Take the jeep to San Pablo and you navigate three terrains: the dry and hot asphalt smell of burgeoning towns; the vast open plains that skirt around them, with winds combing the fields, strong enough to take your cap away from your head; the uphill climb to the thick forest of coconuts and bananas, damp to the nose, cooler to the skin. Layers of memories, different for each commute: that side road where I had to fix a flat tire last April 2022, to that day I shuffled Is Tropical’s album and discovered On My Way and its disintegrating beauty, or to yesterday’s quick read of New Yorker’s Talk of the Town, which features Om Sweet Om, a winding account that shifts topics from one paragraph to next – a Hindu legend, the closure of a yoga studio in SoHo, a cursory fly-on-the-wall account of the eclectic mix of guests, each with only one or two spare details thrown in, but altogether creating – and this is such a millennial word – a vibe. That carefree, louche, anything-can-happen atmosphere, that electric energy. All in less than a thousand words.