My toothbrush. The bag of books I saved all year to read on vacation.
Oh, and power steering fluid. I developed a sudden need for this while I was gone. It’s been so long since I had a car that broke down all the time that at first, I didn’t recognize the sound. All I knew was that it was late at night, I was driving home on a dark, rural road, and my car was making horrible loud moaning and thumping noises. (I really hate that.) Fortunately, it was no big deal — but it made for a tense ride.
And I’ll be easing my way back into this blogging thing. (You know it’s bad when you have an anxiety attack on your way home, but whatever.)
All along Interstate 40 I have been cursing the motelscape. The inedible sludge of reconstituted egg, “biscuit” and gravy that allows them to advertise “hot breakfast” – the coffee weak enough to read the Wall Street Journal’s markets pages through.
Reynalds takes me to a line of cheap motels right by the interstate where rooms are $29 (£18) a night. “These places fill up in the first two weeks after the benefit cheques are paid and when they run out, they empty out and people drift over to Joy Junction.”
Now I see the cheap motels in a new light. This is where America’s hidden homeless live.
Worth a read.