This post is part one of an ongoing series, “ROADTRIPPING,” where I analyze the origin and developments of the century-old American Road Trip phenomenon against the backdrop of an ever-dimming American Dream.
I met Alberta in Sioux Center, a mite-sized Iowan town anchored by four institutions: a Calvinist college, fourth-generation Dutch corn farmers (blonde, all), first-generation Latino immigrants (with whom I made a dope video), and a cafe called The Fruited Plain. While the cafe doesn’t get much traffic (because, Iowa), it pulls in enough income to stay afloat and host live music events on weekends.
I wound up at The Fruited Plane on a May evening in 2019, hoping a few pals would show too. Musicians tinkered with their amps and pedals in a vacant parking lot adjacent to the cafe. It was dusk and strings of bistro lights glowed yellow overhead. A bearded, overalled man I took to be the owner started a telephone-chain-type murmur at the front of the audience obligating everyone to pay five bucks. I ordered an Iowan beer, paid, and headed for the back while the opener kicked off set one.
Alberta stood at the back of the lot too, pulling on a cigarette. My classmates hadn’t shown up yet, so we chatted--I don’t remember what about. Neither of us belonged in Iowa. We exchanged names, laughed some. When the opener wrapped up, Alberta excused himself. He walked off and I realized I had that glowing feeling you get when you’ve just talked to a total stranger who, in another life, would’ve made a great pal.
Alberta put on a good show, just he and his guitar: indie ditties and some soft rock. Entertainment for warm May night. I rooted for him.
My current-life pals eventually showed up. By day we were classmates attending a summer journalism camp, by night, white kids far from home rooting around for trouble. In an effort to avoid returning to our dorms, we crowded around Alberta after the show and descended into our modus operandi: asking sharp, probably over-ambitious questions. He must have liked the attention. At the very least, he was lonely enough (or bored enough) to invite us over to his place: the van parked along the sidewalk a few yards off.
It was a tight squeeze for five adult-sized bodies. Refurbished on a budget.
Alberta the Traveling Musician said he lived primarily on the road at that point. The one-man show looked to be somewhere near his thirties, wore plenty of tattoos, a graphic t-shirt, and glassy eyes. Classmate John carried the bulk of the conversation while the rest of us sat back and imagined what it might be like to live there. It took us about a half-hour to realize we’d intruded on his hospitality long enough. The deepening circles under his eyes told me he needed this sanctuary to himself. We unpiled on the sidewalk, wished him luck, and filed back over Sioux Center’s lamplit sidewalks toward the dorms.
Alberta said he’d probably hit the road again in the morning, en route west. Part of me wished I was going with him.
Update: You can find Alberta’s work here or find him on Spotify under Alberta & The Dead Eyes.
Life on the road takes a variety of forms, Alberta included. Now it’s time to zoom out. We’ll circle back eventually, but first, check out my ariel view of the American Roadtrip’s evolution.