{ "pageSizePreset": "Letter", "sections": { "DE0A66AC-E0C2-4A77-A8E8-0BC565483C15": "HH$HHHO$OHOO$OOnn$nnno$onoo$oo00$00", "395B0452-5207-4FC9-851D-9A8B57BE4C0B": "HH$HH\nHO$OH\nOO$OO\nnn$nn\nno$on\noo$oo\n00$00", "58ECCF8D-9F94-49D5-875D-7385F43FB5EE": "I was born among palm trees at one end of Interstate 10. I currently live at the other end of the 10, where my kitchen has a great view of a palm tree.\nLast summer my fianc\u00e9e and I escaped Boston (no palm trees) on June 1st. The plan: a cross-country excursion, destined ultimately for Los Angeles, though the arrival date was fuzzy. July? We spiralled our way down to and across the deep south, relocating every few days. Durham, Charleston, Atlanta, Memphis. We drove the length of Mississippi along I-55 and ended up in New Orleans for a Sazerac. With beignet powder on our fingers, we entered \u201cHouston, TX\u201d in Google Maps and chose the scenic route: Route 90, a solid line cut across the ragged bayous.\nIn Jeanerette, I did 76 in a 65. A lanky black cop unfolded from the driver\u2019s side of a hulking SUV. I told him I thought the speed limit was 75. He told me to visit jeanerettetix.com if I wanted to pay with a credit card. Thirty minutes later, after some fried okra and hushpuppies and a full tank for the Corolla, we merged onto Interstate 10 for the first time.\nIn those first few hours \u2014 crossing into Texas, seeing an alligator \u2014 I knew almost nothing about Interstate 10. I did not understand its length, that it connects Jacksonville and Los Angeles (birth and residence, respectively), or that this road would take us all the way to the Pacific. That is to say: we had not yet read its Wikipedia article.\nWithout the internet, a road trip is a series of unanswered questions. With the internet, a road trip is a series of weird facts. For example: Texas is full of F-150s pulling into and out of a place called Buc-ee\u2019s. What is a Buc-ee\u2019s? Why do so many of the F-150s have \u201cKing Ranch\u201d logos? Do all these Texans work at this King Ranch?\nAnswers: (1) Buc-ee\u2019s is an excellent chain of beaver-themed gas stations common in Texas\u2019 southeast; (2) King Ranch is a luxury trim option for F-150s; (3) No, not all Texans work at King Ranch, though that is a real ranch, larger than Rhode Island, founded by a former riverboat captain.\nWe moved westward, downloading obscure Wikipedia articles, consuming Buc-ee\u2019s beaver nuggets. San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso. Like the lip of a wine glass, America surges with trivia, and with reviews. For my fianc\u00e9e, Diana, a road trip hunger pang is a chance to Yelp something strange and wonderful. The hushpuppies we nodded in Lafayette did not happen.\nBy Arizona the sun was unbearable, and the car\u2019s A/C coughed stale air. We traded playlists, gospel choirs fading into doom metal, then back to Dolly Parton. Diana dozed with her cheek against the window, while I counted mesas and mirages. Gas stations became museums of snack food: jerky, prickly pear soda, bags of corn nuts. Each receipt fluttered into the glove compartment, evidence of our zigzagging trail across the continent.\nWhen the road stretched flat for an hour, we made up stories about the lives unfolding in passing cars: a woman singing arias alone, a family with restless children, a trucker eating sunflower seeds one by one.\nCrossing into New Mexico, the sky cracked wide open, purple thunderheads rolling in like stage curtains. We pulled off at a motel painted turquoise, the sign missing two neon letters. The room smelled faintly of chlorine and sagebrush. We scribbled postcards, then forgot to mail them. That night we fell asleep to the hum of an ice machine and the static of local news warning about flash floods.\nIn the morning the parking lot shimmered with puddles, and our Corolla bore a thin crust of desert dust.\nWe pressed on: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, the high desert plateau. By the time we reached California, the odometer had added thousands of miles and the car\u2019s floor mats were a palimpsest of crumbs.\nLos Angeles appeared at last, a glittering mirage of freeways and palm silhouettes. We parked in sight of the ocean, laughing at how far we\u2019d come and how little we\u2019d planned. The journey had become its own destination, a catalogue of odd details and ordinary wonders: fried dough, roadside deer, neon motels, unfamiliar radio stations, and the endless white lines of the highway.