Land of the Free
by Lesley Ferguson

Remember your summer vacations as a child—do you ever wish you could go back to a time in your life when you had no responsibilities, no pressures other than what to eat for breakfast, when a ticking clock didn't rule your life, a time of complete freedom and self-gratification? I was lucky enough to have this experience as an adult, when I met my American boyfriend Mark in Minneapolis on June 10, 1991. Three days later we left on a two-month road trip on his new Harley-Davidson motorcycle, criss-crossing thirteen states to Key West and back again. I discovered that the independence we enjoyed on this trip is an integral part of all facets of the American way of life, truly the land of the free.

The day we left, rain clouds were forming in the east and so we headed southwest. This carefree attitude set the spirit for our entire journey. We avoided the major highways with their cloned rest stops and too-fast traffic, choosing instead secondary roads that divided small towns and huge fields of crops, the sky an endless blue arc overhead. I was fascinated to see that houses were made of wood, not brick, and that people pumped their own gas into huge cars, and that TV was available 24 hours a day, and there were more channels than you could ever watch, but still nothing worth watching. An ordinary grocery store was a source of great amusement; I could spend hours counting all the different selections of cereal, and reading labels, and cruising the pharmacy aisles. Americans had so many choices, and complete freedom to make those choices. It was mind-boggling.

One baking hot, dry day we drove through a town called Syracuse, Nebraska: population 4,033. We spotted the oasis off the main road at the same time—a blinking Budweiser sign. A row of gleaming Harleys parked outside was a good indication that we would be welcome here. The contrast between the blinding sun outside and the cool darkness of the bar took a few seconds to get used to, and then a huge voice boomed out "No f---ing bikers allowed in here, man!" I was terrified, cowering behind Mark, visions of crazed Hells Angels racing through my mind. Then I heard a loud laugh, followed by another, and realized that, ha ha, they were joking. It turned out the voice and his wife owned the bar, and invited us in for a drink. After a few hours we were best friends, and they decided we should personally meet every bartender in Otoe County. Many beers later they insisted we spend the night at their house, and I was surprised to find that these "degenerate bikers" lived in a very nice home on the outskirts of town. This was my first exposure to the contradictions of Americans, and the freedom they have to choose their lifestyles.

After we left our new friends, we headed through undulating, unending fields of golden wheat in Kansas and Missouri, the road straight as an arrow and shimmering in the heat. We startled glossy colts grazing in lush, green fields in Kentucky, and got lost trying to find the Jack Daniels' distillery in Tennessee. We camped illegally in the forest, in fancy campgrounds with sparkling swimming pools, next to lakes, and on top of mountains, and when it rained we'd dry out in a cheesy $25 motel room. Most of these places looked like something out of "Psycho", and there always seemed to be an identical Norman Bates-type behind the front desk. I eventually got over my amazement at the sordid 50-cent vibrating bed that was invariably a standard feature in these motel rooms. We temporarily escaped the summer heat when we rode along the cool, misty Blue Mountain Parkway, and we spent a few days in Stony Point, North Carolina, in a deserted cabin on a lake with no power and no running water. We bathed in the chilly lake and cooked over a fire. We experienced complete freedom, and it was magical.

Waking up kind of bored in Montgomery, Alabama, three weeks into the trip, we decided to get married…that day! The only requirements for a marriage license in that state are to have been a resident for 48 hours and be syphilis-free. We passed with flying colors on both counts, and found ourselves standing in front of Judge Hobby Walker, Jr. He seemed completely unfazed that we had no rings, were wearing black T-shirts and jeans, and were giggling from too many Bloody Marys for breakfast. Later, I marveled at the freedom that Americans have to make their own choices, whether they be good, bad, or indifferent. And after our celebratory dinner that night at Applebee's, our misgivings chased us out of Montgomery at midnight and we headed for Florida.

