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The EMPTY AMERICA Project

4/11/2020

I did a thing....

When the global pandemic touched down on our shores (well, when we started to do something about it) I was in the middle of rehearsing a play. Then after that I was to fly to NY to start another play. There were also a few standup comedy shows and corporate gigs sprinkled in there.

Then: Shutdown. My calendar was suddenly empty for the next 4 months.

To make matters worse, I’d been living on the road, gig to gig, for the last year and a half. So there goes the housing as well.

So when you’ve been living on the road and they tell you to “shelter in place” and “stay home,” the road becomes your official home.

But I couldn’t not be creative.

I thought: What is fascinating about this unprecedented time? What would be of interest to those stuck inside?

I decided to document with pictures and video how some of the busiest, most populated areas of America look when the country is locked down.

I didn’t have much of a plan except to go and do it. I had a few cities in mind. No real agenda.

Wait. Not totally true. I did have a SAFETY PLAN. Let me just outline that before you get itchy trigger fingers.

I was in my car alone 90% of the time. I had plenty of hand sanitizer, wet wipes and masks. When I stopped for gas, I used a wipe to handle the pump and push the buttons. If I went inside for a snack or coffee (which was rare) I’d wash before-hand, make my purchase, then wash before I left. Most meals I ate in my car from groceries. If I did want something else, I’d get curbside and always local (with a nice tip) and wash before and after handling that. Most times I’d get enough food to cover 2 days worth of meals just to limit engagement. I rarely saw anybody (hence “Empty America”) and if I did have a conversation, it was from 6 feet away. The trip lasted 3 weeks. I’d estimate I engaged with 25 people total. About half of a CostCo run, I imagine.

I don’t know what I was setting out to find except to share an interesting aspect of this pandemic with whoever’s read this far.

Of course, I’m still processing. It was over 8600 miles, 17 major American cities (and a bunch of small ones), too much coffee to count and 3 weeks on the dot. It’s a lot.

For you, maybe you get something deep out of it. Maybe you’d scroll through and go “Hunh.” Maybe it’s just a distraction or an additional stress. Maybe you do none of that.

That’s ok. Art is meant to be made and shared. It’s up to you how you receive it.

I may turn all of my shots and videos into a mini-documentary at some point. Hopefully then I’ll have something deeper to glean from this journey as I’m still getting used to this new world and and not being on the road.

Until then, enjoy the trip....

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EMPTY AMERICA: San Francisco

4/11/2020

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Finally. My last stop on this circular trip around the US. San Francisco.

I have friends here who have been warning me against visiting. Telling me that they’re ticketing people for even being outside, for not wearing face masks, sending people home, citing them $1000 if they’re breaking the rules.

I was trepidatious about making my way into the city.

I’ll say this: Somebody should tell all of that to the people hanging out at Golden Gate Park. And at the Palace of the Performing Arts. It was a beautiful day in San Francisco and the locals were enjoying it.

I didn’t see any cops. No martial law. Heck, I barely saw face masks and gloves!

I see people responsibly enjoying being outside. Social distancing. Keeping to themselves. Not touching things.

Now I had arrived here after California was touted as having a great record at steadying the pace of the virus. Maybe this was just a reaction to that. Maybe it was an over-reaction and the numbers will rocket up again because everybody’s getting cocky. Hopefully not. Hopefully this is the light at the end of an ever-longer tunnel.

However, if you wanted to hang out with the locals, go to where the locals hang out and you’ll see plenty of them.

Which is not to say that there still isn’t sadness, emptiness, areas that are still in a vacuum. I headed to Fisherman’s Wharf (If you want pictures of a busy Golden Gate Park, Google ‘em!). I knew this area had to still be shut down and it was.

However, and this is true for all cities, if you ever thought construction was non-essential, apparently you would be wrong. There isn’t a shop or restaurant open on Fisherman’s Wharf, but man there’s a ton of construction.

This was true in every city I went to and on every highway. Apparently construction and home improvement stores are...essential?

If the virus remains relevant for much longer, I’d have to point one of my fingers towards this industry. Instead of shutting down operations, it seems that construction companies and road crews and do-it-yourselfers are taking this opportunity of low crowds and no traffic to finish their jobs. I would love to say that’s clever thinking if I didn’t think it was so damn greedy.

Why do they get to continue working when no one else does? Because it’s convenient? And how come I never saw one construction worker wearing a face mask? And they’re more than ok to be more than 5 or 10 to a group. Truthfully, I don’t know who to blame here.

I think it’s great there are people who are able to work at this time. I think that’s necessary and I’m happy for them.

However, wouldn’t it be on the folks who run the construction companies to shut down their operations as well so they don’t put their employees at risk?

The new SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles will soon be the home to the Rams and the Chargers. They continued building throughout this crisis because, well, money (let’s not kid ourselves). 2 weeks ago, someone tested positive for coronavirus. They had to shut down the whole operation.

This isn’t a political rant, just an observation. Where’s the line drawn at “essential?”

Well, this is America, and money does talk. I just wish it all spoke the same language....

OK, I’m off my soap-box.

San Francisco was the last stop on my journey. I got a motel outside of the city to process my thoughts. (By the way, motels are now hovering around $40/night if anybody’s inclined).

I’ll wrap this up in another post I’m sure. Or maybe not. I did my journey. I hope you do yours.

And I hope what I did is, at the very least, interesting. Because there’s nothing worse than being uninteresting.

Stay Safe.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Portland

4/8/2020

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We are now almost a month into the virus really hitting our shores and well past the calls for “shelter in place” and “stay home” mandates nationwide (well, mostly nationwide). People are getting used to the new normal, realizing they can go outside, just adjust your behaviors and be safe. At the start of this trip, the emptiness was painful and new. As I make my way to the West Coast there seems to be a comfort setting in with “Hey, this is just what it is. Adjust accordingly.”

