The late morning air is still somewhat fresh and gives a blue tint to the rocky mounts in the distance. Later on, it will start to shimmer and transform my vision into a kind of daydream fantasy with moving silouhettes and soaring eagles. But not just yet.
I pull the handle and tilt my seat backward. In an instant of estranged realization, I start wondering what this trip would feel like in a second-class bus, overcrowded with workers and families, but charming with scents of home made foods and the excitement of little kids who maybe travel for the first time. I come to terms with the overwhelming luxury of my travel by deciding to spend the entire trip looking out the window at the other vehicles and the people who drive them.
Middle-aged men with ranchero hats steering beaten-down trucks, serious double-trailer truckers with their eyes glued on the road ahead, smiling people singing out loud in their car crammed with luggage and blankets and things. We are all travelers unknowingly sharing a highway moment, somewhere in central Mexico.
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