Been reading a great book: 'These are the Days that Must Happen to You' by Dan Walsh. A man on a bike traveling. I love his fast, poetic writing. Here's a bit from the USA:
"Between the towns, the shotgun shacks, run-down enough, poor nuff, to look like reluctant recompense for the emancipated black families that maybe still live there. Nowhere. mailboxes for draft papers, tax reminders, 'Regret to inform that son/husband KIA' notices. Seems improbable that these isolated, rural, poor folks get to vote for the most powerful man in the world.
Just outside Waycross I pull into the perfect diner - chromed stools, Formica'd booths, harassed faded-pretty waitress juggling hungry customers, a restless son and a call-in-sick phone: 'This is the last time, Marcy - you better bring me a doctor's note or just not come back.' I chat with the chef, a capable ginger kid with a smile full of braces, sweating over a grill the size of a snooker table, cracking an egg in each hand, casually flipping pancakes ceiling-high, giggling about my Austen Powers accent. 'What's a wanker?'"
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