the ocean

I went to visit my mom in Quincy last weekend, which meant a great deal of time spent driving through Real America. I treasure these journeys, and not just because they are one of the few times I am able to consume a Hardee's Frisco Burger. If the weather is nice and the traffic is light, a cross-state drive can provide a nice opportunity to reflect on life and sing along to En Vogue tracks you cannot remember having purchased. Of course, this particular trip started at 5:30 in the morning, so parts may have taken on more of a cursing the very nature of existence quality.

Anyway, this particular trip was somewhat unique in that it was my first since COVID. And since I have to pass a COVID test later this week to ensure that I get to actually take the Portugal trip I have been planning for four months, I am being particularly careful not to get a breakthrough case. (Also because I'm not big on suffering and death, but let's not quibble.) But as I toured the gas stations and rest stops of central Illinois, it became clear to me that not everyone is on the same page. At times, literally no one else was wearing a mask, and people seemed to be going out of their way to breathe on me. The looks I received were roughly the equivalent of the looks I give people who take phone calls in movie theaters or wear newsboy caps. I was a stranger in a strange land, friends.

Which is fine. I guess ending up on a ventilator is yet another thing we can now put into the category of "different strokes for different folks." RIP Gary Coleman.