The memories of the trip roll by like a slide show. I remember the childhood laughter I produced as I first drove out of the cities of the west. The hills rolled like our crayon-filled drawings of our youth. The great road trip imagery of classic movies all came true: hippies in rusting cars, 60s vans blanketed in stickers, and even an orange Volkswagon Beetle.

I remember driving past abandoned farms and homes, and thinking how alone I was on this trip. If my car broke down, I’d be alone, and that would be OK.

Not all is as innocent as our youth though. I remember spotting an Indian smoke stack on a reservation, and after driving closer for twenty minutes I realized it was really smog stemming from a power plant.

Still, driving in the East isn’t conductive to taking in the scenery. Unlike at home, my road trip west was full of straight roads, little traffic, few stops, and more varied backdrops. For this drive, the activity of driving was less about shifting gears and turning the steering wheel, instead it was about how much one could spot from the windows.

I’ll end with a set of phrases written on the signs of Route 66:
Green sign, red sign
‘Twould be more fun
To go by air
If we could put
These signs up There

Just this once (red exit at end)
And just for fun
We’ll let you finish
What we’ve begun
????