When I was a small child growing up in Southern California I would ride in the backseat of my parents’ car.
Quite often we’d drive the 50-60 miles through the valley to visit my grandparents in the LA suburbs. All along the way I’d press my bored little nose up against my window with “Are we there yet?” on my mind, but pure vapor on my lips.
On and on we’d drive, whizzing past buildings, signs, cars and towns. It was all so dull to me then. I mean, if you’ve seen one scraggly palm tree, you’ve seen a dozen. Though I loved visiting my grandparents, I greatly disliked having to seemingly trek halfway across the galaxy to reach them. If it weren’t for the graffiti scribbled across the trains, I don’t know what I would have done.