Enter: Portland.

Portland is always an outside city. It’s bikes and trees and hiking and mountains and air. It still is.

Sure, the number of people walking around downtown are thinned. And sure there are no big groups of people, which probably makes it seem like more people are out because everybody hanging out so far apart. And absolutely there are gloves and face masks on about half of the city. And, sadly, Voodoo Donuts is still closed.

However, Portland almost seems...vibrant? That’s not quite the word, but it doesn’t seem dead (a horrible word choice as well). The parks appeared quite full. The riverside looked like a normal weekend afternoon. The Grotto was closed, but the Rose Garden and surrounding park, despite the warning signs posted into the grass, seemed very casual as dog-walkers and couples ambled about.

I almost got his by a group of bikers making their way down Burnside!

The virus and the shutting down of the country is most likely far from over, but there was a sense here that we’d been through the worst of it. Portland was getting outside, inching back towards normalcy.

I kept thinking as I drove how the PTSD of this whole crisis will affect social behaviors. How, after months of shelter-in-placing, folks might just be reluctant to go outside, hang out in groups, shake hands and hug, be “normal” for all intents and purposes. Portland made me think that, ya, it could go back to the way it was. Slowly, sure, but they seemed to be doing well with it. There wasn’t a paranoia in the air. Or fear. Or desperation.

There was sunshine and a cool breeze.

It’ll take a while to get everything back to the way it was but, make fun of Portland’s crunchiness all you want, they do know how to be outside. There’s a lesson here.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Seattle

4/8/2020

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(Quick note to any road trip fans out there: Drive Montana. Stunning)

Seattle was one of the first and hardest hit at the outbreak of the coronavirus. It caught on in a nursing home and swept through there pushing their statistics higher quicker than any other American cities.

What I felt when I got to Seattle was that people were just used to it by now. They’d been self-isolating and have dealt with the fear and paranoia and uncertainty already. The city was open and humming, but there were definitely more folks out on the streets, a lot without face masks, talking on their phones, having conversations, and generally going about their lives like maybe they’d gotten past the worst of it.

There were still plenty of shut down businesses, social distancing, a police presence, all of the things I’d gotten used to. There just seemed to be an air of “we’ve been through it, and we’re just making this new normal work for us.”

The majority of the Pike Place Market was empty. No one slinging fish. However, there were a few farmer’s markets hawking a full inventory. There was a line outside of the first Starbucks, each person taking turns to go inside so as not to crowd the store. I met a photographer who was doing the same thing I was. He told me he’d already quarantined for 20 days so he felt safe to go outside.

That was the general feel. It was ok to be outside. The fear had subsided and transformed into caution. When a pendulum swings wildly both ways, it eventually settles into the middle. That’s where Seattle was.

Don’t get me wrong: It still had all the ear-marks of the toll the virus had taken across America. No traffic, definitely less people than would be normal, “closed” signs. However, in the busiest parts of downtown, this was the first time I’d noticed that homeless people were actually out-numbered by those that weren’t homeless. It’s probably a sad statement to make that something like this was so obvious, but sociologically that became my barometer for how a city was coping and recovering. When the formerly unseen become the majority, then fade back into obscurity again, that’s when you know a metropolis is recovering. This might not have any basis in statistics, but it was just an observation.

Another indication that Seattle was still swinging: As most city’s plywood-covered windows seemed freshly hung, there were a number of boarded up windows around Pioneer Square that had turned their plywood into art. A spray-painted was creating one such work of art as the shop owners looked on. On either side of him, the window-coverings had already been gussied up. It was a beautiful moment. Sure, there was some basic graffiti tags and one window (Hilariously? Sadly?) said “Where’s Bezos?” But for the most part, Seattle was making a go of it, turning pain into painting, devastation into a gallery, creativity was rising above the tragedy. I’ve always been an advocate for the arts, and this is why: In even our worst times, artists will always be there to shed a light, give a smile or, at the very least, distract us from the distraught.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Minneapolis

4/8/2020

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Minneapolis/St. Paul is on the way to Seattle, another goal. Also, Chicago to Seattle is a drrrriiive. A lot of North Dakota and Montana. A lot.

Minneapolis was a nice stopover. It’s a beautiful city. Moreover, it’s the home of the Mall of America, the largest mall in all of North America. Probably the world, but I’ll let Google answer that for you. I had to see the mall empty.

It’s hard to capture the feeling of an empty mall on camera. It’s all indoors and out of sight. The outside is just a facade as everybody knows the true mall joy is in the food court and amusement park rides and whatever other excess lies inside America’s Biggest Mall. I went there once, for a minute, and said “Yep. It’s a Mall. But really big.”

The shock here was the wide open parking lot on it’s north end. The rest of the mall is parking garages and it’s own Metro stop, but to see vast, unfilled parking spots stretching for acres leading up to the main entrance let me know that, yes, the virus had even halted the epitome of American consumerism.

Sure, this is a tourist spot and a go-to if you’re visiting the Twin Cities, but how many people forced indoors and into online shopping habits are going to carry that over to their day-to-day lives when this is all over? It’s convenient, everybody’s gotten or getting used to it, and it sure beats hustling for parking spaces and jockeying for sales racks on a weekend. Are we officially going to see the full-time shift to online shopping? Will malls become (if they haven’t already) empty husks signaling a time when a “day at the mall” was a signal of a lazy Sunday, a busy holiday season or just a cool teenage hang? What brick and mortar shopping experiences will survive?

The downtown of Minneapolis was just as empty. The gorgeous, sun-dappled lakes with their walkways and open, crisp air were actually quite busy. It felt like cabin fever might be taking hold and people are saying “forget the fear, I need some fresh air.”

