Driving through the Midwest by freeway is like listening to a dial tone for eight hours. On the freeway, every mile looks like the last. Every bridge over the road says COUNTY HH on it. Every billboard touts a motel or a fast-food joint. Every time you round a bend, it's like walking through a door into a room that's just like the one you left. No towering redwoods, no mountain ranges shouldering their way into the sky. We have plains, which is scenery flat on its back. Sure, it's uncomplicated, requires little effort. You could say the same thing about a coma.

I've a simple rule: the worse the road, the more interesting the destination. Highways take you to places that are flat and smooth and well-lit, theme parks for the present tense. If you want to hear the old voices, drive on a road that lets you add your shadow to those that have been gathering for years. Take the back roads.

James Lileks, Notes of a Nervous Man
Copyright © 1991 by James Lileks. All rights reserved.

Posted 27 April 2002

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