something like a desert

It was just cornfield upon wheat field upon soybean field, an entire day's worth of fields. For miles this was it. An agricultural paradise, the makings of stockpiles against famine and drought. Once she passed a city in the middle of these farms, standing, not very impressively, more like a disease really. That was Indianapolis, in an entirely different state. She'd crossed that border miles and miles ago. This was Illinois now, the road signs pointing to two points of interest: Chicago and her destination. How did she ever end up traveling through all these fields? She'd left a field of cows back home, but mostly acres of trees. And then there it was. Rising above the cornfields, just in the distance, a man-made structure sitting beside the Mississippi. The setting sun made it glimmer, though only slightly. Behind it were buildings, not huge, but civilization nonetheless. It disappeared for a moment as she drove closer, nearing the city she would soon call home, for the next year at least. But then it reappeared, impressive and grey, a true feat of Greek ingenuity transplanted to an old industrial riverbank. The arch was at once singular, eye-catching, triumphant, but more than that it meant an end to eleven hours of farmland.