Minneapolis has plenty of it. Probably, like most cities, moreso now.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Chicago

4/8/2020

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I wanted to get in and out of downtown Chicago before dark. On it’s best of days, it can still be a source of consternation and crime. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city. I just don’t want to see it pushed to it’s limits and I don’t want to be in the middle of it.

I pulled into downtown to park and the desperation was already apparent. Panhandlers were plentiful and I, as one of only a few non-panhandlers, felt like a target. How do you beg for money and food when there’s no one around to give you money or food? I wasn’t so much afraid as I felt guilty.

The Bean is the giant reflective work of art that’s a highlight of Millennium Park in the Loop of Chicago. I’ve never seen it when it wasn’t surrounded by hopeful Instagrammers. I had to see it unobstructed. And it was.

Well, it was unobstructed by photographers. Instead, it was obstructed by fencing. Iron crowd control fencing and “Covid-19” signs circled the whole park. Los Angeles had dealt with park over-crowding by saying the parks were closed. Chicago literally closed it.

Grant Park was wide open but wide empty. The Riverwalk not only had all of it’s riverside cafes and bars shut down, but there were no boats to be seen, all sheltered in water garages and docks, covered up, collecting dew. Security patrolled the Riverwalk. Again, Chicago fencing prevented one from even descending the steps to take a stroll.

This is one of the busiest cities I’ve ever been in, day or night. Now it was quiet. It would lull you into silent awe then rattle you awake when the mostly empty L train would bang over-head.

Along Magnificent Mile, the shopping hub of downtown Chicago, I saw for the first time boarded up stores by the dozens. Nothing was open. Furthermore, it was boarded up, which only added to the sense of fear that “desperate times” might bring. The whole of Michigan Ave. looked like they were preparing for the worst. You really get a gut-punch when you see the Disney Store, the “Happiest Store on Earth,” encased in speedily drilled in plywood.

Around the corner from Magnificent Mile is one of Chicago’s busiest hospitals. I didn’t see any ambulances rushing in or out today, but the street parking was blocked off prepping for a heavy work-load and clearing the area in anticipation of the worst of the emergencies.

Chicago was recently deemed a coronavirus “hot spot” and they were prepping for it.

I grabbed a Gino’s East deep-dish to go (where you would order, then leave, then they would set the pizza down on a table, retreat to the back, and you would grab the pizza off the table so everyone remained at least 6 feet apart) and headed out of the city. I took Clark St up by Wiener Circle, the liveliest, rowdiest hot dog stand you will ever see, and marveled how this party drinking area had relegated the drinkers to being home-drunks.

I settled in Kenosha just north of the city.

I got a text from a friend in Chicago. “Good thing you didn’t stay. They officially just locked down the city.”

I felt I was racing against time and the virus. Not sure where the finish line was.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Cleveland

4/8/2020

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There were 5 cities I definitely set out to document and experience on this journey: New Orleans, New York, Chicago and San Francisco. As I began the drive, more of the “story” started to morph in my head. The joy of not pre-planning is that sometimes when you make it up as you go, the journey shapes itself.

On the way from Boston to Chicago I realized that Cleveland is just a quick jump north from the intended path. Why not see what the virus had done there? Had it cleaned out downtown? My bigger question: Had the pandemic stopped the music of America?

I decided to see how the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame and surrounding areas were faring.

I’ve been to the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame before. Say what you want about their selection process and what’s considered “rock” all you want, it is still a wonderful encapsulation of the evolution of music through the past 100 years. Yes, at it’s very worst, it’s basically a giant Hard Rock Cafe with less food and more exhibits, but, hey, it’s the only one we got and, if you don’t like it, build your own (my main retort against complainers of any kind).

I pulled into Cleveland and found ample parking downtown. Of course.

To be fair, this was the weekend, so maybe it’s always like this.

The HoF was indeed unattended. Quiet. Perched like a statue on the shore of Lake Eerie with the ironic sign out from “Long Live Rock.” Not if this virus has anything to say about it.

That building next to the football stadium had an ominous sense of what was, maybe what will be again. I suppose it’s fitting that they are both bordered by Lake Eerie, the Patron Saint of Everything I’ve Experienced.

The rest of downtown was just as empty. Public parks: desolate. Traffic: non-existent. A church sign read: “Closed Until Further Notice. Join us for our Live Stream.”

This virus is powerful! It not only shut down popular music but pushed religion into modern-day technology.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Boston

4/8/2020

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I slept in my car in a truck stop about 90 minutes outside of New York. The rain was pouring which oddly enough lulled me to sleep.

When I woke I continued to Boston, and 2 things happened on the way:

First of all, there was a fair amount of traffic. And rain. I was in the far left lane passing a big rig when I saw a car heading right for me, ready to t-bone me from the other side of the freeway! There was a concrete barrier between the north and south-bound lanes, which stopped this car in it’s tracks and sent it spinning back into traffic.

I’ve been driving for years in some of the most congested, dangerous driving conditions, but I have never seen a wreck actually happen. I’ve come across one right as it was finishing or had just finished, but, to pile on the nerves that I had gotten from New York and the lack of comfortable sleep already in me, to see a car barreling towards you, to see the eyes of that driver wide with fear and angst, woke me up and tightened my grip on the wheel. It was all too real and, metaphorically, the world was spinning out of control.

The other thing that happened drove home a political point for me. Crossing through Rhode Island, they were actually funneling all passenger vehicles off of the freeway and through the first rest stop in the state, just past the border. You couldn’t pass it because the police presence would have you do otherwise.

Pulling up the ramp to the rest area, it felt like entering the movie set for “Outbreak.” There was cops and military personal and a few Humvees and personnel in full rain gear and masks and gloves. It felt like entering a legitimate quarantine zone.

There were signs warning travelers that if you’re coming from NY, NJ or Conn, you must quarantine for 14 days if you’re stopping in Rhode Island.

