Country Lane Quotes

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses, hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees.

Ali wrinkled her forehead and cocked her head to the side. Clearly, she hadn't prepared herself for me to be pleasant. After a moment, her eyes narrowed. "What exactly did you and Lake did yesterday?" she asked, like we might have held up a gas station and gone on a crime spree across the country, all in the span of just a few hours. "We went to Mexico, had some tequila, eloped with a pair of drug smugglers, and took part-time jobs as exotic dancers. You know, same old, same old." Ali snorted. "I'm torn on stripper names. It's either going to be Lady Love or Wolfsbane Lane. Thoughts?" Ali threw a onesie at me. "Brat.

Suddenly, in the space of a moment, I realized what it was that I loved about Britain - which is to say, all of it. Every last bit of it, good and bad - Marmite, village fetes, country lanes, people saying 'mustn't grumble' and 'I'm terribly sorry but', people apologizing to me when I conk them with a nameless elbow, milk in bottles, beans on toast, haymaking in June, stinging nettles, seaside piers, Ordnance Survey maps, crumpets, hot-water bottles as a necessity, drizzly Sundays - every bit of it. What a wondrous place this was - crazy as fuck, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bec and Farleigh Wallop, or a game like cricket that goes on for three days and never seems to start? Who else would think it not the least odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, compel the Speaker of the House of Commons to sit on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a military hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? ('Please Hardy, full on the lips, with just a bit of tongue.') What other nation in the world could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, the Open University, Gardners' Question Time and the chocolate digestive biscuit? None, of course. How easily we lose sight of all this. What an enigma Britain will seem to historians when they look back on the second half of the twentieth century. Here is a country that fought and won a noble war, dismantled a mighty empire in a generally benign and enlightened way, created a far-seeing welfare state - in short, did nearly everything right - and then spent the rest of the century looking on itself as a chronic failure. The fact is that this is still the best place in the world for most things - to post a letter, go for a walk, watch television, buy a book, venture out for a drink, go to a museum, use the bank, get lost, seek help, or stand on a hillside and take in a view. All of this came to me in the space of a lingering moment. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you.

Okay, basics. The three S’s: shower, shit, and shave—every man could do that in his sleep. So he did. He managed his complete morning routine in a mental and emotional coma.

The night was aromatic with the smell of autumn and the steely fragrance of freshly dampened blacktop. How she loved the smell of road: asphalt baking and soft in July, dirt roads with their dust-and-pollen perfume in June, country lanes spicy with the odor of crushed leaves in sober October, the sand-and-salt smell of the highway, so like an estuary, in February.

There being no direct route to Savannah from Charleston, I followed a zigzagging course that took me through the tidal flatlands of the South Carolina low country. As I approached Savannah, the road narrowed to a two-lane blacktop shaded by tall trees. There was an occasional produce stand by the side of the road and a few cottages set into the foliage, but nothing resembling urban sprawl. The voice on the radio informed me that I had entered a zone called the Coastal Empire.

I had to suppress a smile. Sherlock Holmes once remarked of his brother, Mycroft, that you were as unlikely to find him outside of the Diogenes Club as you were to meet a tramcar coming down a country lane. Like Mycroft, Father had his rails, and he ran on them. Except for church and the occasional short-tempered dash to the train to attend a stamp show, Father seldom, if ever, stuck his nose out-of-doors.

How lucky country children are in these natural delights that lie ready to their hand! Every season and every plant offers changing joys. As they meander along the lane that leads to our school all kinds of natural toys present themselves for their diversion. The seedpods of stitchwort hang ready for delightful popping between thumb and finger, and later the bladder campion offers a larger, if less crisp, globe to burst. In the autumn, acorns, beechnuts, and conkers bedizen their path, with all their manifold possibilities of fun. In the summer, there is an assortment of honeys to be sucked from bindweed flowers, held fragile and fragrant to hungry lips, and the tiny funnels of honeysuckle and clover blossoms to taste.

It sometimes happens that the town child is more alive to the fresh beauty of the country than a child who is country born. My brother and I were born in London...but our descent, our interest and our joy were in the north country'. Quoted in The Tale of Beatrix Potter a Biography by Margaret Lane, First Edition p 32-33

As the carriage bumped her bones along the dark country lanes, Martha decided that if she ever got back to her own time she would write a book called 'Travel in the Edwardian Era. It would be a short book - OUCH in capital letters followed by fifty pages of bad language.

When you get to that point where you notice a person’s faults, you’ve got to decide if you can live with them or can’t live without them.

See that little stream — we could walk to it in two minutes. It took the British a month to walk to it — a whole empire walking very slowly, dying in front and pushing forward behind. And another empire walked very slowly backward a few inches a day, leaving the dead like a million bloody rugs. No Europeans will ever do that again in this generation.” “Why, they’ve only just quit over in Turkey,” said Abe. “And in Morocco —” “That’s different. This western-front business couldn’t be done again, not for a long time. The young men think they could do it but they couldn’t. They could fight the first Marne again but not this. This took religion and years of plenty and tremendous sureties and the exact relation that existed between the classes. The Russians and Italians weren’t any good on this front. You had to have a whole-souled sentimental equipment going back further than you could remember. You had to remember Christmas, and postcards of the Crown Prince and his fiancée, and little cafés in Valence and beer gardens in Unter den Linden and weddings at the mairie, and going to the Derby, and your grandfather’s whiskers.” “General Grant invented this kind of battle at Petersburg in sixty- five.” “No, he didn’t — he just invented mass butchery. This kind of battle was invented by Lewis Carroll and Jules Verne and whoever wrote Undine, and country deacons bowling and marraines in Marseilles and girls seduced in the back lanes of Wurtemburg and Westphalia. Why, this was a love battle — there was a century of middle-class love spent here. This was the last love battle.

you’ll learn how to recognize when you’re living in the country called “Sad” in the town called “Victimville” on the street called “Hurt Lane” so you don’t stay there longer than you need to.

Hercules And The Wagoner A CARTER was driving a wagon along a country lane, when the wheels sank down deep into a rut. The rustic driver, stupefied and aghast, stood looking at the wagon, and did nothing but utter loud cries to Hercules to come and help him. Hercules, it is said, appeared and thus addressed him: "Put your shoulders to the wheels, my man. Goad on your bullocks, and never more pray to me for help, until you have done your best to help yourself, or depend upon it you will henceforth pray in vain." Self-help is the best help.

The Oxen and the Axle-Trees A HEAVY WAGON was being dragged along a country lane by a team of Oxen. The Axle-trees groaned and creaked terribly; whereupon the Oxen, turning round, thus addressed the wheels: "Hullo there! why do you make so much noise? We bear all the labor, and we, not you, ought to cry out." Those who suffer most cry out the least.

If you’re decent to people, you’ll usually find out they’re decent people, too.

Honestly—who puts a hamburger next to diet tofu curry unless they’re trying to buy your soul?

I've always been one to prefer dimbling down country lanes on me own cod mumbling to myself in some kind of mad ecstasy with a strange feeling of happiness in my step.

He tasted like gingermint and chocolate kulfi and something stronger and more powerful, something like want and need, and Owen drank him in and gave him back, dying for him in the subjective three hours it took to get to Malcolm's door.

One day we came home from some errands to find a grocery sack of [zucchini] hanging on our mailbox. The perpetrator, of course, was nowhere in sight ... Garrison Keillor says July is the only time of year when country people lock our cars in the church parking lot, so people won't put squash on the front seat. I used to think that was a joke ... It's a relaxed atmosphere in our little town, plus our neighbors keep an eye out and will, if asked, tell us the make and model of every vehicle that ever enters the lane to our farm. So the family was a bit surprised when I started double-checking the security of doors and gates any time we all were about to leave the premises. "Do I have to explain the obvious?" I asked impatiently. "Somebody might break in and put zucchini in our house.

That’s where they’d gone right after the train station, where Malcolm (Malcolm!) had poured his bloody heart out and begged Owen not to leave. Bed. There would be time to hammer out the details later

Into no other city does the sight of the country enter so far; if you do not meet a butterfly, you shall certainly catch a glimpse of far-away trees upon your walk; and the place is full of theatre tricks in the way of scenery.  You peep under an arch, you descend stairs that look as if they would land you in a cellar, you turn to the back-window of a grimy tenement in a lane:—and behold! you are face-to-face with distant and bright prospects.  You turn a corner, and there is the sun going down into the Highland hills.  You look down an alley, and see ships tacking for the Baltic.

On Radcliffe's headstone, in smaller text beneath his name, was written, Here lieth one who sought truth and light and saw beauty in all things, 1842-1882. Leonard [Gilbert] found himself staring as he often did at the dash between the dates. Within that lichen-laced mark there lay the entire life of a man: his childhood, his loves, his losses and fears, all reduced to a single chiseled line on a piece of stone in a quiet churchyard at the end of a country lane. Leonard wasn't sure whether the thought was comforting or distressing; his opinion changed, depending on the day.

Really? Brixton? Where nobody speaks fucking English?” Okay, that wasn’t quite fair, and supposedly Brixton was getting “gentrified.” “Remember Guns of Brixton, the Clash?

We need only to close our eyes and we are back on the Third Line, walking up the lane, through the yard and entering the bright, warm kitchen. We are home again.

Kindness is not weakness, Malcolm. Forgiveness isn’t lack of backbone. Forgiveness is the thing that lets human beings not strangle each other after a half an hour’s acquaintance. It’s not something you in particular should shit on, you know?

Oh—and you need to work on making my opinion more important than Josh’s, too. I know it’s a stretch—he’s your most intimate relationship to date, but when you’re balls deep in my ass, I’d prefer you not be wondering if it counts as a workout.

Walking away from you was like walking away from the best part of me. I almost didn’t recognize him.Walking away from you was like walking away from the best part of me. I almost didn’t recognize him.

How she loved the smell of road: asphalt baking and soft in high July, dirt roads with their dust-and-pollen perfume in June, country lanes spicy with the odor of crushed leaves in sober October, the sand-and-salt smell of the highway, so like an estuary, in February.

Dive from a high platform, walk a country lane, watch your computer freeze, cross a finish line, hear your morning alarm, look for a parking space, toast on your anniversary, embrace a friend after a funeral. As you live your life, what do you feel? Terror, serenity, frustration, relief, groaning reluctance, patient endurance, pride, satisfaction, or a grief made bearable because somehow life will go on. We experience life as feelings.

Yes. You couldn’t make anyone else happy. He tried to tell himself that, and drink through the buzzing little voice saying that, for a few short weeks, he actually had made someone else happy. And Owen had made him happy too.

Revelation comes with these misunderstandings. Stuart's life and way of thinking momentarily exposed. Like a break in the hedgerow during the country lane part of a journey. For an instant you glimpse scenery you haven't seen before - fields of poppy and cornflower, trees gnarled in the shape of demons.

The country, meanwhile, has eroded into a stultifying economic sinkhole for average Russians. “Despite receiving $1.6 trillion from oil and gas exports from 2000 to 2011, Russia was not able to build a single multi-lane highway during this time. There is still no interstate highway linking Moscow to the Far East,” Karen Dawisha wrote in her richly detailed 2014 book, Putin’s Kleptocracy.

But strong isn’t suits and a stupidly expensive lifestyle.” “No?” “No. Strong is having the faith to run after a guy you’ve fallen for and taking the risk of looking like an idiot in the middle of St Pancras. And not giving enough of a fuck to not do it.

I love you, storm girl,” I said. “I’d love to live in Mirror Lake with you. I’d love to work on the Spiral Project with you. I’d love to chase storms, outrun tornados, fix trucks, drive all over the country. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. As long as I’m with you.

Malcolm chuckled wickedly. "You, my American friend, are like a hidden landmine of sex appeal. I'm going to have to look out for you." "Too late." Owen raised his face to the unfamiliar smells, breezes, sounds of the city, enjoying them even more now that he knew something of it and it had become personal to him. "I've already exploded. You're caught." He tilted his head back and laughed, inviting Malcolm to share the joke, but Malcolm was unusually quiet.....

Riding horseback along a country lane I saw wild roses in bloom, against an old stone wall. The expensive, improved varieties in my garden have lost something. Sophistication always does.

the looniness of the long distance runner - pounding along country lanes, so anxious to lop off seconds he never stops to marvel at a field of buttercups or a flock of geese against the sky.

People happily kill other people in the name of everything from a god to a country to an overly developed sense of annoyance when someone cuts across two lanes on a freeway without signaling. Cats will, on occasion, kill other cats but for the most part they are content to puff up their furr, yowl like banshees, and rip the occassional ear off - and all this is usually done for the sake of food or protecting their own territory (which may not be condonable but it is at least rational) .

PROLOGUE FRIDAY, APRIL 23 OXFORD, ENGLAND ATHENA RAN BLINDLY down the dark country lane, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. Her school jacket with the St. Polycarp’s logo sewn on the pocket was no protection against the sudden drenching spring rain. The knapsack strapped to her body impeded her flight. It did not occur to her to discard it. As the bewildering shock began to wear off, she desperately told herself she was

The franchise and the virus work on the same principle: what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder ― its DNA ― xerox it, and embed it in the fertile lining of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a lef- turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines. In olden times, you’d wander down to Mom’s Café for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your hometown. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate Special would be something you didn’t recognize. If you did enough traveling, you’d never feel at home anywhere. But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald’s and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald’s is Home, condensed into a three-ringed binder and xeroxed. “No surprises” is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world’s most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto.

The sons of those who had survived the horrors of the trenches were marching off to war again, singing, There’ll always be an England While there’s a country lane, Wherever there’s a cottage small Beside a field of grain.

A semi came screaming around a bend in the road, interrupting my thoughts and reminding me suddenly of why walking by the side of the road on a country lane was best reserved for historical romance and Led Zeppelin songs.

Americans tend to use "nation" as a synonym for "country." But political scientists and historians, as well as many Europeans, tend to use the term for a much more specific phenomenon: a group of people who feel they belong together, whether they have a country of their own or not.

Later that night, a priest was traveling on a country lane, and he had an accident. A peasant approached and said, "Mister, are you alright?" The priest said, "Yes, I also had Lord traveling with me." The peasant said, "Well, you best let God ride with me since you are going to kill him.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster--tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand--miles of them--leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues--north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither? Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries--stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

Global warming, in contrast, will probably have different impacts on different nations. Some countries, most notably Russia, might actually benefit from it. Because Russia has relatively few coastline assets, it is far less worried than China or Kiribati about rising sea levels. And whereas higher temperatures are likely to turn Chad into a desert, they might simultaneously turn Siberia into the breadbasket of the world. Moreover, as the ice melts in the far north, the Russian-dominated Arctic sea lanes might become the artery of global commerce, and Kamchatka might replace Singapore as the crossroad of the world.

The wife has begun planning a secret life. In it, she is an art monster. She puts on yoga pants and says she is going to yoga, then pulls off onto a country lane and writes in tiny cramped writing on a grocery list She thinks she should go off her meds maybe so as to write more fluidly. Possibly this is not a good idea. But only possibly.

Inexpensive Progress Encase your legs in nylons, Bestride your hills with pylons O age without a soul; Away with gentle willows And all the elmy billows That through your valleys roll. Let's say goodbye to hedges And roads with grassy edges And winding country lanes; Let all things travel faster Where motor car is master Till only Speed remains. Destroy the ancient inn-signs But strew the roads with tin signs 'Keep Left,' 'M4,' 'Keep Out!' Command, instruction, warning, Repetitive adorning The rockeried roundabout; For every raw obscenity Must have its small 'amenity,' Its patch of shaven green, And hoardings look a wonder In banks of floribunda With floodlights in between. Leave no old village standing Which could provide a landing For aeroplanes to roar, But spare such cheap defacements As huts with shattered casements Unlived-in since the war. Let no provincial High Street Which might be your or my street Look as it used to do, But let the chain stores place here Their miles of black glass facia And traffic thunder through. And if there is some scenery, Some unpretentious greenery, Surviving anywhere, It does not need protecting For soon we'll be erecting A Power Station there. When all our roads are lighted By concrete monsters sited Like gallows overhead, Bathed in the yellow vomit Each monster belches from it, We'll know that we are dead.

some twenty more miles on an old two-lane country road. Traffic was light, just a couple of pickups and a Volkswagen,

The country does not wait to do its wild things just because you have not pulled into the driveway yet; it doesn’t wait for Friday evenings, or cease on Sundays at five o’clock.

We believed in this country in the existence of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and risked everything on it.

A hot dry day was perfect for cutting hay, but Sunday in those days was a true day of rest, and no hay would be taken from the fields, nor any labour done inside or outside of the house.

Mabel grips Eleanor's arm tight as the bowl fast along the country lane, Dilly's hooves kicking dust into sultry July air. Limbs of the trees which stand like sentries beside the lane reach out and curl above them, joining like the high arches of a cathedral to form a cool green canopy, shading the little pony and trap and its occupants from the fierce heat of the afternoon sun.

During a long heart-to-heart talk, as they ramble through the country lanes near Bredon Hill, his father muses upon the old meaning of ‘pagan’ – ‘belonging to the village’. ‘The village is sneered at as something petty. Petty it can be. Yet it works – the scale is human. People can relate there. Man may yet, in the nick of time, revolt, and save himself. Revolt from the monolith; come back to the village.’ He

After lunch Nancy, Bess, and George drove to the eastern outskirts of River Heights to search for the larkspur house. They were riding along a shady country road. Nancy stopped in front of a small home where a woman was trimming the hedge. Under a nearby tree sat an old lady, shelling peas. “Excuse me,” said Nancy, “we’re trying to find a large house in this area that has lots of larkspur or bluebells around it. Do you know of such a place?” “Can’t say I do,” the woman replied. “What’d she say?” the old lady asked loudly. “Nothing, Mother. Just some house they’re looking for. She’s deaf,” the woman added to Nancy. “I heard that!” the mother said tartly. “And I heard ‘house’ and ‘bluebells.’ They’re lookin’ for the bluebell house. And I know just where it is!

