Gas was more expensive than back home. Parts were cheaper, too.
They said they found a parked car in the intersection, apparently abandoned. A few hours later, it was scrounged for parts, three men surrounding it.
What are they called again? I asked, referring to a conversation we had earlier.
I used to think there was something romantic about public transportation. In my mind, I glamorized it. Maybe it was because I had spent most of my life moving by car, staring out windows, listening to the local R&B station. From a distance, public transportation sparkled. Buses. Trains. Subways. Love. But then it dimmed. Germs. Lateness. And, in general, impracticality. Mostly I drive now.
I had never driven as much as I did when I attended grad school. It was all highways. And morning classes. Stats was 8 AM. Traffic was an hour. I rolled out of bed at 6:55 AM. Left at 7:05 AM. Blasted Big Booty by Gucci Mane on Spotify whilst blazing 90 mph on the highway. Surprisingly I never got a ticket. The roads were wide and empty. Unlike this trip and its crowded rush hour(s).
Some might say the car culture here was strong. I would say the quality of driving was not. There were always accidents. And people blocking medians. Where was the car-etiquette? Every few days, there was a wreck. Then the familiar vulture of ambulances circling the debris.