Slow

From Minneapolis to Chicago, all you pass are these tiny Wisconsonian towns whose entire tourism industry rests on a gas station and the McDonald’s right next to it, the McDonald’s whose manager probably has the place overemployed.

Last weekend, my dad and I each took half of the 350 miles it takes to get to Chicago, where we deposited my sister at biology camp, visited family, and each took half of the 350 miles it takes to get back. It was a Saturday morning to Sunday evening thing.

So far, this has been the only summer of my lifetime that hasn’t gone by fast. There’s no feeling of “where did yesterday/last week/June/July go?” It’s probably a coping mechanism; friends spend more time together, do more stuff and more often because the road forks around the bend.

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