To haste as a cause of confusion must be added distraction. Normally, except for those who work in the early hours of the morning, or who live up a long country lane, it is almost impossible to avoid being disturbed by incidental noises of traffic, industry, schools, and the wireless, or by the telephone, or by callers. Few people can immediately switch their minds from one complicated subject to another, and presently switch back again, without losing something in the process. Most business men and journalists claim that they are accustomed to noise and can ‘work through anything’. But this does not mean that they are not affected by noise: part of the brain must be employed in sorting out the noises and discounting them. The intense concentration achieved when one writes in complete silence, security and leisure, with the mental senses cognizant of every possible aspect of the theme as it develops—this was always rare and is now rarer than ever. Modern conditions of living encourage habitual distraction and, though there are still opportunities for comparative quiet, most people feel that they are not really alive unless they are in close touch with their fellow men—and close touch involves constant disturbance. Hart Crane, a leading American poet of the Nineteen-Twenties, decided that he could not write his best except with a radio or victrola playing jazz at him and street-noises coming up through the open window. He considered that distraction was the chief principle of modern living; he cultivated it, distractedly, and committed suicide in his early thirties.

(If you think you want to live in the country, start by clearing a thicket of brambles, invasive woody vines, and choked, decaying trees, and then decide. This or its equivalent will basically become your life practice. There are always thorny bits in your path, always.) Back

The longer I live here, the better satisfied I am in having pitched my earthly camp-fire, gypsylike, on the edge of a town, keeping it on one side, and the green fields, lanes, and woods on the other. Each, in turn, is to me as a magnet to the needle. At times the needle of my nature points towards the country. On that side everything is poetry. I wander over field and forest, and through me runs a glad current of feeling that is like a clear brook across the meadows of May. At others the needle veers round, and I go to town--to the massed haunts of the highest animal and cannibal.

Autumn comes early to the foot of the Slovenian Alps. Even before September, the abundant harvests are followed by a sudden poignant rain that lasts for days and brings down leaves in the lanes of the village. Now, in my fifties, I find myself wandering that direction every few years, reliving my first glimpse of the Slovenian countryside. This is old country. Every autumn mellows it a little more, in aeternum, each beginning with the same three colors: a green landscape, two or three yellow leaves falling through a gray afternoon. I suppose the Romans - who left their walls here and their gargantuan arenas to the west, on the coast - saw the same autumn and gave the same shiver. When my father's car swung through the gates of the oldest of Julian cities, I hugged myself. For the first time, I had been struck by the excitement of the traveler who looks history in her subtle face.

I thought I was looking at a building at first: that it was some kind of tent, as high as a country church, made of grey and pink canvas that flapped in the gusts of storm wind, in that orange sky: a lopsided canvas structure aged by weather and ripped by time. And then it turned and I saw its face...

Harvey finished his walk and reached the door of his little house, but instead of using the front door, he opened the garage and looked at his own motorcycle, remembering what Julios had told him about his Royal Enfield. Harvey smiled as he ran his hands across the seat; he knew the strength of feelings a man has for his motorcycle. Harvey pulled his helmet from the hook and removed it from the black cotton bag. Within two minutes he was cruising along the narrow country lanes that led into Chigwell. His plain white shirt flapped in the wind and the cold air stung the skin on his arms like a burn. He was alive.

California during the 1940s had Hollywood and the bright lights of Los Angeles, but on the other coast was Florida, land of sunshine and glamour, Miami and Miami Beach. If you weren't already near California's Pacific Coast you headed for Florida during the winter. One of the things which made Miami such a mix of glitter and sunshine was the plethora of movie stars who flocked there to play, rubbing shoulders with tycoons and gangsters. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the latter two. Miami and everything that surrounded it hadn't happened by accident. Carl Fisher had set out to make Miami Beach a playground destination during the 1930s and had succeeded far beyond his dreams. The promenade behind the Roney Plaza Hotel was a block-long lovers' lane of palm trees and promise that began rather than ended in the blue waters of the Atlantic. Florida was more than simply Miami and Miami Beach, however. When George Merrick opened the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables papers across the country couldn't wait to gush about the growing aura of Florida. They tore down Collins Bridge in the Gables and replaced it with the beautiful Venetian Causeway. You could plop down a fiver if you had one and take your best girl — or the girl you wanted to score with — for a gondola ride there before the depression, or so I'd been told. You see, I'd never actually been to Florida before the war, much less Miami. I was a newspaper reporter from Chicago before the war and had never even seen the ocean until I was flying over the Pacific for the Air Corp. There wasn't much time for admiring the waves when Japanese Zeroes were trying to shoot you out of the sky and bury you at the bottom of that deep blue sea. It was because of my friend Pete that I knew so much about Miami. Florida was his home, so when we both got leave in '42 I followed him to the warm waters of Miami to see what all the fuss was about. It would be easy to say that I skipped Chicago for Miami after the war ended because Pete and I were such good pals and I'd had such a great time there on leave. But in truth I decided to stay on in Miami because of Veronica Lake. I'd better explain that. Veronica Lake never knew she was the reason I came back with Pete to Miami after the war. But she had been there in '42 while Pete and I were enjoying the sand, sun, and the sweet kisses of more than a few love-starved girls desperate to remember what it felt like to have a man's arm around them — not to mention a few other sensations. Lake had been there promoting war bonds on Florida's first radio station, WQAM. It was a big outdoor event and Pete and I were among those listening with relish to Lake's sultry voice as she urged everyone to pitch-in for our boys overseas. We were in those dark early days of the war at the time, and the outcome was very much in question. Lake's appearance at the event was a morale booster for civilians and servicemen alike. She was standing behind a microphone that sat on a table draped in the American flag. I'd never seen a Hollywood star up-close and though I liked the movies as much as any other guy, I had always attributed most of what I saw on-screen to smoke and mirrors. I doubted I'd be impressed seeing a star off-screen. A girl was a girl, after all, and there were loads of real dolls in Miami, as I'd already discovered. Boy, was I wrong." - Where Flamingos Fly

In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh, fur and faeces, Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf. Houses live and die: there is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto. In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls Across the open field, leaving the deep lane Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon, Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, And the deep lane insists on the direction Into the village, in the electric heat Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone. The dahlias sleep in the empty silence. Wait for the early owl. In that open field If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close, On a summer midnight, you can hear the music Of the weak pipe and the little drum And see them dancing around the bonfire The association of man and woman In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie— A dignified and commodiois sacrament. Two and two, necessarye coniunction, Holding eche other by the hand or the arm Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles, Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes, Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth Mirth of those long since under earth Nourishing the corn. Keeping time, Keeping the rhythm in their dancing As in their living in the living seasons The time of the seasons and the constellations The time of milking and the time of harvest The time of the coupling of man and woman And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling. Eating and drinking. Dung and death. Dawn points, and another day Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind Wrinkles and slides. I am here Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

As Democrats and Republicans become further destructive to themselves and to the health of the nation, Far right and Far left have created conditions for a country that is now - too far gone. I don't think it can be fixed or saved. Or helped. The USA is going 175 mph in the wrong lane. It's a country going in the wrong direction; headed for a collision with destiny.

They drove around in Satan's Hearse for a while, getting good and lost with the windows rolled down, driving down a two-lane highway toward absolutely nothing. They listened to a country radio station turned up so loud that the twangs of steel guitars were distorted in the Hearse's old speakers. When they could catch on to the chorus, they sang loud and off-key and didn't give a shit.

Local peasants, uncontaminated by scientific orthodoxy, knew better, however. The naturalist Jean de Charpentier told the story of how in 1834 he was walking along a country lane with a Swiss woodcutter when they got to talking about the rocks along the roadside. The woodcutter matter-of-factly told him that the boulders had come from the Grimsel, a zone of granite some distance away. “When I asked him how he thought that these stones had reached their location, he answered without hesitation: ‘The Grimsel glacier transported them on both sides of the valley, because that glacier extended in the past as far as the town of Bern.’ ” Charpentier was delighted. He had come to such a view himself, but when he raised the notion at scientific gatherings, it was dismissed.

In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses—and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak—there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race.

General Grant invented this kind of battle at Petersburg in sixty- five." "No, he didn't--he just invented mass butchery. This kind of battle was invented by Lewis Carroll and Jules Verne and whoever wrote Undine, and country deacons bowling and marraines in Marseilles and girls seduced in the back lanes of Wurtemburg and Westphalia. Why, this was a love battle--there was a century of middle-class love spent here. This was the last love battle.

Lane,” it said curtly. “I was afraid you were still out of the country,” Cecily said with relief. “Are you all right?” “A few new scars,” he said, with lightness in his tone. “How about a pizza? I’ll pic you up…” “I’m in South Dakota.” “What?” “It’s a long story. Leta has a comfortable sofa. Can you come out here right away?” There was a pause. “If you miss me that much, maybe we’d better get married,” he pointed out. “I’m not marrying a man who shoots people for a living,” she replied with a girn. “I only shoot bad people,” he protested. “Besides…I know what a foramen magnum is.” “Darling!” she exclaimed theatrically. “Get the license!” He chuckled. “That’ll be the day, when you take me on. What sort of mischief are you up to, Cecily?” “No mischief. Just an artifact-buying trip. But I need you.” “In that case, I’m on the way. I’ll rent a car at the airport. See you soon.” He hung up. “You’re not going to marry Colby Lane,” Leta said like a disapproving parent. “But he knows what a foramen magnum is,” she said teasingly. “A who?” “It’s the large opening at the back of the skull,” Cecily said. “Gory stuff.” “Not to an archaeologist,” Cecily said. “Did you know that we can identify at least one race by the dentition of a skull? Native Americans are mongoloid and they have shovel-shaped incisors.” This caused Leta to feel her teeth and ask more questions, which kept her from thinking too much about Colby’s mock proposal.

In the campaign of 1876, Robert G. Ingersoll came to Madison to speak. I had heard of him for years; when I was a boy on the farm a relative of ours had testified in a case in which Ingersoll had appeared as an attorney and he had told the glowing stories of the plea that Ingersoll had made. Then, in the spring of 1876, Ingersoll delivered the Memorial Day address at Indianapolis. It was widely published shortly after it was delivered and it startled and enthralled the whole country. I remember that it was printed on a poster as large as a door and hung in the post-office at Madison. I can scarcely convey now, or even understand, the emotional effect the reading of it produced upon me. Oblivious of my surroundings, I read it with tears streaming down my face. It began, I remember: "The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life.We hear the sounds of preparation--the music of boisterous drums--the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers..." I was fairly entranced. he pictured the recruiting of the troops, the husbands and fathers with their families on the last evening, the lover under the trees and the stars; then the beat of drums, the waving flags, the marching away; the wife at the turn of the lane holds her baby aloft in her arms--a wave of the hand and he has gone; then you see him again in the heat of the charge. It was wonderful how it seized upon my youthful imagination. When he came to Madison I crowded myself into the assembly chamber to hear him: I would not have missed it for every worldly thing I possessed. And he did not disappoint me. A large handsome man of perfect build, with a face as round as a child's and a compelling smile--all the arts of the old-time oratory were his in high degree. He was witty, he was droll, he was eloquent: he was as full of sentiment as an old violin. Often, while speaking, he would pause, break into a smile, and the audience, in anticipation of what was to come, would follow him in irresistible peals of laughter. I cannot remember much that he said, but the impression he made upon me was indelible. After that I got Ingersoll's books and never afterward lost an opportunity to hear him speak. He was the greatest orater, I think, that I have ever heard; and the greatest of his lectures, I have always thought, was the one on Shakespeare. Ingersoll had a tremendous influence upon me, as indeed he had upon many young men of that time. It was not that he changed my beliefs, but that he liberated my mind. Freedom was what he preached: he wanted the shackles off everywhere. He wanted men to think boldly about all things: he demanded intellectual and moral courage. He wanted men to follow wherever truth might lead them. He was a rare, bold, heroic figure.

it seemed to her that never before had she known there was malevolence in solitude. The very coach, which all the day had rocked her like a cradle, now held a note of menace in its creaks and groans. The wind tore at the roof, and the showers of rain, increasing in violence now there was no shelter from the hills, spat against the windows with new venom. On either side of the road the country stretched interminably into space. No trees, no lanes, no cluster of cottages or hamlet, but mile upon mile of bleak moorland,

Not threatening—warning. I haven’t been hunting it this long and gotten this close to let anyone get in my way and fuck things up. There are two kinds of people in this world, Ms. Lane: those who survive no matter the cost, and those who are walking victims.” He pressed his lips to the side of my neck. I felt his tongue where my pulse fluttered, tracing my vein. “You, Ms. Lane, are a victim, a lamb in a city of wolves. I’ll give you until nine P.M. tomorrow to get the bloody hell out of this country and out of my way.

From The Self-Mover's Bible; The Longest Distance between Two Points is a Shortcut Most of us look at a map and instinctively plot a trip based on the shortest distance or as the crow flies. The difference here is that you aren’t flying a crow you’re driving a truck. Unless you are personally familiar with the alternative route your quickest and safest route is the Interstate. 500 miles of smooth sailing on a six-lane highway takes less time to drive than 400 miles on winding two-lane country roads. The Interstate was made for trucks.

I was in that room. It might have been a rehearsal room as a new song dropped by, but soon enough it was a walk down a country lane. “Now,” said the doctor, continuing. “Pull out the feeling that makes you feel safest and strongest and describe it for me.” “I’m walking along a river with my best friend,” I said. “And everything is just as it should be. I have confidence in my footsteps; I feel I am learning judgment but not being judged. I can say anything I want. Sometimes there’s a reply; sometimes there’s not. It’s just a conversation between friends.” “And your friend,” inquired the doctor. “Who is it?” I said, “I think it’s Jesus.” I heard the doctor shuffle, nervously, in his seat. Maybe I wasn’t that deep in his hypnosis. And he asked, “Where are you?” I said, “I’m just walking down a country lane by a river. It’s not the Tolka or the Liffey or even the Mississippi. Could it be the Jordan? I’ve always had a thing about the river Jordan.” Emerging from this “deep relaxation,” I could sense that the great physician had not expected me to find Jesus in my bottom drawer. The doctor was polite

There were always stereotypes,” I said. “Americans are fat; Americans only care about money; Americans don’t care about their families. And everyone thinks America wants to rule the world.” “Don’t you?” Celso asked. I glanced at him to see if he was joking. “We don’t want to rule,” I said. “We just vigorously advance our own interests.” “Seriously,” he said. “The United States is powerful. You control all the oceans and all the shipping lanes. You tell other countries where they can sail their navies, when they’re allowed to trade, and when they’re allowed to fight with their neighbors. Of course people hate you.

Those are the moments I’m proud of. The times I saw through them. The times I made them work to break me, even though I knew they would. The times I questioned the lies being fed to me, though everyone around me believed. I learned early that if everyone around you has their head bowed, their eyes shut tight—keep your eyes open and look around. I’m reflexively suspicious of anyone who stands on a soapbox. Tell me you have the answers and I’ll know you’re trying to sell me something. I’m as wary of certainty as I am of good vibes and positive thinking. They’re delusions that allow you to ignore reality and lay the blame at the feet of those suffering. They just didn’t follow the rules, or think positively enough. They brought it on themselves. I don’t have the answers. Maybe depression’s the natural reaction to a world full of cruelty and pain. But the thing I know about depression is if you want to survive it, you have to train yourself to hold on; when you can see no reason to keep going, you cannot imagine a future worth seeing, you keep moving anyway. That’s not delusion. That’s hope. It’s a muscle you exercise so it’s strong when you need it. You feed it with books and art and dogs who rest their head on your leg, and human connection with people who are genuinely interested and excited; you feed it with growing a tomato and baking sourdough and making a baby laugh and standing at the edge of oceans and feeling a horse’s whiskers on your palm and bear hugs and late-night talks over whiskey and a warm happy sigh on your neck and the unexpected perfect song on the radio, and mushroom trips with a friend who giggles at the way the trees aren’t acting right, and jumping in creeks, and lying in the grass under the stars, and driving with the windows down on a swirly two-lane road. You stock up like a fucking prepper buying tubs of chipped beef and powdered milk and ammo. You stock up so some part of you knows and remembers, even in the dark, all that’s worth saving in this world. It’s comforting to know what happens next. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that no one fucking knows. And it’s terrifying. I don’t dream of a home and a family, a career and financial stability. I dream of living. And my inner voice, defective though it may be, still tells me happiness and peace, belonging and love, all lie just around the next corner, the next city, the next country. Just keep moving and hope the next place will be better. It has to be. Just around the next bend, everything is beautiful. And it breaks my heart.

of fascinating books about this country and about faraway places like Albania, and she became well known the world over. But Rose grew up in a time when ladies did not consciously seek fame. She chose to shed light on the lives of others instead of her own, and so this book about her mother, her father, and herself had to wait until after her death to be published. Rose (who became Mrs. Rose Wilder Lane) led a full and busy life. After her mother died, she wrote the setting for On the Way Home. She also wrote a number of magazine articles, some of which were published as the Woman’s Day Book of American Needlework. She worked at length

We were running on borrowed time, but we didn't know just how borrowed it was, those free and wild days. The whole blessed country came to be paved over, and how I wish we were short on concrete instead of oil. There's shopping malls in the pinewoods, houses in the tomato fields, and our lonesome two-lane blacktops are all six lanes plugged tight with traffic. Hurricanes, earthquakes, wars, plagues, and pirates for three hundred years, but it always came back. And then in thirty years it was gone, paved over and gone. But we did not know all that when we were sitting there in the shade of those courthouse oaks, trying to wish up money.

