Prologue: Between
Career Moves and State Lines – A 2,000 Miles Transition
Most people in the United States
move within the country at least once for professional growth. In the early
1990s, about 3% of Americans packed up their lives every year and crossed state
lines. Those numbers have gone down, but one thing hasn’t changed: Americans
still love their cars more than their movers. When it’s time to relocate, the
instinctive answer remains “drive”.
Sometimes this means heroic
coast-to-coast journeys of nearly 3,000 miles. Ours was slightly less heroic
but no less ambitious: a 2,000-odd-mile (circa 3,200 km) interstate migration
from College Station, Texas, to Cambridge, Massachusetts. Not quite East to
West, but far enough to question every life choice at least once per day.
We had lived for a couple of years
in College Station, a small college town surrounded by… well, more College
Station! Life revolved around campus calendars, football seasons, and roads so
straight they looked like someone forgot to add curves. When a better
professional opportunity beckoned from the best university in the world, we
decided to celebrate this major life transition with a long road trip.
The only problem was our car, which
had recently hinted politely that it was no longer in its prime. A month
earlier, we had taken it to Big Bend National Park for what we optimistically
called a “test run”. The mountains were stunning; the car, less so. Axles
complained, tires protested, and subtle mechanical sighs suggested retirement
plans.
We briefly flirted with the idea of
buying a new SUV. Reality (read finance) intervened. Instead, we replaced the
axles and tires and told ourselves that this was preventive maintenance, not
denial.
For Indian readers, the distance
from College Station to Boston is roughly equivalent to driving from Kolkata to
Delhi via Mumbai. You may ask what’s so great about it (one smartass did).
Technically, nothing. Practically, everything. Over these miles, climates
change, accents mutate, landscapes evolve, and cultures quietly announce
themselves. Add Christmas season into the mix, and suddenly you’re migrating
from mild southern winters to snowstorms that feel personal.
And so, with a fully packed car and
partially packed courage, we began.
Day 1: College Station,
TX to Shreveport / Bossier City, LA
We left College Station early in
the morning, armed with GPS directions, and the false confidence that comes
from freshly changed tires. Soon we merged onto SH 79, which carried us
faithfully across Texas. Texas, as always, refused to end. Hours passed.
Billboards repeated. We crossed cities that looked suspiciously similar.
Eventually, after peeling off SH
79 and transitioning onto I‑20, we crossed into Louisiana. By
evening, we reached Shreveport–Bossier City, twin towns divided by the Red
River and united by casinos that glow like they’re permanently stuck in
Saturday night mode.
We checked into a motel that was
clean, functional, and blessedly close to food. After unloading only what we
absolutely needed (which was still too much), we collapsed. Day one had done
its job: reminding us that 2,000 miles is not a theoretical concept.
Day 2: Bossier City, LA
to Atlanta, GA
Day two was driving, driving, and
more driving, mostly along I‑20, which became our constant companion for
the day. The initial part involved driving through a barrage of semi-trucks amid
a blinding rain. After some "Jason Bourne" moments, Louisiana slowly gave way to
Mississippi, then Mississippi to Alabama, and finally Alabama to Georgia. Pine
trees lined the highways like polite spectators. Gas stations blurred together.
Black coffee became a survival tool.
By evening, still obediently
following I‑20, the Atlanta skyline appeared; modern, busy, and
reassuringly urban. We stayed with an old friend, which instantly upgraded the
day from “long and exhausting” to “worth it.” Home-cooked Bengali food, warm
conversations, and the luxury of not checking out by 11 a.m. made Atlanta one
of the emotional highlights of the trip.
Day 3: Atlanta, GA to
Charlotte, NC
Compared to the previous marathon,
this leg felt merciful. After negotiating morning traffic of Atlanta, we joined
I‑85 North, a highway that feels purpose-built for professional
migrations like ours. The landscape started changing; gentler hills, cooler
air, and roads that seemed to hint at future mountains.
Charlotte welcomed us with calm
efficiency and another old friend. This stop reinforced an important road-trip
truth: friendships are the best rest stops. Over indoor games and dinner, we
swapped stories (some of them politically incorrect), laughed about how life
had taken unexpected turns, and mentally prepared for the northern stretch
ahead.
Day 4: Charlotte, NC to
Washington, DC
Still on I‑85, and later
merging into I‑95, this was the day the trip stopped feeling like a
Southern drive and started feeling like a Northeastern campaign. After
Richmond, VA, traffic increased. Lanes multiplied. Patience was tested.
