• Taking a Turn?

  

  Day 106

  I’m not sure, but I’m hoping we’re taking a turn. A good one. Mostly weather related. But in general, more sun equals more happiness. After all, this is the sunshine state.

  Today you could run outside nude and drink in the rain like it was bathtub water. Not that we did, mind you. But there is a nudist colony about 40 miles from here: Sunsport Gardens Nudist Club, so if we change our minds they’ll welcome us with open arms. Come on now, that’s not the sort of adventure we’re engaged in!

  We are loving the humidity in West Palm Beach, Florida. It’s amazing. Probably a lot like what it was to be a baby darting around in the womb, all warm and comfy. Sorry about all these images, folks. I may have consumed a little too much boxed wine tonight. But there’s beauty in that, right? The images, I mean. There’s so much freedom in this movement that it’s almost alarming. Shakes you up a bit. Makes you wonder what you’d be doing if you didn’t buy an RV and take it all the way to south Florida just because you felt like it.

  The plan is to lay low here in Florida for about two to three weeks. Our birthday (yeah, that’s right, we share the same birthday: February 21st) is coming up, as is the good old corporate holiday of Valentine. We can zoom along down to Fort Lauderdale, Miami, and the Florida Keys and spend some quality time down there burning our sunburns.

  If there are any takers, there’s plenty of room in the RV. Do not let the fact that Walter has a mild arterial coating disturb you. We’ll clean him good before your arrival.

  Posted on February 5, 2010

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• The Peanut Gallery

  

  Day 102

  We have run into some pretty notable people while on our journey. The funny thing is, no matter where we set down our weather beaten RV, the people are exactly the same. Even funnier, as friendly as most people are, they keep to themselves. Sometimes we can’t even peg the individual, we just have to peg the vehicle and its oddball quirks.
  
  We feel it not only important, but absolutely necessary to share these RV  park people types with you. You never know. If the mood strikes and you decide to have an adventure of your own, you’ll want to spot them before they can spot you. Your life might depend on it.
  
  Antique Road Show
  This type is known for the brass lamp that sits upon a delicate lace doily in their front cabs. They wouldn’t think of trading that lamp in for lots of money because it’s brand new and it sparkles in the afternoon sun. You knew of course, that the steering wheel transforms into a side table to support this lamp and the driver’s seat into a lounge chair so one may read the paper. The owners paid extra for these features to come standard with their Wilderness Champion  class A motor home. This type may or may not also be a Knick Knack Nannie. Watch for porcelain statues  of cats or clowns lined across the inside of the windshield.
  
  Subtype of Antique Road Show: Prophylactic Plastics
  You will notice that this type drapes their entire RV with protective covers. There are custom covers for windshields, plastic covers for tires, side mirrors, and hitches. It is an obsessive pastime undertaken by a type who might also share the Knick Knack Nanny and Nosy Nancy behaviours.
  
  Knick Knack Nanny
  This is the senior citizen who makes her home in the RV resorts of the southern and western states. Committed to sprucing up the world around them, Knick Knack Nannies thoughtfully place garden gnomes, patio lanterns, plants, shrubs, windmills, concrete statues, and banners about Jesus all around their rigs. You cannot mistake these types, as they’ll be out working in their ‘garden’, which is really just a crappy plot of grass and dirt that is exchanged for another every few weeks, and all of the painstaking remodeling is done once more.  At Christmas time you will see these types with a brightly lit, decorated tree and glowing balls sitting upon the AstroTurf. Inflatable snowman wave menacingly from the lawn and gift bags sit like soldiers over the side mirrors. Shudder.
  
  Subtype of Knick Knack Nanny: Crazy Cat Lady
  Often seen with thirteen skittish cats pressed against the windows of the RV, crazy cat lady never exposes herself to daylight and feeds her critters 70 kg of cat litter under the cloak of night. She violates all major RV park regulations, but remains unapologetic.
  
  Paranoid Pug Walker
  This distracted dog walker will stare you down out of the corner of her eye while stooping to pick up poop. She won’t talk or smile, but when your back is turned, she  wishes she’d invited you in for a spot of tea because she’s just that lonely. This type should never be confused with Mrs. Potato Head as she is far slimmer and wears her hair in a longer bob.
  
  Nosy Nancy
  Like the Paranoid Pug Walker, Nosy Nancy will usually be out with her pet, but instead of avoiding you, she come straight at you. She’ll engage you in thirty to forty five minutes of menial conversation about the weather while you try to empty your black water and get the hell out before check out time expires and you owe $50 for late departure. She is likely employed by the RV park for just this purpose.
  
