The American interstate system stitches our country together, like a giant latticework connecting one coast to the other, allowing for the free ranging of the populace. Originally thought up for military reasons (the transport of troops quickly) in the 1950’s, with the additional benefit of shunting goods and services faster across our states, it has lost it’s military connotation and become a standard. The negative side effect was the destruction of the more localized, city-square style highway system, where small towns were given the ability to monetize local cuisines and tchotchkes to meandering motorists.
But it’s not so much the freeways themselves that this is about. I am much more interested in the truck stop. Not the truck stop of yore though. One where vast arrays of semi trucks are lined tightly next to each other, like a behemoth domino tumble, and lot lizards flit between large-bellied, mesh hat wearing road jockeys. Instead I’m talking about the modern convenience version. Where just as likely as you are to see a classic trucker, you’ll also see the families grabbing their gas while tumbling out of a minivan, a solo road tripper refilling his giant cup of coffee, locals from the nearest tiny hamlet filling their own tanks for the week and catching up on local affairs, and all punctuated by the steady roar from the inevitably close interstate.
They are easy to access and direct. One of my particular favorites is Loves. There is nothing like seeing a gigantic, billboard-sized sign with the word Loves shining across a spread horizon. Especially when you are in the Southwest or plain’s states and get to see it pierce an otherwise undisturbed natural view. Many times while driving I’ve caught a pastel sunset with a Loves’ sign superimposed across it.
That’s the other aspect of the truck stop phenomenon. They inevitably have a sickly out of place feeling much like the interstates themselves. A tiny concrete island in what is otherwise a fairly untrodden and forgotten part of the American landscape. The few that are close enough to bigger towns are still on the outskirts of town. One of my particular favorites in Winslow, Arizona, also has a Denny’s connected to the convenience store portion (and I have a whole other opinion about the yin-yang, good vs. evil Denny’s/Waffle House dichotomy). But as far as its location, it is the last stop before another decent stretch of slightly inhospitable (by modern convenience standards) land. Let me mention here though that when I talk about these lands being inhospitable, I only mean it in the current American consumer mindset. They’ve been utilized and hospitable for millennia by the indigenous tribes, but that’s a different conversation.
I think the reason I find these places so fascinating is because in reality they are non-places. The equivalent of a purgatory stop before you enter Heaven or Hell. And for some people, headed to whatever their fate is, they can be exactly that. Sidebar: I took a Greyhound across the country once from Alabama to California, with many side adventures in between (story for another time). But one thing seemed obvious to me, people were either headed somewhere to face a demon, or traveling to a new happier life. Sprinkled in between were the European tourists who assumed the Greyhound was similar to any public transit in Europe (it is not.) But the truck stop is just this, the midway point, the mid-life crisis of the road.
The perfect term, Liminal Space. The academic way of saying purgatory. If you sit for awhile and watch the people flit in and out of the truck stop you get lost. But why is this the first thing I want to write about? Maybe because in this era of hyper-saturation, where media permeates everything, and pretty much any hidden gem has been discovered and TikTok’d about, the liminal space has become an area of relief. The truck stop is unloved - despite the looming Loves’ sign. An afterthought, just somewhere built for the pure necessity of commerce and transit. Sure, it’s a respite while you continue following the winding tar snake of the freeway, but it’s not restful.
Normally liminal spaces are thought of as places that, having purpose, are seen in a purposeless moment. A classroom at night with empty desks, a bus stop in off hours, office towers when everyone has gone home. I think liminal spaces don’t need to just be somewhere where the people have left, giving way to creepy unused architecture, but places where humans can be without any other point than utilizing the space, ideally without being disturbed in the process, so they can move along to something that has meaning to them.
I want to write about the in-between. But more than that, I’d like to write about people’s hunts for the meaning in it. Be it food, art, experiences, whatever. The dynamics of humanity are a constant flux. There’s more to be discovered in the unexpected places and with a close eye on the mundane. Sometimes the beige wall has a ghost imprint of the colorful mural that existed beneath it. Sometimes it’s hard to hunt these sorts of things, but they have a certain ineffable feeling and you know it when you’ve found it. I don’t think this is an original idea by any means, but it’s one I feel strongly about, and one I hope people reading this will appreciate.
The name of my Substack comes from a love of multiple hobbies. It is a poker term, it is a nature reference (specifically to fishing), and for me it evokes a level of transience. Life is change, and it’s a constant, a never ceasing flow that we try our best to yield to and meld with. Sometimes it works. Other times we feel like we’ve been tossed in and can barely stay above water. And sometimes we drown in it.
There isn’t a specific point to this. It’s more than anything my own attempt at understanding what is going on. Maybe a chronicle of things I find interesting is enough. And if it interests someone else, all the better. Keep it organic. Let it grow. Because god knows the more I try and control a thing, the more out of control it becomes. Let it flow.