by Jeremy Allen and Gary Goldman

Williams Sonoma. Nordstrom. Crate & Barrel. Abercrombie and Fitch. This was San Francisco’s Union Square, a spot we had been told was a must see. Thank goodness we came here. We had never seen a Williams Sonoma or an Abercrombie and Fitch before. As a liberal gay couple, San Francisco seemed like a logical and obligatory place to sojourn en route to Seattle for spring break. And so there we were, sipping cappuccinos in the middle of the city’s prized landmark. As enthusiastic as we tried to act, we couldn’t help but feel that we had traveled hundreds of miles only to end right back up at Rodeo Drive or New York’s Fifth Avenue.

“This is so depressing,” Gary sighed. “I feel like people need their favorite stores anywhere they go just to feel safe. They’re so terrified of getting out of our comfort zone…”

“Same brands,” Jeremy added. “Same cappuccino. Same busy people on their cell phones.”

We gave each other a knowing nod that really meant “Ha! This consumer society might have fooled everyone, but not us!” Hand in hand (San Francisco does have its perks), we headed back to our Honda, dearly baptized Dushonda, and drove triumphantly away. We were done with this city and its thinly veiled pretense of originality.

At 11 p.m., 100 miles into Oregon, we stopped at the nearest gas station in order to put some junk in Dushonda’s trunk. Our bleary eyes took a moment to register exactly where we were: nowhere. On our left, there were broken gas pumps that hadn’t been used since the last Great Depression; on our right, a desolate hotel with the almost-too-cliché flickering “Vacancy” sign. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Gary muttered under his breath, adrenaline pumping as he suddenly cast himself as the dashing lead in a Hollywood slasher flick. Without hesitation, we drove away and scanned the area for the closest gas station.

It didn’t take long for us to spot another one in the distance. Exhausted and looking like we’d just taken a bottle of Prozac, we stepped out of the car and tried unsuccessfully to shove the pump into Dushonda. Jeremy winced as a muddy liquid spurted from the pump and dribbled onto the cement. Something was wrong. Ten minutes and a brief explanation from the bemused gas attendant was all it took for us to realize exactly how wrong everything was. We had pumped Dushonda with one gallon of diesel, and would have to wait at least one more day to have her drained, refilled, and functional. Shit.

Thinking quickly, we secured a reservation at the nearby Leisure Inn and called AAA to tow the car away and drive us to the hotel. We were headed to what we imagined was a luxurious boutique hotel with room service and a hunky masseur on night duty. It was only when we pulled up to the parking lot of the Leisure Inn that we realized in horror where we had arrived…or gone back to.

The blinking “Vacancy” sign seemed to smirk at us as we stumbled inside. At the end of a corridor plastered with American flags and patriotic paraphernalia stood Genevieve, the hotel manager, receptionist, cleaning lady, plumber and bellhop. She sported a blond mullet and an oversized T-shirt that read “Army Strong,” looking like she had spent her youth shucking corn in the nearby fields. Next to her hung pictures of her son in an army suit, bearing more muscles than both of us combined.

“Hello there,” Jeremy said in a voice so deep he sounded like that movie trailer guy. “We’d like to reserve a room for the night.” She nodded and looked down at her guest book. “Okay, gentlemen. That’ll be one room with two beds, right?”

Gary, slumped on the counter with fatigue, yawned and rectified her mistake nonchalantly: “Oh no, just one bed.”

There was a sharp crack of thunder as rain began to pour down outside. Genevieve picked up her pen from the page abruptly, not looking up. Jeremy silently gathered a list of reasons as to why Gary would be crazy enough to make such a request, from “It’s cheaper” to “He’s joking around — what a homo.” But, much to our surprise, Genevieve simply smiled and handed us a key to room 206.

“Your room is right upstairs,” she said warmly, and waved goodbye as she stroked her bat-like Chihuahua. When we went to sleep that night, we made a pact: whatever happened, we had to get the hell out of this town as soon as possible. Sure, Genevieve might have seemed nice enough, but surely she would try to castrate us Anthony Perkins-style in the middle of the night.

The rain was still going strong the next morning. As Jeremy called AAA outside, Gary waited in the lobby trying to avoid talking to Genevieve as best as he could. She tried to do the exact opposite and hurriedly gathered some cookies and coffee for him. Gary had no other choice but to make small talk. He asked her how long she had been working in this hotel, predicting the answer would range from 72 to 86 years.

“Well, I’ve been living in this town for a few years, but I spent most of my life driving a van across 49 states with my husband and three kids,” she explained as Jeremy came inside.

As it turned out, Genevieve had seen more of this country than we probably ever would. We briefly talked about our faux pas with Dushonda and had a good laugh about it for the first time. Then she told us about her son, who was being shipped to South Korea this month. Her eyes welled up with tears as she shared her everyday anguish that something might happen to her baby.

At that moment, we were both taken aback. We realized that we were complete hypocrites. A day before, we had criticized the fact that each city resembled the next, declaring that we were looking for something different, something off the beaten path. But when given that opportunity, we were immediately judgmental. Finally, a town without a Banana Republic, and it had frightened us. Sure, Genevieve and all the people we had met in this town looked like they had last bought clothes during the Carter administration, but they sure were nicer and more hospitable than most people we had interacted with during the week. What’s more, we automatically assumed that Genevieve would categorize us as two raging queens who deserved to be stoned. As it turns out, we were the ones who immediately cast her as, well, Ann Coulter — with a mullet.

Then we realized something else: even if Genevieve did worship Ann Coulter, even if she had never graduated from high school, even if the idea of two guys sharing a bed initially caught her off guard, we shared a more meaningful moment with her than we did with most people that week. It didn’t matter if cities were depersonalized as long as the people were not. A few hours later, Dushonda had been drained for $10 (she’s a cheap lady, that Dushonda), and we were back on the road, driving into the distance.