A Sense-uous Mile

I open my eyes. It takes me a few seconds to adjust to my surroundings. The sheets, blankets and pillows are all mine, but no one can really call this place home. There is a steering wheel, two Captain's chairs and a grey dashboard where anyone else would have a dresser, desk or night stand. There are no posters of rock stars or super models on the walls. The only artwork that may catch your eye is variations of stitches on the vinyl interior panels. There are curtains that open to a different part of the world every morning. Sunrises and sunsets still keep track of the days I'm away from home.

There are days when my nose tries to sniff out the comforts of home; the buttery aroma of fresh bread, perfumery smells of fresh cut flowers, or the fresh clean scent of line-dried laundry. My moving world permeates my sense of smell with cheap, artificial strawberry scents mixed with motor oil, fresh rubber and diesel fuel.

My truck has all the touches of home, without the comfort. My body lays horizontal on a mattress. It isn't like lying on a bed of nails or a slab of concrete, but it is a far cry from memory foam. When I rub my fingers over the padded walls, it feels like I'm touching the paint bubbles, excess plaster or nails on the walls at my parents house.

No matter where you call home, there are certain sounds that go with it; barking dogs, screaming kids, revving engines and sirens. Of course, there are some differences between what I hear from the road and what passes by your house. I hear other truckers, with different accents and different points of views, exchanging driving stories or directions. When it rains, the drops sound like a stampede of mice running over tin foil.

The tastes of home are something my moving apartment has no way to provide, unless I want to live on peanut butter sandwiches. A man has to eat, and I try to keep my taste buds in practice for real food. A salty order of McDonald's fries is no substitute for the earthy flavor of baked potato skin. The Colonel's recipe doesn't include the taste of a seasoned iron skillet and extra virgin olive oil. Leftovers in your refrigerator, by far, taste better than the entrees left to die under a heat lamp on a buffet table. These food incubators may not rob the food of flavor, but they do leave undesirable, off-colored crusts on the entrees.

My eyes, ears, nose, fingers and taste buds experience the road and because of it I enjoy the sights, sounds, scents, feels and tastes of America...