\nBut the road did not end there. We wandered north on Highway 1, hugging cliffs that dropped into the Pacific. We stopped in Monterey for clam chowder, drove through fog so thick the taillights ahead were fireflies trapped in milk.\nIn San Francisco we climbed endless stairs, legs aching, and watched cable cars rattle by. A saxophonist on Market Street played \u201cAutumn Leaves\u201d to no one in particular, his case open for spare change. Diana dropped a dollar and he nodded, never missing a note.\nWe bought sourdough and postcards, promising again to mail them this time, but the bag remained sealed.\nNorthward, redwoods swallowed the sky. The trees were older than our nation, older than our journey, older than all the plans we thought we had. We whispered beneath them, as if entering a cathedral.\nAt night, in a campsite along the Eel River, we listened to owls and the distant hiss of logging trucks.\nIn Oregon the rain began \u2014 fine, persistent, endless. Every sign was painted green, every valley lush, every diner staffed by someone with a story. A man at the counter told us about losing his farm, finding it again, and losing it once more. He salted his eggs with the rhythm of a preacher. His voice lingered as we left, carried in the static of AM radio.\nBy Washington State the car smelled of coffee, wet clothes, and the faint tang of pine needles tracked inside. Seattle rose with cranes and ferries, fish markets and fog.\nWe drank strong coffee in paper cups and argued about where to go next. Canada? Idaho? Back to Boston by another road? The map was open, the options infinite, the ink of our story still wet. We had driven thousands of miles and still felt unfinished, restless, eager for another turn of the wheel.", "Alphabet": "ABCDEFGHIJKLM\nNOPQRSTUVWXYZ\n1234567890", "6F200777-4F40-4C00-9450-F89E21F03556": "I was born among palm trees at one end of Interstate 10. I currently live at the other end of the 10, where my kitchen has a great view of a palm tree.\nLast summer my fianc\u00e9e and I escaped Boston (no palm trees) on June 1st. The plan: a cross-country excursion, destined ultimately for Los Angeles, though the arrival date was fuzzy. July? We spiralled our way down to and across the deep south, relocating every few days. Durham, Charleston, Atlanta, Memphis. We drove the length of Mississippi along I-55 and ended up in New Orleans for a Sazerac. With beignet powder on our fingers, we entered \u201cHouston, TX\u201d in Google Maps and chose the scenic route: Route 90, a solid line cut across the ragged bayous.\nIn Jeanerette, I did 76 in a 65. A lanky black cop unfolded from the driver\u2019s side of a hulking SUV. I told him I thought the speed limit was 75. He told me to visit jeanerettetix.com if I wanted to pay with a credit card. Thirty minutes later, after some fried okra and hushpuppies and a full tank for the Corolla, we merged onto Interstate 10 for the first time.\nIn those first few hours \u2014 crossing into Texas, seeing an alligator \u2014 I knew almost nothing about Interstate 10. I did not understand its length, that it connects Jacksonville and Los Angeles (birth and residence, respectively), or that this road would take us all the way to the Pacific. That is to say: we had not yet read its Wikipedia article.\nWithout the internet, a road trip is a series of unanswered questions. With the internet, a road trip is a series of weird facts. For example: Texas is full of F-150s pulling into and out of a place called Buc-ee\u2019s. What is a Buc-ee\u2019s? Why do so many of the F-150s have \u201cKing Ranch\u201d logos? Do all these Texans work at this King Ranch?\nAnswers: (1) Buc-ee\u2019s is an excellent chain of beaver-themed gas stations common in Texas\u2019 southeast; (2) King Ranch is a luxury trim option for F-150s; (3) No, not all Texans work at King Ranch, though that is a real ranch, larger than Rhode Island, founded by a former riverboat captain.\nWe moved westward, downloading obscure Wikipedia articles, consuming Buc-ee\u2019s beaver nuggets. San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso. Like the lip of a wine glass, America surges with trivia, and with reviews. For my fianc\u00e9e, Diana, a road trip hunger pang is a chance to Yelp something strange and wonderful. The hushpuppies we nodded in Lafayette did not happen.