I pulled over and was asked if I’m staying in the state.

“Just driving through.”

“OK. You can go.”

I slowly drove off but realized that each state, with the federal government’s response, is truly being left to their own devices. This was the only stop I had encountered and Rhode Island was forced to take it upon themselves to do their own screenings.

Certainly a state as small as Rhode Island is probably easier to lock down, but it shouldn’t be any states individual job to respond to a national crisis.

I’m not sure what would have happened if I was saying I was staying. Would they put me in their own state-mandated quarantine? Tested me on the spot? Interrogated me? Was it going to be like this at every state border from here on out?

In Boston I went to the Commons and the Waterfront, 2 areas that, in the past, I’d known to be hubs. I’d like to think that the rain had just kept this city quiet on this day, but I knew that Bostonians didn’t give a flip about that. If you want to go somewhere, you go. Weather is only debilitating if you can’t leave your house.

The Commons and surrounding streets were ghost towns. This is a huge park in the center of the Boston business and tourist district and there wasn’t a soul to be seen, not even the ever-present homeless population I had gotten used to.

The Waterfront was the same: Nothing. It was dreary, sure, but Boston had quickly gotten on the short-list of the hardest hit of the pandemic areas and I was sure everybody was holing up in their cozy apartments and homes in the suburbs.

To be able to walk through a huge city, cross roads or stand in the middle of streets to take pictures, really drives home the feeling that this is what a post-apocalyptic world would be like. No one to talk to, no one getting in your shots, no one telling you where to go and what to do. I would love to say, in this birthplace of freedom and revolution, that it does feel exactly that: Free.

It doesn’t. I thought to myself that this is the place where America started. Is this where it ends?

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EMPTY AMERICA: New York

4/8/2020

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New York officially ranks in my top 3 of must eerie places to visit. I was dreading going in and thought “Ok, I’ll pop in, mostly stay in my car, and just zip in and out.” I was scared to hit one of my favorite cities in the whole world. This was at the zenith of its woes (at least as of this writing).

Driving into it from Jersey the city did look beautiful. The skyline was lit up, every building aglow. It made sense. Everyday was in their homes just as it had gotten dark. The self-quarantine was real.

The city was, and pardon the expression, dead. I knew this going in because the Lincoln Tunnel was 100% traffic free. I could’ve sped or gone at a snail’s pace without fear of retribution from other drivers. It’s a stunning tunnel to speed through.

When I got into the city I was gobsmacked at the lack of traffic, the missing taxis and Ubers. The only cars out, for the most part, were police and emergency response vehicles, either cruising around or parked throughout the city. I felt wrong being there.

I parked in Hell’s Kitchen on the border of Times Square. I had to see Times Square.

This is where I paused, scared. For the first time on this trip I didn’t want to get out of my car. I don’t know if it was the news that had scared me or maybe because I felt disrespectful being there, but I had to psych myself up to get out of my car. I had imagined that the virus was like the mist from the Stephen King novel. As if, as soon as I got out of my car and took a breath, the air would be thick with coronavirus. I truly felt like I was in the belly of the beast, in the thick of the outbreak.

I sat there for while and marveled at the lack of people. New York is crowded, even on the latest of nights in the middle of the week. There was nobody. Not a soul around me.

There were cars though. Tons of cars. All parked on the streets. I don’t know if parking fines had been lifted (as was the case in Los Angeles) but there was nowhere for anybody to go so the curbsides were packed with vehicles. It’s almost as if the normal populace had been turned into cars and placed there. Tons of cars, not a person to be seen.

I got ready, bundled up as it was cold, put on my face mask, doused exposed areas in hand sanitizer and made my way a few blocks over to Times Square.

By this point, we have all seen the pictures. It’s empty. Shut down. All stores were closed but yet all lights still on. There was some security presence and the regular handful of homeless people, but nothing else. Gates were up, chains were placed around anything that could be moved. No need to wait for traffic signals (which is usual in New York, but now you didn’t even have to look for cars).

Times Square, this beacon of energy and centerpiece of the most crowded city in the world was quiet. You could hear someone talking from a few blocks away. The lights were bright and happy, but it rang hollow.

I was able to get a picture of the north and south (east and west?) of Times Square from the center of the street without even looking over my shoulder for a car. It felt heavy, sad, poignant. Governor Cuomo’s message had obviously gotten through.

This is a city where you don’t want to stay in your tiny apartment, where you’re just out, all the time, where the buzz and hustle is real and tangible and constant.

To see it quiet rattled me.

I hurriedly got back into my car and drove around the streets for a while. I didn’t get out of my car again but rather shot pictures and video through my window. I didn’t want to get out. It felt wrong being there.

To be the only car on the streets in a city the size of fullness of New York should have been fun to be able to zip around. It was the opposite of that. I just wanted to leave.

I headed over to Brooklyn, which took me a whole 20 minutes from the center of Chelsea and it was much of the same.

I’m glad I went. Going to New York was the goal, the Far East end-point, but I could not get out of there fast enough.

I headed north to Boston, shook and saddened by the experience...

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EMPTY AMERICA: Philadelphia

4/8/2020

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The ride north out of DC continued the trend of thinking “Are they even shut down?”

On the freeway, I got stuck in traffic. Traffic! Literally standstill. People were weaving, honking, in a rush. It felt like the pandemic had already swept through here and gone west. Who were all of these people and why were they going north with me?

This traffic continued up through Maryland and into Philadelphia. It was odd to see so many cars on the road and, nope, didn’t miss it at all. Give me the open roads of the south!

I circled around Baltimore (sorry city, I know you have some nice spots, but it was getting late and, well, Baltimore, at night, during a pandemic.... Wasn’t tempting to push that in the least. No offense). However, I did stop into Maryland House (their greeting center) for gas and a bathroom break. It’s still shocking to see chair and tables chained up, one fast food counter open amongst 10 dark ones, just the lack of humanity and buzz is still unnerving.

