My halfway point breaks the reverie: a crusty motel with a damp disco. I close the drapes and tear through two bags of Frito’s in front of teevee. I am the pictogram for “lonely traveler,” that unseemly woman with crumbs in her bed. She is up too late watching bad shows, still hoping for something to transpire before she calls it a day. Out of habit, I blame the anomie on something academic, like 'a breakdown of American community!,' while I curse the one that’s fast forming outside my window. There, a group of girls is singing songs whose baselines already bumped against my room. I might be jealous of their unison. That’s the kind of easy regret that got me on the road. Tomorrow, I am heading toward Utopia. Sort of.

Everyone travels west with hope. The West is imbued with an ethos of self-betterment, a second or third chance. In the 19th century, people went west with hopes of transforming America and transforming themselves. It was an optimistic expedition but also a diaspora of the greatly disappointed.