Diary from the States, Day 3 | The wind and the end of the road

There’s wind in Santa Monica. The kind that moves shirts, palm trees, red umbrellas. The kind that stirs your thoughts and gives the afternoon a strange, electric energy. The clouds cover the sun in bursts, as if even the light were waiting for something.

Under the Bubba Gump sign, between souvenirs and imaginary shrimp, dozens of people pass by. Everyone’s walking, no one’s rushing. Here, the city slows down. Even those who know nothing about football stop and glance at a black-and-blue shirt, a camera, a group moving in sync. As if football, even in a place that doesn’t center it, still knows how to get noticed.

Just a few steps away is the sign for Route 66. “The end of the trail,” it says. Maybe the end, maybe just the beginning of something else. That’s how it feels. The anticipation is growing, and the first step is near. The waves crashing nearby seem to mark the countdown.

Santa Monica is a crossroads — between those arriving and those leaving. And here, in the middle of it all, there’s us too. Bringing our black and blue to a city that has seen it all — but maybe not this, not yet.