Today, one day ahead of the U.S. elections, I’m attempting to dive into the world of gas stations. By foot, of course. At the first one, right around the corner from where I’m staying for the week, I buy a donut, extra large and glazed. The most American of all breakfasts. Just cheap enough to justify buying it, but not cheap enough to overindulge (for now…). The guy behind the cashier has long brown locks comfortably resting on his shoulders, his movements somewhat slowed down by the weed set in his eyes. The few times I’ve been here, I have always run into a different cashier, each a unique character in their own way.

Refueled, I walk around aimlessly. I was supposed to be making my way from the edge of Tempe into the heart of Phoenix, but I know I am not going to be able to make it in the few hours I have available. Instead, I decide, I will just go to the outskirts of Phoenix, where multiple different highways both join and split up, one making their way straight across the city in the North, and one circling around towards the west. I had been at one of these highway intersections before, at a point where two gas stations sat opposite of each other, so close in reach you could not help but wonder why one would need two at a place like this. When we got there, we had just driven an hour back from up in the mountains in Payson, Arizona back into the capital – and it was now going to take us up to two hours to simply cross the city. We were tired, smelled of campfire and dirt, and were in search of a bathroom. Neither gas station had one available, and even if they did, we were sure they would have just been made unavailable to the people anyway. 

As horrible and dystopian as that place had felt (I have a lot to say about cars in America), there was something to it too. This is where many Americans spend a lot of their time, after all. Filling up their gustling car tanks to continue their trek from point A to point B. Buying drinks like Mountain Dew or Diet Coke, preferably iced, in large styrofoam cups the size of my head. There are gas station interactions, some good and some bad. People getting pissed about the high cost of two Dorito bags of chips, pissed about the lack of bathroom, pissed about the traffic, pissed about life in general. But there are nice people and nice moments too, even on the side of a busy road with cars chasing past you and piles of unhealthy and overpriced sugary foods towering over you. I was especially about to find out more about the kindness of roadside gas stations and fast-food restaurants today. 

Even when I have the intent to hike somewhere in specific, I usually end up at different places on the way. This time, I was driven by a ferocious need to escape the busy hustling and bustling of a life defined by movements in metal contraptions and set out to find some sort of nature recluse – just to unwind. I have been tired and worried about the world lately, and there is not enough for me to do right now to justify sitting in those feelings. Nature grounds me; it pulls me back onto the earth in a sense of belonging. Even in the U.S. I feel like I belong, because it is the same world keeping me alive and the same one that I cherish and appreciate so much. After a few minutes of walking (the desert heats up quickly and it is now hotter than I thought it would be), I come across a very large patch of broken but unused ground. It is littered, like most places, and there seems to be nothing of beauty growing among the disturbed rocks and unsettled dirt.

In search of something, I come across a paved and newly constructed path that circles its way through the park right toward the edge of the dried up Salt River. Under the bridge crossing the sometimes-existing waterway, there is a plethora of beautiful yellow-green bushes and plants, kept alive by the shade providing them, but still struggling to survive the dry heat. They rustle softly in the wind and I wish I could walk among them, hear around me the chirping of desert birds, and perhaps even the sound of croaking insects. But alas, there is a gate restricting my movement and a “no trespassing” sign warning me of further alterations. I know better than to break laws in the U.S.

I keep walking on the path, my new partner. I come across cyclists, most lost in their own world with a set of headphones tightly covering their ears. I wish I could convince them to listen to the sound of bird chatter instead – but I agree that the endless thumping of car vehicles is a sound worth cutting out. On my left, there is a large construction project on the way, and someone’s tented house set up at the edge of the large gate surrounding the, now, private property, just out of the blistering sun. To my right, there is nothing but the towering Phoenix center climbing up toward the desert sky, and at this point the dry Salt River that seems to harbor no life. I keep going. Out of stubbornness, perhaps. There has to be more. Something better. On my left now is one of Phoenix’ waste transfer management stations, otherwise known as a dump, and on my right still the empty river with an airport just on the other side. I feel the fumes set in my lungs. 

