We went to Paul's Bakery this morning, and while Daniel was inside purchasing chocolate-covered perfection, the kids and I were sitting dwarfed by the mammoth pickup trucks all around us in the parking lot. We saw pickup trucks in Thailand last year when we were there to birth Brave, but they were the little Toyota variety. This is another breed entirely. A tawny beast with a shining chrome grill pulled up to my side of the car. Her huge, gnarly tires lifted her so high, and she came in with such gusto that, if I would have had my window down, I could have ended up with "GMC" imprinted on my face. The pickup drivers are young, gangly, small-town boys in their Starter gear with patchy goatees and tattoos in other languages that they have no idea what they mean. The trucks might be extensions of what they wish for themselves - to be larger than life, and tough, and loud, and able to bust through any boundary.
In any case, it is extraordinary to observe these enormous, gas-guzzling machines in the only land on earth where they flourish unabashed.
Here's to pickups and good donuts. Woo Pig Sooiee.