It might be psychological, but whenever I cross the border from Canada into the United States, I’m immediately aware that I’ve entered into a different culture. It might be the looming billboards for lawyers, but people, and even the space around them, seem vividly different.
The Denny’s in Pennsylvania had both N’s burned out of its’ name. The patrons seemed older, larger and friendlier there, and it was next to impossible to find anything on the menu that suggested vegetables. The T-bone steak I ordered arrived quickly– it’s method of cooking and the subsequent colour achieved, a mystery.
It didn’t taste like food, exactly, but close.
As we left, our waitress who looked like she’d lived a hard 46 years in this life, smoked just outside the entrance. She interrupted the conversation she was having with another server to address me, “Thanks sweetheart, y’all have a good night now!” And then without missing a beat, she picked up the thread of her existing chat, “ And I don’t know why in the hell he’s shrieking at me, I mean, it’s not even my freakin’ kid, it’s Ruthie’s!” And then she shook her head, exasperated and disappointed, before flicking her cigarette butt into the parking lot.
We drove for nearly eight hours into the night, ever twisting and turning through the dark hills and valley of West Pennsylvania, as if to move further away from the world. We picked-up Christian radio stations, kept a lookout for deer, and took comfort in the transport trucks that were our sole companions.