At the beginning of our trip I couldn't figure out why I was always hungry. When we had to ride on the freeway I would pass the time thinking about what delicious new food I would try at our next meal: deep-dish pepperoni pizza loaded with cheese, crispy patty melts, catfish and hush puppies, eat-til-you're-stuffed buffets. Then I realized that we were constantly bombarded with promises of good, cheap food. Huge billboards along the freeway reminded us "only five miles to the biggest and best cheeseburger in the world." As we'd get closer to an off-ramp the number of food signs would multiply, each one trying to capture the attention of the bored driver who could break the monotony of the road by tucking into some fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

Luckily, around the time my jeans were getting a little hard to button, the grisly rumors of Jeffrey Dahmer's fetish killings hit the newsstands, and suddenly that cheeseburger didn't look so good anymore. I began to realize that the hardest part about having the freedom to make your own choices is having to make those choices wisely, and not give in to the excess that is everywhere.

We would occasionally catch the news on a tavern TV, or read the headlines of a local newspaper left in a diner, but essentially we were untouched by what was going on in the world around us. As we headed further south, I noticed more American flags hung from porches and storefronts, trees hugged by huge yellow ribbons, and hand-lettered signs strung across driveways reading "Welcome home, Jimmy Ray, Air Squadron 327." The Gulf War had just ended with a victory parade in Washington D.C. the month before, and towns were welcoming home their boys and girls from the Middle East. Mark and I had been living on an island off the West coast of Africa for the past six months, and just as the Gulf War was starting some idiot drove into the only satellite dish at the hotel. Bzzztt, we were cut off from CNN, and the incessant media coverage of the "smart" bombs dropped, the chemicals used, and the lives lost. But in countless smoky bars across the country we talked to ordinary people who had been impacted by this war, everybody knew somebody who had served "over there," and their patriotism and commitment to fight for freedom was unwavering.

In a small sidebar in USA Today, I caught some news about my own country: Nelson Mandela had just been elected as President of the ANC. After 28 wasted years, he had finally been released from prison in 1990. It seemed that South Africa was at last beginning the long process of shrugging off the shackles of apartheid, and I wondered what effect this new freedom would have on her people.

After the swampy backwaters of Northern Florida, the Keys were a culture shock; everywhere I looked were beach bunnies wearing neon bikinis drinking rum punches, and men who shouldn't have been wearing Speedos, wearing Speedos. This was Party Central, and everybody seemed determined to have a good time. I guiltily wondered if they were soldiers returning from the Gulf and trying to forget the horrors of what they had seen, but instead found out they were ordinary people, trying to find some relief from the humdrum existence of their everyday lives. Key West was slightly more sedate, taking its reputation as the "Home of Hemingway" seriously. I stood at the southernmost tip of land where a marker reads that Cuba is 90 miles away, and wondered about the people that had attempted to swim this distance to escape oppression in their own country, a final desperate bid for freedom.

Finally it was time for us to return to the real world, but we ended our trip with a bang at the Black Hills Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota. Hundreds of thousands of Harley enthusiasts make this pilgrimage every August to the tiny town of Sturgis, and for a naïve and sheltered South African it was an eye-popping, breast-baring, tattoo-covered crazy party, with people from all over the world intent on having their best time ever. The freedom to let it all hang out, free-to-be me, anything goes mentality was such a revelation. I grew up in a society where people are born into their stereotypes, and few dare to deviate from that path. Inside the thousands of black leather coats that mingled on Main Street were conservative dentists from Ohio, weathered road construction workers from Montana, fathers, grandmothers, lovers, and fighters, united in their exhilaration at finding a place where they were free to express themselves in any manner they chose.

The first two months I spent in this country showed me into the heart of America, its people. Although the faces we met along the way have blurred with time, I will never forget their friendliness and hospitality, and their willingness to learn about other cultures. During a conversation with a worn-looking veteran who had lost both legs in Vietnam, we discussed how young people take their freedoms for granted, giving little thought to the previous generations who fought so hard for these rights. He was protective and proud of his country, and summed up this philosophy in a few short words: "America ain't perfect, but it's still the best there is."