Luckily there’s Philadelphia. I decided not to hit the well-known tourist spots (Independence Hall, Liberty Bell) because I knew they’d be empty, devoid of tourists and definitely lacking locals, as I’m sure they do most days.

However, the “Rocky Steps” (aka The Philadelphia Museum of Art) I thought would be a sight to behold. I know it’s usually populated with both tourists and probably some locals jogging or hanging out in the grass in front.

Well, there was plenty of parking, but man those steps were full. Ok, not as full as a normal, functioning day of the week, and it did seem like most people were kind of keeping a solid 6 foot social distance here and there, but even looking around the area it just seemed under-populated. Not empty. Not one of the more crowded cities in the US, but like a nice central gathering place in a small town. There was the noise of traffic, conversation, phone calls, a police siren. Everybody seemed...OK.

Here’s the thing: I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Is it the resiliency of the Philadelphia persona, the ability to laugh in the face of adversity and continue about their lives, or is it blocking it out, ignoring it, or not caring? I guess you could answer that depending on how you feel about Philadelphia locals. I was definitely confused.

I drove around and the bars and restaurants were closed, no one Fishtown, Passyunk or Old City. I mean, there were people there, walking, but nobody cavorting. So the bulk of the businesses were closed and they the streets were marginally full of pedestrians and the lanes had a fair number of drivers.

If I hadn’t been here before, was plopped down, completely naive, I would think this was a normally I operating city, just that maybe there was a health scare that shut down the food industry (which it is, yes, but the coronavirus isn’t food-borne). But nobody seemed worried, no masks, gloves or Hazmat suits.

Maybe that’s the right attitude? The happy medium? Maybe there’s the lesson: Don’t gather, close the doors of social hangouts, but don’t lose your attitude or your smile in it all

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EMPTY AMERICA: Washington, D.C.

4/8/2020

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From Nashville I headed to DC with an overnight stay at a motel in Charleston (shout-out to Gino’s Pizza, local restaurant!) and I will tell you this: The trip has been surreal to say the least. However, if you really want to creep yourself out, be the only guest at a roadside motel for a night. In West Virginia. It’s....fun.

I would imagine Washington, DC would still be bustling, what with the government still officially open and the press and Senate and CDC and everyone making constant appearances on 24-news media.

I wasn’t wrong. There was finally, for the first time, a bit of traffic heading into the city. Not what I’m sure a normal day would be like, but you could sense that you were heading into an area that was still mostly-functional (I’ll leave political jabs aside as such as possible here).

However, all of those cars must have private parking underground or assigned spaces in some parking garage somewhere because, at the National Mall itself, there was ample parking. I never though I would be able to park just behind the Smithsonian. (As I’ve noted before, the silver lining in all of this is great traffic easement and wonderful parking options. Not a trade-off by any means, but a silver lining)

Now I had to wonder where all of those cars went because the Mall was empty! A few joggers, maybe one family enjoying the entire open circumference of patio around the Washington Monument, but otherwise, completely empty.

You could stand at the base of the Washington Monument and take either a picture of the Lincoln Memorial or the Capital Building in either direction and only get a smattering of people in the shot.

It made sense. This is an area that, and I’m guessing here, is 98% tourists on any given day. I can’t imagine locals really hang out or transgress it to get to work. Of course I’m being hyperbolic but it is an absolute tourist area. And since tourists are mostly staying home....

So add that industry to the list of those that are rocked by the pandemic: restaurants, bars, concert halls, theaters, ride shares, taxis, and everything empty here: museums, tourist traps, amusements, street performers.... the list goes on and on.

I made my way to the White House for curiosity and saw where all of those cars were most likely going: The parking lot in the front of it was packed!

It makes sense. Inside that hallowed building there is still a government working (for better or worse) plus press and staff and whatever else makes every day press briefings and staff meetings and whatever else goes on happen.

Oddly enough, standing outside the White House amongst the cars and security and normal hubbub, I finally felt a sense of normalcy. If I looked around, I’d think the world was just fine, virus-free, no shut-down. Ironic to think that standing in front of ground zero for the pandemic response...

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EMPTY AMERICA: Nashville

4/8/2020

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From Savannah I had 3 options on where to go next. I suppose any body who’s been going stir crazy in self-quarantine may be thinking: ”What’s the rush?” Well I had been following the news and the situation was getting better (if you watched the press conferences) or worse (if you watched the scientists) so I thought either the world could be let out of it’s cages prematurely at any time or that they may start to shut down interstate travel.

So my 3 options: Head south through Florida and see how Miami is holding up. Head up the East Coast through the Carolinas or pop inside and zig-zag back towards the northeast.

Well, I’ve been to Florida enough in my life and any time you have a chance to avoid Florida during a global pandemic is probably a good idea. The coast was intriguing. Asheville and Charlotte could be interesting. However, if I wanted to see how the virus had stopped the fun, where music and good times and laughing conversation had stopped, where there was no more music, where once-pinnacles and attractions of freedom and celebration had been stopped in its tracks, then I would have to go to Nashville.

I headed northwest back through Atlanta, which normally you would avoid. Atlanta is known as a top 5, maybe a top 3 traffic snarl. Not right now. It’s a breeze. Makes you really appreciate the original idea of having freeways and what they could do for a city.

I took that beautiful drive through Tennessee (for the road-trippers, truly one of the best states to amble through in your car. Don’t rush it) and arrived in dreary Nashville. The weather was damp on the cusp of downpour which would continue for the next week as I headed north and east.

If I was to be shocked by what this virus had done to America, I would have to head to the honky-tanks on Broadway.

