The car's GPS tells you which way to go but never, thankfully, what you'll find on the way.  It stays just as dispassionate telling you to merge on a nondescript parkway as when it guides you along the most scenic of scenic back roads. I was driving for 30 minutes to drop off some Fresh Direct Bags to a food bank and it became among the best 30 minutes i'd spent all week. Listening to a New Yorker story by Vladimir Nabokov, the Russian writer's words nestled along the green meadows and fell like droplets on the leaves that formed a canopy over my car's roof as it wriggeled along the narrow bumpy roads seemingly as happy as I was. Then I saw this lane. Plunging dramatically into a deep valley that one could imagine for a second was immune from all the strife in the world. So I stopped to take a picture. And the world stopped with me.