Never get into a car when the sun is near the western horizon. Overhead: OK. Set: absolutely. But to drive at rush hour is madness. 
First of all, there is no possibility for a breeze across the snout because the car is not moving. The only thing to waft through the nostrils is cigarette smoke from the driver sitting in the car a meter to the left.
The din of fifty radios blares through the ether. It’s hot; it’s stale; it’s boring.
By the time the outskirts of the city are reached, it’s dark, so there is nothing to see along the road. The mosquitoes are out so the snout stays firmly pressed up against the closed window.
The definition of longing. 
No, to be worth the trouble at all, road trips must begin in the morning just after nine. Windows down, traffic thinned–nostrils full forward in the breeze under a pair of flapping ears.
Hegemony, take note.
Chow.
The View from Down Here 