I got my car some tender loving service (note to Jiffy Lube: Make sure you have the right transmission fluid on tap before you drain a customer’s then have to go find some at another auto parts store during a pandemic!) and made my way to Broadway.

It was wild. I felt like I’d just missed Judgment Day (or maybe been left behind). If you saw it from afar, you’d think it’s completely open! I can see lights. I hear music. There are cops at either end for your typical Friday night crowd control.

Obviously it was not open and, as you got closer, you started to see the familiar: Chains on doors, sheets of paper in the window announcing their closed either as a form letter or hand-written, homeless people (who I’ve determined shall inherit this earth). But it seemed so alive. Like someone had just plucked the people out. Like I had stumbled upon some grand 5 block surprise party and they were waiting for the guest of honor to show up.

Music was still cranking out of a few loud speakers from some of the honky-tonks that were obviously on some timer to play during opening hours.

Standing at the end of the street, seeing the blinking neon and lack of people, the music just seemed to be a figment of my imagination. Voices from the ghosts of Good Times Past.

Nashville is a city that’s had an awful one-two punch recently as 2 weeks before the pandemic shut down it’s business, a tornado had ripped though East Nashville.

I was in the city and I’d never seen tornado destruction live before. I had to see it, feel it. On the news it’s so detaching to see pictures and videos.

I’ll tell you now: I’m happy I did it. I’ll never do it again. It’s absolutely shocking and sad and maddening. You can see the exact path the funnel took and the destruction it caused and the lives it changed and probably ruined. It’s devastating to see it up close.

Further proof that, when it comes down to food chains and planet domination, Mother Nature still has the final say.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Savannah

4/8/2020

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Why Savannah?

Well, selfishly, Savannah is one of my favorite cities in the US. Also, I have a friend there that I’ve known for ages and haven’t seen in too long. It gave me a Southeastern point to hit (I didn’t want to go down into Florida then have to drive all the way back, especially post-Spring Break viral outbreak). Also, Savannah is a bustling, albeit Southern slow, party town. It has a very famous Riverwalk bar/restaurant/tourist scene. It is a top-3 St. Patrick’s Day celebration in the US which means it has a foot-hold firmly as a go-to hangout port. And, after having been there numerous times, I can vouch for the fact that it’s always crawling with tourists.

I made my way through Mississippi and spent the night in Alabama. This was at a time when Alabama was still debating how much it was going to comply with the shut-down. The bars and restaurants were closed, everything else was wide open. I figured out that you can tell which was a state was leaning by the amount of traffic you encounter driving through the state. If they were slow on the shelter-in-place mandate, the roads were pretty full and you’d be hard-pressed to spot a business that wasn’t open. If they were early adopters, the streets would be forebodingly dead. Alabama was jumping.

In Savannah I stayed on the out-skirts of downtown (Savannah’s tourist and local hangout hub). I chatted with the neighbors late into the night about coronavirus, Covid-19 and stay-at-home announcements. This is what you talk about to everybody at this time. However, since these are uncertain times and news moves fast and changes constantly, it’s always a new conversation.

The next day I made my way to the Riverwalk.

The drive through downtown Savannah is always a beautiful crawl. The pace is slowed by 28 public squares that eliminate most streets from being straight shots to the river, the Spanish moss canopies the city offering breaks from the oppressive Southern heat and the old Southern gothic style architecture charms you constantly in your slow-moving vehicle.

The area by the River still has the same late 1800’s cobblestone streets, buildings still standing from it’s incarnation as a shipping and sometimes pirate port, and a few rows of shoulder-to-shoulder bars as it’s a very good drinking city.

I wanted to see this area in the daytime. I knew the bars would be close, making streets like Congress obsolete. However, during normal operating hours, places like Lady & Sons are full of hungry tourists and the river walk area itself is a haven for steamboat rides, curio shops and open window dining.

When you visit the South, especially a place like Savannah, with it’s heat, easy-going attitude and drawl way of talking and living, you understand why it’s easy to hang out on a porch or in an open air restaurant for hours on end talking about nothing and not wanting to do anything.

Except when everything’s closed. And the walk now looks like a bygone era. It was almost like walking into a museum exhibit called “Savannah’s past.” The aged storefronts and steamboats and cobblestone structures were there, but you couldn’t use them, enjoy them or touch them really. Everything was just still. Waiting, like so many places I’d visited previously, hoping for this to end so the tourists could return and locals could get paid.

I’ve had a lot of fun nights on the river front and up and down those bars. This brought back memories of the places I’d been to with nothing of the fun times I’d had. This is an old city and it makes you wonder, after so many of these places had survived for almost 100 years, if not more, how many would survive this?

As I’ve done before, when the hunger hits I go local. I got some pizza from Kay’s Pizza (one of the only places open) and headed back to my place.

That night, the neighbors texted. There was going to be a front porch concert! An Irish gentleman down the street had set up his amp, speakers and some lighting on his front porch. He was a local musician and made his scratch on the cruise ship circuit. However, the sign of a true artist is, when all other venues aren’t operating, you make your own venue, even if it’s not for the paycheck you’re used to getting. You just create. And share.

Neighbors spilled out of their houses. Some hung safely on their porches while others ventured closer to the music and laid out folding chairs and blankets, all observing the 6 foot rule which separated couples and families.

As this old Irish musician played Emerald Isle ditties and some American folk covers, another musician on a recorder joined across the street, sometimes playing in harmony, sometimes passing the baton back and forth to each other. It was a full 2-hour concert. In stereo (as it were) and it was wonderful!

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EMPTY AMERICA: New Orleans

4/7/2020

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On my way down south from Arkansas to New Orleans, I saw a glimmer of hope in a form I didn’t think I would see...

From the right lane of the 4 lane highway, there was something dark up ahead. I decided to straddle it as I couldn’t merge left to avoid it. I aimed my car wheels to hit on either side of this object.

