Driving into Winslow as the sun goes down ... there's not a whole lot happening. I can't quite put my finger on why this is such a quintessentially American scene for me: the particular spacing of the street lamps and traffic signals? The Hopper-like sense of loneliness? (it might be more Dorothy Hughes). Of course, La Posada being just round the corner from here, we were soon in non-bleak comfort (for how well the cats have settled into the Sam Maloof room, see mothandlucyfur on Instagram ...)
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