My next stop was a budget hotel in Illinois, just on the border of Missouri. The woman at the front desk must have thought I was moving in for good as I stood surrounded by only a handful of the things I’d be hauling up the stairs: a bin of electronics to charge, a bin of food, my hobby bag, my backpack, a tent and tarp that needed to dry out, and a suitcase big enough to hold enough clothes for a month. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the elevator is broken,” she said as she handed me my room key.

*The view from the road somewhere between Indiana and Illinois*

The door at the bottom of the stairwell closest to my room was broken, so I spent the next 30 minutes walking in and out through the lobby, carrying bins and bags. Each time I walked by we almost made eye contact, though I successfully dodged her gaze, if not her judgment.

Our rapport took a turn for the better when I stopped by the front desk to ask her if she thought I'd be relatively safe to catch a Lyft from the hotel into the city. “Honey, yes - woman to woman, you're safe,” she said, and gave me a nod only one girl to another would understand.

My Lyft driver, Sam from Tunisia, was a man who seemed to be made for the job he had. He was personable and had stories to share that made the ride feel like part of the event of going into the city. He told me of his perceptions of the United States before living here, and of his moves from Tunisia to Los Angeles to St. Louis. The most surprising thing in any place, he said, was always the variety of people and life experiences he came across. “Like, the other day, I picked up a woman from the hospital and gave her a ride home to a small town 80 miles outside of St. Louis,” he said. “She had lived there her whole life but she had never been into the city.” Sam told me she was too afraid of the big city, yet witnessed extreme violence within her own hometown - the lynching of a man. Sam said that as they traveled closer to her house she pointed out the tree where it had happened.

Driving into the city and seeing the arch appear in the skyline was a much more impressive spectacle than I had anticipated. It felt similar to the feeling of awe I experienced in eighth grade when we took a field trip to Washington, D.C., and I saw the Washington Monument come into view for the first time. (The Arch is taller, so I learned on my tour).

To be honest, I was really only planning on stopping by to cross it off my National Park bucket list, but the content of the interpretive displays within the park held my attention closely for hours, some moving me to tears. That was not expected.

I started my exploration at the Old Courthouse, a section of the park across the green from the Arch. I had no idea what I was walking into. The building itself was beautiful; round hallways decorated with white columns circle an impressive rotunda anchoring the building at its center.

*The view from the second floor of the Old Courthouse*

Interpretive displays explained the U.S. justice system and the mechanisms of the court, and told the story of the most famous and influential case that had taken place there, Dred and Harriet Scott v. Sandford - a case that served as a catalyst of the civil war.

Within the exhibit, signs told stories of what it was like to be an African American in St. Louis during that time - some enslaved, some free. Two stories in particular I could not shake from my mind or my chest for the rest of the night. “Margaret, an enslaved woman living in Cole County, Missouri, knew her status would be passed down to her children. In 1848 she killed her baby to keep her child from a life of enslavement,” read the first. The second read: “In 1834, a Marion County enslaved woman was told her three small sons had been sold and would be taken from her. She killed her sons and then committed suicide.”

I thought deeply about how unbearably painful life would have to be to kill your children to save them from it. It’s a pain so deep I'm not sure my mind and body will let me go there fully.

*The view looking toward the Old Courthouse from under the Arch*

Across the green, more exhibits filled the space under the Arch, taking viewers through westward expansion and the actions that were taken against Native Americans in the name of manifest destiny.

In line to take the tram up to the top of the Arch, the tour guide asked each passing group where they were visiting from. When I heard “Virginia” from the couple in front of me, I asked them where from, and when they named a town only 30 minutes from where I call home, we became fast friends. We spent the 10 minutes in line and the four minute tram ride talking National Parks and travels.

As we exited the tram and entered the crowded viewing platform at the top of the Arch, it took us all a moment to find our sea legs - or sky legs - as the structure swayed in the breeze.

*Looking out over Illinois from the top of the Arch*

As I turned around from peeking out the viewing window at a scene spanning Illinois, I caught a girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, staring at me. We locked eyes and she said in the most matter-of-fact tone, “You're pretty.” Then she promptly turned and walked away.

I was stunned. I was three days and six states removed from my last shower, and had spent the better part of that time ruminating on my worsening visible PCOS symptoms. I almost didn't believe I'd heard her correctly, or that she was talking to me.

On the tram ride down, my new friends and I jumped right back into our conversation where we had left off. We chatted until we began slowly widening the space between us, realizing we were walking different directions. We came back together to exchange numbers and promises of meeting up once we were all back home.

Between making friends and the unexpected comment of a stranger, I was riding a high the rest of the evening

I spent the Lyft ride back to the hotel peeking over the shoulder of the driver, trying to read a notecard he kept on the dashboard. I could only make out the first two lines: “I can do now” and “I have to be strong,” both with translations to Spanish next to them. I wondered about the circumstances that prompted writing these phrases down and placing them where they couldn’t be missed. I wondered what the rest of the notecard said.

When I arrived back at the hotel I placed the mothballs I’d purchased in Kentucky under the hood of my car and inspected again for any small creatures that may have hitched a ride from Mammoth Cave. If they were there and strapped in for the ride, then tomorrow they’d be in South Dakota.

Gateway Arch, Missouri

Mammoth Cave, Kentucky