As I got closer, I saw a tiny head poking out from under a shell and said out loud: “A turtle!” Luckily I chose to straddle it as it remained unharmed under my carriage (though that had to be a damn scary moment, I’d imagine)

Yes, a turtle was making it’s way towards the shoulder finishing it’s crossing of the freeway.

I got hope because I looked behind me and saw there were no cars for at least 1/2 a mile. This slow-moving reptile was going to make it to the grass!

My fear turned into happiness. I don’t know why I was so elated. Maybe because after hearing all about humanity’s demise from Covid-19 and seeing how it had shut down everything so far, this little fella was ambling along at his own pace and would soon have freedom and safety.

Maybe there’s a lesson there: Take it nice and slow and it will all work out in the end. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Though, to be fair, this was my 4th day on the road, so allow me some philosophy.

Before I hit New Orleans, I stopped for lunch with an old friend in Lafayette, LA. He owns his own restaurant (now shut down) and is marketing manager for a chain which include Poke Geaux. It was great to see him again, have a fresh bowl of Cajun Poke (who knew that could be a thing?) and I got to witness first-hand how much the social distancing edict had set in: We sat at opposite tables for lunch. We weren’t supposed to dine in as they were only doing carry-out, but we dined in anyway and got to experience how far apart face-to-face interactions were to be from here on out.

From Lafayette I made my way to my main goal: Bourbon Street. If Las Vegas was shut down, certainly Bourbon Street would be quiet as well. How quiet would soon unnerve me...

My friend recommended a roundabout way to get to New Orleans as there was usually traffic on the main bridge and it could easily back up.

Since I was in no rush and eager to see how the virus had affected America, I chose to take the “busy” route. If it was backed up, then Louisiana, soon to be declared one of the virus hotspots in the US, was business as usual. If it was empty, it would be very telling about how the virus was changing traffic patterns.

It was smooth, effortless sailing into the Crescent City.

I found parking just off of Bourbon Street quite easily and was aghast at what I’d saw.

I’ve been to Bourbon a few times and it’s never less than pure drunken joy. There’s always music, there’s always reveling and there’s always amazing food.

To see the doors locked, homemade signs pasted in windows and doors and to see the balconies empty and windows shuttered not only blew me away, but knocked me down.

3 cities on this trip will be remembered for how catastrophic and debilitating this virus has been to the spirit of a city.

This once-buzzy French Quarter of New Orleans felt sad. Lonely. Like a funeral, truly. My heart sank as I walked up and down unimpeded. If there weren’t shut-off signs announcing a bar or dance club, I would’ve thought I was in an abandoned parish. Years abandoned. It hurt to see, like the city had just died and this was it’s wake. View the body, say a few words, then move on.

This was also the first time I felt unsafe. New Orleans can be quite the fun city, but is also pretty famous as having an edge to it. It attracts derelicts, hustlers and panhandlers from all over which, if I’m honest, usually adds to the charm of the place and enlightens it’s pirate past, sinful present and adds the right amount of humanity to the usual up-tempo shenanigans.

Today, it was foreboding. As the sun was going down and the only voices I heard and souls I saw were those of the down and out, I thought we are living in a time where desperation, especially after dark, may start to take hold. What right did I have to be there? And what’s to stop me from getting shook down with no police presence? I felt unsafe, unsure, and definitely didn’t want to be caught there after dark.

In fallow times, who can blame the desperate?

I walked briskly back to my car and felt many things: guilt, sadness, maybe a bit of desperation myself. Desperate to go back and see my safe little highway turtle to give myself a bit of a smile. He may have made good on his adventure home, but in the end, the dead of Bourbon Street hung over me as I headed towards Savannah, GA...

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EMPTY AMERICA: Dallas/Ft. Worth

4/5/2020

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One of my major goals was to hit Bourbon St. I was curious and wanted to show the world what the pandemic has done to one of the hottest most happening streets in the world. I also wanted to get there before New Orleans became too much of a hot spot.

Now, if you’ve ever driven through Texas, you know that can be a daunting drive. Flat, not a lot of landmarks and huge.

This led me to use Dallas/Ft. Worth as a stopping off point. I know of a few fun, usually busy areas to hang out in the area (West End, Deep Ellum) but figured they’re more bouncey at night rather than day-time.

I reached out to a friend in DFW and asked “What place would be shocking to see quiet during the day?”

He lives just north of Ft. Worth and mentioned The Stockyards. If there is any place to see shut down that would be unprecedented during this time, that would be the spot. Also maybe swing through Sundance Square in Ft. Worth. It’s a restaurant and business hub in the city. Afterwards, I can come crash with him and his family, eat some lasagna and catch up.

Driving across flat west Texas’ emptiness wasn’t socking. I’ve done that drive before and, frankly, it’s a lot of vastness and nothing. Not saying it’s not beautiful, Lord knows I don’t want to upset any Texans, but it’s usually pretty sparse. Cruise control dotted with 35 mph zones in tiny rural towns with mostly shuttered Main Streets. It’s been like that for a while. Right now is nothing different.

I made it to the Stockyards and that was whole different story. Empty. All stores shuttered. 2 or 3 restaurants looking bored offering curbside service. Apparently in Texas, despite any stereotypes, boots and hats aren’t essential as all of those stores were closed. Traffic lights changed from red to green for no one. The silence was alarming, broken up only sporadically by road work going on near the rodeo.

This was something I would come to recognize: I don’t know if it’s city ordinance or money or taking advantage of empty streets and sidewalks, but most everywhere I went, construction zones were in full force. No masks, no social distancing, business as usual. The Stockyards had a full street crew and another construction crew raising a hotel behind an “OPENING SOON” sign, which was optimistic at best.

