I think my experience in Reno is best summed up by a comment I made to a friend:
“Being in Reno is so much more like being in Reno than I had anticipated.”
It’s like a bizarre mix of Daytona Beach and South of the Border, minus like twenty years. Which if you’ve been to Daytona or South of the Border recently, that’s fucking saying something.
Also, you’d think people in Reno would be numb enough to weird shit as to not be flabbergasted by my freshly pinked-up hair, but apparently you’d be wrong. In the space of about three blocks one dude gushed about it volubly then invited me out for a beer (I politely declined), and then another chick asked me if I were a rock star, because I looked like a rock star. (I sadly informed her that I am definitely not a rock star.)
But hey, pink hair!
I also classed it up pretty hard this morning when I got out of the shower, naked to preserve my clothes from the ravages of hair dye and wet pink streaks running down my body — and there was a fucking window washer perched outside my window. On the twelfth floor. I did not realize that this was a thing that actually happens to actual people, not just in cartoons.
Fortunately, the last remnants of my sense of shame dissolved somewhere around the (first) time I stuck my KY-coated hand into my bike shorts somewhere on the side of the highway in Illinois. So I just kind of half-shrugged and waved before ducking out of line of sight.
In about an hour I will hop on yet another bus to Sacramento, where I will spend the night in yet another hostel for no reason except to avoid real life for another day. Then I shall likely embark on one last great train ride back up to Seattle, where I will immediately commence contemplating ways to avoid real life some more and remain a glitch in the human system.