On a sunny and humid day one summer, I found myself in the Sunshine State, Florida. As I scanned for restroom signs on the side of the blistering asphalt, I turned from the safe, industriously spick-and-span interstate I was on, onto a narrow, unkempt, slightly muddy dirt road. The appearance of such a thing was surreal, this dirt road wasn’t carved out of the earth for tourism but it was a real path America’s ancestors had used. As I waded in the opposite direction of the freeway perfection, the charm of the road wore off. Its palette of colors included all sorts of mud-browns ranging from “a puddly day in the neighborhood with rainboots” to “the hole my dog dug in the backyard”, but also included more unpleasant notes like “splattering