\nBy Arizona the sun was unbearable, and the car\u2019s A/C coughed stale air. We traded playlists, gospel choirs fading into doom metal, then back to Dolly Parton. Diana dozed with her cheek against the window, while I counted mesas and mirages. Gas stations became museums of snack food: jerky, prickly pear soda, bags of corn nuts. Each receipt fluttered into the glove compartment, evidence of our zigzagging trail across the continent.\nWhen the road stretched flat for an hour, we made up stories about the lives unfolding in passing cars: a woman singing arias alone, a family with restless children, a trucker eating sunflower seeds one by one.\nCrossing into New Mexico, the sky cracked wide open, purple thunderheads rolling in like stage curtains. We pulled off at a motel painted turquoise, the sign missing two neon letters. The room smelled faintly of chlorine and sagebrush. We scribbled postcards, then forgot to mail them. That night we fell asleep to the hum of an ice machine and the static of local news warning about flash floods.\nIn the morning the parking lot shimmered with puddles, and our Corolla bore a thin crust of desert dust.\nWe pressed on: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, the high desert plateau. By the time we reached California, the odometer had added thousands of miles and the car\u2019s floor mats were a palimpsest of crumbs.\nLos Angeles appeared at last, a glittering mirage of freeways and palm silhouettes. We parked in sight of the ocean, laughing at how far we\u2019d come and how little we\u2019d planned. The journey had become its own destination, a catalogue of odd details and ordinary wonders: fried dough, roadside deer, neon motels, unfamiliar radio stations, and the endless white lines of the highway.\nBut the road did not end there. We wandered north on Highway 1, hugging cliffs that dropped into the Pacific. We stopped in Monterey for clam chowder, drove through fog so thick the taillights ahead were fireflies trapped in milk.\nIn San Francisco we climbed endless stairs, legs aching, and watched cable cars rattle by. A saxophonist on Market Street played \u201cAutumn Leaves\u201d to no one in particular, his case open for spare change. Diana dropped a dollar and he nodded, never missing a note.\nWe bought sourdough and postcards, promising again to mail them this time, but the bag remained sealed.\nNorthward, redwoods swallowed the sky. The trees were older than our nation, older than our journey, older than all the plans we thought we had. We whispered beneath them, as if entering a cathedral.\nAt night, in a campsite along the Eel River, we listened to owls and the distant hiss of logging trucks.\nIn Oregon the rain began \u2014 fine, persistent, endless. Every sign was painted green, every valley lush, every diner staffed by someone with a story. A man at the counter told us about losing his farm, finding it again, and losing it once more. He salted his eggs with the rhythm of a preacher. His voice lingered as we left, carried in the static of AM radio.\nBy Washington State the car smelled of coffee, wet clothes, and the faint tang of pine needles tracked inside. Seattle rose with cranes and ferries, fish markets and fog.\nWe drank strong coffee in paper cups and argued about where to go next. Canada? Idaho? Back to Boston by another road? The map was open, the options infinite, the ink of our story still wet. We had driven thousands of miles and still felt unfinished, restless, eager for another turn of the wheel.", "1E79582E-3BDE-4DAF-A542-81C91818331C": "I was born among palm trees at one end of Interstate 10. I currently live at the other end of the 10, where my kitchen has a great view of a palm tree.\nLast summer my fianc\u00e9e and I escaped Boston (no palm trees) on June 1st. The plan: a cross-country excursion, destined ultimately for Los Angeles, though the arrival date was fuzzy. July? We spiralled our way down to and across the deep south, relocating every few days. Durham, Charleston, Atlanta, Memphis. We drove the length of Mississippi along I-55 and ended up in New Orleans for a Sazerac. With beignet powder on our fingers, we entered \u201cHouston, TX\u201d in Google Maps and chose the scenic route: Route 90, a solid line cut across the ragged bayous.\nIn Jeanerette, I did 76 in a 65. A lanky black cop unfolded from the driver\u2019s side of a hulking SUV. I told him I thought the speed limit was 75. He told me to visit jeanerettetix.com if I wanted to pay with a credit card. Thirty minutes later, after some fried okra and hushpuppies and a full tank for the Corolla, we merged onto Interstate 10 for the first time.