Well, it’s not actually the road, since we’ve been parked in the same parking lot, a Costco’s lot, for a week now. But it’s a good parking lot, relatively quiet and very nice at night. And no one minds our presence.
Our RV is like a boat, with ocean breezes coming and going. Parking lot sounds: occasional car radios. Mexican workers mowing the lawn strips (lawnlets?) on giant crab mowers. A Mexican man in a sad light yellow raincoat pushes a tank of fertilizer, looking like a displaced mountain spirit.
Sutra of parking lots. And their boxes: Target, Costco and Walmart: all the junk therein. The sadness of cheap things that traveled thousands of miles. Factory things, made by hand. Sadness of overweight families, women in cruddy pajamas.
How are car alarms not illegal yet? The noise pollution is atrocious.
It’s raining on our aluminum home, such a pleasant sound. Like being inside a tiny metal railroad car on a track. We are more alive living in this RV looking out over mountains and highways than we were in the apartment. I like being a nomad.
Even the highway over there, maybe a quarter-mile away, is quiet tonight. No owl sounds, not yet, no radios or squealing tires. We found the emptiest parking lot in America. Freedom hasn’t come easily, but it has come joyfully.