The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta lane, and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan. I took out a bank-note and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to your own daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my child!" Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the house were despondent at it. But to me the wedding-feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.

Preferring confusion to order is not limited to waiting lines but spills over into other sectors of life, at least in Rome and other more southern regions of the country. One of these is driving, an area where stereotypes about Italians, or at least about Romans, tend to be confirmed. Gridlock, here caused by a willful invasion of the intersection, is a daily occurrence. Red lights and stop signs often are viewed as optional. Using la freccia (directional lights) to signal an intention to turn right or left is infrequent, to say the least, or else left to the last minute, that is when the driver has already begun his turn, frequently from the farthest lane on the opposite side of the roadway.

We are under a deception similar to that which misleads the traveler in the Arabian desert. Beneath the caravan all is dry and bare; but far in advance, and far in the rear, is the semblance of refreshing waters... A similar illusion seems to haunt nations through every stage of the long progress from poverty and barbarism to the highest degrees of opulence and civilization. But if we resolutely chase the mirage backward, we shall find it recede before us into the regions of fabulous antiquity. It is now the fashion to place the golden age of England in times when noblemen were destitute of comforts the want of which would be intolerable to a modern footman, when farmers and shopkeepers breakfasted on loaves the very sight of which would raise a riot in a modern workhouse, when to have a clean shirt once a week was a privilege reserved for the higher class of gentry, when men died faster in the purest country air than they now die in the most pestilential lanes of our towns, and when men died faster in the lanes of our towns than they now die on the coast of Guiana. ... We too shall in our turn be outstripped, and in our turn be envied. It may well be, in the twentieth century, that the peasant of Dorsetshire may think himself miserably paid with twenty shillings a week; that the carpenter at Greenwich may receive ten shillings a day; that laboring men may be as little used to dine without meat as they are now to eat rye bread; that sanitary police and medical discoveries may have added several more years to the average length of human life; that numerous comforts and luxuries which are now unknown, or confined to a few, may be within the reach of every diligent and thrifty workingman. And yet it may then be the mode to assert that the increase of wealth and the progress of science have benefited the few at the expense of the many, and to talk of the reign of Queen Victoria as the time when England was truly merry England, when all classes were bound together by brotherly sympathy, when the rich did not grind the faces of the poor, and when the poor did not envy the splendor of the rich.

Peter Navarro never hid his antagonism toward me. He stopped me one day in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where we were tested routinely for COVID, and again blasted my failure to encourage people to take hydroxychloroquine, the lack of which he said was causing people to die. He would not let it go. Perhaps he just had a thing about me. To give him the benefit of the doubt, I arranged with Cliff Lane to have Navarro present via Zoom his case on hydroxychloroquine’s effectiveness to the entire NIH guidelines panel cochaired by Cliff in early August. This group was thirty-five of the top experts in infectious disease, public health, and epidemiology from all over the country. Navarro made his presentation, and uniformly they politely said, “Mr. Navarro, there’s nothing there. These are anecdotes, and all the evidence indicates hydroxychloroquine doesn’t work and can even cause harm.” Navarro’s answer was that he valued his reading of the existing medical literature on hydroxychloroquine as much as or more than theirs. “If I am wrong, no one is harmed. If you are wrong, thousands of people die.” The truth was the exact opposite. By that time, the FDA, which had given hydroxychloroquine emergency approval early in the pandemic, had revoked it on June 15, after it was found to cause heart problems and even death, not to mention proving ineffective against COVID. I had given Navarro one last chance, but he still could not accept reality.

It never ceases to amaze me how many Christians, in the North and the South, continue to refer to the former as the “developed” and the latter as the “developing” world. When we in the South use this term to describe ourselves, we are evaluating ourselves by a set of cultural values that are alien to our own cultures, let alone to a Christian world-view! All our normative images and yardsticks of “development” are ideologically loaded. Who dictates that mushrooming TV satellite dishes and skyscrapers are signs of “development”? Who, apart from the automobile industry and the advertising agencies, seriously believes that a country with six-lane highways and multi-story car-parks is more “developed” than one whose chief mode of transport is railways? Does the fact that there are more telephones in Manhattan, New York, than in the whole of sub-Saharan Africa, mean that human communication is more developed in the former than the latter?

Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

I was once at heart a revolutionist, and you can tell me nothing about poverty, nothing about suffering, the injustices, the hunger, the apparently needless cruelties that exist from coats to coast of this country. But you can tell me no longer that they are the result of a capitalist system, because there is no system here. All these men who in various ways, for various purposes and with widely varying results to the welfare and happiness of others, struggle to direct American industry, are expensive. They are expensive in that they draw large amounts of actual money from the streams of productive power and pour these sums back into the streams again by spending them for their own individual purposes. But if this chaos were replaced by a system, a social order so perfect that there would be no trace of selfishness in it, an order perfectly functioning for the sole purpose of serving the public good, these men must be replaced by a bureaucracy. And a bureaucracy is expensive, too.

Wider lanes were, obviously, safer than narrower ones. Only they’re not. This time, the problem with the cost-benefit equation wasn’t a faulty premise, but the data itself. In order to test the wider-lanes-are-safer-lanes hypothesis, I studied every crash that occurred on the bridge over a three-year period and marked each one on a map. If that notion had been true, I reasoned, more crashes would have occurred where the lanes were narrowest, that is, at the towers. Just the opposite turned out to be the case. The towers, it turned out, were the safest places on the entire bridge; my explanation is that when lanes get very narrow motorists drive more carefully. Even though every traffic engineer in the country had been taught the gospel of wider lanes, the opposite appeared to be true: “grossly substandard lanes seemed to be the safest of all.” This was the traffic engineering equivalent of saying the Earth was round when the masses knew it was flat. Still, most engineers do not accept this fact.

...moderate social deviance or class non-conformism I have imputed to the first generation of pedestrians. Improved roads, after all, were one of the principal means by which the country was building a national communications network that would underpin the huge commercial and industrial expansion of the nineteenth century; changing the landscape of the country to produce the arterial interconnection of the modern state in place of a geography of more or less self-enclosed local communities; consolidating the administrative structures of the state and facilitating political hegemony over a rapidly growing and potentially unstable population; and promulgating a 'national' culture in the face of regional diversity and independence. With the main roads such powerful instruments of change, the walker's decision to exploit his freedom to resist the imperative of destination and explore instead by lanes, by-roads and fieldpaths, could well be interpreted as an act of denial, flight or dissent vis-a-vis the forces that were ineradicably transforming British society.

It was a sort of car that seemed to have a faculty for motion with an absolute lack of any accompanying sound whatsoever. This was probably illusory; it must have been, internal combustion engines being what they are, tires being what they are, brakes and gears being what they are, even raspy street-surfacing being what it is. Yet the illusion outside the hotel entrance was a complete one. Just as there are silencers that, when affixed to automatic hand-weapons, deaden their reports, so it was as if this whole massive car body were encased in something of that sort. For, first, there was nothing out there, nothing in sight there. Then, as though the street-bed were water and this bulky black shape were a grotesque gondola, it came floating up out of the darkness from nowhere. And then suddenly, still with no sound whatsoever, there it was at a halt, in position. It was like a ghost-car in every attribute but the visual one. In its trancelike approach and halt, in its lightlessness, in its enshrouded interior, which made it impossible to determine (at least without lowering one's head directly outside the windows and peering in at nose-tip range) if it were even occupied at all, and if so by whom and by how many. You could visualize it scuttling fleetly along some overshadowed country lane at dead of night, lightless, inscrutable, unidentifiable, to halt perhaps beside some inky grove of trees, linger there awhile undetected, then glide on again, its unaccountable errand accomplished without witness, without aftermath. A goblin-car that in an earlier age would have fed folklore and rural legend. Or, in the city, you could visualize it sliding stealthily along some warehouse-blacked back alley, curving and squirming in its terrible silence, then, as it neared the mouth and would have emerged, creeping to a stop and lying there in wait, unguessed in the gloom. Lying here in wait for long hours, like some huge metal-cased predatory animal, waiting to pounce on its prey. Sudden, sharp yellow spurts of fangs, and then to whirl and slink back into anonymity the way it came, leaving the carcass of its prey huddled there and dead. Who was there to know? Who was there to tell? ("The Number's Up")

Kamimura has been whispering all week of a sacred twenty-four-hour ramen spot located on a two-lane highway in Kurume where truckers go for the taste of true ramen. The shop is massive by ramen standards, big enough to fit a few trucks along with those drivers, and in the midafternoon a loose assortment of castaways and road warriors sit slurping their noodles. Near the entrance a thick, sweaty cauldron boils so aggressively that a haze of pork fat hangs over the kitchen like waterfall mist. While few are audacious enough to claim ramen is healthy, tonkotsu enthusiasts love to point out that the collagen in pork bones is great for the skin. "Look at their faces!" says Kamimura. "They're almost seventy years old and not a wrinkle! That's the collagen. Where there is tonkotsu, there is rarely a wrinkle." He's right: the woman wears a faded purple bandana and sad, sunken eyes, but even then she doesn't look a day over fifty. She's stirring a massive cauldron of broth, and I ask her how long it's been simmering for. "Sixty years," she says flatly. This isn't hyperbole, not exactly. Kurume treats tonkotsu like a French country baker treats a sourdough starter- feeding it, regenerating, keeping some small fraction of the original soup alive in perpetuity. Old bones out, new bones in, but the base never changes. The mother of all ramen. Maruboshi Ramen opened in 1958, and you can taste every one of those years in the simple bowl they serve. There is no fancy tare, no double broth, no secret spice or unexpected toppings: just pork bones, noodles, and three generations of constant simmering. The flavor is pig in its purest form, a milky broth with no aromatics or condiments to mitigate the purity of its porcine essence.

This past, the Negro's past, of rope, fire torture, castration, infanticide, rape; death and humiliation; fear by day and night, fear as deep as the marrow of the bone; doubt that he was worthy of life, since everyone around him denied it; sorrow for this women, for his kinfolk, for his children, who needed his protection, and whom he could not protect; rage, hatred, and murder, hatred for white men so deep that it often turned against him and his own, and made all love, all trust, all joy impossible - this past, this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity, human authority, yet contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful. I do not mean to be sentimental about suffering - enough is certainly as good as a feast - but people who cannot suffer can never grow up, can never discover who they are. That man who is forced each day to snatch manhood, his identity, out of the fire of human cruelty that rages to destroy it knows, if he survives his effort, and even if he does not survive it, something about himself and human life that no school on earth - and indeed, no church - can teach. He achieves his own authority, and that is unshakable. This is because, in order to save his life, he is forced to look beneath appearances, to take nothing for granted, to hear the meaning behind the words. If one is continually surviving the worst that life can bring, one eventually ceases to be controlled by a fear of what life can bring; whatever it brings must be borne. And at this level of experience one's bitterness begins to be palatable, and hatred becomes too heavy a sack to carry. The apprehension of life here so briefly and inadequately sketched has been the experience of generations of Negroes, and it helps to explain how they have endured and how they have been able to produce children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school. It demands great force and great cunning continually to assault the mighty and indifferent fortress of white supremacy, as Negroes in this country have done so long. It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate. The Negro boys and girls who are facing mobs today come out of a long line of improbable aristocrats - the only genuine aristocrats this country has produced. I say "this country" because their frame of reference was totally American. They were hewing out of the mountain of white supremacy the stone of their individuality. I have great respect for that unsung army of black men and women who trudged down back lanes and entered back doors, saying "Yes, sir" and "No, Ma'am" in order to acquire a new roof for the schoolhouse, new books, a new chemistry lab, more beds for the dormitories, more dormitories. They did not like saying "Yes, sir" and "No Ma'am", but the country was in no hurry to educate Negroes, these black men and women knew that the job had to be done, and they put their pride in their pockets in order to do it. It is very hard to believe that they were in anyway inferior to the white men and women who opened those back doors. It is very hard to believe that those men and women, raising their children, eating their greens, crying their curses, weeping their tears, singing their songs, making their love, as the sun rose, as the sun set, were in any way inferior to the white men and women who crept over to share these splendors after the sun went down. ... I am proud of these people not because of their color but because of their intelligence and their spiritual force and their beauty. The country should be proud of them, too, but, alas, not many people in this country even know of their existence.

In my own mind I find that I can also classify highways advantageously as dominating, equal, or dominated. A dominating highway is one from which, as you drive along it, you are more conscious of the highway than of the country through which you are passing. Six-lane highways, and four-lane highways, particularly in flat country, give this impression. You see the highway itself, the traffic upon it, and the life that has grown up along it and is dependent upon it—all the world of service-stations and garages and restaurants and motor-courts. To many people, of whom I am one, parkways produce the same effect. Although esthetically beautiful, the artificial landscape on both sides of the parkway becomes part of the road itself, and is divorced from the countryside and from reality. The parkway by-passes towns, and therefore the motorist has no sense of actuality. A parkway is excellent at providing unimpeded transportation, and for allowing the city-dweller his escape, but when you drive along the parkway, you are not seeing the real United States of America. The dominated highway, on the contrary, is one which seems to be oppressed and to lose its own identity because of the surroundings through which it is passing. Highways are dominated when they pass along city streets. There is too much close by on either hand. There is too much local traffic that has not the slightest concern with the farther reaches of the highway. On the other hand, highways may be dominated when they are comparatively small roads passing through high mountains or vast plains. Again the highway becomes insignificant, and one's interest is pulled outward, away from it. In between, lies the equal highway, that one which seems to be an intimate and integral part of the countryside through which it is passing. On such a road there is a division of interest between one's focus upon the highway and its margin and upon the country back from the highway. . . .

The franchise and the virus work on the same principle: what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder -- its DNA -- Xerox(tm) it, and embed it in the fertile lining of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a left-turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines. In olden times, you'd wander down to Mom's Cafe for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your hometown. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate Special would be something you didn't recognize. If you did enough traveling, you'd never feel at home anywhere. But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald's and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald's is Home, condensed into a three-ring binder and xeroxed. "No surprises" is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles, Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bun-gee jumping. They have parallelparked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture. The only ones left in the city are street people, feeding off debris; immigrants, thrown out like shrapnel from the destruction of the Asian powers; young bohos; and the technomedia priesthood of Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong. Young smart people like Da5id and Hiro, who take the risk of living in the city because they like stimulation and they know they can handle it.

Phoebe looked at her as if she were a half-witted schoolgirl. “My brother is the most contained man I know. He keeps the books in his library ranked by language, then age, then author, then alphabetically. He prepares his speeches for Parliament weeks in advance and makes sure to know exactly which lords will be attending and how they will be voting in advance. He’s never, as far as I know, kept a mistress—and before you comment, even a virginal younger sister like myself has ways of finding these things out. He’s fanatical about family and is so worried about my safety that he had bars put on my bedroom windows, presumably so that I wouldn’t, in a fit of absentmindedness, blunder into them and fall out.” Phoebe took a deep breath and fixed Artemis with a gimlet eye. “And yet he dragged you into the woods in front of his entire country party, loses his tight rein on his temper with you, and has seduced you in his own home—a home he shares with me. Either my brother has a brain fever or he’s fallen hard in love with you.

After the Second and Third Avenue Els were torn down, East Side property owners had prospered as brownstones, loft buildings, and tenements were replaced by high-rise offices and apartment buildings. The area east of Central Park between 59th and 96th Streets, known as the Upper East Side, became home to fashionable boutiques, luxury restaurants, and expensive furniture houses. With thousands of well-educated young professionals moving there, the neighborhood contained the greatest concentration of single people in the entire country.3 Even though the number of cars registered in the United States grew by 47 percent in the 1950s, New York City’s economy still relied on the subway in the early 1960s. During the 8:00 to 9:00 a.m. rush hour, 72 percent of the people entering the CBD traveled by subway, which could move people far more efficiently than automobiles. Each subway car could carry approximately one hundred people, and a ten-car train could accommodate a thousand. Since trains could operate every two minutes, each track could carry thirty thousand people per hour. By comparison, one lane of a highway could carry only about two thousand cars in an hour.4 Although Manhattan and the region were dependent on the rail transit system, 750,000 cars and trucks were entering the CBD on a typical weekday, three times more than had been the case thirty years earlier. Many New Yorkers expected the city to accommodate the growing number of cars. For example, the Greater New York Safety Council’s transportation division claimed that Americans had a fundamental freedom to drive, and that it was the city’s obligation to accommodate drivers by building more parking spaces in Manhattan. The members argued that without more parking, Manhattan would not be able to continue its role as the region’s CBD because a growing number of suburbanites were so highly conditioned to using their cars.5 In

I think of the self-proclaimed agrarian farmer and scholar Victor Davis Hanson who in his book Fields Without Dreams, wrote sneeringly but also with grief: 'They [city people] no longer care where or how they get their food, as long as it is firm, fresh, and cheap. They have no interest in preventing the urbanization of their farmland as long as parks, Little League fields and an occasional bike lane are left amid the concrete, stucco, and asphalt. They have no need of someone who they are not, who reminds them of their past and not their future. Their romanticism for the farmer is just that, an artificial and quite transient appreciation of his rough-cut visage against the horizon the stuff of a wine commercial, cigarette ad, or impromptu rock concert.' People in the cities don't see farmers clearly. The farmers are overlooked, and instead of being seen as recognizably real, the farmer is romanticized.

