Do you ever just turn your head away from the road and trust whoever’s driving? There’s nothing the passenger can do in the event of an accident anyway, so you might as well take a glimpse of the scenery before you crash and burn.
I do. Pretty much every journey: bus, car or train. I watch leaves cut sharp lines of green as they speed past, and short white lines of paint like an infinite ellipsis. Maybe there’s the gentle hum of a song playing, or maybe the bass is so loud even the rear view mirror insists on dancing. Or maybe the only sound is other cars flicking past with their own cinematic window shows.
Are the windows down? Hair tangling and flying from one side of your face to the other, or a broken trail of smoke from the glowing bud of a cigarette. Friends chattering away like blue tits around the feeder at dawn; the whole world seems to have changed and therefore the gossip must ensue. Then there’s that one friend who insists on singing along to every single song, including those she doesn’t really know. (That friend is usually me.)
You know those trips where the journey means more than the place you’ll end up? That moment that the air finally smells different, or when the expanse of hot tarmac filters out into a cacophony of green. Can you feel the stinging rub of the seatbelt in the same spot for way too long, or the humid yet oddly comforting sensation of a dog’s breath on your knee.
These are the things that remind me of road trips.
These, and Tracyanne & Danny’s ‘It Can’t Be Love Unless It Hurts’.