\nIn those first few hours \u2014 crossing into Texas, seeing an alligator \u2014 I knew almost nothing about Interstate 10. I did not understand its length, that it connects Jacksonville and Los Angeles (birth and residence, respectively), or that this road would take us all the way to the Pacific. That is to say: we had not yet read its Wikipedia article.\nWithout the internet, a road trip is a series of unanswered questions. With the internet, a road trip is a series of weird facts. For example: Texas is full of F-150s pulling into and out of a place called Buc-ee\u2019s. What is a Buc-ee\u2019s? Why do so many of the F-150s have \u201cKing Ranch\u201d logos? Do all these Texans work at this King Ranch?\nAnswers: (1) Buc-ee\u2019s is an excellent chain of beaver-themed gas stations common in Texas\u2019 southeast; (2) King Ranch is a luxury trim option for F-150s; (3) No, not all Texans work at King Ranch, though that is a real ranch, larger than Rhode Island, founded by a former riverboat captain.\nWe moved westward, downloading obscure Wikipedia articles, consuming Buc-ee\u2019s beaver nuggets. San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso. Like the lip of a wine glass, America surges with trivia, and with reviews. For my fianc\u00e9e, Diana, a road trip hunger pang is a chance to Yelp something strange and wonderful. The hushpuppies we nodded in Lafayette did not happen.\nBy Arizona the sun was unbearable, and the car\u2019s A/C coughed stale air. We traded playlists, gospel choirs fading into doom metal, then back to Dolly Parton. Diana dozed with her cheek against the window, while I counted mesas and mirages. Gas stations became museums of snack food: jerky, prickly pear soda, bags of corn nuts. Each receipt fluttered into the glove compartment, evidence of our zigzagging trail across the continent.\nWhen the road stretched flat for an hour, we made up stories about the lives unfolding in passing cars: a woman singing arias alone, a family with restless children, a trucker eating sunflower seeds one by one.\nCrossing into New Mexico, the sky cracked wide open, purple thunderheads rolling in like stage curtains. We pulled off at a motel painted turquoise, the sign missing two neon letters. The room smelled faintly of chlorine and sagebrush. We scribbled postcards, then forgot to mail them. That night we fell asleep to the hum of an ice machine and the static of local news warning about flash floods.\nIn the morning the parking lot shimmered with puddles, and our Corolla bore a thin crust of desert dust.\nWe pressed on: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, the high desert plateau. By the time we reached California, the odometer had added thousands of miles and the car\u2019s floor mats were a palimpsest of crumbs.\nLos Angeles appeared at last, a glittering mirage of freeways and palm silhouettes. We parked in sight of the ocean, laughing at how far we\u2019d come and how little we\u2019d planned. The journey had become its own destination, a catalogue of odd details and ordinary wonders: fried dough, roadside deer, neon motels, unfamiliar radio stations, and the endless white lines of the highway.\nBut the road did not end there. We wandered north on Highway 1, hugging cliffs that dropped into the Pacific. We stopped in Monterey for clam chowder, drove through fog so thick the taillights ahead were fireflies trapped in milk.\nIn San Francisco we climbed endless stairs, legs aching, and watched cable cars rattle by. A saxophonist on Market Street played \u201cAutumn Leaves\u201d to no one in particular, his case open for spare change. Diana dropped a dollar and he nodded, never missing a note.\nWe bought sourdough and postcards, promising again to mail them this time, but the bag remained sealed.\nNorthward, redwoods swallowed the sky. The trees were older than our nation, older than our journey, older than all the plans we thought we had. We whispered beneath them, as if entering a cathedral.\nAt night, in a campsite along the Eel River, we listened to owls and the distant hiss of logging trucks.\nIn Oregon the rain began \u2014 fine, persistent, endless. Every sign was painted green, every valley lush, every diner staffed by someone with a story. A man at the counter told us about losing his farm, finding it again, and losing it once more. He salted his eggs with the rhythm of a preacher. His voice lingered as we left, carried in the static of AM radio.\nBy Washington State the car smelled of coffee, wet clothes, and the faint tang of pine needles tracked inside. Seattle rose with cranes and ferries, fish markets and fog.