![]() ![]() But the ever-confident tone of self-marketing in America, consistently and regardless of the actual quality of the service delivered – See for yourself what makes our rooms second-to-none, read a sign at the Outpost – greeted me in much the same way it would have greeted Nabokov on his cross-country trip sixty years before. A time when the separation between the highway and America’s hinterland was harder to place. ![]() Perhaps it was wishful thinking to imagine that this brought me back to the time before the interstate highway, when America’s roadside infrastructure was more disparate and easier to categorize. The Outpost Motel, as it was called, stood just off a country road that eventually intersects with US Route 290, a mile or so to the north, but the immediate surroundings featured nothing but tall weeds and a lone Catholic church. I stayed at my very first out-of-the-way motel (damp linen, unexplained human screams in the middle of the night, impeccable quirky 70s décor: my heart melted). ![]() As a non-driver, and a non-native English speaker, I felt a certain degree of affinity with Vladimir Nabokov when I had the chance to do a short road trip in Texas recently. ![]()
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