I get off the bus in Reno and it’s raining.
I spent the last week in San Francisco and it’s the first time I’ve felt rain since Montreal, I think — in Reno.
(Side note: whenever you think about taking the Greyhound to travel — and you will think about it, if you travel — don’t. I mean, sometimes you can’t help it, of course, and it’s not that bad — but it’s almost that bad. If you can work your itinerary around Megabus or whatnot — Jesus. Do it. I almost saw two fistfights on the bus before we got out of SF proper.)
The rain almost enhances the desolation of the city, like you can almost hear the drops fizzing on the fading neon, half-lit lines advertising motor-lodges.
It’s everything I hate and I’m a little bit in love.
I’m in a room with a bed, alone, with a door that locks, for the first time since June 9. The TV is watching me accusingly, like I don’t belong here.
(Of course I don’t belong here.)
It’s like a caricature of the 1970s (I guess): the curtains look like red velvet, though I don’t want to touch them. I can’t tell if the motels have kept this aesthetic on purpose, but I’m guessing not.