  King of the Swill
  He’ll just stare you down from afar. He will usually be wearing a faded baseball cap sweaty with grime hat and have giant Miller High Life crushed in his knarled fingers. He is the king of the park. You do not want to engage in conversation with King of the Swill. It’s too risky. He will simply grunt and nod, spitting out your past, present, and future with zero regard for your feelings. May also be fit the bill of  Wolfman or Mr. Potato Head.
  
  Wolfman
  The hairy dude that lathers himself with baby oil and sits in his lawn chair no matter what the day brings. It could be pouring rain or hot as a rat’s ass, and he’ll be out there, shining like a non-stick pan. This type may be confused with a King of the Swill, but often more friendly (to a fault). Do not let your wives walk too close to these types or unwanted conversation and disconcerting sidelong glances will ensue.
  
  Mr and Mrs Potato Head
  It’s a tragedy. After many years of marriage, couples will undoubtedly start looking like one another. Everywhere we go we see women sprouting chin hair, cropped hair, and rounded guts, while the men begin to grow subtle breasts, let their bangs take on a rounded flip and they appear six months pregnant because their livers are locked in a bath of hard liquor and Cheetos. As well, you will notice they both wear sack cloth jeans that sag in the ass. Each day they swap shapeless t-shirts adorned with eagles and NASCAR ‘98, according to the laundry schedule. These types are a product of the RV lifestyle as exercise or creativity is seldom a priority on the road. Careful; Mrs Potato Head may also be a Nosy Nancy.
  
  Merv the Perv or Lester the Molester
  Merv and Lester both have moustaches. It’s a prerequisite. They also have stained t-shirts covered in mustard and wheel grease. Instead of a 50 foot big rig, they live in their vans, or in those trucks with campers grafted onto their backs. Rust is a necessity as it often distorts the vehicle model and license plate, making it more difficult to track their crimes. These types will skulk around the RV site, ordering pizza in on Monday nights and rubbing their facial hair while small children play on the swing set. If you think you spot a Merv or Lester you can confirm the siting by visiting www.meganslaw.com. Whatever you do, do not snap pictures of or approach these types. They are extremely gun shy and will bolt for Mexico if perturbed. It is best to call local authorities or simply move along to a four star campsite where the afternoon activities include bridge and horseshoes. Merv and Lester hate bridge.
  
  Frankly, we think that if you have a mind to be a rapist, murderer, or wish to brag vandalism while you stay in the States, the RV park is the perfect environment for you. Just think: you are never in the same place longer than you want to be and can vanish within minutes (just pack in that black water hose). No one knows your name or your story. You can even hide behind your shitzu or poodle and look completely benevolent. You drive a big rig, so everything you need is on your back and ready to run. Furthermore, you could probably store a meth lab easily in the kitchen of your 40 foot rig. If you killed the purple smoke, no one would be the wiser. You could even cover your license plate with a motorcycle or small scooter to avoid detection. Why not?
  
  We hope you feel more comfortable with the Peanut Gallery. You’ll be seeing a lot more of them when we get back (it’s contagious).
  
  

  Posted on February 1, 2010

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• Days of Thunder

  

  Day 100

  So you want to hear about Daytona? You don’t? Well, too bad.

  We lived through that nightmare, now so will you. The thing is, we (I) should have known better. I had this irrational belief that the entire state of Florida was just like California, so the southern accents and baptist churches really threw me off. Too much Entertainment Tonight, I guess. Daytona is like the love child of San Antonio and Los Angeles. And it’s a total shit.

  Famed for its beaches and glistening sand, we pulled in thinking it would be our first of many beach-going adventures. That’s right folks, three months of outrunning winter, and not a beach trip nor ray of sun to brag about. Now here’s what we didn’t consider: NASCAR rules the world here. You know those tyrannical parents who put tiaras on their two-year-olds and send them to beauty pageants with too much lipstick and spray tan? Daytona is a NASCAR beauty pageant. Kids have little racing hats, men show off their Harleys and crotch rockets with no helmets down International Freeway, and uncle Billybob has already got his nephew into a stock car by age four. The girls of Daytona are the girls you see in the NASCAR calendars: beautiful, bitchy, and smeared in make up. Apparently Girls Gone Wild skipped town, so any breasts leaning on the beach bartops have been replaced with the guts of old bearded men and golfers.

  Daytona has some marvels, alright. Yes, we went to the beach, and yes the sand was soft and white. The sand is incidentally the birthplace of auto racing, and years ago cars would burst down the beach with blatant disregard for the crabs or snails, churning up smoke and seaweed as they hit the finish line. This history part was kinda neat.

