summer. A red car, with too much sass for its plain lil driver. A red car, whom I liked much more after this summer. Iggy and I were pals, after she took me that many miles with no issues except her inability to keep my bag of chocolate chips from melting into a conglomerate mass. No flat tires, no dead battery. Just a solid aux cord, working AC, and a jazzy red exterior.

I drove this car for two years
and called her Iggy for two years.
I found out a month ago that my neighbor had originally named her
Sophie.

SOPHIE.

Poor Sophie. Referred to by irreverent college students for two years by the ignominious moniker "Iggy."

A few days before I got home from summer shadow-ing, the rents called and said that Iggy was going to one of the most magical humans in the world's mom, and I was getting a hand-me-down from mi madre. 

Me looking prim, I guess Iggy trained me well. Hopefully she's more low-key than when she met me. This was taken days before our final parting :'(

Iggy now lives with her new owner in Oklahoma once again, and I drive a nameless car once again. Here's a Charlotte's Web ending:

It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good [driver]. Iggy was both. 

I spent a few days in Huntsville, Alabama with a lady named Jessica. Or, I guess, Dr. Jessica, because she has her PhD in poetry.

She teaches classes at the local university, but cause I was there in the summer, we just hung out. She'd just returned from two weeks in Victoria, Canada, and had moved into her home only two weeks before that. We spent some of our time together cleaning out rooms, moving furniture, and hanging pictures on walls. Here's the wall of her guest room, where we hung all of her poetry posters and souvenirs.

We also went to a concert, which was across the street from her house. It was a local band, and they did covers, and we sat near the front eating Whole Foods and watching all the adorable kids.

On Saturday, the day I arrived, we spent part of the day at a place called Lowe Mill. It's an old mill that they turned into space for artists to work and sell their art.

We ate amazing African-inspired fare from a food truck called Chef Will the Palate. 

Jessica is vegan, and (obviously) a poet; she's also interesting and fun to listen to and smart and handy (She worked on her car engine when it didn't start—I stood by, held the tools, and took pictures:).

I had to leave after only one night to go pick up my sister in Atlanta (read: driving east) before we headed home (read: driving west). When I left Jessica's, I stopped at Taco Mama's and sat there and was super thankful. The fact that anything about this summer worked out is astounding to me, much less the fact that everything worked out. But more on that later!

Then I got some celebratory chocolate chips (more on that later also), took a picture of them in front of my amazing car (more on that later—a whole post!), and went home. Leaving fourteen new homes behind me, scattered around the country. What a privilege.

My final stop this summer was in Huntsville, Alabama. I go to school in Birmingham, only a few hours south of Huntsville, but I hadn't been there before. Here's the doodle-post about my time with Jessica, and I'll do a full post soon!

For anyone who's new to the blog, welcome! Click around and read about all the wonderful people I've stayed with—there's navigation by location at the top of this page, or just scroll and scroll! I'm headed back to college tomorrow, so this summer trip has come to an end, and I'm still deciding what direction this blog will take as the year goes on. So stay tuned!