Days 121-125

We camped for the last time at the windswept mouth of a valley in Texas. We barely slept; our tent caught the gusts like a sail; I dreamt I was tumbling through the sky. The metal rings that held the canvas to the pegs spread into withered, droopy arcs under the pressure and we woke to find that only the weight of our bodies had kept us in place.
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Days 119-120


This is the final guest post from Sarah, who shared this trip with me.

For those who have seen No Country For Old Men, or There Will Be Blood, you have seen Marfa. At least glimpses. The glimpses of vast, astonishing nothingness, that is largely what Marfa is. The dry land and tumbleweeds and sky for miles that West Texas is known for.
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Days 115-118

Austin Texas is the promised land for someone like me. Alive with music, food, dumb ideas and opportunity. It’s been a couple months. When I think about Austin, I do not see a breakfast taco or a golden sunset over the mothership Whole Foods or the bridge with the bats or the world of UT’s campus. I see the highway. It’s narrow through Austin, buried behind walls and overpasses. We were crawling through rush-hour traffic and I never wanted to see another concrete median in my life.
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Days 110-114

From Asheville to Clarksville, a definite step down, ville-wise. But a good friend lives in Clarksville, so we went, and his best efforts to make us dislike the place as much as he does went unrewarded, mostly. The food was better than average and the riverfront was satisfying. Worse than Asheville, yes, but a fine place to visit.
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Days 108-109


This is guest post number two from co-pilot Sarah

I had been told that I would love Asheville. My hopes were high, and were exceeded by a town surrounded by hills that looked like mountains, a local beer scene (and art scene) that seemed small but were explosive and main drags that went on and up through the Blue Ridges and changing leaves.
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Days 104-107

The rest of the trip, starting here, comes from the perspective of its end. We are back. We are home, we are once again living in a place, we are going through the days, we are surviving, exploring our own worlds, exploring our own challenges the way my peers are all doing. So that’s where I’m coming from.
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Days 96-103

Above we have some rabble-rousing street art. But it is not on the street. It has been transported at great expense and with utmost care, to the Newseum in Washington D.C. Because this particular piece of rabble-rousing street art is the Berlin Wall.

The Newseum has the largest chunk of the Wall outside Germany. As with any graffiti, this art was created at some risk to the artist from an establishment and the hushed preservation of it by an establishment seems antithetical. But especially so here: the risk of creation was greater and the artists wanted nothing more than the destruction of the surface on which they were painting. But moving it across the Atlantic works out too, I suppose.
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