Information — . . .

Ava Hassinger

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You’re thinking about crossing the country by car because you are afraid of flying, but also because you’ve never driven across the country before. You have wanted to do a road trip since 2019, before the world fell apart, but it didn’t happen because the world fell apart. Years later, you make the decision, finally. Your dear friend decides to join. You agree this is a good idea because you can’t imagine doing the trip alone- it would be too scary and isolating. You think that you’ll get to the other side in 5 days, but it takes 2 and a half weeks. You drive every day. You stop in a different town every two to three days.

You see the ground(land) transition from lush green to sweet brown (or cinnamon) ash. Sometimes it is red and burned. Sometimes it is white or yellow. It is dry. It is hot. You think you are on the edge of civilization. You see trailer park after trailer park after trailer park. City to small town to village to small town again. You see mountains and road kill (armadillos) endlessly. The front of your car and windshield become matted with bugs.

You try not to eat McDonald’s or truck stop snacks, but sometimes that’s all there is. Naturally, because you’re driving so much and the highway starts to become commonplace, your mind wanders - highway hypnosis. You are thinking about your life. You listen to music or some audiobook to pass the time. You have conversations with your friend- some are light/funny, some are heavy/sad. You have anxiety about being landlocked, because you are used to being (living) closer to a coastline. You know where the sea is, and there is no sea in the middle of the country. When you get to Oklahoma, the sky opens up and the world becomes flat- sort of. It gets flatter as you go west. Then mountains appear again, but it is still dry. The light changes. Sound travels far in the desert.

Once you get to California, you relax a little- you’re on the other side. Los Angeles is the point where you turn around and head east again – Las Vegas, Moab, Denver. Desert to mountains and then Kansas - flat again. You leave your friend and continue your journey eastward, alone. Indiana and back to Philadelphia, where it is even more lush than when you left it. You are exhausted from driving. 26 days you have been moving through space and time.

You’ve walked in white sands, petrified forests, hiked through vortexes, seen petroglyphs, gone to memorials and (cried in) museums, soaked in natural mineral springs, sat in hot tubs under night skies, played slot machines.

You realize you were searching (or escaping from) for something. You thought you would transform into a new person - a person who has seen some things. You were that person before. And even though those 26 days were exhausting, exhilarating, inspiring, and at times bewildering, you would do it again.

- September 2025