There is no sight more gratifying to me than the open road, for the open road allows the body to wander and the mind to wonder. It offers an escape for the imagination and a way of life governed by freedom and fueled by curiosity. 

My name is Alexander, and I am a sophomore in Timothy Dwight College studying political science and history. Naturally, my day is complete with writing papers, reading research articles and attending lectures. And as much as I am a Yale student, I consider myself a student of the world with the open road as my classroom.

This travel column, On the Road, recounts several of my adventures on asphalt and all the lessons I have learned from the people, places and things I have encountered on all roads, from those well-traveled to those not taken. 

***

Small puddles dotted the ground. The scent of petrichor pervaded the air. Notwithstanding the traces of the storm from the night before, a bright sun shone above a sky whose blanket of clouds slowly began to disappear. A new day had risen over Amarillo. 

My parents and I set off after a quick breakfast and made our way south. The landscape consisted of flat farmland. The horizon was punctuated only by pumpjacks and water towers. The morning was warm, and the sun shone brightly in a blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. We passed by a handful of small towns. Despite the fact they were different communities, most offered the same image: shuttered businesses and shattered windows. An abundance of crumbling facades and fainted paint accompanied the lack of life exhibited by abandoned storefronts on the highway. The only things preventing them from vanishing completely were the service stations and occasional fast food establishments that neighbored them and catered to highway travelers like me. Otherwise, these buildings would be destined to the fate of condensation that once graced my car window.

It was noon by the time we reached Wichita Falls. A few hours later, farms gave way to homes, pastures gave way to plazas and towns gave way to cities. Three hours later, we entered the outskirts of Dallas. 

For the first time on this road trip, we encountered traffic. And yet, despite the congestion of the city’s highways, downtown Dallas was quieter than I thought. It was a Saturday in June, and I imagined it would bustle like every other city I knew. Yet the city was sleepy. I blamed it on the afternoon. It was an afternoon perfect for ice cream or for laying on a hammock in the shade. It was an afternoon that made you sympathetic to the laziness of sloths and understanding of the patient floating of a cloud. Tired and lazy from the drive and the heat, we parked our car in a garage, rested for a while in the shade and walked to the Sixth Floor Museum. 

On Nov. 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed in Dallas as his motorcade drove through Dealey Plaza. It was a dark day for Dallas — and for the nation. 25 years later, the Sixth Floor Museum opened to the public with exhibits that explore the president’s life, death and legacy. It was composed of three sections: the ticket counters and gift shop were on the first floor, the main exhibits on the sixth and a set of rotating exhibits on the seventh. We entered the museum, taking a break from the Texas heat and rode an elevator to the exhibits. 

The museum was relatively dark. Strong enough to illuminate exhibits, its lights were soft enough to be melancholic. Despite the amount of people in the museum, it remained quiet. There were slight murmurs of parents teaching their children and, in the distance, the voice of Walter Cronkine informing a troubled nation. My parents and I made our way through the museum, looking at exhibits, artifacts and dioramas. We looked down below onto Dealey Plaza before leaving the museum. 

We left the Depository and, following a few visitors from the museum, made our way to Dealey Plaza. I walked ahead of my parents to stand at the grassy knoll. Just a few feet ahead of me, on the road, were two X’s marking the spots where the president was hit. The trees were still. Insects buzzed, and so did the occasional car that passed by.  

I took time to gather my thoughts and reflect on where I stood. There I was, standing at a place that six decades ago was the site of shock to what is now, six decades later, a place of grief. In the air, in the still and quiet air, there seemed to be a lingering sense of grief and a lasting sense of loss. The moments of Nov. 22, 1963 seemed so close to mind despite the fact they are temporally distant. Regardless of whether you appreciate politics and history the same way I do, visiting a place like Dealey Plaza was a profound experience. 

I cannot remember how long I stood at the knoll. All I know is that it was long enough to get a nudge from my mother telling me that we still had a day ahead. 

An hour later, after navigating the streets and highways of Dallas, we found ourselves at the Fort Worth Stockyards. Besides being the city’s cultural and commercial hub, the Fort Worth Stockyards also keep alive the city’s heritage as a center of the cattle industry. In the late nineteenth century, Fort Worth became a booming railroad hub. As with many communities at the time, the railroad brought with it more people and more industry. In the case of the latter, it was the cattle trade. Fort Worth became such a significant commercial center for cattle that it was dubbed “Cowtown.” Even though the cattle industry has declined, Fort Worth has clung on to its heritage. The city began to redevelop the Stockyards district in the 1970s and 1980s. Today, it is full of restaurants, shops, and performance venues.

It was late in the day, and the Stockyards teemed with tourists. The streets were filled with visitors hoping to catch a country performance or a rodeo. Bars filled glasses while people filled restaurants. Barns once full of cattle were now occupied by stores full of shoppers. The air smelt of beer and barbecue, and I found myself lost in a world of cowboy hats and leather boots. After wandering around its stores and grabbing a few snacks, we called it a day and left. 

The rest of the evening was spent with our relatives in the city. It was dinnertime by the time we arrived at their home. The sun was falling lower into the horizon. The weather slowly crawled to a languid cool. We were greeted warmly by my uncle, aunt and cousin. After settling in, my parents and I recounted the adventures we had for the past few days. Then, just like many family conversations, the discussion drifted into politics, the state of the economy and food recipes from various strands of our family. We finished our dinner quickly, but we all continued talking, laughing and storytelling as night fell over Fort Worth, bringing to a conclusion another day on the road.