\nWe drank strong coffee in paper cups and argued about where to go next. Canada? Idaho? Back to Boston by another road? The map was open, the options infinite, the ink of our story still wet. We had driven thousands of miles and still felt unfinished, restless, eager for another turn of the wheel.", "9A48550C-2B79-4FE4-A462-1A248A58344A": "I was born among palm trees at one end of Interstate 10. I currently live at the other end of the 10, where my kitchen has a great view of a palm tree.\nLast summer my fianc\u00e9e and I escaped Boston (no palm trees) on June 1st. The plan: a cross-country excursion, destined ultimately for Los Angeles, though the arrival date was fuzzy. July? We spiralled our way down to and across the deep south, relocating every few days. Durham, Charleston, Atlanta, Memphis. We drove the length of Mississippi along I-55 and ended up in New Orleans for a Sazerac. With beignet powder on our fingers, we entered \u201cHouston, TX\u201d in Google Maps and chose the scenic route: Route 90, a solid line cut across the ragged bayous.\nIn Jeanerette, I did 76 in a 65. A lanky black cop unfolded from the driver\u2019s side of a hulking SUV. I told him I thought the speed limit was 75. He told me to visit jeanerettetix.com if I wanted to pay with a credit card. Thirty minutes later, after some fried okra and hushpuppies and a full tank for the Corolla, we merged onto Interstate 10 for the first time.\nIn those first few hours \u2014 crossing into Texas, seeing an alligator \u2014 I knew almost nothing about Interstate 10. I did not understand its length, that it connects Jacksonville and Los Angeles (birth and residence, respectively), or that this road would take us all the way to the Pacific. That is to say: we had not yet read its Wikipedia article.\nWithout the internet, a road trip is a series of unanswered questions. With the internet, a road trip is a series of weird facts. For example: Texas is full of F-150s pulling into and out of a place called Buc-ee\u2019s. What is a Buc-ee\u2019s? Why do so many of the F-150s have \u201cKing Ranch\u201d logos? Do all these Texans work at this King Ranch?\nAnswers: (1) Buc-ee\u2019s is an excellent chain of beaver-themed gas stations common in Texas\u2019 southeast; (2) King Ranch is a luxury trim option for F-150s; (3) No, not all Texans work at King Ranch, though that is a real ranch, larger than Rhode Island, founded by a former riverboat captain.\nWe moved westward, downloading obscure Wikipedia articles, consuming Buc-ee\u2019s beaver nuggets. San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso. Like the lip of a wine glass, America surges with trivia, and with reviews. For my fianc\u00e9e, Diana, a road trip hunger pang is a chance to Yelp something strange and wonderful. The hushpuppies we nodded in Lafayette did not happen.\nBy Arizona the sun was unbearable, and the car\u2019s A/C coughed stale air. We traded playlists, gospel choirs fading into doom metal, then back to Dolly Parton. Diana dozed with her cheek against the window, while I counted mesas and mirages. Gas stations became museums of snack food: jerky, prickly pear soda, bags of corn nuts. Each receipt fluttered into the glove compartment, evidence of our zigzagging trail across the continent.\nWhen the road stretched flat for an hour, we made up stories about the lives unfolding in passing cars: a woman singing arias alone, a family with restless children, a trucker eating sunflower seeds one by one.\nCrossing into New Mexico, the sky cracked wide open, purple thunderheads rolling in like stage curtains. We pulled off at a motel painted turquoise, the sign missing two neon letters. The room smelled faintly of chlorine and sagebrush. We scribbled postcards, then forgot to mail them. That night we fell asleep to the hum of an ice machine and the static of local news warning about flash floods.\nIn the morning the parking lot shimmered with puddles, and our Corolla bore a thin crust of desert dust.\nWe pressed on: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, the high desert plateau. By the time we reached California, the odometer had added thousands of miles and the car\u2019s floor mats were a palimpsest of crumbs.\nLos Angeles appeared at last, a glittering mirage of freeways and palm silhouettes. We parked in sight of the ocean, laughing at how far we\u2019d come and how little we\u2019d planned. The journey had become its own destination, a catalogue of odd details and ordinary wonders: fried dough, roadside deer, neon motels, unfamiliar radio stations, and the endless white lines of the highway.