I love road trips. The open road is an invitation to change—change in perspective, in ideas, in priorities.

Gravity is a powerful thing, and the city is a magnet. You give in a little here, a little there, and without noticing, life becomes... stale. Practicalities take over, and every day begins to feel the same.

American roads fascinate me. I love roads everywhere—from the winding estradas in the mountains of my native Minas in Brazil, to the mysterious dirt paths of Cambodia seen from a tuk-tuk. But there is something unique about the roads in the U.S. The country is so vast, the scenery so diverse, and the roads so wide... They cut through the land as if in search of something—infinity, perhaps.

And the mythology surrounding the American road is so rich. Whose heart doesn’t beat a little faster at the mention of Route 66? Think Easy Rider, On the Road, The Americans—works that left an indelible mark. So many iconic photography monographs were born on U.S. roads: Stephen Shore’s Uncommon Places, Lee Friedlander’s America by Car, James Fee’s Photographs of America.

West Texas matched my idea of a reflective journey. For starters, it is inconveniently far—nine hours of flat road that discourage most from making the trip. Which is why Big Bend is the least visited national park, despite being the largest. And it’s not for lack of beauty—on the contrary. It’s all here: rough, exquisite, untouched beauty.

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Terlingua is the closest city to the park—except it is not really a city. It is a ghost town with a population of 78 people as of the 2020 census, very much a base camp for the brave souls who find their way here each year. 

We stayed in a casita near the town, which met our basic needs as we prepared to explore the region each day. Just the right comfort-to-roughness ratio for these urbanites wanna-be explorers.

The park was as beautiful as we imagined—a dry, rough beauty that reminded us at times of the Himalayas. There is something about the desert that awakens our most primal survival instincts. We feel alive, connected, grateful for the basic necessities of life; like water, food and gasoline, which is not always available at the one station that serves the city.

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I have watched the sunrise in many beautiful places around the world. There is something vital to seeing the first rays of light paint the landscape before your eyes. Your soul warms inside as it awakens to the possibilities of a new day. This was as beautiful as I had seen it.

The vast Texas landscape puts you in your place. It makes your everyday worries feel small, dragging you out of the self-consuming cavern of introspection and into the daylight—where the same sun rises above us all.

In time, I realize that a great portion of this breathtaking landscape is actually in Mexico—we are, after all, on the border. Astronaut Bruce McCandless once said that one of the most striking things about seeing Earth from space is the absence of visible borders. “You can see continents, islands, geographical configurations—but you cannot see political boundaries.” That’s true here at Big Bend. Nature knows no borders. Animals migrate freely, oblivious to the artificial lines drawn on maps by humans—here today, gone tomorrow. The Earth remains.

We stop to bask in the crisp morning light, stretch our legs, and eat the sandwiches we prepared in advance. We’re alone in the desert, surrounded by indescribable beauty…and silence. We say very little. When we speak, our voices sound clearer here in the desert.

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Late in the afternoon we visit the local cemetery. We find here a serenity not unlike the peace we experienced in the park. Once more, we are put in our place, reminded of the ethereal nature of life and the vastness of the universe.

Cemeteries are peaceful places, where every detail whispers “memento mori,” remember that you are mortal…and live. This is a paradox that never gets old. In the cemetery we stop running and face our mortality. Here, we accept the cycle of nature and embrace our place in it. 

The sun sets over the tombs. This is a beautiful place.

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From the desert, we drive to Marfa — a place that’s been on my wishlist for a long time.

Imagine transplanting a couple thousand SoHo New Yorkers into the middle of nowhere in West Texas, and you get Marfa: artists, creatives, chefs, and financiers with just enough money to fund their madness.

Marfa is an oddity, a sore thumb in the desert — and I love it. What creative wouldn’t? It combines the sophistication of a big city with the rhythm of a small town. The streets are quiet, the air is fresh, and most of the shops are closed.

To truly experience Marfa, you need to connect with people. That’s when doors open. You might get a private tour of a closed museum or meet an artist about to leave for Southeast Asia — all because you wandered into a gallery by mistake. That’s the pace here. This is not a nine-to-five town. It resists consumerism, sustained by invisible forces that make possible the kinds of extravagances you don’t expect in the desert: like a world-class minimalist art museum spread across more than 100,000 square feet and 22 buildings — or another gallery open only from 1 to 5 p.m., Fridays and Saturdays.

Perhaps Marfa’s best-known extravagance is the Prada store — an art installation by the side of the road, thirty minutes outside of town. That it was created by a Berlin-based artistic duo should come as no surprise, given Marfa’s international pull. Prada Marfa is the title of the work, and it perfectly captures the essence of the town: utter sophistication in the middle of nowhere.

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All good things must come to an end. It was time to head back. We chose to take the freeway this time—to save time and see something different. And different it was.

On the way to Big Bend, we had traveled mostly on farm roads, surrounded for hours by open landscapes and wide ranches. The return route was something else entirely.

We cringed as soon as we merged onto I-20, its lanes packed with 18-wheelers. But the worst was yet to come. As we approached Odessa, we encountered one of the ugliest stretches of road I have ever seen: a harsh collage of warehouses, oil rigs, trucks, and utilitarian hotels standing shoulder to shoulder—an endless monument to ugliness. I’m a fan of industrialist art, but not even Charles Sheeler could find beauty here.

Still, while I felt repulsed by the diselegance of the scene—and by what it represents for the planet—I was in no position to cast stones. After all, the very vehicle carrying us home was powered by the liquid extracted from the infrastructure lining both sides of the highway. I’m too aware of my dependence on oil to condemn it outright.

And yet… the contrast was impossible to ignore. Just hours before, we were immersed in the raw, transcendent beauty of Big Bend. Now, we were surrounded by a choking unsightliness. It demanded a response.

There has to be a better way, I thought. We are 8 billion people on this planet—and growing. We must find a better way.

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We spent the night at the Hotel Settles in Big Spring, a 1930s hotel built by a local rancher who struck oil on his land. How appropriate.

Back in Dallas, it was time to reflect on the journey. What had I learned? How had I been transformed? There were no grand revelations—just one quiet but powerful confirmation: we had driven over a thousand miles, far enough to disconnect and look at our lives from a distance. And if we were to be honest, we liked what we saw. The call to simplicity was renewed—a longing for a life closer to the earth, grounded in kindness and wonder.