#google-street-view

The randomizer has finally found a loophole.

Or at least, that was my first thought when it landed on Barceloneta, Puerto Rico.

This series is supposed to be a random journey through the counties of the United States. Puerto Rico does not have counties. It has municipios, 78 of them, each with its own mayor and municipal government.

But according to the U.S. Census Bureau, those municipios are officially treated as county equivalents.

So Barceloneta counts.

And after wandering around it on Street View for a while, I am very glad it does.

Barceloneta sits on Puerto Rico's northern coast, west of San Juan, with a population of a little over 22,000 people. It was founded in 1881 from territory that had belonged to neighboring Manatí and Arecibo. Its landscape reaches from the Atlantic coastal plain into greener interior country, but one of the municipality's defining modern features is industry. Barceloneta has long been associated especially with pharmaceutical manufacturing, enough to acquire the nickname La Ciudad Industrial. The Census Bureau estimated its population at 22,316 in 2025, while EnciclopediaPR traces the municipio's origins to its foundation in 1881.

That industrial history matters, because the first Street View scene I found is almost aggressively familiar.

Google Street View

If you dropped me into this image with the location hidden, I am not sure I would guess Puerto Rico.

There is a McDonald's. There is a Taco Bell with Pizza Hut attached. There are traffic lights suspended over a wide multilane road, cars turning into parking lots, utility wires, palm trees clipped into corporate landscaping, and a large modern commercial building across the intersection.

This is the running index for Road Trip by Randomizer, a virtual travel series where I use a random U.S. county generator to pick a county or county-equivalent, then wander through it using Google Street View.

This page is not a ranking of which places are “best,” most beautiful, or most important. It is a ranking of encounters: which places grabbed me most through Street View, which scenes lingered, and which virtual roads made me want to keep looking.

A lower score does not mean a place is dull. It may only mean I did not stumble onto its best road yet. The map has a way of keeping secrets.

Scores are subjective and intentionally approximate. Ties are allowed.

There are 3,245 counties and county-equivalent places in the United States, and the randomizer has already begun behaving suspiciously like a storyteller.

First it sent me to Gosper County, Nebraska, a quiet county in the plains. Then it sent me to Yalobusha County, Mississippi, larger, greener, and more Southern in a way that felt both distant and familiar. And now, for the third stop in this series, it has sent me to Coos County, Oregon.

This is the most populous county the randomizer has given me so far. It is also the first coastal county. And visually, it is operating on a different level entirely.

Coos County sits on the southern Oregon coast. Its county seat is Coquille, its largest city is Coos Bay, and its population is somewhere around 64,000, which makes it much larger than either of the first two counties in this little experiment. It was founded in the 1850s, named for the Coos people, and stretches from Pacific beaches and bays into forests, river valleys, and old interior roads.

That last part is what surprised me most.

I expected the coast to be beautiful. Oregon has a reputation for that. But I did not expect the county to feel so geographically compressed, as though several different movie locations had been folded into one map square. One minute, I was looking at fog, cliffs, beach grass, and an old car by the water. A little later, I was standing virtually on a broad beach beside sea stacks and a happy orange dog. Then I was inland, following a narrow road through green forest, sunlight, moss, boulders, flowers, and a small creek that looked suspiciously prepared to transport a hobbit.

There are 3,245 counties and county-equivalent places in the United States, and already, after only two spins of the randomizer, I am beginning to suspect that this project is going to be less about “discovering hidden attractions” and more about learning how much of America exists in a state of deep roadside quiet.

The second county it gave me was Yalobusha County, Mississippi.

Yalobusha sits in north-central Mississippi. It was founded in 1833, named after the Yalobusha River, and has the unusual distinction of having two county seats: Water Valley and Coffeeville. Its population is a little over 12,000, which makes it much larger than the first stop in this series, Gosper County, Nebraska, but still small enough that the county feels, from the Street View roads, mostly rural, dispersed, and watchful.

What surprised me first was not how unfamiliar it looked, but how familiar.

I expected Mississippi to feel much farther away than it did. Instead, many of the roads could almost have been roads I know from North Carolina: nondescript pines pressed up along the shoulder, reddish dirt pull-offs, modest houses set back from the road, trailers half-swallowed by vegetation, the occasional patch of kudzu performing its slow green takeover. The details differ, of course. Every place has its own weathering, its own light, its own roadside grammar. But the broader visual language was unmistakably Southern.

There are 3,245 counties and county-equivalent places in the United States, which means that even before leaving the chair, America is already too large to hold in the mind at once.

So I decided to let chance drive.

The idea is simple: use a random county generator, land somewhere in the United States, then poke around Google Street View looking for whatever the roads are willing to reveal. Not the famous places first. Not the postcard places. The opposite, really. Places that might never appear on an itinerary unless randomness, that tiny digital tornado, drops you there.

The first county it gave me was Gosper County, Nebraska.

And Gosper County, at least from the roads I wandered, does not immediately throw open a carnival of landmarks. It is not trying to impress the passing stranger. It is rural Nebraska in the nearly Platonic sense: flat fields, pale roads, enormous sky, utility poles, farm buildings, windbreaks, and the horizontal patience of land used for growing things.

There is a strange pleasure in that kind of landscape. At first, it looks empty. Then the emptiness starts making demands on your attention.

The roads are spare. The county feels visually quiet in the way a room feels quiet after everyone has gone home. There are long stretches where the main event is the distance itself. Cornfields and stubble fields reach outward in all directions, and the horizon seems less like a boundary than a habit the earth has kept for a very long time.