I remember, when I was a kid, staring at road maps, the kind you bought at gas stations and carried in the glove box, and that were, for me at least, impossible to properly refold. I remember looking at all those intersecting lines representing roads laid over and carved through the earth, dirt tracks and superhighways, the insolent grids of the cities. I wanted to follow them all to the end. I remember thinking that if you could get hold of all the maps for the entire country, or even the hemisphere, and spread them out side by side, it would be obvious that every road leads to every other road, that everything is connected. The dull suburban lane on which I lived would carry me eventually to rocky paths in Patagonia and the rutted logging roads that cross Alaska. There were dead ends, of course, lots of them, but assuming you were free to backtrack, it was impossible, really, to get lost. You could follow any road in any direction and eventually, by however circuitous a path, get where you needed to go. Oceans notwithstanding. I don’t remember talking to anyone about this. As a child you learn to guard your thoughts, to hold close to ideas that seemed simple and self-evident and that you knew adults would scoff at. What counted as education seemed to mainly involve learning to walk in single file and otherwise keep quiet. School meant grown-ups telling you that things had to be done in a certain way, and in no other, that however many obvious and inviting paths might lead from one point to another, only one of them was right. The rest might as well not exist at all. To do well, to earn praise, you had to learn not to see them anymore.

Baker’s love of the Essex landscape is already clear, and, long before he is following peregrines, he is rehearsing some of the writing that appears in his later work: ‘The loveliest country of all lies between Gt. Baddow and West Hanningfield. Green undulating fields, rugged, furrowed earth, luscious orchards, pine clumps, rows of stately elms – all these combine and resolve into a delicately balanced landscape that can never become tedious to the eye. One cannot get far from people – from the little rustic cottages that huddle in the winding lanes. Yet the very proximity of these dwellings seems to give an impression of remoteness. / As you walk across these fields – Danbury stands all green and misty blue in the late afternoon of declining summer. Everchanging – sometimes assuming truly mountainous grandeur – it fascinates the eyes and brings an exaltation and a faith. / These last days of summer are delicate poems in green and gold – the clouds unfurl in unsurpassed magnificence and move me to tears for their passing. / This country with its little fields and murmuring streams that basks in its waning summer gold will still be there when you return – it is for you and all men, for it is beauty.

Peregrines bathe every day. They prefer running water, six to nine inches deep; nothing less than two inches or more than twelve inches is acceptable to them. The bed of the stream must be stony or firm, with a shallow incline sloping gradually down from the bank. They favour those places where the colour of the stream-bed resembles the colour of their own plumage. They like to be concealed by steep banks or overhanging bushes. Shallow streams, brooks, or deep ditches, are preferred to rivers. Salt water is seldom used. Dykes lined with concrete are sometimes chosen, but only if the concrete has been discoloured. Shallow fords, where brown-mottled country lanes are crossed by a fast-running brook, are favourite places. For warning of human approach they rely on their remarkably keen hearing and on the alarm calls of other birds. The search for a suitable bathing place is one of the peregrine’s main daily activities, and their hunting and roosting places are located in relation to this search.

At the time of my writing, this country has seen a retrenchment of identities on both sides of the political spectrum. The rise of white nationalism has led to many nonwhites defending their identities with rage and pride as well as demanding reparative action to compensate for centuries of whites' plundering from non-Western cultures. But a side effect of this justified rage has been a "stay in your lane" politics in which artists and writers are asked to speak only from their personal ethnic experiences. Such a politics not only assumes racial identity is pure—while ignoring the messy lived realities in which racial groups overlap—but reduces racial identity to intellectual property.

With school over for the year, and days that stretched as long as our country lane-ways, we enjoyed a pure and joyful freedom, an elusive state of complete happiness, one that some would fail to recapture, ever again, in our all-too-brief time on this Earth.

Sometimes, I lean out my split-pane window that seems to be high off the ground, and I can hear the whistling wind stream through the leaves of the growth of trees, sometimes this reminds me about being in the garden and golden fields when my eyes are closed. But, when my eyes were open, I realized that it is just the wind rushing through the various hills and valleys of ‘The Land of Many Steeples.’ I do not know what it is… but there is just something about letting your hair blow in the breeze, which feels so amazing. I feel that it is just one of the amazing moments in time, which I have experienced. Oh, just the same can be said, about me standing in the rain, freely and naturally on a warm spring day, while I am filling the ground squish under my toes. Yes, likewise can be said for the winters when I come home from the hellhole, and see the fireplace with its warm glow, from outside the frost chilled arched windows of the tort section of the house that is part of the dwelling. ‘It is amazing also because I know that I will soon be warm and comfortable, and out of this uniform that labels me as one of them.’ In the wintertime, the snowdrifts, the pointed part of the roof along with the weathervane are covered in a blanket of white, ‘The Land of Many Steeples’ sparkles, and soft with an almost spooky light blue cast in the moonlight. The trees down the lane drip with ice like a crystal cave, but- yet we all carve a pathway down the road that leads to the hell and then back to the emptiness. Snow days are rare, but that does not matter to me either way because I cannot truly share it with anyone it seems, as you all know. So, would you be my friend if I asked you? Would you spend some time with me? Can I depend on you; I would be there for you! So, on any day in any weather condition, unless the fog is rising from the valley, I can see in the distance ‘The Land of Many Steeples’, a far cry from this country land, where the dwelling of lost and lonely dreams is upon. Then there are some days there are thunderstorms outside my window, and it takes me back to the past, like when I was in that dark room. I do not think anyone gets over their past, the past that haunts me, and a past that the tower uses against me. Yes, you can change your name. Change your hair, and change your style, but the words of slander will remain. The only thing I can do is find someone that does not care about what the words mean or say, or just plainly pray for it to all go away.

The passage from childhood to independence is a rough and winding road, with potholes, bumps and hollows, like a country lane after a spring thaw.

Good governance, Nicias says, is when ‘someone benefits his country as much as possible or does it no willing harm.

crisp piece of paper and cleared his throat. “Death awaits at the end. All roads lead to death. At the end of life is death. The road of life ends with death. The road of life is never straight, and death awaits one at the end.” He looked up from his paper. “Your Aunts could not agree on which declaration

the bracing summer breeze would dislodge any fanciful ideas from his head and roared off.

P-22 just may be the Neil Armstrong of his kind. A quick glance at his route on a map shows he had to be a bit mad to even attempt his journey. To get to his new territory of Griffith Park, he must cross two of the busiest freeways in the United States. Imagine soft, padded paws fitted for bounding over snow and boulders touching the asphalt of the first eight-lane highway, known as one of the worst roads in the country. Even in the middle of the night, the 405 never slows, and the highway thrums with mechanical noise and explodes with the mad dance of headlights. When faced with the living, breathing monster of the 405, most cats do an abrupt about-face, or get mangled by a few tons of moving steel. But P-22, with his tenacity, or luck, or both, somehow manages to cross. There is no way of knowing how he navigates the formidable obstacle of the road, whether he uses an under- or overpass or bolts straight across. All have been attempted by other cats, and many haven’t lived to tell the tale.

Another woman writer who, like Edith Durham, fell in love with this part of Albania, was the American, Rose Wilder Lane, at that time the highest-paid woman writer in the USA. Her mother was Laura Ingalls Wilder, whose even better-known books of the Little House on the Prairie series were much loved by generations of little girls.

Rose Wilder Lane’s own description of her first view of the mountains surrounding the Shala Valley is hard to beat: Like thin sharp rocks stood on edge, they covered hundreds of miles with every variation of light and shadow, and we looked across their tops to a faraway wave of snow that broke high against the sky. The depths between the mountains were hazy blue; out of the blueness sharp cliffs and huge flat slopes of rock thrust upward, streaked with the rose and purple and Chinese-green of decomposing shale, and from the tops a thousand streams poured downward, threading them with silver-white. A low continuous murmur rose to us – the sound of innumerable waterfalls, softened by immeasurable distance.

THE CITY Our story begins in a city, with buildings and streets and bridges and parks. Humans were strolling, automobiles were driving, airships were flying, robots were hard at work. Weaving through the city streets was a delivery truck. The truck knew where to go, and how to get there, all by itself. It pulled up to a construction site and automatically unloaded some crates. A few more turns and it unloaded more crates down at the docks. The truck zigged and zagged across the city, delivering crates as it went, and then it merged onto a highway. Cars and buses and trucks were cruising along the highway together. But as the delivery truck continued, the traffic became lighter, the buildings became smaller, and the landscape became greener. With nothing but open road ahead, the truck accelerated to its top speed. The landscape outside was now just a green blur, occasionally broken by a flicker of gray as a town flew past. On and on the delivery truck went, racing over long bridges, shooting through mountain tunnels, gliding down straight stretches of highway, until it started to slow. It drifted from the fast lane to the exit lane, and then it rolled down a ramp and into farm country. Clouds of dust billowed up behind the truck as it drove past fields and fences. In the hazy distance, enormous barns loomed above the plains. The air was thick with the smells of soil and livestock. Robot crews methodically worked the crops and fed the animals and operated the massive farm machines. A hill gradually climbed into view. The hill was crowned with

We need to get back to the real roots of this country, to the loyalty we owe the Gracious Sovereign, to the maintenance of order and unity, to respect for authority. We need to be moved by our faith in God and a spirit of obedience. That is what I am offering, gentlemen. That is what I am offering. Who here would not want our great Dominion to be ruled by these simple and unassailable principles?

There were no passing cars to call out to. You couldn’t call for help from a police car, anyway; he didn’t think you could. When Venner turned down a dark and narrow country lane, panic came up into Hugh’s throat. Only his pride kept him from crying out, demanding to know where they were taking him. Pride and the fear. He’d never known fear before, he’d only thought that he had. There were no handles on the rear doors.

loosely, and walk h’on.’ They walked sedately down the country lane and paused as Mrs Fruity opened the gate to the field and gestured for each one to enter with a loud booming, ‘Walk on, walk on and form a circle, please.’ Gloria was still imitating her when they returned to the manor two hours later. They cranked themselves out of the car to Gloria’s ‘Walk on, come along now, walk on . . .’ Julia galloped down from the wood and called out. They turned and watched the way she neatly skirted the building, plants and wheelbarrows.

I was into third guesses with Theo and Maddy. Anyway, that's one of the reasons I opted to buy the van and drive cross-country instead of dumping us all in a plane. It gave us some time. Nothing like a three-thousand-mile drive in an enclosed vehicle to cement a family unit—if you live through it." "It was very brave of you." "You want to talk courage?" He drove easily up the lane to the villa. "I've been chief taste-tester on this wine experiment Maddy's conducting. It's brut

Andy remained seated. I chirped, “Sir, please tell me the reason for your visit. My guardian is fully aware of your proposal.” Struck by my candidness, Ozwalt stammered, “Very well, I will tell you the reason I’m here,” he raised his voice in displeasure. “Your counterproposal is deplorable!” My lover remarked aggressively, “What’s deplorable about Young wishing to be kept in the style he is accustomed to?” The Englishman exclaimed, “He’s not even of age to drive, and he wants a Lamborghini or a Ferrari? What is he thinking?!” “You offered him a city car,” my Valet countered. “He has every right to ask for what he desires.” The man repudiated defensively, “I offered him a city car upon his coming of age to drive, not before!” He was seething with anger. “Atop this, he demands a luxury penthouse in Mayfair or Park Lane, not to mention the live-in personal tutor! Is he insane? Most adults wouldn’t be able to afford a luxury flat and experienced educator, let alone an adolescent who is barely out of his teens.” “Sir, if you do not have the financial capabilities to accommodate the boy’s expectations, there are others who are perfectly capable of doing so,” my chaperone asserted. “Andy! Are you telling me that the lad has other well-endowed suitors willing to pay for such frivolousness?” My lover and I sniggered at the Englishman’s comment, but we managed to suppress our mirth. My guardian answered solemnly, “That, Sir, is none of your concern. I presume you’re here to discuss Young’s counterproposal, not the proposals of his other suitors.” He was taken aback by my mentor’s forthrightness. He raised his voice in retaliation. “I’m here to talk to Young. I would like Young to speak for himself.” I spoke unrelentingly, “I have asked Andy to negotiate on my behalf. I have heard everything he has said and challenge none of it. If my terms are not met, I’m afraid our arrangement is over. There is no further need for discussion.” By now, Ozwalt was on fire. He waved his fist at me and shouted, “You rapacious whore! You’re nothing but a self-indulgent sybaritic slut from a third-world country!” Before he could continue lambasting me with further insults, Wilhem entered. “What’s going on here?” my big-brother questioned. Mossey resumed berating my integrity, calling me a barrage of repugnant names while my chaperones carted him off the campus grounds to his waiting chauffeur and Bentley. Groups of students stood gaping at the wild man, speculating about the nature of the ruckus they were witnessing.

Misadventure   As I turned my bike round a corner, a loud screeching sound was heard down the country lane. Kim tumbled down the rutty slope when he lost balance riding over a mound. His bicycle had fallen into a ditch when one of the tires bounced downhill, disappearing into a ravine.               Our numero uno instructor came to his rescue. Apart from some minor scratches and bruises, Kim was able to hobble about when he balanced on the Caucasian.               Jules bid us to ride ahead, to solicit assistance from the first aid division while he waited with Kim for the ambulance. We did as told. I couldn’t help but wonder if this mishap had been instigated on purpose, or whether it was Mother Nature’s way to shepherd the closeted gays together. I didn’t have long to wait before the truth was revealed.

the idea that someone with a different upbringing, from a different part of the country, with a different outlook and a different viewpoint, might actually have something valid to say, something worth listening to.

Masters are under no cosmic compulsion to limit their residence.” My companion glanced at me quizzically. “The Himalayas in India and Tibet have no monopoly on saints. What one does not trouble to find within will not be discovered by transporting the body hither and yon. As soon as the devotee is willing to go even to the ends of the earth for spiritual enlightenment, his guru appears nearby.” I silently agreed, recalling my prayer in the Benares hermitage, followed by the meeting with Sri Yukteswar in a crowded lane. “Are you able to have a little room where you can close the door and be alone?” “Yes.” I reflected that this saint descended from the general to the particular with disconcerting speed. “That is your cave.” The yogi bestowed on me a gaze of illumination which I have never forgotten. “That is your sacred mountain. That is where you will find the kingdom of God.” His simple words instantaneously banished my life-long obsession for the Himalayas. In a burning paddy field I awoke from the monticolous dreams of eternal snows. “Young sir, your divine thirst is laudable. I feel great love for you.” Ram Gopal took my hand and led me to a quaint hamlet. The adobe houses were covered with coconut leaves and adorned with rustic entrances. The saint seated me on the umbrageous bamboo platform of his small cottage. After giving me sweetened lime juice and a piece of rock candy, he entered his patio and assumed the lotus posture. In about four hours, I opened my meditative eyes and saw that the moonlit figure of the yogi was still motionless. As I was sternly reminding my stomach that man does not live by bread alone, Ram Gopal approached me. “I see you are famished; food will be ready soon.” A fire was kindled under a clay oven on the patio; rice and dal were quickly served on large banana leaves. My host courteously refused my aid in all cooking chores. ‘The guest is God,’ a Hindu proverb, has commanded devout observance from time immemorial. In my later world travels, I was charmed to see that a similar respect for visitors is manifested in rural sections of many countries. The city dweller finds the keen edge of hospitality blunted by superabundance of strange faces.

California during the 1940s had Hollywood and the bright lights of Los Angeles, but on the other coast was Florida, land of sunshine and glamour, Miami and Miami Beach. If you weren't already near California's Pacific Coast you headed for Florida during the winter. One of the things which made Miami such a mix of glitter and sunshine was the plethora of movie stars who flocked there to play, rubbing shoulders with tycoons and gangsters. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the latter two. Miami and everything that surrounded it hadn't happened by accident. Carl Fisher had set out to make Miami Beach a playground destination during the 1930s and had succeeded far beyond his dreams. The promenade behind the Roney Plaza Hotel was a block-long lovers' lane of palm trees and promise that began rather than ended in the blue waters of the Atlantic. Florida was more than simply Miami and Miami Beach, however. When George Merrick opened the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables papers across the country couldn't wait to gush about the growing aura of Florida. They tore down Collins Bridge in the Gables and replaced it with the beautiful Venetian Causeway. You could plop down a fiver if you had one and take your best girl — or the girl you wanted to score with — for a gondola ride there before the depression, or so I'd been told.

Here is why the wellbeing economy comes at the right time. At the international level there have been some openings, which can be exploited to turn the wellbeing economy into a political roadmap. The first was the ratification of the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) in 2015. The SDGs are a loose list of 17 goals, ranging from good health and personal wellbeing to sustainable cities and communities as well as responsible production and consumption. They are a bit scattered and inconsistent, like most outcomes of international negotiations, but they at least open up space for policy reforms. For the first time in more than a century, the international community has accepted that the simple pursuit of growth presents serious problems. Even when it comes at high speed, its quality is often debatable, producing social inequalities, lack of decent work, environmental destruction, climate change and conflict. Through the SDGs, the UN is calling for a different approach to progress and prosperity. This was made clear in a 2012 speech by Secretary General Ban Ki-moon, who explicitly connected the three pillars of sustainable development: ‘Social, economic and environmental wellbeing are indivisible.’82 Unlike in the previous century, we now have a host of instruments and indicators that can help politicians devise different policies and monitor results and impacts throughout society. Even in South Africa, a country still plagued by centuries of oppression, colonialism, extractive economic systems and rampant inequality, the debate is shifting. The country’s new National Development Plan has been widely criticised because of the neoliberal character of the main chapters on economic development. Like the SDGs, it was the outcome of negotiations and bargaining, which resulted in inconsistencies and vagueness. Yet, its opening ‘vision statement’ is inspired by a radical approach to transformation. What should South Africa look like in 2030? The language is uplifting: We feel loved, respected and cared for at home, in community and the public institutions we have created. We feel understood. We feel needed. We feel trustful … We learn together. We talk to each other. We share our work … I have a space that I can call my own. This space I share. This space I cherish with others. I maintain it with others. I am not self-sufficient alone. We are self-sufficient in community … We are studious. We are gardeners. We feel a call to serve. We make things. Out of our homes we create objects of value … We are connected by the sounds we hear, the sights we see, the scents we smell, the objects we touch, the food we eat, the liquids we drink, the thoughts we think, the emotions we feel, the dreams we imagine. We are a web of relationships, fashioned in a web of histories, the stories of our lives inescapably shaped by stories of others … The welfare of each of us is the welfare of all … Our land is our home. We sweep and keep clean our yard. We travel through it. We enjoy its varied climate, landscape, and vegetation … We live and work in it, on it with care, preserving it for future generations. We discover it all the time. As it gives life to us, we honour the life in it.83 I could have not found better words to describe the wellbeing economy: caring, sharing, compassion, love for place, human relationships and a profound appreciation of what nature does for us every day. This statement gives us an idea of sufficiency that is not about individualism, but integration; an approach to prosperity that is founded on collaboration rather than competition. Nowhere does the text mention growth. There’s no reference to scale; no pompous images of imposing infrastructure, bridges, stadiums, skyscrapers and multi-lane highways. We make the things we need. We, as people, become producers of our own destiny. The future is not about wealth accumulation, massive

It’s been a whole week since I’ve seen you.” Lane’s nose brushes against mine in a butterfly kiss. His voice drops, as he says the words, “Kiss me already.

