Adventure Travel
It was so hot along the edge of the highway that the glue binding the spine of my guidebook was starting to fail, and as I compulsively checked the maps to see how far we were from our destination, pages kept coming loose, like the wings of craneflies in the hands of a sadistic little boy. I tucked them, in ever-increasing number, back in their place inside the glossy cover.
This was supposed to be a good area to hitch a ride, and perhaps if any cars would pass through, this would be true. But the road was barren, the locals apparently knowing better than to travel on such a day in their mostly un-air-conditioned (for who here could afford to have such a non-essential system repaired?) prewar cars, and all the hospitality in the world didn’t help if nobody was along to offer it.
We stopped under a crumbling overpass, opened the last two cans of now-lukewarm beer. It was too foamy, and not terribly refreshing, but it was all we had left.
“Ain’t this fine,” I said, bitterly.
“I’m not the genius who wanted to take vacation on the Surface,” spat back Martha.
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