The area has a very modern western feel to it, washed out wood exteriors, horse rails, dusty plank sidewalks. Today it looked like an abandoned movie set. The only real sign of life, besides the contraction, were the neon signs that still blinked in some of the windows.

I took in the silence then made my way to Sundance Square. There were a few cars, a few pedestrians in masks, a few dog-walkers. Par for the course for most locked down areas.

There was also quite a police presence on the highways and plenty of bike patrol circling the area.

This was one of the few times I stopped and chatted with a resident. It caught my eye because he had a fold out table, bottles of wine and a number of containers stacked outside and full of what can be described as ingredients. This was the proprietor of Simply Fondue. I asked about getting a glass of wine (it was a long drive!). Then I was just curious how a fondue restaurant was making a go of it with shuttered doors.

“You can’t have wine unless you buy some food.” Fair enough.

We chatted some more from 6 feet away.

He told me that he was trying to make a little extra cash by offering curbside service. His idea was that patrons would stop by, purchase the ingredients with a recipe, then go home and make a dish with their whole family. This way parents and kids can cook together and have family bonding. He had a sweet take on it all: Maybe this pandemic is a good way for families to get closer together, spend time in the kitchen, get back to values (despite all of your friends bitching about home schooling on Facebook). He brought such a light to the times, despite having to fire his staff and close his doors, as he said “this might get us back to humanity.”

He coupled his own plan with that of a Michelin chef restaurant down the street. He said this restaurant was selling out of packaged meals every day. They’re well-known and are offering their higher priced fare at lower prices encouraging purchase. However, when they would run out of meals for the day, this chef would send everyone else to the other open restaurants in the vicinity. He would actually stay behind to redirect disappointed diners.

This was my first experience with the hope and humanity that can come in a crisis. When neighbors can and will take care of neighbors and when we, at our best, made good of a bad situation.

I then headed back to my car as the proprietor told me the bike cops are strict and handing out citations, literally stopping people on the street to check their “paperwork” to see if they have the necessary “essential employees” documents. If you didn’t have it (he showed me his) they would cite you and tell you to leave.

So I did and set my GPS for Texarkana.

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EMPTY AMERICA: Santa Fe

4/1/2020

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After saying good-bye to Mom and the eerie shell of a city that is Las Vegas, I continued my journey West.

Next stop: My brother’s house in Albuquerque, NM.

It’s my hometown, so it’s OK if I’m a little glib about it, but driving into the city, across town and up to my brother’s house near the mountains, I didn’t feel much of a change in that city. It may boast half-a-million residents, but it’s usually sleepy. Or at least that’s my perception of it after having spent so much time in Los Angeles and comparing the two. If I was being completely sarcastic, I’d say it was about as bustling now as it was before.

However, the trek across Arizona and into New Mexico continued the theme of wide-open highways dotted with cross-country truckers and only a handful of personal vehicles. Yes, it’s mostly desert and, hence, mostly deserted, but the ratio of big rigs to tiny sedans is unnerving if you’ve done the drive and you’re used to the opposite.

Though Albuquerque may be more sparse, I know Santa Fe usually has a populated Central Plaza scene, full of Southwestern art galleries, green chili eateries, streets lined with Native American and local artists with goods splayed out on blankets and a hustling tourist scene.

If I was going to find an area where the virus fear had taken hold in New Mexico it was going to be in Santa Fe Plaza.

You don’t have to be a gambler to win money on this bet. It was deserted.

This is when I started noticing the signs in the windows of now-closed businesses. Some are form letters stating the obvious. Some are optimistic informing their clientele that they’d be open in early April. Some are hand-written and genuinely apologetic. All of it is disturbing when you see, doorway to doorway, that every usually open entry-way was closed, locked and papered with some sort of explanation.

The Plaza was fairly empty except for what is the now-usual handful of homeless people, a few joggers or dog-walkers and what can only be described as disappointed tourists who either didn’t know what the affect of the virus was going to be or had held out hope that it wouldn’t reach this art Mecca of the Southwest.

It did. And it emptied out the Plaza.

There’s a particular row of sidewalk on the north side of the Plaza that houses most of the Native American salespeople. It’s usually crowded and buzzing with locals hawking turquoise jewelry, dream-catchers and other handmade crafts.

That particular sidewalk is not only empty but cordoned off with police tape lest some enterprising individual tries to corner the market on New Mexico keepsakes and sets up shop regardless of governmental mandates.

The feeling here was not just “go home, there’s nothing to see here” but more so “and don’t even try it.” (Having grown up here and known New Mexicans, they would)

I took a few pictures and video and made my way back South.

However, just before leaving town, I couldn’t leave New Mexico without a green chili cheeseburger, a staple.

This started another theme that I was happy to propagate: Eating locally.

I’m always a fan of avoiding chain restaurants when I travel, but this particular excursion has put a finer point on my usual habit. With restaurants and bars closing for dine-in across the nation, there are more than a few places that more than likely won’t survive the shut-down. Many, it seems, have already given in, closed doors, probably laid off their staff and are just waiting and hoping. Yet there are a few that remain open with online orders, deliveries or curbside assistance.

If I can do anything to help on this project, aside from documenting it, I will. So part of my cause has been trying to help out a local business when I can.

Case in point: On the way out of town we saw a truck labeled “New Mexico Eats” on the side of the road which seemed open. It may be risky to order now, but I have to eat and they’ve gone through the trouble of risking it all to get a few extra bucks during the shut-down that the government probably won’t provide, so it’s a symbiotic relationship: I get local food (in this case a brilliant smashed green chili cheeseburger), I get to support a local food service and hopefully we all come out of here not as bad off. Also, a little human interaction (very little because of safety measures) means the world right now to all parties involved.

Also: Always leave a tip. A generous tip. My rule of thumb: 50% seems about right.