Nothing Like It

The sun hits your head, cold beer in one hand, water gun in the other, driving through the American middle with friends toward whatever lake comes next—past cemeteries and junkyards and desert, thinking about nothing but cold water and the next mile. That’s summer.

Weeks of this: driving in the heat through landscape that changes color and texture, green to brown to nothing, all under a sun that just doesn’t stop. The variety keeps it from getting boring—half-dead towns, empty stretches, sudden water or trees, sky that goes on forever. You don’t think about any of it, you just drive.

American space does something to you. It sprawls and empties. You pass through places that might be towns or might just be buildings. You stop when you want water, when someone needs to sleep, when the heat gets too much. Then you move again. The water guns are dumb and perfect—an excuse to stay loose and not think about anything.

The people matter. You need friends who don’t get bored or restless, who don’t need to document or perform, who can just exist in the rhythm of being on the road for weeks. Days blend together and that’s fine.

What stays with you isn’t pictures. It’s the cold water, the glare off chrome, dust on your tongue at some nothing exit, the highway sound at night when everyone’s asleep. Those things stick.

You get a few weeks like that and then they’re over, or they happen again and you’re not paying attention anymore. Time where you’re just present, following the heat and the movement and whoever you’re with. That’s the whole thing.