I jump on Lane’s back. He catches my legs around his sides, holding on tight, and I wrap my arms around his neck. Mmmmm. “You smell good.” My heart thrums inside my chest, purring like a kitten. The gang’s ahead of us. It’s safe to sneak a peck on the cheek. I brush my nose against his jaw line so I can inhale his cologne again. “That was so smooth. Where’d you get moves like that?” He snickers.

Underdevelopment points out the disparity between the rich countries in Europe and North America and countries in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. A trip down history lane tells that the developed nations deeply exploited the developing countries, ultimately leaving them severely crippled. Slavery and colonialism served as the epitome of this exploitation where the Europeans built and developed their economies at the expense of the developing countries. Although we are in the 21st century, the new political, economic, and cultural world order that is powered by globalization perpetrates neocolonialism. Similarly, democracy has had its role in upholding underdevelopment as it involves the conversion of structures, practices, and institutions to resemble those of developed countries. Finally, poor leadership in developing countries contributes as it focuses on leaders amassing wealth. Therefore, developing countries need strong leadership within individual countries and in coalition with others to resists the forces of neocolonialism. Reviewing trade liberalization will allow local firms to flourish. They also need to lobby for more participation in global bodies such as the international monetary fund and the World Bank to make them accountable to underdeveloped communities.

In China, the transition has been to abrupt that many traffic patterns come directly from pedestrian life - people drive the way they walk. They like to move in packs, and they tailgate whenever possible. They rarely use turn signals. Instead they rely on automobile body language: if a car edges to the left, you can guess that he's about to make a turn. And they are brilliant at improvising. They convert sidewalks into passing lanes, and they'll approach a roundabout in reverse direction if it seems faster. If they miss an exit on a highway, they simply pull onto the shoulder, shift into reverse, and get it right the second time. They curb-sneak in traffic jams, the same way Chinese people do in ticket lines. Tollbooths can be hazardous, because a history of long queues has conditioned people into quickly evaluation options and making snap decisions. When approaching a toll, drivers like to switch lanes at the last possible instant: it's common to see an accident right in front of a booth. Drivers rarely check their rearview mirrors. Windshield wipers are considered a distraction, and so are headlights.

By 1870, most white men in that part of the country either belonged to the organization or sympathized with it.

Seconds later, Gil left the mansion, but no matter how fast he walked down the long country lane, he couldn't outdistance his conscience. His lies followed him home.

This is a sport where a ball with three holes is thrown down a wooden lane. The goal is to knock down as many pins as possible. If you hit all 10 in the first throw, it is a strike. If all 10 are knocked down on the second throw it is called a spare. Bowling remains popular in as many as 90 countries.

Jake played the message again, catching the details this time. She was leaving the kids to him? Leaving them here? He swiped the phone off the table, and it hit the wall with a thump. This wasn’t what he wanted. Yes, he wanted the kids, but not at Meridith’s expense; they needed her. He needed her. Hadn’t she listened to his messages? Didn’t she know he loved her? If only he could make her believe it. How had his resolve to get the kids ended in such disaster? With him losing Meridith, with her losing the kids and going back to her lonely life clear across the country. Or would it be lonely? Now that the kids were out of the picture, was she planning to reunite with Stephen? That thought set him on a disturbing path that winded and curved its way to an ugly dead end. Would Meridith go back to that after what they’d shared? It seemed inconceivable. He had to do something. Something to make Meridith see how sorry he was. To see that he loved her, that they belonged together, all of them. The

Something welled inside at her fearful tone. Jake darted forward, his feet digging into the sand. The shadows clarified. Meridith went down hard; the guy came down on her. Jake honed in on him. As he neared, he heard Meridith struggling. He grabbed the guy’s shirt, hauled him up. He heard a ripping sound, and then his fist found its mark. The loud pop was gratifying. Sean hit the sand, moaning. Jake braced his feet, ready—eager—to have another go at him. The kid only rolled to his other side. A sound at his feet drew his attention. “Meridith.” He dove to his knees beside her. “I’m okay.” He helped her sit up. She looked impossibly small. Behind him, Sean was standing, staggering. Jake stood, placing his body between them. Sean held up his hands, surrendering. “Hey, man, didn’t mean nothin’ . . . just flirting with the girl.” Jake took a step, ready to plant his fist in the guy’s face. A hand, surprisingly firm, on his leg stopped him. “Don’t, Jake.” He took a breath. Tried to calm himself. He wanted to plow the guy down and show him what it felt like to be powerless. Make him feel as powerless as Meridith had. Jake had no doubt he could do it. Apparently, neither did Sean. He was backing away toward the house. “Sorry, Meridith. Swear I didn’t mean nothin’.” The words meant squat to Jake. He clenched his fists at his side. Dirtbag. “Let him go.” Meridith’s voice, all tired and shaky, was the only thing that stopped him. He should call the cops and have the guy hauled off. Then he thought of the squad car pulling up to Summer Place, lights spinning. Summer Place didn’t need the bad publicity. The kids didn’t need the distress. He looked down at Meridith, huddled in the sand. She didn’t either. Jake glared at Sean. “Pack your things and get out of here. Now.” Sean stopped and turned. “What am I s’posed to tell my friends?” “Couldn’t care less.” Sean shifted in the sand, grabbed the railing. Finally he turned and stumbled up the beach steps and across the yard. Jake turned to Meridith. She’d pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. He extended his hands and she took them. They were icy cold. He pulled her to her feet, then took her chin and turned her face into the moonlight. He scanned her face for damage and found none. Just dazed eyes and chattering teeth. “You okay? He hurt you?” She shook her head. He could feel her trembling. He remembered feeling something on the sand and stooped to collect a bulky robe. Downwind, he shook out the sand, then draped the robe over her shoulders. The weight of it buckled her knees. He caught her around the waist. She came into his arms willingly. Jake tucked the robe around her, freed her hair, and the wind stole it from his fingers. She shivered. He could feel her cold fists through his shirt, tucked into his stomach. “You’re cold.” He wrapped his arms around her, turned his back to the wind. Shallow puffs of breath hit his chest, warm and quick. He cradled her head in his palm. She was so small. Helpless. What would’ve happened if he hadn’t come? And where was Lover Boy when Meri needed him? Halfway across the country. He ground his teeth together, fighting the anger that had barely begun to simmer. “The

So, as time went on and the war was finally won and the last British soldiers departed for their homeland, the king’s messengers became couriers without an army. On rainy nights the eerie pair still roamed, galloping along forever with a message never to be delivered, the writer of the message long since dead and buried in the red earth of King’s Mountain. Settlements grew into towns, then cities, and the two riders became wary of the main roads, taking to the country lanes in their endless search for the way to Charlottesburg. Some say you can still see them. A cold, rainy night in early October is the best time to look for the King’s Messengers. For then they were most apt to suddenly appear galloping over the hill on some lonely dirt road between King’s Mountain and Salisbury, two specters hurtling through the night on their phantom steeds, pausing sporadically to inquire the way to Charlottesburg. And, if by chance they should ask you, it doesn’t really matter in which direction you point for even with the best of directions an invisible power thwarts and diverts the restless apparitions at every turn. —The King’s Messengers

Mountains cover 24 percent of the Earth’s surface, accommodating 12 percent of the world’s population in 120 different countries. They tend to be hotspots of cultural diversity. In the Hindu Kush of the Himalayas alone people speak more than a thousand different languages and dialects.

Behave, they say, like the man you wish to be.

It is not very much more than a century since he lived, and all his wonderful journeys and romantic discoveries have been explored in their length and breadth, by turnpike commissioners, if not by railway surveyors, and the mysteries have been subdued by statistics, till one knows where every road leads, and we are allowed to entertain no doubt about the turnings of the longest lane; every foot of ground is known, and there is no hope left of being able to lose oneself;—and that, as every body must have felt, is a dreadful drawback on the pleasure and excitement of finding oneself in a wild romantic looking country.

On September 1st, Fred’s tank was among the first to enter Belgium, leading a reconnaissance group down the narrow country lane into the first small town in Belgium.

The crows squawked and scattered from their perch on wooden rail fence, as the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse's hooves grew louder.

KPN had set up an office in most countries of the former Eastern bloc. The office in Budapest was in the Buda hills, an area with lush lanes with beautiful large nineteenth-century villas. The minute I saw it, I baptized KPN’s villa ‘Villekulla’, after Pippi Longstocking’s house. I could just picture Pippi leaving the place with Mr. Nilsson on her shoulder, leading her speckled mare down the lane, looking for new adventures. The actual offices were downstairs, with double doors opening out into a large garden with roses and big trees.

Chapter 2 After stopping for a hot breakfast, Dad and I were ready to hit the mountain and now our anticipation was really building. My heart was beating a little faster and my eyes were alert watching the headlights paint a mountain picture in front of us. We pulled off the highway and made our way up a narrow two-lane road that ran through a little old mining town. About a half mile past the last house, we came to our turn. The road was pretty quiet on this Saturday morning. We only passed two or three trucks on our way to the dirt road. “Here we go!” Dad said, turning the wheel. The blacktop was behind us and we were now on a well-packed gravel road. It started by winding right, then left, and then back right again. It was like riding a rollercoaster up the mountain. We finally came to the end of the gravel and now we were heading up a true back country mountain road. The road was littered with huge rocks Dad had to swerve around and plenty of big gullies where rain had washed the road away. The truck growled in low gear as we crawled our way up the mountain, heading to our camp. I could feel butterflies of excitement building in my stomach with each turn. I rolled down my window to get some fresh air and the crisp mountain breeze instantly sent chills down my back. “Whoa, it’s pretty cold out,” “The truck thermometer says its thirty-six degrees. That sure is a change from the sixty-five degrees we had yesterday at home. But don’t you worry, that Colorado sun always warms it up around noon,” Dad explained. That last half hour seemed to take forever because we could only manage about five or ten miles per hour on the steep, rugged road. The last thing we wanted to do, after all the hours we spent on the journey to elk camp, was get a flat tire or bust a shock. Dad patiently and expertly guided the truck through the obstacle course as we kept climbing up, up, up. Finally we leveled off and I could tell we had reached the top. We made our way around the back side of the mountain and headed down a dead-end road to a grassy field where we have camped before. “I sure hope no one is in our spot.” “I’m not worried. There are plenty of areas to pitch a tent,” Dad replied. “That’s true, but I really like our old spot. It’s flat, which is perfect for the tent, it’s

Find Your Art Family. That means that there is space for everyone's art in this big beautiful world, you just need to find members of your Art Family - artists and art lovers who are interested in work that resonates with your own and who will support what you need for your individual process. These folks might be found in large cities, or down small country lanes. They might be produced in Los Angeles, California or Austin, Texas or Omaha, Nebraska. Once you find a creative home with them, then you will be able to do your best work because you will be valued and you will lift each other up. As Paula Vogel says, Circles Rise Together. Once you find the right family circle for you, you will do your best work.

members of certain traditional, rural communities do enjoy a greater harmony and tranquillity than those settled in our modern cities. My impression is that those living in the materially developed countries, for all their industry, are in some ways less satisfied, are less happy, and to some extent suffer more than those living in the least developed countries. Indeed, if we compare the rich with the poor, it often seems that those with less are often less anxious. As for the rich . . . they are so caught up with the idea of acquiring more that they make no room for anything else in their lives. As a result, they are constantly plagued by mental and emotional suffering — even though outwardly they may appear to be leading entirely successful and comfortable lives. This is suggested by the disturbing prevalence among the populations of materially developed countries of anxiety, discontent, frustration, uncertainty, and depression.” 5 In considering these issues, I would like to devote this chapter to an examination of some of the factors that are inhibiting or preventing people from realizing their full potential and sensing fullness of being. Other contributory trends might have been included, and my picture is, of necessity, subjectively biased and incomplete. Nonetheless it must serve as a sampler of prevalent contemporary trends. For the sake of simplicity I have organized this chapter into four parts. Firstly I consider the fallacy that money can purchase happiness; second, the influence of living in a mass society; third, mass leisure and consumption; and finally, life in the cities. Of course no culture can be separated in this way; no single part can be considered in isolation from the rest. With the light come the shadows, and with everything

If America’s slide into secularism continues, then what awaits us tomorrow is already evident today in Europe. Western Europe has become so secularized that it’s hard for the gospel even to get a fair hearing. As a result, missionaries must labor for years to win even a handful of converts. Having lived for thirteen years in Europe in four different countries, I can testify personally to how hard it is for people to respond to the message of Christ.

London Bridge, which is just outside the door.

On a country lane, if you found yourself stuck behind a slow cow, you could just give it a sharp tap on the bum and it would move out of your way. But you couldn’t do that with a slow walker in London. Pip had discovered the hard way.

The three S’s: shower, shit, and shave—every man could do that in his sleep.

But lo (loo?) and behold, it was. Malcolm pushed Owen all the way to the far wall.

I had, by now, travelled about half the breadth and almost the entire length of the country. If I were to join with a pencil the places I visited during the past few weeks, I would be drawing a crude ‘S’ on the map of India. These are places that don’t mean a thing to you because you never get down there, but at the same time they mean the world to you because no train journey is complete without them. They are irrelevant, yet they are a ritual. Next time when my train halts at any of these junctions, my mind would be racing back to the lanes and bylanes of these towns, which I know now like the back of my hand. But since I have been there and done that, I would, in all probability, be standing at the door of my coach and looking out for the man calling, ‘Chai, chai!

Forty years after his death, I dream my brother and I are walking arm in arm down a country lane in the late afternoon sun. He's close to twenty in my dream and heavier, taller. I can't stop crying. "Hughie, I've missed you so much. I just love you so much." He looks down, squeezes me tight. "I know, Cath. I know.

There were very few things to do in Toms River, New Jersey, however it was the closest thing resembling civilization near the school. When I wasn’t being restricted to the campus, for one infraction or another, that’s where I would go. Toms River was two and a half miles west of the school. Making the round trip was a five-mile walk, but it was worth it, just to get away. To get there I walked down Prospect Avenue, and then cut corners to Bayside Avenue. In the winter, the frozen snow and ice made the walk cold and miserable. There was always a wind blowing off the river, but I would trudge on relentlessly. The wet slush soaked through my shoes, ruining a shine I had worked on for hours. My feet became wet and frozen, but I pressed on regardless. Eventually I would reach Route 166, which was narrow and only had two lanes; still it was the only north-south highway along the coast at the time. I then crossed the concrete bridge that had a year engraved on it, indicating that it was built as a WPA project during the Great Depression. On the west side of the road was the Toms River Diner. It was classic in appearance and was a warm haven, where I could thaw out. Thelma, the waitress, was always friendly and one of the sexiest women I ever knew. She laughed at my silliness, knew just how much cleavage to show, and moved and turned like a fashion model. There was always “Country Music” playing, especially that of Hank Williams who was Thelma’s favorite. Hey, Good Lookin’, Your Cheatin’ Heart, and I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry were all songs he had written and that she sang along with. Thelma knew that I could not keep my eyes off of her, and she enjoyed playing the part, letting me look far down the unbuttoned section of her waitress uniform, while pouring me another cup of coffee. The way she looked over her shoulder, throwing aside her hair while asking what else I wanted, would send shivers down my back and feelings into my loins that set me on fire. Just this alone was worth the five-mile round trip. During warmer weather, the walk was more pleasant, but the constant wind off the Atlantic Ocean and the river, never let up.

The thing worth noting here is that India remained an export-oriented country from the Harappan times until the Europeans took control of the shipping lanes and harbours in the colonial times.

No woman sings an Aria in this country.

He yearned for this calm serenity, for smiles without cynicism, for honesty without subterfuge, meeting Mary on that country lane was some things the angels had planned, he had no intentions of letting her go.

(I am glad to report that rural Texas continues to boast the most courteous drivers in the country, perhaps the world. When you come up behind a pickup or sedan on a two-lane backroad, they not only move over willingly, right onto the shoulder, but wave you by cheerfully.)

