There’s something about a road trip. I’m on one now. California splays out for you in its center. Unapologetic, fractured, yet still golden. I hear the Central Valley has the best Indian food. That seems right somehow. There are gas stations and playlists, and the flood of heat that hits you when you turn the car off and step out of the AC. You could go on forever, or maybe just stay there, in some forgotten town where nobody knows you, so you become somebody else. Then the gas pump clicks, and you’re back on the road, on to the next place, but you leave a little part of you behind.
Go find Kerouac this week. He went On the Road to find his people and wrote his masterpiece. “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles. "
Steinbeck went on the road, too. In Travels with Charlie Steinbeck sets out across America in 1960 with his French poodle, you guess the name. Steinbeck captures the same intimacy of strangers that Kerouac did in 1957. “We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”
Since you should read these books, but I know you will not, read this article instead. All the vibes without the work.
https://www.literarytraveler.com/articles/jack-kerouac-and-john-steinbeck-on-the-californian-coast/
xAP
Well done Ante, like your steaks! I'm halfway through "Death in the afternoon" by Papa ! JZ!