“’This here country puts its mark on a man, and the mark is that he ain’t sure who he is, being little by the size of it.’” (Guthrie’s The Way West, 173)
I love road trips. The freedom of the open road, the opportunity to veer off in different directions when the fancy strikes, mouth gaping open as the landscape and weather constantly change even in the flats of North Dakota and Montana where the seemingly still sky adjusts its shade of blue.
There is something romantic about road trips: the search for something beyond the road; the serenity and peace of mind a long road without any traffic affords; the excitement of discovering new places and meeting locals; the anticipation of not knowing exactly what you’ll see after the next bend in the road.
Your heart speeds a little. Your appetite changes, seeking new flavours. You look forward to the unknown as you approach the top of the hill. When you cross a border. When you drive off the well-paved road and onto gravel.
I stop paying attention to the barrage of negative news. Travelling, seeing new places and meeting people, dulls my cynicism.