Three years ago, I sat on the back of my car, parked off Route 66 in a two-stoplight town called Holbrook, Arizona. The breeze was just enough to warrant a hoodie but air conditioners hummed outside of the cement teepees that surrounded me. The stars were out in full bloom and tinted by the neon green sign that screamed "WIGWAM MOTEL". It was a special kind of calm and bliss I still dream about.