Allison slept through it all. She never felt the truck stopping for the roadblock set in the middle of nowhere, never heard the police who didn't care about the rain and dutifully climbed through the rear of the truck, never heard the rustle of papers as they examined the driver's permits and cargo manifest. She never heard the horns outside or the rain or the roar of the Xu Jiang River as they followed its course. She never heard Driver Ming stopping for fuel, never felt the bumps and twists and turns as the road deteriorated and flat farmland became hill country that became mountains. It was still dark as they began their climb into the Wuyi Shan, the range of mountains that rose abruptly on both sides of the road and disappeared into the high mists, mountains where jungles and steep slopes kept the farmers at bay, mountains thick with bamboo forests in which wild tigers were still believed to roam. They drove all night and all the next day, through Ruijin and Xunwu, their progress slowed at times by traffic, at other times by the rain. Finally it was the horrific condition of the road that stopped them altogether. The highway was an unfinished ribbon of concrete, sometimes one lane, sometimes two. There was no shoulder at all, just an abrupt and treacherous drop-off to the adjacent ground. The roadbed sat so high up that if a wheel were to inadvertently slip off the edge, the whole truck might tip over. Allison had seen more than one vehicle that had done just that as she and Tyler watched the receding countryside through the slats of their crate. In places where only one lane existed, oncoming traffic had to stop and back up to let other traffic through. If there was an obstruction in the road, a goat or a sheep or a cart, all traffic squeezed by single file, although somehow it never seemed to slow. Driver Ming seemed good at it, and when Allison felt him swerve sharply she closed her eyes and cringed, waiting for the inevitable collision. By some miracle he always squeaked through. Then his luck ran out.

I love a sunburnt country" "The love of field and coppice, Of green and shaded lanes. Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins, Strong love of grey-blue distance Brown streams and soft, dim skies I know but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of drought and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror – The wide brown land for me! A stark white ring-barked forest All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon. Green tangle of the brushes, Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree-tops And ferns the warm dark soil. Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When sick at heart, around us We see the cattle die – But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The drumming of an army, The steady, soaking rain. Core of my heart, my country! Land of the Rainbow Gold, For flood and fire and famine, She pays us back threefold – Over the thirsty paddocks, Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we gaze.

when she turned to Orlando to speak to him, I saw she had what Pa Salt would have termed a Roman nose, which sat prominently in her striking face. She was certainly not classically beautiful and, from the look of her jeans and old sweater, did not care to make herself more so. Yet, there was something very attractive about her and I realized I wanted her to like me—an unusual feeling. “Are you coping back there?” she asked me. “Not far now.” “Yes, thank you.” I leaned my head against the windowpane as the thick hedges, their height exaggerated by the low car, flew by me, the country lanes becoming narrower. It felt so good to be out of London, with only the odd red-brick chimney stack peeping out from behind the wall of green. We turned right, through a pair of old gates that led to a drive so potholed that Marguerite’s and Orlando’s heads bumped against the roof. “I really must ask Mouse to bring the tractor and fill in these holes with gravel before the winter comes,” she commented to Orlando. “Here we are, Star,” she added as she pulled the car to a halt in front of a large, graceful house, its walls formed from mellow red brick, with ivy and wisteria fringing the uneven windows in greenery. Tall, thin chimney stacks, which emphasized the Tudor architecture, reached up into the crisp September sky. As I squeezed myself out of the back of the Fiat, I imagined the house’s interior to be rambling as opposed to impressive—it was certainly no stately home; rather, it looked as if it had gently aged and sunk slowly into the countryside surrounding it. It spoke of a bygone era, one that I loved reading about in books, and I experienced a twinge of longing. I followed Marguerite and Orlando toward the magnificent oak front door, and saw a young boy wobbling toward us on a shiny red bike. He let out a strange muffled shout, tried to wave, and promptly fell off the bike. “Rory!” Marguerite ran to him, but he had already picked himself up. He spoke again, and I wondered if he was foreign, as I couldn’t make out what he was saying. She dusted him down, then the boy picked up the bike and the two of them walked back to us. “Look who’s here,” Marguerite said, turning directly to the boy to speak to him. “It’s Orlando and his friend Star. Try saying ‘Star.’ ” She particularly enunciated the “st” in my name. “Ss-t-aahh,” the boy said as he approached me, a smile on his face, before holding up his hand and opening his fingers out like a shining star. I saw that Rory was the owner of a pair of inquisitive green eyes, framed by dark lashes. His wavy copper-colored hair glowed in the sun, and his rosy cheeks dimpled with happiness. I recognized that he was the kind of child that one would never want to say no to. “He prefers to go by the name ‘Superman,’ don’t you, Rory?” Orlando chuckled, holding up his hand in a fist like Superman taking off into the air. Rory nodded, then shook my hand with all the dignity of a superhero, and turned to Orlando for a hug. After giving him a tight squeeze and a tickle, Orlando set him down, then squatted in front of him and used his hands to sign, also speaking the words clearly. “Happy birthday! I have your present in Marguerite’s car. Would you like to come and get it with me?” “Yes please,” Rory spoke and signed, and I knew then that he was deaf. I rifled through my rusty mental catalog of what I had learned

The Ultimate Driving Experience: My Journey on India’s Most Modern Highway Road trips have always been my escape, a chance to experience the thrill of the open road while soaking in the beauty of new destinations. But nothing prepared me for the smooth and hassle-free ride I recently had on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project. This modern highway is a game-changer, offering travelers the perfect mix of efficiency, safety, and scenic beauty. Whether you’re a solo traveler, a family on vacation, or a frequent commuter, this road is designed to make your journey comfortable and stress-free. #modernroad A Highway That Sets New Standards Unlike the unpredictable road conditions I’ve encountered on many Indian highways, this toll road is a breath of fresh air. The perfectly paved lanes, well-marked signage, and streamlined toll system make traveling a seamless experience. From the moment I entered, I could feel the difference—no sudden potholes, no unnecessary congestion, just a road built for smooth sailing. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has been developed keeping modern road standards in mind. It not only enhances connectivity between Agra and Etawah but also serves as a crucial link for businesses, logistics, and travelers who want a reliable and safe route. An Enjoyable and Safe Ride One of the things I loved most about this highway was how safe and secure it felt. There are dedicated lanes for different types of vehicles, reducing traffic bottlenecks. The highway is well-lit, making nighttime travel just as easy as daytime drives. Additionally, emergency services are available along the route, giving travelers peace of mind that help is never too far away. #modernroadmakers Perfect Pit Stops for Every Traveler No road trip is complete without a few stops along the way, and this highway has plenty of options. Whether you need a quick fuel refill, a hot meal, or just a clean restroom break, the well-placed rest stops along the route make sure you’re covered. I made a stop at one of these rest areas and was impressed by how well-maintained and organized they were—no overcrowding, no waiting in long queues, just quick and convenient service. For those who love scenic drives, this highway doesn’t disappoint. While cruising along, I enjoyed the changing landscapes, vast open fields, and a peaceful environment—something rare on many busy roads. It’s the kind of drive that makes you appreciate the progress India is making in road infrastructure. Redefining Travel and Connectivity Beyond just being a fantastic road for travelers, the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project plays a significant role in improving regional connectivity. The faster and more efficient transport options mean businesses can move goods with ease, and daily commuters can reach their destinations quicker. This isn’t just a highway; it’s a well-planned route that fuels economic growth and development. For anyone who enjoys long drives or frequently travels between these cities, this highway is a must-experience. It’s more than just a stretch of road—it’s proof of how modern infrastructure can transform travel in India. If you haven’t taken a drive on this route yet, you’re missing out on one of the country’s best highway experiences! #indiabesthighway

A Smooth Ride Through Progress: My Journey on a Modern Indian Highway Traveling across India is always an adventure, but every now and then, a road surprises you with its sheer brilliance. One such experience awaited me on my recent journey along the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project—a stretch that exemplifies India's evolving highway infrastructure. As someone who frequently travels, I couldn’t help but admire how this road has transformed long drives into seamless, enjoyable experiences. #modernroad A Glimpse into Modern Infrastructure The Agra Etawah Toll Road is more than just a highway; it’s a testament to how modern road networks can redefine travel. The well-maintained lanes, clear road markings, and smooth asphalt ensure a comfortable ride, whether you're behind the wheel or a passenger soaking in the views. Unlike the bumpy roads I’ve encountered in some parts of the country, this highway feels meticulously planned and executed. The first thing I noticed was how efficiently the toll plazas operate. With automated ticketing and digital payment options, delays are minimal, making the journey even more convenient. #modernroadmakers Scenic Views and Hassle-Free Travel One of the best things about this route is its picturesque surroundings. Driving through, I was greeted by open landscapes, green patches, and a peaceful ambiance that makes long drives feel less exhausting. Unlike city roads filled with chaotic traffic and endless honking, this stretch provides a sense of tranquility that every traveler craves. The highway is also equipped with well-placed rest stops, offering food courts, clean washrooms, and fuel stations. As someone who often travels long distances, I found these stops to be a lifesaver—allowing me to take short breaks without worrying about detours or poor facilities. Safety and Smart Road Features Modern highways aren’t just about speed and convenience; safety plays a crucial role too. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is designed with well-marked lanes, proper lighting, and ample signage, making nighttime travel much safer. The road also includes emergency response services, ensuring that help is always within reach if needed. Additionally, the highway has designated speed limits that are strictly monitored. Unlike some roads where reckless driving goes unchecked, this toll road ensures discipline, reducing accident risks and making the journey safer for everyone. #indiabesthighway Boosting Connectivity and Development Beyond the convenience it offers travelers, this project plays a vital role in connecting key cities and improving economic activity. It significantly reduces travel time between Agra and Etawah, making intercity commutes more efficient for businesses, transporters, and daily travelers. This highway is not just a road—it’s a bridge to better connectivity, smoother logistics, and enhanced development in the region. Final Thoughts: A Road Worth Traveling My journey on this modern highway was nothing short of impressive. It’s the kind of road that makes you appreciate the advancements in India's infrastructure while enjoying the comfort of smooth travel. Whether you’re driving for leisure, work, or just passing through, the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project ensures that your trip is fast, safe, and enjoyable. As India continues to expand its road networks, this highway stands as a shining example of what the future of travel should look like—efficient, well-maintained, and traveler-friendly. If you haven’t taken a ride on this route yet, I highly recommend it. It's more than just a highway; it’s an experience that redefines road travel. #modernroad #modernroadmakers #indiabesthighway

A Journey Through Perfection: Experiencing India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Traveling across India is an adventure filled with surprises, but nothing enhances the experience like a smooth, well-constructed highway. On my recent journey, I had the pleasure of driving through a highway that truly represents the pinnacle of modern road infrastructure in India. From flawless roads to scenic surroundings, this stretch stands as a testament to how far the country has come in revolutionizing its highway networks. #modernroad Seamless Driving Experience Like Never Before As I entered the highway, the first thing that caught my attention was the sheer quality of the road. The well-paved surface, neatly marked lanes, and efficient traffic management made my drive effortless. Unlike many highways where potholes and congestion make the journey exhausting, this route offered a smooth and uninterrupted ride. Wider lanes and minimal traffic congestion ensured that vehicles moved swiftly without unnecessary delays. Smart toll systems reduced wait times, making the overall journey more efficient. Clearly visible signboards and proper lighting made night driving safer and more convenient. The highway is a perfect example of how modern engineering can transform road travel into a luxurious experience. #modernroadmakers Scenic Beauty Along the Way A great highway isn’t just about infrastructure; it’s also about the experience it offers. As I drove along, I was captivated by the breathtaking landscapes surrounding the road. Green fields, small villages, and a peaceful countryside atmosphere made my trip even more enjoyable. Rest stops at strategic locations provided much-needed breaks with clean washrooms and food outlets. Lush greenery along the edges of the highway helped in reducing pollution and enhancing the visual appeal. Safe pedestrian crossings and underpasses ensured that local communities weren’t affected by high-speed vehicles. This perfect blend of nature and technology sets a new benchmark for Indian highways. #indiabesthighway Unmatched Safety and Maintenance A highway is only as good as its maintenance, and this one excels in that department. The regular upkeep and advanced monitoring systems ensure that the road remains in top condition throughout the year. Some key features that make this highway stand out include: ✔ Emergency Response Systems: Quick-response helplines and patrol vehicles are available for assistance. ✔ Well-Planned Drainage Systems: Prevents waterlogging during monsoons, making driving safer. ✔ Speed Monitoring & Surveillance: Reduces the risk of accidents and promotes disciplined driving. These aspects make it not only a comfortable but also a safe travel route for all kinds of passengers. Impact on Connectivity and Economy This highway isn’t just about convenience; it plays a crucial role in boosting regional connectivity and economic growth.

Madam Marsh clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered down the steps. Stan threw her bag out after her and rammed the doors shut; there was another loud BANG, and they were thundering down a narrow country lane, trees leaping out of the way.

Can we just have a nice drive and forget certain things for a while? In the sunny fields of my imagination we are not a teenager and a walking corpse driving in a rainstorm. We are Frank and Ava cruising treelined country lanes while a scratchy vinyl orchestra swoons our soundtrack.

Florida is full of long-range, unending road jobs that break the backs, pocketbooks, and hearts of the roadside business. The primitive, inefficient, childlike Mexicans somehow manage to survey, engineer, and complete eighty miles of high-speed divided highway through raw mountains and across raging torrents in six months. But the big highway contractors in Florida take a year and a half turning fifteen miles of two-lane road across absolutely flat country into four-lane divided highway. The difference is in American know-how. It's know-how in the tax problems, and how to solve them. The State Road Department says a half-year contract will cost the State ten million, and a one-year contract will cost nine, and a year-and-a-half deadline will go for eight. Then Doakes can take on three or four big jobs simultaneously, and lease the equipment from a captive corporation. and listlessly move the equipment from job to job, and spread it out to gain the biggest profit. The only signs of frantic activity can be two or three men with cement brooms who look at first like scarecrows but, when watched carefully, can be perceived to move, much like the minute hand on a clock.

the steady stream of wagons from the country were already heading for the capital’s markets, heavily laden with produce to feed the gargantuan appetite of the biggest city in the world.

All Spanish intellectuals burst into one great song of joy and hope. Now Spain was clean. Now every Spaniard was wholly obedient to Church and King. Alone of all European countries, Spain was now one united mass of loyal men, believing and acting as one being. Every thinker and poet in Spain celebrated in book and song this glorious event, this blessed time, the dawn of Spain’s Golden Age. It was the end of Spain.

Somalia should have been one of the most economically successful African nations: it has the continent’s longest coastline, is strategically situated on the Suez Canal shipping lane, and has a long-standing history of trade and entrepreneurship. Sadly, events have taken the country along a different trajectory,

We rolled on. The dirty red truck sat up big and obvious, three hundred yards ahead. It bore left around the southern fringe of Atlanta. Setting itself to strike out west, across the country. The distribution theory was looking good. I slowed down and hung back through the interchange. Didn’t want the driver to get suspicious about being followed. But I could see by the way he was handling his lane changes this was not a guy who made much use of his rearview mirrors. I closed up a little tighter. The red truck rolled on. I stayed eight cars behind it. Time rolled by. It got late in the afternoon. It got to be early evening. I ate candy and sipped water for dinner as I drove. I couldn’t work the radio. It was some kind of a fancy Japanese make. The guy at the auto shop must have transplanted it. Maybe it was busted. I wondered how he was doing with tinting the Bentley’s windows. I wondered what Charlie was going to say about getting her car back with black glass. I figured maybe that was going to be the least of her worries. We rolled on. We rolled on for almost four hundred miles. Eight hours. We drove out of Georgia, right through Alabama, into the northeast corner of Mississippi. It got pitch dark. The fall sun had dropped away up ahead. People had switched their lights on. We drove on through the dark for hours. It felt like I had been following the guy all my life. Then, approaching midnight, the red truck slowed down. A half-mile ahead, I saw it pull off into a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. Near a place called Myrtle. Maybe sixty miles short of the Tennessee state line. Maybe seventy miles shy of Memphis. I followed the truck into the lot. Parked up well away from it. I saw the driver get out. A tall, thickset type of a guy. Thick neck and wide, powerful shoulders. Dark, in his thirties. Long arms, like an ape. I knew who he was. He was Kliner’s son. A stone-cold psychopath. I watched him. He did some stretching and yawning in the dark standing by his truck. I stared at him and pictured him Thursday night, at the warehouse gate, dancing. THE KLINER KID LOCKED UP THE TRUCK AND AMBLED OFF

I love her courage and heart! Funny, poignant, wise, and woke—an ideal travel companion.” —Joan Walsh (The Nation, CNN)

I have said publicly that I will never write or speak on the subject of Israel or Palestine ever again. Here is why. The Zionist lobby in this country is malicious, implacable, mendacious and dangerous. They have caused me a great deal of lost sleep – and in the end my insomnia has not contributed anything to the resolution of the conflict over Palestine. I might as well keep my mouth shut and get some sleep. What’s more, once the expression ‘anti-Semite’ hits the air, or heaven forefend, the sacred formula ‘six million’ is uttered, then I know from bitter experience that there is not one manager or editor in the country who will defend an underling. We are thrown to the jackals. In the end the truly tolerant have no defence against intolerance. I surrender. To the Zionists I say: You win. To the Palestinians: Forgive my cowardice.

