Word: volvo
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Early in the trip Matt and Andrew had taken precautionary measures against the inevitable information overload and started a diary. But it didn’t last. The third time they used it, someone struck their Volvo hard on its side. Suddenly superstitious, they never wrote anything down again. They told me this as we walked toward an outdoor café in New Orleans’ French Quarter, ruled at the time by a bizarre economic love triangle. Tourists shared the space equally with the homeless, drunk, and destitute, who entertained them to get by; meanwhile, dozens of missionaries...
...sick of New Orleans,” Andrew said the next morning, standing outside the Volvo to stretch before a long day’s drive. “Let’s go to a new city!” Later, he would regret leaving so soon. But at the time, he was ready to move...
When we left the Lamar, we got back into the Volvo and onto the highway. Andrew put on the radio, moving between stations until he found the local country one. Soon, he was turning the volume way up, and he and Matt were belting out along with Keith, lowering the windows so the whole highway could hear them...
...side, becoming water, which becomes waves, which unfold away even faster than the green, and you feel like you just might reach that horizon, because—look—now the trucks are getting off at that exit, and Andrew is pressing down on the gas, and the Volvo is moving faster. Everything seems possible, and there is no need to worry why you are there, because, like that saying goes, there you are—and anyway, soon you’ll be gone...
...touch down in the land of the De-elta blues… I was walking in Memphis!” Sitting in the driver’s seat, Andrew looked out his window, embarrassed; a baseball game had just ended, and happy fans were passing the Volvo in droves. “Hold on,” he said to Matt. “I’ve gotta roll up my window first...