As we entered Washington, DC via
the ever-busy I‑95 corridor, the city introduced itself through short loop
exit ramps from the highway. Adapted to long, straight ramps of Texas
highways, we averted a major accident by kickass manoeuvring (mostly seen in
Hollywood action flicks).
DC welcomed us with wide avenues,
disciplined architecture, and an air that said, “Important things happen here.”
We checked into a motel and resisted the urge to immediate sightseeing. DC
deserved a rested version of us.
Day 5: Washington, DC –
Monuments, Museums, and Mild Awe
Washington, DC is best navigated by
its excellent Metro system, which we used enthusiastically, feeling briefly
like seasoned urban commuters from Munich. Wrapped in winter jackets, we
emerged near the National Mall; an open stretch of land that feels like a
PowerPoint presentation of American history in real life.
We passed by the White House; smaller
than expected, heavily guarded, and strangely underwhelming considering how
often it appears on television. Still, it was satisfying to casually walk past
a place that has caused so much global drama.
The Capitol anchored one end of the Mall, the
Washington Monument pierced the winter sky like an oversized punctuation mark,
and somewhere between the two stood Smithsonian Museums capable of consuming
entire days (and brain cells).
Before plunging headfirst into rockets and dinosaurs, we first
encountered the Smithsonian Castle, a kind of gentle intellectual warm-up. With
its red sandstone walls and turreted silhouette, it looked as if a European
medieval structure had accidentally taken a wrong turn and landed on the
National Mall. Built in the mid-19th century, it serves as the Smithsonian
Institution’s original headquarters, helping visitors make sense of the
overwhelming abundance of knowledge scattered across the Mall. It was the
perfect prelude; a dignified pause before we stepped out and walked straight
into the science of aviation.
National Air and Space
Museum: Humanity’s Refusal to Stay Grounded
We decided to tackle the National
Air and Space Museum with the optimism of people who had clearly underestimated
its scale. Spread across multiple floors, the museum is a chronological and
thematic account of humanity’s stubborn desire to defy gravity.
The journey begins with Early
Flight, How Things Fly, and the Wright Brothers: Invention of the Aerial Age,
where bicycle mechanics quietly trigger a global transformation. Fragile
gliders, hand-built engines, and meticulous sketches show how powered flight
emerged from trial, error, and alarming bravery.
From there, aviation gains
confidence and style in the Barron Hilton Pioneers of Flight and Golden Age of
Flight galleries, where aircraft evolve from skeletal frames to sleek machines.
America by Air traces the rise of commercial aviation, while Jet Aviation
announces the era of speed, altitude, and sonic ambition. Sea-Air Operations
gently reminds us that humans dislike boundaries; land, sea, or otherwise.
The mood darkens briefly in The
Great War in the Air and WWII Aviation, sobering exhibits that show how rapidly
innovation accelerates under conflict. The transition to modern warfare is
completed by Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, where courage is replaced by code and
control rooms.
Space takes over in dramatic
fashion. The Milestones of Flight entrance hall anchors the museum with icons like Apollo 11 Command Module, while Looking at Earth shows how satellites transformed our
understanding of our own planet. Explore the Universe and Exploring the Planets
expand the scale further, leading into the geopolitical drama of the Space Race.
The emotional peak arrives with Apollo
to the Moon, showcased by Apollo Lunar Module LM-2 and original lunar spacesuits. Moving Beyond Earth
offers a glimpse of space stations and futures still being assembled, one
module at a time.
By the time we exited, we were
inspired, overwhelmed, and acutely aware that gravity is negotiable, with
sufficient funding.
National Museum of
Natural History: A Crash Course in Humility
Crossing over into the National
Museum of Natural History felt like switching from ambition to humility. Where
Air & Space Museum celebrates escape, Natural History Museum quietly
reminds you that Earth has been doing just fine without us for billions of
years.
The experience opens in the Rotunda,
dominated by an African elephant that silently establishes the hierarchy.
Nearby, African Voices connects culture, environment, and history, while the
vast Ocean Hall, complete with a suspended blue whale, narrates the uneasy
story of marine life and human intervention. The Mammals Hall offers a calmer
inventory of fur, teeth, and evolutionary success.
Ascending through time, Early Life,
Fossil Plants, and Fossil Mammals lay out evolution with methodical patience.
Then come the crowd favorites, Dinosaurs, towering skeletons that prove size
offers no long-term guarantees. Ancient Seas and the Ice Age galleries continue
the lesson, populated by creatures that once ruled and then quietly vanished.