Food Mart, Monte Vista Acre

Ultimately, I decide it is time for me to head back to the real world and continue my search for gas stations. I pick up some trash during my last minutes on the path, a senseless and endless task that does not leave me satisfied but does remind me of the small actions we could all collectively take together. I think about trash, the becoming of trash once it stops serving a purpose to us as people. My hands are covered in sand and dirt, and the smell of rotting trash set in the air is slowly sticking onto my clothes. The path I am on will just lead to more nothingness and I am in need of something new. Besides, I am getting thirsty and what better place to stock up than a gas station?

It’s cool inside. The air is dry and smelless. I’m getting hungry, too, but the packaged goods don’t scream healthy and the donut is still sitting like a pit in my stomach. I need vitamins. I chug my water bottle, preparing it to be refilled by one of the million sodas available. Before doing so, I approach the one employee on shift and ask if I can just refill my bottle instead of taking a plastic cup, but pay for the charge of a cup. Before now, I too have been opting for plastic cups – but the guilt tends to linger beyond me emptying it and it is no longer a problem I want to contribute to. The woman says, Sure, honey, and I return back to the plethora of drink options now at the reach of my fingertips. I choose (and choose wrong) a sugary Lemonaid that will end up chugging along in my backpack for the rest of the day, by account of it being too sweet and my teeth screaming at me in protest with every sip. When getting ready to pay, the brunette woman, maybe just a few years older than me, simply charges me 30 cents. It’s a small bottle, after all, she smiles. I thank her kindly, saying I appreciate it and wishing her a nice day. You too, hon, she responds as I make my way back outside. There is very little sweeter than the twain of an all-American dialect. 

For the next ten minutes, I wait at the bus stop – observing the gas station and food market from afar. It would take hours to walk anywhere near Phoenix, and I am slowly running out of time on account of the plans I made later in the evening. Behind me, someone is checking their car, running the motor and hitting the gas in frequent intervals. The whole neighborhood around me seems to be focused on the car-industry, with access to tires, new cars, used cars, vintage cars, trucks, so many trucks, so within reach that one could simply get up from the metal seat at the bus stop and acquire a new car before the next bus finally arrives. I don’t have that option, so wait patiently. My black jeans soak up the sun and I revel in the warmth of it. There is joy in being outside, even with the car fumes slowly working away at my lungs. 

7/11, Le Natures

I get on the wrong bus, and only realize once I get back at my exact starting point of the day – right by the gas station where I acquired my breakfast donut. I get out as soon as I can, and start browsing for other public transport options toward my destination of the day. Every time I walk toward where I think I have to go and click renew on Google Maps, my phone struggles in the heat and my options disappear into thin air. Every time, an alternative will pop up, just a little further North every time. Ultimately I find my way, from bus to RAIL (Phoenix’ tram system), in close proximity enough to the Tovrea Castle I was hoping to observe from closeby. In order to reach the entrance, I have to make my way around USPS’ vehicle maintenance facility and postal office first. At another gas station, this one accompanied by a 7/11, I decide to stock up on vitamins. I scour the shop for any semblance of fruit and ultimately stumble on the small apples for sale, in the most down right corner of the meat and sugar filled fridge. I take two and make my way toward the cashier. 

Just these, I tell him, holding up the apples. Ah, the healthy options, he smiles. He’s a tall Indian man in his 50’s, his eyes twinkling even in the shade inside. He must have seen me scouring the shop in search of something unprocessed. I try to eat one piece of fruit a day, it truly helps. They are hard to find here – in the U.S., I mean, not just your shop specifically! I laugh back. He wholeheartedly agrees and raises his hands to point out the unhealthy foods surrounding us. Before I can make any further comment, I finally see the bananas he has proudly put on display to the left of him. I can already feel the taste in my mouth, and reach out to take one. I’ll take one of these too, I quip. You should get two! It feels like he is giving me advice, making sure I stay healthy like him. Why? I ask him. Because you’ll get a discount. I laugh. Not just because I am currently being upsold (and I am falling for it), but also because the discount makes the bananas so ridiculously affordable, especially in comparison to the other food options available, that it is hard to imagine why most of them remain unsold. There is even a discount on fruit! I think out loud.