\nBut the road did not end there. We wandered north on Highway 1, hugging cliffs that dropped into the Pacific. We stopped in Monterey for clam chowder, drove through fog so thick the taillights ahead were fireflies trapped in milk.\nIn San Francisco we climbed endless stairs, legs aching, and watched cable cars rattle by. A saxophonist on Market Street played \u201cAutumn Leaves\u201d to no one in particular, his case open for spare change. Diana dropped a dollar and he nodded, never missing a note.\nWe bought sourdough and postcards, promising again to mail them this time, but the bag remained sealed.\nNorthward, redwoods swallowed the sky. The trees were older than our nation, older than our journey, older than all the plans we thought we had. We whispered beneath them, as if entering a cathedral.\nAt night, in a campsite along the Eel River, we listened to owls and the distant hiss of logging trucks.\nIn Oregon the rain began \u2014 fine, persistent, endless. Every sign was painted green, every valley lush, every diner staffed by someone with a story. A man at the counter told us about losing his farm, finding it again, and losing it once more. He salted his eggs with the rhythm of a preacher. His voice lingered as we left, carried in the static of AM radio.\nBy Washington State the car smelled of coffee, wet clothes, and the faint tang of pine needles tracked inside. Seattle rose with cranes and ferries, fish markets and fog.\nWe drank strong coffee in paper cups and argued about where to go next. Canada? Idaho? Back to Boston by another road? The map was open, the options infinite, the ink of our story still wet. We had driven thousands of miles and still felt unfinished, restless, eager for another turn of the wheel.", "1D7B84D4-1B5B-4D14-B1B7-2C8C17487FD1": "I was born among palm trees at one end of Interstate 10. I currently live at the other end of the 10, where my kitchen has a great view of a palm tree.\nLast summer my fianc\u00e9e and I escaped Boston (no palm trees) on June 1st. The plan: a cross-country excursion, destined ultimately for Los Angeles, though the arrival date was fuzzy. July? We spiralled our way down to and across the deep south, relocating every few days. Durham, Charleston, Atlanta, Memphis. We drove the length of Mississippi along I-55 and ended up in New Orleans for a Sazerac. With beignet powder on our fingers, we entered \u201cHouston, TX\u201d in Google Maps and chose the scenic route: Route 90, a solid line cut across the ragged bayous.\nIn Jeanerette, I did 76 in a 65. A lanky black cop unfolded from the driver\u2019s side of a hulking SUV. I told him I thought the speed limit was 75. He told me to visit jeanerettetix.com if I wanted to pay with a credit card. Thirty minutes later, after some fried okra and hushpuppies and a full tank for the Corolla, we merged onto Interstate 10 for the first time.\nIn those first few hours \u2014 crossing into Texas, seeing an alligator \u2014 I knew almost nothing about Interstate 10. I did not understand its length, that it connects Jacksonville and Los Angeles (birth and residence, respectively), or that this road would take us all the way to the Pacific. That is to say: we had not yet read its Wikipedia article.\nWithout the internet, a road trip is a series of unanswered questions. With the internet, a road trip is a series of weird facts. For example: Texas is full of F-150s pulling into and out of a place called Buc-ee\u2019s. What is a Buc-ee\u2019s? Why do so many of the F-150s have \u201cKing Ranch\u201d logos? Do all these Texans work at this King Ranch?\nAnswers: (1) Buc-ee\u2019s is an excellent chain of beaver-themed gas stations common in Texas\u2019 southeast; (2) King Ranch is a luxury trim option for F-150s; (3) No, not all Texans work at King Ranch, though that is a real ranch, larger than Rhode Island, founded by a former riverboat captain.\nWe moved westward, downloading obscure Wikipedia articles, consuming Buc-ee\u2019s beaver nuggets. San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso. Like the lip of a wine glass, America surges with trivia, and with reviews. For my fianc\u00e9e, Diana, a road trip hunger pang is a chance to Yelp something strange and wonderful. The hushpuppies we nodded in Lafayette did not happen.