This is a traffic sign I always pass on my way to prenatal yoga. By the looks of it, you'd think I live in a rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere and have to travel 45 miles into town every Sunday morning for the sake of mine and my child's well-being. But this is really just a measly block or two of (mostly) unmodernized land in north Las Vegas, somewhere between roads with names like Rancho and Lone Mountain. Out in those parts people ride their horses on the sidewalks, past Taco Bells and AutoZones, and their front yards are landscaped with tumbleweeds and rusty, broken pieces of abandoned farm equipment. The city somehow spared or overlooked this neighborhood (which is surprising because I've never known another city to be quite as gung ho about tearing old shit down and replacing it with something sparkly and outrageous as Las Vegas) when planning these suburbs. It's like I drive through the past for two minutes right before parking my truck in a huge strip mall parking lot to do prenatal yoga and grab some (cooked shrimp) sushi to go from the adjacent grocery store. And I don't know if that's charming, funny, or sad. (Linking this up to Sundays in My City)
