When I was growing up in central Pennsylvania, my working-class family took vacations to places we could drive to—for example, Pine Creek Gorge upstate, better known to locals as the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon, or Delaware, where an aunt and uncle lived on the way to Rehoboth Beach. To this day, neither of my parents have been on an airplane, or west of the Mississippi River. The first time I flew anywhere was the summer after I graduated from college.I mention those biographical details to explain the relative lateness and force of a realization I had on a trip to Wyoming in my mid-twenties. A friend had moved to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where he was a teacher. As a graduate student, I had
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