I pay for my fruit, but continue to linger at the desk. We are both in a chatty mood and I can tell we have more to say to each other before continuing with our days. There are many nice spots to take photos in Phoenix, he points to the camera flung across my chest. I can’t help but agree. Even with all the cars, there is a raw beauty to this place. There is an undeniable power in the desert. It sure can be beautiful. Phoenix is beautiful, he says as if hearing my thoughts. Do you have any recommendations? I ask him. The sunset and the sunrises. They make everything glow. I ask him if he takes photos too and he says he does, always taking photos, he mutters more to himself than to me. He wishes me the best of luck, taking photos and staying healthy in the U.S. I thank him for everything and we wish each other a great day, a sense of shared kindness, goodwilling and humanity drifting in the air between us. 

By the time I have circled my way back around the block, I have already finished up one of my bananas. I find the Tovrea Castle to be closed (another failed destination) and decide to look for a bathroom instead. This is, perhaps, more difficult in Phoenix than anywhere else, especially in the outskirts where there is little living and very much driving. On my way to a Jack in the Box (roadside restaurants are generally bound to have locked bathrooms for paying customers), I cross two highway junctions, but there is very little in the sense of gas stations. I can’t believe I seem to have found my way to the one part of Phoenix with no easy access to a gas station – by foot at least. I walk beside trash riddled ditches, parked cars both empty and filled, construction workers hiding from the midday sun, landscape employees running their rakes through tiny rocks, cyclists wearing expensive helmets and biking gear, or cyclists with nothing but the clothes loosely hanging on their skin. I come across a woman the same length as me, hair tied up in a tight bun and every limb utilized to carry her tightly packed and heavy looking backpack and the three plastic bags bulging with bare necessities. Despite the weight, there is still a strut in her step as she makes her way past me. There is an understanding in her eyes and a tired smile stretching across her face. I see myself in her, the depth of our shared existence sticking to me for the rest of the day. 

Jack in the Box, Lindon Park 

I know as I step inside that Jack in the Box is going to be my last stop of the day. Immediately inside, I get consensually roped into a conversation that in the next timeless minutes twists and turns in the most unexpected directions. He is slightly taller than me, eyes set red with exhaustion, and clearly tweaking out on something that makes his body shudder and twitch. But his mind is clear and straightforward. He is smart, eloquent, fast with his words – nice to listen to. He is inviting, but not pushy. He is giving, but not demanding. And we quickly establish that despite our differences, we respect and trust each other. We are similar enough to understand that balance.

Once I get my order of fries, he offers me a seat at the table he’s sat at, his hands fidgeting with the wallet in front of him. Every couple of minutes, a big white pill falls out and he mumbles: I shouldn’t forget to take that. We talk about the U.S. and the Netherlands; the differences and similarities. Trash, cars, food. When I tell him how comparatively small the city I’m from is, how you can spend your day cycling around, walking in nature, or wrestling with the fruitful earth in your small backyard, he leans forward and widens his eyes, excitement slowly overwinning his exhaustion. They would think I’m weird there, he says, as I’ll be looking confused and excited the whole time through! There’s a joy in his voice, one I relate to as that is exactly what people tend to think of me here. It helps make people rethink their world, I offer. It’s good to see your reality from a different perspective. 

I am still trying to find a way to write down most of our conversation, as the magnitude and significance of it feels too grand to simply summarize in the quipping of quick sentences. We shared a lot of understanding across the high-rise plastic table between us, my fries right in the middle in case he changed his mind and chose to reach out for some food after all. The details are lost to time, and I’m going based on memories and the few notes I took when I got back outside afterwards. But the sense of it is there, and that’s all that matters. We discussed our upbringing, how they differed from the life lived in roadside restaurants and gas stations.

