Never arrive in a strange city at night with an empty stomach and a tired mind. Avoid this at all costs, even if it means stopping off at a Taco Bell on the road. For the next five years, I will have to look back on my first meal upon the event of my relocation... and remember sitting in the mall eating pepperoni pizza and a side salad from Sbarro. Ugh. Southern Living Editors hang their heads in shame.

I am sitting in a hotel room in Durham on a king bed that eats up the room and makes me feel the size of a pillow, trying to ignore the stale smoke stench that has seeped into the yellow walls. A lonely, strange city. First night blues.

Last night I drove from Birmingham to Atlanta with my jet-lagged mind playing tricks on me. Josh Ritter sang about Kathleen and California, the rain and the moon, as I sat still and the world moved around me, as if on a screen. The road passed below my feet and the darkening night on either side, the occassional bridge above. In the distance the ink and indigo of tree lines overlapped, one on top of another, fading into the orange-grey glow of the hot evening sky.

England is so far away now, despite the fact that I have spent the day driving in its direction. The air, the light, the smell, the heat -- oh, the heat -- the roads: all so different, so foreign to England, and yet not so foreign to me. Today I added a state to my list: South Carolina. Jimmy LaFave's breathy song carried me over the state line from Georgia -- "Ain't nothing but you and me and the open road" -- and across bridges over wide lakes laced with tall dark trees. En route I noted the delightful American town names: Fair Play, Townville, Liberty (x2), Kannapolis. My favourite: Gibsonville. Rivers have imaginative names like "Deep River." And I had to look twice at a sign advertising "The Loyal Order of Moose." No kidding; I googled it when I got here: www.mooseintl.org.

The Elizabethtown soundtrack -- a perfectly appropriate one for a road trip -- sang me beside a giant peach and signs that advertised the likes of "Mr Waffle" and "Chow Chow Relish." Nobody knows what it's all about; it's too much, man. Let it all hang out. and This time around you can be anyone. And then across a new line into my new home state: North Carolina. The soundtrack was a mix I'd made for the trip. Gary Jules's Falling Awake was playing as I pulled into the Welcome Center, because, well, you just have to. The heat makes it hard to breathe. State map in hand, I pulled back onto I-85N, which led all the way from hotel to hotel, Atlanta to Durham. To lighten the mood, I sang Augustana's Boston at a silly volume: I think I'll start a new life, I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name. But the destination was Durham, not Boston, and Damien Rice sang me in: And now you're coming home. Where is that, exactly?

It's rather sobering to think your life can fit inside a Mazda 626. I wheeled my television into my room on a cart (rather than have it on show in my car) and past a lobby full of confused glances. I imagine those glances will be slightly more alarmed when I wheel it back out again!

Tomorrow: must find somewhere to live.