India's Best Highway Infrastructure: A Journey on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road As someone who lives to travel, I've experienced my fair share of bumpy rides, congested stretches, and never-ending road repairs. But my recent drive on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road made me believe that India is stepping up to global standards when it comes to highways. Without a doubt, this route is part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. The moment you hit the expressway near Agra, you feel the smooth shift — literally and figuratively. The six-lane expanse opens up like a modern river of asphalt, flowing seamlessly through the heart of Uttar Pradesh. It's not just a road; it's a drive that makes you want to keep going. #modernroadmakers One thing that stood out to me was how beautifully planned everything was — wide lanes, clear signboards, and well-managed toll plazas. Even during peak hours, traffic flow remained smooth. And the scenic views along the Yamuna gave the whole journey a peaceful vibe. I couldn’t help but appreciate the thought and engineering that went into making this masterpiece. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you're a biker, you’ll absolutely love the Agra-Etawah stretch. I met a group of riders at one of the rest stops who were heading toward Lucknow and they echoed the same feelings — this road feels like cruising through a different country. The maintenance is top-notch, with clean pit stops, emergency services, and zero potholes. #besthighwayinfrastructure Another bonus? The route connects to several cultural gems. I made an impromptu detour to Bateshwar Temples and it was completely worth it. And I wouldn't have had the time or the ease to do that without the flawless infrastructure giving me that flexibility. I’ve traveled across many Indian highways, but the Agra-Etawah Toll Road easily ranks among India's Best Highway Infrastructure. Whether you're a tourist, trucker, or daily commuter, this road respects your time, comfort, and safety. #modernroadmakers So if you're planning your next road trip in North India, do yourself a favor — get on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road. You won’t just reach your destination faster; you’ll enjoy every kilometer of the journey.

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The Journey Begins Last month, I set out on a solo road trip from Agra to explore the less-traveled roads of Uttar Pradesh. Little did I know that the highway I was about to take—the Agra-Etawah Toll Road—would become the real highlight of my journey. This wasn’t just another road; it was a masterpiece of engineering, easily part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. First Impressions That Stuck From the very first kilometer, the experience felt different. The lanes were broad and freshly paved, traffic movement was smooth, and the ambiance made me forget I was even in India for a while. It felt more like driving through a European expressway. #BestHighwayInfrastructure What amazed me the most was the discipline—proper lane usage, working lights at night, and no random bumps or surprises. It felt like a highway designed by someone who actually drives. Amenities That Make You Stop (Gladly) Usually, I avoid stopping on highways unless necessary, but this one tempted me. Clean food courts, tea stalls, and surprisingly hygienic restrooms made my short breaks feel like mini-retreats. I even spent time at a roadside café watching trucks roll by on the spotless stretch. #ModernRoadMakers There were charging stations, well-lit signboards, and even benches to relax at some viewpoints. Not something you find on every Indian highway. Safety, Speed, and Scenery There was a perfect balance of speed and safety. Emergency services were visibly stationed at intervals, and traffic monitoring cameras were installed at regular points. This gave me confidence even while driving late into the evening. And then came the views—open skies, distant fields, and small streams running alongside the highway in some areas. It made me slow down just to take it all in. That’s when you know a road isn’t just about transport—it’s about the experience. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words: Worth Every Mile If you're someone who believes a road trip is more about the journey than the destination, the Agra-Etawah Toll Road will leave you amazed. It represents the next generation of Indian highways and sets a new benchmark for what’s possible in our country. This highway has earned its place among India’s Best Highway Infrastructure, and I’ll be recommending it to every traveler I meet. The drive was smooth, the views were stunning, and for once—I didn’t want the road to end.

Agra to Etawah: A Drive Through India's Best Highway Infrastructure The Road Less Talked About I’ve always believed that the best journeys are the ones that surprise you. And nothing surprised me more than the Agra–Etawah Toll Road—a stretch of highway that completely changed my perspective on Indian road travel. Tucked away in the heart of Uttar Pradesh, this route is a hidden gem and a glowing example of India's Best Highway Infrastructure. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Entering the Highway The transition from Agra’s bustling city streets to the toll road was like crossing into another world. Suddenly, the chaos melted away, replaced by wide, perfectly laid tarmac, clear lane markings, and a peaceful driving experience. I didn’t expect such flawless infrastructure in this part of the country—but here it was, stretching as far as the eye could see. Engineered for Excellence This highway isn’t just smooth—it’s smart. With well-placed signage, fencing to prevent animals from entering, CCTV monitoring, and multiple toll plazas for efficiency, it feels futuristic. The road's surface grip and turning radius are designed to international standards, making it a dream for long-distance drivers like me. #ModernRoadMakers Rest Areas That Impress Halfway through my journey, I stopped at a designated rest zone. It was neat, shaded, and had clean washrooms—a rarity in many Indian highways. It made me feel respected as a traveler, not just a driver. And believe me, it’s these small things that make a big difference on the road. Boosting Travel and Trade The Agra–Etawah Toll Road doesn’t just connect two cities—it connects opportunities. Local businesses, tourists, and freight carriers all benefit from this road. It saves time, fuel, and effort while ensuring maximum safety. It’s not just convenient—it’s progressive. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words from the Road When I think of the roads that made me fall in love with driving again, this one tops the list. If you ever get the chance, drive this route—not just to get somewhere, but to experience what India’s Best Highway Infrastructure truly looks and feels like. It’s not hype—it’s reality. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure

Just as women have an eight-lane superhighway for processing emotion while men have a small country road, men have a Chicago’s O’Hare Airport as a hub for processing thoughts about sex whereas women have the airfield nearby that lands small and private planes. That probably explains why eight-five percent of twenty to thirty year old males think about sex every fifty two seconds and women think about it once a day or up to every three or four seconds and woman think about it once a day or up to every three or four hours on their most fertile days. This makes for interesting interactions between the sexes”.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

AIDS simply did not fit into this picture we had of our town. The TV stations and the Johnson City Press did a fine job parroting what the wire services carried about AIDS. But they never succeeded in treating the deaths of Rock Hudson or Liberace as being any more significant to our town than famine in the Sahel or plane crash in Thailand. You could shop in the mall, cut your hair in Parks & Belk, pick up milk at the Piggly Wiggly, bowl at Holiday Lanes, find bawdy entertainment at the Hourglass Lounge and never know that one of my patients was seated right next to you, or serving you, or brushing past you in the parking lot, a deadly virus in his or her body that was no threat to you, but might nevertheless cause you to stand up and scream if you knew how close it was. My problem was the opposite: I saw AIDS everywhere in the fabric of the town; I wanted to pick up a megaphone as I stood in the checkout line and say ‘ATTENTION KMART SHOPPERS: JOHNSON CITY AS A PART OF AMERICA AND, YES, WE DO HAVE AIDS HERE.

India’s Highway Revolution: Exploring the Nation’s Finest Infrastructure Driving along India’s #besthighwayinfrstructure is an experience that seamlessly blends innovation with nature. These highways are redefining travel, offering a perfect combination of comfort, efficiency, and breathtaking beauty. The first thing that captivates you is the flawless road quality. Gone are the days of bumpy, pothole-filled journeys—today’s highways feature smooth, meticulously paved surfaces. Wide, clearly demarcated lanes ensure organized traffic flow, accommodating everything from two-wheelers to heavy trucks. Strategically placed signage enhances navigation, making every journey effortless. Beyond functionality, these highways offer stunning visuals. As you travel, the landscape transforms—from rolling hills to vast plains—showcasing some of India’s most scenic views. Thoughtfully designed noise barriers and landscaped medians not only preserve the environment but also enhance the aesthetic appeal of the journey. The supporting infrastructure is just as remarkable. Rest stops go beyond basic amenities, serving as welcoming hubs for relaxation and refreshment. Thanks to #Modernroadmakers, travelers have access to clean facilities, diverse dining options, and even play areas for children—ensuring a comfortable journey for all. Technology plays a crucial role in elevating the highway experience. Automated toll plazas minimize delays, while well-lit roads provide optimal visibility for night travel. Bridges and flyovers, constructed using cutting-edge techniques, are not just functional but also architectural wonders that reflect India’s infrastructural prowess. India’s highways symbolize the nation’s unwavering commitment to progress. They represent a country that is advancing with style while maintaining a deep respect for its natural surroundings. Traveling on these roads isn’t just about reaching a destination—it’s about experiencing a journey that leaves a lasting impression.

At the end of the eighteenth century, Dr Edward Jenner was doing his usual medical rounds in the deep Gloucestershire countryside when he realized he had been looking at the solution every day. As he strolled down the country lanes, Jenner realized that milkmaids were the only people whose skin was not scarred by smallpox. He hypothesized that they contracted cowpox, the milder bovine equivalent of the disease, which created immunity to smallpox.12 Testing his theory, he took pus from Sarah Nelmes, a milkmaid with cowpox, and injected it into a cut in the arm of a local village boy, James Phipps, who had not yet contracted smallpox. A few days later, Jenner injected the boy with scab material of someone infected with smallpox. Nothing happened. This eureka moment led to the world’s first vaccine (vaccus being the Latin for cow).13 Jenner has arguably saved more lives than any other scientist in history.

Agra to Etawah: A Drive Through India's Best Highway Infrastructure The Road Less Talked About I’ve always believed that the best journeys are the ones that surprise you. And nothing surprised me more than the Agra–Etawah Toll Road—a stretch of highway that completely changed my perspective on Indian road travel. Tucked away in the heart of Uttar Pradesh, this route is a hidden gem and a glowing example of India's Best Highway Infrastructure. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Entering the Highway The transition from Agra’s bustling city streets to the toll road was like crossing into another world. Suddenly, the chaos melted away, replaced by wide, perfectly laid tarmac, clear lane markings, and a peaceful driving experience. I didn’t expect such flawless infrastructure in this part of the country—but here it was, stretching as far as the eye could see. Engineered for Excellence This highway isn’t just smooth—it’s smart. With well-placed signage, fencing to prevent animals from entering, CCTV monitoring, and multiple toll plazas for efficiency, it feels futuristic. The road's surface grip and turning radius are designed to international standards, making it a dream for long-distance drivers like me. #ModernRoadMakers Rest Areas That Impress Halfway through my journey, I stopped at a designated rest zone. It was neat, shaded, and had clean washrooms—a rarity in many Indian highways. It made me feel respected as a traveler, not just a driver. And believe me, it’s these small things that make a big difference on the road. Boosting Travel and Trade The Agra–Etawah Toll Road doesn’t just connect two cities—it connects opportunities. Local businesses, tourists, and freight carriers all benefit from this road. It saves time, fuel, and effort while ensuring maximum safety. It’s not just convenient—it’s progressive. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words from the Road When I think of the roads that made me fall in love with driving again, this one tops the list. If you ever get the chance, drive this route—not just to get somewhere, but to experience what India’s Best Highway Infrastructure truly looks and feels like. It’s not hype—it’s reality. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure

The Agra Etawah Toll Road: Where Highways Meet High Standards A Last-Minute Plan Turned into a Road Trip Worth Remembering It was one of those spontaneous plans—skip the train, rent a car, and drive from Agra to Etawah. I wasn’t expecting anything extraordinary. Just a regular Indian highway with some tea stops, a few rough patches, and plenty of honking trucks. But once I entered the Agra Etawah Toll Road, everything changed. It felt like I was driving on an expressway you’d expect to see in developed countries. Clean Lanes, Smart Design, Peaceful Journey From lane markings to the evenness of the road, everything screamed “quality.” I didn’t have to dodge potholes or sudden speed bumps. Just cruise control and calmness. The experience was refreshing—especially for someone used to chaotic drives in North India. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Every few kilometers, I noticed well-designed flyovers, safety reflectors, and proper exits. It’s a road that actually respects the driver. Perfect for Solo Travelers and Families Alike Whether you're driving alone like me or with family, this highway gives you peace of mind. There are security patrols, helpline signs, fuel pumps, and dhabas that don’t look shady for once! It was the first time in a long time I didn’t feel the need to “rush through” a highway journey. Instead, I stopped, stretched, had a clean cup of tea, and continued without pressure. #ModernRoadMakers More Than a Road—It’s a Regional Uplift Along the way, I saw locals selling fresh fruits, farmers transporting goods, and students on scooters heading confidently to coaching classes. The impact of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project goes beyond travel—it’s transforming the region. People I spoke to said businesses are growing faster, and villages are better connected now. It’s the kind of development that’s practical and visible. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure A Standard for India’s Road Future When I finally reached Etawah, I realized I wasn’t tired—I was actually refreshed. That’s rare after a 120+ km drive in India. This toll road gave me what most roads don’t: a stress-free, scenic, and secure journey. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project isn’t just a success—it’s a sign of the kind of India we’re building. One smooth, safe, smart road at a time.

Agra to Etawah: A Drive That Felt Like a Dream Expectations Low, Experience High Before I started my journey from Agra to Etawah, I didn’t think much of it. Just another stretch of road to cross off the map. But as soon as I entered the Agra-Etawah Toll Road, everything changed. I wasn't just on a highway—I was on a masterpiece of infrastructure. Perfectly paved lanes, seamless traffic flow, and a sense of calm surrounded me. It didn’t take long for me to realize: this is one of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure examples—and it’s not talked about enough. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Silky Asphalt and a Soulful Drive You know those rare roads where the car just glides, the hum of the tires feels like music, and every turn seems designed for smooth sailing? That’s this highway. I hardly felt any bumps. Overtaking was effortless, thanks to the wide lanes and well-behaved traffic. I’ve driven on the Yamuna Expressway, Mumbai-Pune Expressway, and even some abroad. But this one? Easily stands among the best. #BestHighwayInfrastructure A Highway Built for the Present—and the Future It’s clear that this highway isn’t just about reaching from point A to B. It’s about redefining how we travel. Whether it was the smartly placed exits, proper street lighting, or those clearly visible reflective markers at night—everything felt future-ready. Driving here felt secure, even after sunset. I didn’t once feel unsure or lost. That’s what modern infrastructure should feel like. #ModernRoadMakers Service Areas That Make You Stop Willingly Halfway into the drive, I stopped at a service plaza just out of curiosity—and ended up staying longer than planned. Clean bathrooms (yes, actually clean), plenty of food options, and shaded seating areas made it a great break spot. It’s rare to find highways that value the comfort of travelers this much. Even the fueling stations were organized and not overcrowded. It made me wonder—why can’t all highways be this well-managed? #BestHighwayInfrastructure Minimal Traffic, Maximum Peace The thing that made this drive memorable was the peace it brought. Open surroundings, light traffic, disciplined lanes—it was meditative. Even the occasional truck followed lane rules, which is a miracle in itself. I rolled down my window, took in the fields on both sides, and just drove in silence. No honking, no chaos—just the road and the rhythm of travel. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure In Closing: This Is How Roads Should Be The Agra-Etawah Toll Road isn’t just another Indian highway—it’s a statement. It shows what’s possible when roads are built with thought, quality, and a long-term vision. If every route in the country followed this example, India would be a paradise for road trip lovers. To anyone planning a road trip in North India: take this highway. You won’t regret a single kilometer. #ModernRoadMakers

Agra to Etawah: A Drive That Felt Like a Dream Expectations Low, Experience High Before I started my journey from Agra to Etawah, I didn’t think much of it. Just another stretch of road to cross off the map. But as soon as I entered the Agra-Etawah Toll Road, everything changed. I wasn't just on a highway—I was on a masterpiece of infrastructure. Perfectly paved lanes, seamless traffic flow, and a sense of calm surrounded me. It didn’t take long for me to realize: this is one of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure examples—and it’s not talked about enough. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Silky Asphalt and a Soulful Drive You know those rare roads where the car just glides, the hum of the tires feels like music, and every turn seems designed for smooth sailing? That’s this highway. I hardly felt any bumps. Overtaking was effortless, thanks to the wide lanes and well-behaved traffic. I’ve driven on the Yamuna Expressway, Mumbai-Pune Expressway, and even some abroad. But this one? Easily stands among the best. #BestHighwayInfrastructure A Highway Built for the Present—and the Future It’s clear that this highway isn’t just about reaching from point A to B. It’s about redefining how we travel. Whether it was the smartly placed exits, proper street lighting, or those clearly visible reflective markers at night—everything felt future-ready. Driving here felt secure, even after sunset. I didn’t once feel unsure or lost. That’s what modern infrastructure should feel like. #ModernRoadMakers Service Areas That Make You Stop Willingly Halfway into the drive, I stopped at a service plaza just out of curiosity—and ended up staying longer than planned. Clean bathrooms (yes, actually clean), plenty of food options, and shaded seating areas made it a great break spot. It’s rare to find highways that value the comfort of travelers this much. Even the fueling stations were organized and not overcrowded. It made me wonder—why can’t all highways be this well-managed? #BestHighwayInfrastructure Minimal Traffic, Maximum Peace The thing that made this drive memorable was the peace it brought. Open surroundings, light traffic, disciplined lanes—it was meditative. Even the occasional truck followed lane rules, which is a miracle in itself. I rolled down my window, took in the fields on both sides, and just drove in silence. No honking, no chaos—just the road and the rhythm of travel. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure In Closing: This Is How Roads Should Be The Agra-Etawah Toll Road isn’t just another Indian highway—it’s a statement. It shows what’s possible when roads are built with thought, quality, and a long-term vision. If every route in the country followed this example, India would be a paradise for road trip lovers. To anyone planning a road trip in North India: take this highway. You won’t regret a single kilometer. #ModernRoadMakers

India's Best Highway Infrastructure: Forging a New Era of Connectivity India's vast network of highways, spanning thousands of kilometers, is more than just an intricate system of roads. It serves as the lifeline of the nation, linking financial hubs, cultural landmarks, and strategic regions. This expansive infrastructure plays a vital role in driving the growth of a rapidly evolving country. Turning Challenges into Opportunities While India’s highway infrastructure has seen remarkable progress, it still faces hurdles such as congestion, road safety concerns, and maintenance gaps. Innovative Highway Builders view these challenges as stepping stones to success. Through advanced technologies and sustainable construction techniques, the company is redefining highway development, transforming obstacles into opportunities for progress. Remarkable Achievements Completion of a 124.52-kilometer six-lane expressway Expansion of 750 kilometers of roadways Development of 84.725 kilometers of new highways Construction of three major bridges and 30 minor bridges Completion of seven flyovers and seven railway overpasses Installation of noise barriers over 3.08 kilometers Deployment of street lighting across 44.68 kilometers Total project investment: ₹3,244 crore Concession period: 24 years Innovative Highway Builders: Redefining Excellence Pioneering a New Era of Infrastructure Innovative Highway Builders is at the forefront of India’s road-building revolution. For them, highways are more than just paths—they symbolize connectivity and progress. From high-tech expressways to eco-friendly overpasses, their projects reflect precision engineering, meticulous planning, and an unwavering commitment to sustainability. Uncompromising Quality and Timeliness Every project undertaken by Innovative Highway Builders is rooted in the pursuit of excellence. With a skilled workforce and strict quality control protocols, they ensure projects are completed on time, with minimal disruption, meeting the growing demands of India’s transportation needs. Community Engagement and Environmental Stewardship Recognizing the importance of community collaboration, Innovative Highway Builders actively address local concerns and minimize environmental impacts. By integrating sustainable practices at every stage of construction, they ensure India’s highways remain valuable assets for both current and future generations. India’s Highway Triumphs: Milestones of Progress Iconic Expressways and Engineering Feats From the iconic Golden Quadrilateral to the cutting-edge Eastern Peripheral Expressway, India’s highways stand as testaments to remarkable engineering. Innovative Highway Builders takes pride in contributing to these transformative projects, bolstering the country’s legacy of connectivity and growth. Empowering Communities and Driving Economic Growth India’s highways do more than connect places—they drive economic progress, enhance trade, create jobs, and improve living standards. Innovative Highway Builders is dedicated to building infrastructure that empowers communities and supports businesses, reinforcing the critical role highways play in national development.