\nBy Arizona the sun was unbearable, and the car\u2019s A/C coughed stale air. We traded playlists, gospel choirs fading into doom metal, then back to Dolly Parton. Diana dozed with her cheek against the window, while I counted mesas and mirages. Gas stations became museums of snack food: jerky, prickly pear soda, bags of corn nuts. Each receipt fluttered into the glove compartment, evidence of our zigzagging trail across the continent.\nWhen the road stretched flat for an hour, we made up stories about the lives unfolding in passing cars: a woman singing arias alone, a family with restless children, a trucker eating sunflower seeds one by one.\nCrossing into New Mexico, the sky cracked wide open, purple thunderheads rolling in like stage curtains. We pulled off at a motel painted turquoise, the sign missing two neon letters. The room smelled faintly of chlorine and sagebrush. We scribbled postcards, then forgot to mail them. That night we fell asleep to the hum of an ice machine and the static of local news warning about flash floods.\nIn the morning the parking lot shimmered with puddles, and our Corolla bore a thin crust of desert dust.\nWe pressed on: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, the high desert plateau. By the time we reached California, the odometer had added thousands of miles and the car\u2019s floor mats were a palimpsest of crumbs.\nLos Angeles appeared at last, a glittering mirage of freeways and palm silhouettes. We parked in sight of the ocean, laughing at how far we\u2019d come and how little we\u2019d planned. The journey had become its own destination, a catalogue of odd details and ordinary wonders: fried dough, roadside deer, neon motels, unfamiliar radio stations, and the endless white lines of the highway.\nBut the road did not end there. We wandered north on Highway 1, hugging cliffs that dropped into the Pacific. We stopped in Monterey for clam chowder, drove through fog so thick the taillights ahead were fireflies trapped in milk.\nIn San Francisco we climbed endless stairs, legs aching, and watched cable cars rattle by. A saxophonist on Market Street played \u201cAutumn Leaves\u201d to no one in particular, his case open for spare change. Diana dropped a dollar and he nodded, never missing a note.\nWe bought sourdough and postcards, promising again to mail them this time, but the bag remained sealed.\nNorthward, redwoods swallowed the sky. The trees were older than our nation, older than our journey, older than all the plans we thought we had. We whispered beneath them, as if entering a cathedral.\nAt night, in a campsite along the Eel River, we listened to owls and the distant hiss of logging trucks.\nIn Oregon the rain began \u2014 fine, persistent, endless. Every sign was painted green, every valley lush, every diner staffed by someone with a story. A man at the counter told us about losing his farm, finding it again, and losing it once more. He salted his eggs with the rhythm of a preacher. His voice lingered as we left, carried in the static of AM radio.\nBy Washington State the car smelled of coffee, wet clothes, and the faint tang of pine needles tracked inside. Seattle rose with cranes and ferries, fish markets and fog.\nWe drank strong coffee in paper cups and argued about where to go next. Canada? Idaho? Back to Boston by another road? The map was open, the options infinite, the ink of our story still wet. We had driven thousands of miles and still felt unfinished, restless, eager for another turn of the wheel.", "56E94E27-4760-4E68-9BEE-CF50099D7E18": "I was born among palm trees at one end of Interstate 10. I currently live at the other end of the 10, where my kitchen has a great view of a palm tree.\nLast summer my fianc\u00e9e and I escaped Boston (no palm trees) on June 1st. The plan: a cross-country excursion, destined ultimately for Los Angeles, though the arrival date was fuzzy. July? We spiralled our way down to and across the deep south, relocating every few days. Durham, Charleston, Atlanta, Memphis. We drove the length of Mississippi along I-55 and ended up in New Orleans for a Sazerac. With beignet powder on our fingers, we entered \u201cHouston, TX\u201d in Google Maps and chose the scenic route: Route 90, a solid line cut across the ragged bayous.\nIn Jeanerette, I did 76 in a 65. A lanky black cop unfolded from the driver\u2019s side of a hulking SUV. I told him I thought the speed limit was 75. He told me to visit jeanerettetix.com if I wanted to pay with a credit card. Thirty minutes later, after some fried okra and hushpuppies and a full tank for the Corolla, we merged onto Interstate 10 for the first time.