A great city lies before us on Route 66. Any event or business or people who intrigue us are ours to explore along its corridor from Pasadena to Santa Monica: South on Figueroa Street to Sunset Boulevard’s beginnings in downtown L.A. Then Sunset through Hollywood to Santa Monica Boulevard, and all the way to Ocean Avenue, across from the Santa Monica Pier.

My mind turns to what we have left behind: the dozens of sheets, hundreds of towels and washcloths to be washed, mostly by immigrants being initiated into the American Way of Life. The car-sized stack of dishes from our meals, and the small brown cloud from our exhaust are behind us, but not the bills to come for 16 nights and meals. And now, medical visits. Freedom has a price tag, I guess. 

I’m tired of driving, of the physicality of the road, which clings to me like the manure I stepped in on the Texas panhandle, or the burrs in my jeans from hiking the Ozarks. I’m going to indulge myself with the films of Route 66.