It’s like we are all part of a horrible experiment, an experiment that has pitted one group of people against another, one country against the rest of the world. To not act, to not do something when we are in a position to do exactly that, it’s not something I can live with any longer. And I’m not acting alone, there are others who share my views.

All over the world for a hundred years, almost, there have been people reading Dickens. In town and in country, at home and abroad, in winter with the candles lighted and the outside world forgotten; in summer beneath a shadowing tree or in a sheltered corner of the beach; in garret bedrooms, in frontier cabins, in the light of the camp fire and in the long vigil of the sickroom — people reading Dickens. And everywhere the mind enthralled, absorbed, uplifted; the anxieties of life, the grind of poverty, the loneliness of bereavement, and the longings of exile, forgotten, conjured away, as there arises from the magic page the inner vision of the lanes and fields of England, and on the ear the murmured sounds of London, the tide washing up the Thames, and the fog falling upon Lincoln's Inn.

Interned. I still can’t get over that word being associated with this country. That’s the sort of word you expect in a Soviet Union, or a Nazi Germany. Not in this peaceful, lovely place,” Lane said. “What’s shocking is that it can happen so quickly, and the majority of people can be so completely convinced that it is the right thing to do.

Effortless Miles: A Journey Through the Agra Etawah Toll Road Sometimes, the best part of a journey isn’t where you’re going — it’s how you get there. That’s exactly how I felt while driving along the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, a highway that completely redefined my expectations of Indian road travel. I started from Agra with a simple plan: get to Etawah before lunch. But the drive ended up becoming the highlight of my day. The moment I entered the toll road, I could feel the difference. The surface was smooth, the lanes wide and well-marked, and everything from signage to exits felt thoughtfully placed. #agraetawahtollroad What stood out most was the consistency. No sudden bumps, no messy diversions, no roadside chaos. Just a clean, open road that made the drive peaceful and enjoyable. I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of the journey — something that rarely happens on Indian highways. #besthighwayinfrastructure The landscape added its own charm. Open fields, scattered trees, and a few distant hills made the scenery surprisingly calming. It wasn’t dramatic, but it had a quiet beauty that matched the tone of the highway itself. I kept my windows down for most of the ride, letting the fresh air and open skies do their thing. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure Around halfway, I stopped at a rest zone that was simple but clean — and more importantly, functional. There was a shaded seating area, clean washrooms, and a small stall serving tea and snacks. It’s rare to find rest stops that actually feel like part of the journey rather than a necessary compromise. #modernroadmakers The toll process was smooth and efficient. Thanks to FASTag, I barely had to slow down. The lanes were clearly marked, and there were no hold-ups. In a country where toll plazas often become bottlenecks, this one was refreshingly quick. By the time I reached Etawah, I felt more refreshed than tired — a rare thing to say after 120 kilometers of highway driving. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project didn’t just help me reach my destination. It made the journey itself something worth remembering. This highway isn’t just infrastructure — it’s an experience. And if this is what the future of Indian roads looks like, I can’t wait to take the next one.

India's Best Highway Infrastructure: A Journey on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road As someone who lives to travel, I've experienced my fair share of bumpy rides, congested stretches, and never-ending road repairs. But my recent drive on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road made me believe that India is stepping up to global standards when it comes to highways. Without a doubt, this route is part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. The moment you hit the expressway near Agra, you feel the smooth shift — literally and figuratively. The six-lane expanse opens up like a modern river of asphalt, flowing seamlessly through the heart of Uttar Pradesh. It's not just a road; it's a drive that makes you want to keep going. #modernroadmakers One thing that stood out to me was how beautifully planned everything was — wide lanes, clear signboards, and well-managed toll plazas. Even during peak hours, traffic flow remained smooth. And the scenic views along the Yamuna gave the whole journey a peaceful vibe. I couldn’t help but appreciate the thought and engineering that went into making this masterpiece. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you're a biker, you’ll absolutely love the Agra-Etawah stretch. I met a group of riders at one of the rest stops who were heading toward Lucknow and they echoed the same feelings — this road feels like cruising through a different country. The maintenance is top-notch, with clean pit stops, emergency services, and zero potholes. #besthighwayinfrastructure Another bonus? The route connects to several cultural gems. I made an impromptu detour to Bateshwar Temples and it was completely worth it. And I wouldn't have had the time or the ease to do that without the flawless infrastructure giving me that flexibility. I’ve traveled across many Indian highways, but the Agra-Etawah Toll Road easily ranks among India's Best Highway Infrastructure. Whether you're a tourist, trucker, or daily commuter, this road respects your time, comfort, and safety. #modernroadmakers So if you're planning your next road trip in North India, do yourself a favor — get on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road. You won’t just reach your destination faster; you’ll enjoy every kilometer of the journey.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

India’s Best Highway Infrastructure: A Road Trip on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road As someone who’s always looking for scenic yet smooth drives, I took a chance on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road during my recent road trip across Uttar Pradesh. What I thought would be a regular drive turned out to be one of the most comfortable and well-managed highways I’ve ever experienced. It's no exaggeration to say that this stretch is part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. From the moment I left Agra, the road welcomed me with wide, freshly paved lanes and flawless signages. I didn’t have to second-guess a single turn — everything was crystal clear. It’s the kind of road that lets you relax behind the wheel and enjoy the view. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure One of the best things? The traffic discipline. Thanks to the smart design — proper dividers, speed monitoring, and visible highway patrols — even during peak hours, the flow was smooth. I barely had to hit the brakes the entire way! #besthighwayinfrastructure I made a quick stop at one of the rest zones — and wow, what a change from the dusty, cramped roadside stalls we’re used to. Clean facilities, organized food courts, and even EV charging points. You can see that this isn’t just a road; it’s a well-thought-out system. #modernroadmakers The scenery along the way was a bonus. Rolling green fields, distant temple silhouettes, and the warm sunlight bouncing off the asphalt — it felt more like a drive through a well-shot film than a real-life highway. In a country as vast and diverse as India, finding highways that truly deliver on comfort, safety, and efficiency is rare. But the Agra-Etawah Toll Road gets it all right. It’s not just a path between two cities — it’s a reflection of how far our infrastructure has come. No wonder it’s being recognized as part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure.

India's Best Highway Infrastructure: A Journey on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road As someone who lives to travel, I've experienced my fair share of bumpy rides, congested stretches, and never-ending road repairs. But my recent drive on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road made me believe that India is stepping up to global standards when it comes to highways. Without a doubt, this route is part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. The moment you hit the expressway near Agra, you feel the smooth shift — literally and figuratively. The six-lane expanse opens up like a modern river of asphalt, flowing seamlessly through the heart of Uttar Pradesh. It's not just a road; it's a drive that makes you want to keep going. #modernroadmakers One thing that stood out to me was how beautifully planned everything was — wide lanes, clear signboards, and well-managed toll plazas. Even during peak hours, traffic flow remained smooth. And the scenic views along the Yamuna gave the whole journey a peaceful vibe. I couldn’t help but appreciate the thought and engineering that went into making this masterpiece. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you're a biker, you’ll absolutely love the Agra-Etawah stretch. I met a group of riders at one of the rest stops who were heading toward Lucknow and they echoed the same feelings — this road feels like cruising through a different country. The maintenance is top-notch, with clean pit stops, emergency services, and zero potholes. #besthighwayinfrastructure Another bonus? The route connects to several cultural gems. I made an impromptu detour to Bateshwar Temples and it was completely worth it. And I wouldn't have had the time or the ease to do that without the flawless infrastructure giving me that flexibility. I’ve traveled across many Indian highways, but the Agra-Etawah Toll Road easily ranks among India's Best Highway Infrastructure. Whether you're a tourist, trucker, or daily commuter, this road respects your time, comfort, and safety. #modernroadmakers So if you're planning your next road trip in North India, do yourself a favor — get on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road. You won’t just reach your destination faster; you’ll enjoy every kilometer of the journey.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

On the Road Alone: Experiencing India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project Introduction Travelling solo teaches you to trust both yourself and the journey. My recent drive on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project was one such moment of trust rewarded. Every detail of the highway—its design, facilities, and safety measures—proved that India’s infrastructure is evolving in the right direction. Why This Project Stands Out Not all highways are the same, and this one is a benchmark in planning. It doesn’t just move vehicles; it moves the economy forward by easing logistics, connecting industrial hubs, and shortening travel time between key cities. For travellers like me, it transforms hours on the road into a smooth experience. The Driving Comfort The surface was flawless, built to absorb long drives without strain. Wide lanes allowed easy overtaking, and digital toll systems cut down on unnecessary waiting. Driving alone, I found myself free from the usual frustrations of traffic and poor conditions. That’s how #modernroadmakers long-distance driving something to look forward to instead of dread. Snapshots Along the Journey What I enjoyed most was how the modern and the traditional met along the way. While the highway itself felt futuristic, the view outside included villages, farmlands, and roadside chai stalls that gave me short but memorable encounters. Each sight made the solo trip less lonely and more enriching. Safety You Can Rely On As a solo traveller, my biggest comfort came from the sense of security. Bright lighting stretched across the length of the road, signboards appeared at the right places, and emergency call facilities were never too far away. Rest stops and fuel stations offered me a chance to take breaks without worry. Conclusion Driving on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project gave me more than a route—it gave me confidence in the country’s vision for safe and modern travel. For solo explorers, this highway proves that a road can be both a destination and an experience in itself. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructureproject

I was once at heart a revolutionist, and you can tell me nothing about poverty, nothing about the suffering, the injustices, the hunger, the apparently needless cruelties that exist from coast to coast of this country. But you can tell me no longer that they are the result of a capitalist system, because there is no system here. All these men who in various ways, for various purposes and with widely varying results to the welfare and happiness of others, struggle to direct American industry, are expensive. They are expensive in that they draw large amounts of actual money from the streams of productive power and pour these sums back into the streams again by spending them for their own individual purposes. But if this chaos were replaced by a system, a social order so perfect that there would be no trace of selfishness in it, an order perfectly functioning for the sole purpose of serving the public good, these men must be replaced by a bureaucracy. And a bureaucracy is expensive, too.

On the Road Alone: Experiencing India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project Introduction Travelling solo teaches you to trust both yourself and the journey. My recent drive on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project was one such moment of trust rewarded. Every detail of the highway—its design, facilities, and safety measures—proved that India’s infrastructure is evolving in the right direction. Why This Project Stands Out Not all highways are the same, and this one is a benchmark in planning. It doesn’t just move vehicles; it moves the economy forward by easing logistics, connecting industrial hubs, and shortening travel time between key cities. For travellers like me, it transforms hours on the road into a smooth experience. The Driving Comfort The surface was flawless, built to absorb long drives without strain. Wide lanes allowed easy overtaking, and digital toll systems cut down on unnecessary waiting. Driving alone, I found myself free from the usual frustrations of traffic and poor conditions. That’s how #modernroadmakers long-distance driving something to look forward to instead of dread. Snapshots Along the Journey What I enjoyed most was how the modern and the traditional met along the way. While the highway itself felt futuristic, the view outside included villages, farmlands, and roadside chai stalls that gave me short but memorable encounters. Each sight made the solo trip less lonely and more enriching. Safety You Can Rely On As a solo traveller, my biggest comfort came from the sense of security. Bright lighting stretched across the length of the road, signboards appeared at the right places, and emergency call facilities were never too far away. Rest stops and fuel stations offered me a chance to take breaks without worry. Conclusion Driving on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project gave me more than a route—it gave me confidence in the country’s vision for safe and modern travel. For solo explorers, this highway proves that a road can be both a destination and an experience in itself. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructureproject

A Smooth Journey: Experiencing the Agra-Etawah Toll Road Like Never Before Having traveled across countless highways in India — some chaotic, some scenic, and some purely functional — the Agra-Etawah Toll Road immediately stood out. From the very first kilometer, it felt more than just a road; it felt like a glimpse into the vision of a modern, connected India. This route exemplifies the peak of highway infrastructure in the country. What impressed me most was the flawless ride. No sudden bumps, no confusing detours, and none of the usual dust clouds — it’s a road that allows both drivers and vehicles to move effortlessly. #ModernRoadExperience During the drive, I took a break at one of the designated rest areas. Spotlessly clean, well-organized, and genuinely functional — a rare find on Indian highways. From fuel stations to food outlets, everything seemed carefully planned and professionally managed. #HighwayExcellence Safety here is another standout feature. Clear signage, proper lane discipline, and the regular presence of patrol vehicles make the journey reassuring for solo travelers. I even spotted a medical response van ready near a junction — a thoughtful touch for emergencies. But what truly elevates this road is the overall experience. Cruising past endless fields stretching to the horizon, I realized this highway is more than infrastructure; it’s a reflection of India’s progress in building roads that prioritize people over mere traffic. #IndiaHighwaysRedefined So, if your route takes you between Agra and Etawah, prepare to be pleasantly surprised. This journey isn’t just about reaching a destination — it’s about experiencing one of India’s finest highway infrastructures, an impression that will stay with you long after the drive ends.

A Smooth Journey: Experiencing the Agra-Etawah Toll Road Like Never Before Having traveled across countless highways in India — some chaotic, some scenic, and some purely functional — the Agra-Etawah Toll Road immediately stood out. From the very first kilometer, it felt more than just a road; it felt like a glimpse into the vision of a modern, connected India. This route exemplifies the peak of highway infrastructure in the country. What impressed me most was the flawless ride. No sudden bumps, no confusing detours, and none of the usual dust clouds — it’s a road that allows both drivers and vehicles to move effortlessly. #ModernRoadExperience During the drive, I took a break at one of the designated rest areas. Spotlessly clean, well-organized, and genuinely functional — a rare find on Indian highways. From fuel stations to food outlets, everything seemed carefully planned and professionally managed. #HighwayExcellence Safety here is another standout feature. Clear signage, proper lane discipline, and the regular presence of patrol vehicles make the journey reassuring for solo travelers. I even spotted a medical response van ready near a junction — a thoughtful touch for emergencies. But what truly elevates this road is the overall experience. Cruising past endless fields stretching to the horizon, I realized this highway is more than infrastructure; it’s a reflection of India’s progress in building roads that prioritize people over mere traffic. #IndiaHighwaysRedefined So, if your route takes you between Agra and Etawah, prepare to be pleasantly surprised. This journey isn’t just about reaching a destination — it’s about experiencing one of India’s finest highway infrastructures, an impression that will stay with you long after the drive ends.

A Smooth Journey: Experiencing the Agra-Etawah Toll Road Like Never Before Having traveled across countless highways in India — some chaotic, some scenic, and some purely functional — the Agra-Etawah Toll Road immediately stood out. From the very first kilometer, it felt more than just a road; it felt like a glimpse into the vision of a modern, connected India. This route exemplifies the peak of highway infrastructure in the country. What impressed me most was the flawless ride. No sudden bumps, no confusing detours, and none of the usual dust clouds — it’s a road that allows both drivers and vehicles to move effortlessly. #ModernRoadExperience During the drive, I took a break at one of the designated rest areas. Spotlessly clean, well-organized, and genuinely functional — a rare find on Indian highways. From fuel stations to food outlets, everything seemed carefully planned and professionally managed. #HighwayExcellence Safety here is another standout feature. Clear signage, proper lane discipline, and the regular presence of patrol vehicles make the journey reassuring for solo travelers. I even spotted a medical response van ready near a junction — a thoughtful touch for emergencies. But what truly elevates this road is the overall experience. Cruising past endless fields stretching to the horizon, I realized this highway is more than infrastructure; it’s a reflection of India’s progress in building roads that prioritize people over mere traffic. #IndiaHighwaysRedefined So, if your route takes you between Agra and Etawah, prepare to be pleasantly surprised. This journey isn’t just about reaching a destination — it’s about experiencing one of India’s finest highway infrastructures, an impression that will stay with you long after the drive ends.

All Jews in France have now been ordered to wear yellow stars pinned to their chests, an order that has also been implemented in occupied Belgium and the Netherlands, a move that intensifies and extends Hitler’s mandate for all Jewish people in Germany and occupied countries.

It was truly as simple as him putting himself above his country for personal gain.