Human curiosity turns inward in Human
Origins, where skulls, tools, and timelines trace our improbable journey. Bones
and Written in Bone use forensic anthropology to reconstruct lives long gone,
while Egyptian Mummies demonstrate humanity’s enduring discomfort with
mortality.
Not everything here is ancient or
extinct. Live Butterflies and Plants and the Insect Zoo pulse with movement,
reminding us that evolution is still very much in progress. The geological
story unfolds in Earth, Moon and Meteorites and Gems and Minerals, where rocks
that traveled across space sit beside minerals that simply decided to be
spectacular. The Korea Gallery closes the loop, grounding deep time in everyday
human history.
We left the Natural History Museum
mentally saturated, physically tired, and profoundly humbled. In
the same stretch of the Mall, we also briefly dipped into the Freer Gallery
of Art, where Asian art, serene galleries, and subdued lighting offered a
meditative contrast to dinosaurs and meteorites. The nearby Arts and
Industries Building felt like a time capsule from an earlier era of
exhibitions; grand in intent, slightly chaotic in execution, and charmingly
old-school. The Hirshhorn Museum, with its unmistakable doughnut-shaped
modernist architecture, confronted us with contemporary art that ranged from
thought-provoking to politely confusing, neatly completing our cultural
whiplash for the day.
Day 6: Washington, DC to
East Brunswick, NJ
We started
early morning to avoid DC traffic, rejoined I‑95 North, the spine of the
East Coast, and headed through Maryland and Delaware before entering New Jersey.
East Brunswick welcomed us with a family reunion. Laughter, food, and nostalgia
filled the house. But the day wasn’t done yet.
That
evening, we left East Brunswick and merged onto the New Jersey Turnpike
(I-95), heading north toward Jersey City. Skirting along the
Turnpike and local parkways, we exited toward Liberty State Park, where
the Manhattan skyline rose quietly across the Hudson like a postcard come to
life; calm, composed, and deceptively peaceful, as if unaware of the madness
waiting just across the river. Soon after, we crossed the Hudson River
into New York City, and the mood shifted instantly.
Christmas in NYC is
controlled chaos. Rockefeller Center glowed under layers of lights, the
giant Christmas tree towering over crowds armed with cameras, scarves, and awe.
The city felt electric, festive, and completely unapologetic about it. Late at night, we
returned to East Brunswick, exhausted and happy.
Day 7: East Brunswick,
NJ to Belmont, MA
The final stretch followed I‑95
once again, as if the highway itself was determined to see us through to the
end. We were close enough to taste the destination, yet far enough to stay
cautious. As passing the NYC, the states of New York and Connecticut, we
entered Massachusetts; winter finally made its grand entrance.
New England, Finally
Snow fell generously, as if to
announce, “Welcome to New England.” Roads narrowed, visibility dropped, and our
Texas-trained instincts quietly panicked.
We reached Belmont, where old
friends opened their home to us. They hosted us generously while we searched
for an apartment in Cambridge. Outside, snow continued to fall. Inside, warmth
and familiarity eased the transition.
Epilogue: The Road
Teaches You Things GPS Never Will
We arrived in Massachusetts the way
most long journeys end; not with fireworks, but with exhaustion, snow, and
quiet relief. New England welcomed us in its own understated manner: grey
skies, unfamiliar cold, and an abnormal amount of snowfall that seemed to
suggest we had crossed not just state lines, but climate zones and emotional
thresholds. Texas had prepared us for distances; New England immediately
reminded us about seasons.
Somewhere between Belmont and
Cambridge, the road trip officially ended and real life resumed. The highways
that had carried us, mile after mile of optimism, caffeine, and classic rock, gave
way to narrower roads, older buildings, and a sense of compressed history.
Everything felt denser here: the air, the conversations, the academic ambition.
Even silence seemed more intentional.
Professionally, this move was the
reason for everything; the packing, the axles, the museums, the snow anxiety.
But standing there, unloading boxes into a friend’s house, it became clear that
the journey had done something else as well. It had gently recalibrated us.
From small-town Texas to the intellectual intensity of Boston, the transition
was not just geographical, it was mental.
The road trip gave us time to say
goodbye slowly and hello thoughtfully. To watch landscapes change, accents
shift, and temperatures drop. To move, quite literally, from wide-open spaces
to places where ideas have been colliding for centuries.
As the snow kept falling and
Cambridge waited patiently ahead, one thought stood out clearly: we hadn’t just
reached a destination, we had arrived at a new chapter. And like all good
chapters, it began not with certainty, but with curiosity.
