"Yes, I'm From New York"

With more than three days worth of extensive driving in the two Virginia's this week, I can safely say that I have a new favorite game to play while wistfully driving through the two state's mountainous backwoods highways: "Yes, I'm From New York."

It doesn't really matter where I have been: tourist traps, back roads, fast food joints, or even interstate highways, because once you reach the western expanses of Maryland (which make you question how they are even in the same state as Baltimore, but I digress), there is apparently nothing more interesting than New York license plates. 

This intrigue is expressed predominantly by staring, especially on the highway. Passersby are not very subtle when they pass your New York car and then proceed to stare intently into your driver's window to catch a glimpse of the illusive Yankee.

Spotted: an illusive Yankee, eating at a burger 
joint with the greatest bacon & cheese fries.

Another favorite of mine is when you stop at a gas station, tourist attraction, or somewhere along those lines, and the natives stop what they are doing to see who (or what) emerges from the vehicle. 

However, I think that I have mostly disappointed them, because while I do wear a cheap watch that looks nice, I usually also wear flannels and I am bearded; not exactly the slick New York City denizen they were probably imagining when they saw my plates. 

My favorite "Yes, I'm From New York" moment happened in West Virginia's Greenbrier Valley when I pulled into a local gas station. Now, just to set the scene: I drive a little Chevy Aveo, which is probably a slightly more masculine version of what would happen if you mixed an authentic Yugo with a classic Volkswagen.

Stock photo: this is my car. Just imagine New York
license plates and my jolly face behind the wheel.

As I pull into the station, I notice this pretty, tall brunette lady leaving a souped up low riding car's passenger side while her boyfriend remains in the driver's seat. They both notice my car, my plates, and then wait for me to exit my vehicle, which I did unassumingly.

When I left my Aveo, the lady realized I was dressed fairly similar to how most people in her neck of the woods are on a regular basis and she politely smiled at me, while her boyfriend looked at me in abject disgust that I was driving such a small, seemingly non-masculine car.

I found it all to be rather amusing, but apparently the boyfriend did not, because as he and his lady pulled away from the station, he was muttering something and pointing at my car as if I had intentionally run over his favorite Bloodhound while driving the damned thing. 

As you might imagine, this all seemed rather silly to me at first, but then I realized that I had very little to say in all actuality, because what right did I have to find amusement with their actions toward me when I had gone on this very trip to begin trying to understand their very culture?

How can I now begrudge their similar, albeit smaller in scale, yet equally inquisitive attempts to understand me when I am devoting multiple trips across Appalachia to gain a better appreciation for what makes their culture tick?

Side note: it's hard not to love a culture that has engineering marvels
 like this just hanging around on a random highway.

Honestly, I cannot without being a hypocrite, which is why I play my "Yes, I'm From New York" game while remembering that curiosity begets knowledge which begets understanding, and Lord knows the world must understand Appalachia better than it does currently.

Post Script: I did notice that my car attracted other Northern cars like a magnet during my trip, because if I parked my Aveo long enough somewhere that my parking area would usually be covered with nothing but New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and other similar state license plates by the time I returned.