He was a rebellious child growing up, willing to take no bullshit from anyone without a grain of respect steering him into the right directions but leading toward prison instead. But in general, he grew up in a privileged climate. They ate healthy, a habit that grew into an obsession for his anorexic and controlling mother – your typical all-American family, he muttered. Grass-fed meats, organic fruits and vegetables, stuff like that. Going out to get burgers and fries had never made up a large part of his diet – and neither had it to mine. We discussed the unsane realization that all this food has to come from somewhere, to stock all 207,827 fast food restaurants in the United States. This is excluding the number of authentic restaurants (insofar as they still exist…), and food produced for supermarkets, gas stations, food courts and markets. We discussed how unhealthy food is out here, the pesticides found in staple ingredients like McDonald fries, and the medications stuffed into livestock. I’ve been living like an American since arriving in Phoenix, and have already gained a belt of fat on my waist, I confessed.  

We switched to his time in prison – how he ended up there, and what he learned in the process. He had been injecting (IV) drugs since being fourteen, an age so low my jaw dropped to the floor in response. We talked about the easy access to drugs, especially among his own generation. He was 33 now, so that must have been around the early 2000s. He talked about how insanely stupid he had been, just a child, to make of drug dealers whose pockets bulged with wads of street cash an idol, an icon, someone to aspire to. Being in his thirties now, he could never imagine that lack of morality necessary to sell drugs to children. Never. He could trace his craving, present even now, back to the neglect of his father growing up. It all comes back to that, doesn’t it, I agree, thinking of my own issues I carry with me like an invisible backpack pulling me down. For how complicated our human lives are, there is also a simplicity in being able to link it all back to your most formative childhood years. I don’t know why I got into drugs – actually I do know why; it’s because my father never loved me as a kid, he concluded.

I asked him if the services supposedly provided by prison had been a good thing too, especially in his case – ending up in juvie at 17 with a “fuck-you” attitude at the core of his personality. He didn’t offer much insight into that question – there was so much to say that we naturally drifted away from it. But, I learned a lot about people, he told me. I learned how to deal with mostly all people, and how to be good with people. And I could sense that in the way he carried himself, the slight slump of his shoulders, the relaxed tone of his voice, the way he kept his own space and respected that of another. He was a great conversationalist – quick but patient and as great a listener as a talker. Above all, he was honest and open. He described his slow becoming into an extrovert, through jobs, social settings, different people, and the gradual gain of confidence. The introvert to extrovert pipeline, I laughed. Once more I could see myself in the face of another. We spoke of being kind to another, with no external judgment thrown into the midst. 

Once I finish my portion of fries, less tasteful now that I’m thinking of the toxins present in every bite, we switch to the topic of trash – inscribed on my mind after walking past plastic for most of the day. Isn’t it weird, I start, that paper becomes trash once we have no use of it. I point toward the empty paper bag in front of me. I had used it as a makeshift plate to put my fries and ketchup on. Five minutes ago, I was eating from this, but now that I am finished it has turned into trash. I talked about picking up a tiny bit of trash a couple of hours back, and he excitedly shared that he too had a habit of picking up trash he came across. I have kicked people out of my car if I see them throw trash out of it while driving! A committed look stretches out across his face. I do that but with cigarette butts! I share back, equally as committed to play my, albeit small, part. I never thought about that, actually; I smoke and I throw them out. I didn’t think of it. Now you know, I say. Now I know, he answers. 

Before he leaves, suddenly in a rush, I reach my hand across the table to shake his. He introduces himself, and I introduce myself. He tells me his name, one (unintentionally) matched by the capital of New Jersey and (intentionally) by his mum’s father, her personal hero. But I like it, he confirms. I like it too, I answer. He says he likes my name too, one whose popularity in the U.S. matches the likes of a name like Stanley. I enjoy being a Stanley, I remark. We shake hands again as he makes his way past me again. I hope to run into you again sometime. Me too, I say in all earnest. It was nice meeting you. Before going outside I finally visit the bathroom that I had initially walked in for half an hour ago. I feel heavier inside, a new story sewed onto the fabric of the reality I now know about. But I feel lighter too. Happy to know he exists and our paths crossed the way they did, for however short it was. 

We never discussed the upcoming elections or any of the widespread inequality cutting divisions between people. We didn’t discuss the future of the U.S. as one lost beyond hope, or on the brink of change. We talked about being good to people despite these differences. About respecting each other, and respecting ourselves. We talked about kindness, and in that moment we showed to each other and the world how beautiful and meaningful it can be.