30 is the New Boring: Welcome to the GART

There's already plenty of words out there about the Great American Road Trip (GART). It's already been done; Steinbeck, Kerouac, Lewis and Clark...etc. And those guys did a pretty good job, I guess. Their musings and discoveries changed forever the way we view the world we inhabit, and simultaneously created a niche society dedicated to drum circles and hacky sack and the smoking of illegal substances like antimatter. This is all well and good, but there's a much more sociological important road trip that must be undertaken before a boy truly becomes a man. This is all very tribal. Here in 'Merica we have a different pilgrimage that must be undertaken in order to prove ones manhood (or womanhood. But definitely not Robin Hood.)

Not everyone is familiar with this rite of passage (which I suppose is why there are so few real men out there), but it's just as important a part of Americana as spring break, Maker's Mark, and despising Boise State. It's the road trip to Costco, and a defining experience of a life lived under capitalism.

I understand some folks may live within walking distance of Costco. But I would contend that even if you live around the corner, a trip to Costco is still a road trip. You might elect to ignore your car for a quick trip to the grocery store if you lived two blocks away, but you gotta have a car if you're going to Costco, so it's automatically an event. And a uniquely American event, for numerous reasons, but here are a few of my favorites.

Let's start with trying to explain this concrete monstrosity to a foreigner. I think that exchange might go something like this:

(This will be best with an Indian accent.)

Foreigner: "Vot is dis place?"

Me: "We buy stuff in bulk here."

F: "Vy vould you do dat?"

Me: "I have a ton of space that I need to fill."

See what I mean? Try thinking of why we shop at Costco. All told, is it really that much cheaper to buy your cereal in a 55 gallon drum? Personally, I think it's more about the novelty of savings. For example, I like the idea of buying razor blades in bulk. The theory is that I'll save, I don't know, a dollar on each blade. This is tempting too because razor blades are more expensive than mp3 players these days, and so I can save 20 dollars if I buy a year's supply up front. Unfortunately, there's absolutely NO chance that I'll be able to keep track of them, never use all of them. I'll use perhaps 5 and lose the rest next time I move, and now I've just paid $22 per blade. This is expensive. The same principles apply to the cereal. It's stale by the next day.

My closest Costco is in Clarkston, Washington, which is a healthy 30 minute drive away, making my trip a "for-real" undertaking. I've got to really want it. And this is true for a 50 mile radius around the store, which makes it all the more awesome when the parking lot is standing room only at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning. If it were open 24 hours, there would be folks buying tires at 3 a.m. White trash or wealthy, we all love Costco.

(I love that you can buy tires! And right next to the tires is the beer. Or Mike's Hard Cranberry if you prefer. I do not.)

So we walk through the garage door entrance, underneath the perpetually luke-warm hair dryer/air conditioner/heater thing, into a bonanza of Crap-by-the-Crate. Jeans are sold in a four-pack. You can buy a treadmill, but only if you want two. Brita filters by the dozen. Cake mix by the pallet. Whole sides of beef. Books? Yep. Those you can buy in singles. Oh, and sushi. Insert confusion here.

But come with your 401k PIN, cause you can't get out of that place for under 500 bones. And that's because everything costs 16 bucks. Maybe that's just me, but seriously it seems like everything is $16 and up. Except for the chicken bake at the "cafe." It's the only restaurant in the world that can get away with selling only polish sausages and hot pockets.

So what is it that really makes Costco so magical? You already know the answer.

It's the samples. This is why Costco is the end of every truly great road trip. Free food on a toothpick, and then you walk away. No kidding, I've driven all the way there and walked out with nothing but a half-full stomach. And trash bags. And toilet paper. And balsamic vinegar. And Bisquick. A humidor. Pajamas. 30 foot American flag. Recliner. Tree house...