\nIn those first few hours \u2014 crossing into Texas, seeing an alligator \u2014 I knew almost nothing about Interstate 10. I did not understand its length, that it connects Jacksonville and Los Angeles (birth and residence, respectively), or that this road would take us all the way to the Pacific. That is to say: we had not yet read its Wikipedia article.\nWithout the internet, a road trip is a series of unanswered questions. With the internet, a road trip is a series of weird facts. For example: Texas is full of F-150s pulling into and out of a place called Buc-ee\u2019s. What is a Buc-ee\u2019s? Why do so many of the F-150s have \u201cKing Ranch\u201d logos? Do all these Texans work at this King Ranch?\nAnswers: (1) Buc-ee\u2019s is an excellent chain of beaver-themed gas stations common in Texas\u2019 southeast; (2) King Ranch is a luxury trim option for F-150s; (3) No, not all Texans work at King Ranch, though that is a real ranch, larger than Rhode Island, founded by a former riverboat captain.\nWe moved westward, downloading obscure Wikipedia articles, consuming Buc-ee\u2019s beaver nuggets. San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso. Like the lip of a wine glass, America surges with trivia, and with reviews. For my fianc\u00e9e, Diana, a road trip hunger pang is a chance to Yelp something strange and wonderful. The hushpuppies we nodded in Lafayette did not happen.\nBy Arizona the sun was unbearable, and the car\u2019s A/C coughed stale air. We traded playlists, gospel choirs fading into doom metal, then back to Dolly Parton. Diana dozed with her cheek against the window, while I counted mesas and mirages. Gas stations became museums of snack food: jerky, prickly pear soda, bags of corn nuts. Each receipt fluttered into the glove compartment, evidence of our zigzagging trail across the continent.\nWhen the road stretched flat for an hour, we made up stories about the lives unfolding in passing cars: a woman singing arias alone, a family with restless children, a trucker eating sunflower seeds one by one.\nCrossing into New Mexico, the sky cracked wide open, purple thunderheads rolling in like stage curtains. We pulled off at a motel painted turquoise, the sign missing two neon letters. The room smelled faintly of chlorine and sagebrush. We scribbled postcards, then forgot to mail them. That night we fell asleep to the hum of an ice machine and the static of local news warning about flash floods.\nIn the morning the parking lot shimmered with puddles, and our Corolla bore a thin crust of desert dust.\nWe pressed on: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, the high desert plateau. By the time we reached California, the odometer had added thousands of miles and the car\u2019s floor mats were a palimpsest of crumbs.\nLos Angeles appeared at last, a glittering mirage of freeways and palm silhouettes. We parked in sight of the ocean, laughing at how far we\u2019d come and how little we\u2019d planned. The journey had become its own destination, a catalogue of odd details and ordinary wonders: fried dough, roadside deer, neon motels, unfamiliar radio stations, and the endless white lines of the highway.\nBut the road did not end there. We wandered north on Highway 1, hugging cliffs that dropped into the Pacific. We stopped in Monterey for clam chowder, drove through fog so thick the taillights ahead were fireflies trapped in milk.\nIn San Francisco we climbed endless stairs, legs aching, and watched cable cars rattle by. A saxophonist on Market Street played \u201cAutumn Leaves\u201d to no one in particular, his case open for spare change. Diana dropped a dollar and he nodded, never missing a note.\nWe bought sourdough and postcards, promising again to mail them this time, but the bag remained sealed.\nNorthward, redwoods swallowed the sky. The trees were older than our nation, older than our journey, older than all the plans we thought we had. We whispered beneath them, as if entering a cathedral.\nAt night, in a campsite along the Eel River, we listened to owls and the distant hiss of logging trucks.\nIn Oregon the rain began \u2014 fine, persistent, endless. Every sign was painted green, every valley lush, every diner staffed by someone with a story. A man at the counter told us about losing his farm, finding it again, and losing it once more. He salted his eggs with the rhythm of a preacher. His voice lingered as we left, carried in the static of AM radio.\nBy Washington State the car smelled of coffee, wet clothes, and the faint tang of pine needles tracked inside. 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