Nevada is the loneliest road in America and freaking out a little bit as Bixby turned onto it. Would we find our way to the other side?
Nevada is eating one last peach at the border into California because I told you California was that way and you didn't believe me. I sat in the passenger seat eating the peach and you still couldn't believe it was a thing.
Nevada is going out to visit my best high school friend, nervous about seeing her after so long (so long = 1 year). Nevada is very very dry and otherworldly and surreal with its flat plains and red rocks and artificial cities. This midwestern girl was out of her element and it showed.
Nevada is listening to the Grateful Dead lying on your bed flipping through all the letters I wrote to you that you saved in a cardboard box decoupaged with cut outs from magazines. It is rereading all my words, like a proto-blog, and feeling guilty that I haven't saved all of yours the same way. But I don't say that.
Nevada is learning that wishing for something doesn't make it so, and learning that timing can sometimes be the everything.
Nevada is stopping at a grocery store and remembering that parts of the world are still horrible racist, xenophobic, all-the-phobic places.
It is stuff tossed out other people's car windows and left to rot in the sun because damn it, Hank, stop playing that guitar, or perhaps, Ginny, it's either you or that ridiculous cactus, you both can't stay in this car with me.
Nevada is decisions made.
It is inexplicable concrete bunkers. It is ridiculous hotel rooms and bright lights and plastic realities. It is piercingly hot deserts with alien creatures and it is air conditioned 24 hour buffets.
Nevada is a casino. In some ways it is Schrodinger's cat simulation. Nevada both is and isn't at the same time. We are both winners and losers. We are together and alone. We are hello and goodbye.
Have I been to Nevada? Yes.