  Still, the marvel is that the beach remains a street of sorts. Cars drive by scoping out ‘the sexy ladies’ (believe me Daytona in January = zero of these unless you like mature women with high self esteem). This made me extremely uncomfortable. But it probably made Travis even more unsettled. A car full of girls drove by us, assumed a sexy girl on the beach was bathing topless and shouted, “Wooooo, party Daytona!!”, but when Trav turned his chin to them they screeched in disgust. “Ewww gross, it’s a dude!!! ” He had his shirt off and was in a pair of rolled up jeans. I guess Daytona has lesbians, too. That’s cool. But rude ones are not.

  Later, another car full of girls shrieked and laughed at a robust woman getting off her night shift, “Hey fatty! Oinkkkkk”. What’s with the idiot blonds in thick eyeliner yelling obscenities and belligerant statements to strangers? This used to go on in high school at home. But we’re not in high school anymore, Toto. The parents of these girls should be ashamed. Too bad they’re likely at the track, and so can’t be bothered.

  Add the above to the seat peeing, and we’re done here. Absolutely done.

  Daytona is a loser.

  Posted on January 30, 2010

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• Daytona. Seat Pissers.

  Day 98

  We have a strong suspicion that someone peed all over our scooter seat. It was wet, everything else was dry.

  This was our first night out in Daytona.

  Seat pissers.

  Posted on January 28, 2010

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• Halfway There.

  (that was for you, Karissa. Ah yeah.)

  

  Day 95

  That’s right. This crazy, life splaying, intoxicating, perilous journey is more than halfway over. At least the south of the border portion.

  To put it in perspective, here are some numbers:

  • We’ve put on 7 800.3 miles during this trip.

  • That’s 12 553.3 km. Which is practically the same distance of the equator of the earth (12 756km). We’ve just traveled the belt of the earth! (Actually about 1/3 of the equator but hey, who’s counting?) No wait, 12 553km is the DIAMETER of the earth, so straight through, like if we dug a tunnel to China.

  • We’ve filled our tank almost twice a week, so that’s almost 20 gas station stops for pop and dried out licorice.

  • A tank of gas costs about $120, so we’ve spent over $2400 on gas that goes to the man. The only thing that makes us feel better is that we’re not eating diesel. Oh, Walter you gas guzzling queen.

  We’ve explored Kamloops, Vancouver, Seattle, Leavenworth, Portland, Tillamook, Newport, Coos Bay, Crescent City, Ukiah, San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Monteray, Pismo Beach, Los Angeles,

  (catch my breath)

  San Diego, Salton City, Joshua Tree, Phoenix, Lake Havasu, Vegas, Kingman, Tucson, El Paso, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans, Pensacola, Panama City, Tallahassee, Jacksonville, and now St. Augustine. We’re halfway there.

  Crossed through nine states.

  • We’ve driven Walter without a drop of water at least four times. This means no water to flush the toilet or wash or hands. None to rinse the grey water off either. Good thing Bath and Body Works makes hand sanitizer.

  • Boondocked about 30 days, 20 of those in Walmart parking lots. We HATE Walmart —but Security patrols like Batman, and that’s cool.

  • Each of us has eaten approximately 60 hot dogs charred in the frying pan. That’s the equivalent of 180 feet of hot dog. Or enough to completely fill our intestines 8.18 times. Open wide and say parasites.

  • We’ve had four major scraps on the trip (minor disagreements if you will). Two of them were over trying to find a balance between work and play. One was about sex, and the other was about someone being told to ‘suck in’ during a photograph. Don’t worry she’s over it.

  • We’ve lost and found: Travis’ black gloves (2x), his glasses, our scooter keys, Walter keys, sunglasses, & two lens caps all within 300 square feet of Walter. How is this possible?
  • Fished 33 quarters out for laundry eleven times, and rolled our clothes twelve times. Once they were all unrolled in a quest for black gloves, which resulted in massive clothes re-rolling (saves space)

  • We’ve used our internet nonstop for approximately 720 hours, or 43 200 minutes, which is probably the same amount as most of you do anyhow.

  • Subjected to Kings of Queens, Friends, and other pathetic reruns 12 times on Peasantvision

  • It has rained approximately 68 out of the 90 days we have been on the road. We are bloating with moisture and unrecognizable from the rivers that surround us.

  • We have completed eight motorhome repairs. Of these, only four were successful. I blame Walter. We chose a stubborn beast.

  • Embarrassment? We’ve felt sheepish at least 63 times since we left. Most of it can be digested on video.

  • We still have all our teeth (that 28 + 32 = 60). So scurvy hasn’t made an appearance. Yet.

  This has been one helluva journey. Looking forward to the second half. We’ll let you know how it goes.

  Posted on January 25, 2010

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• The JAX Welcome

  What a week. After nearly floating down the street in Tallahassee amidst a crazy set of rain storms that ran us ragged, we pulled into Jacksonville. The northeast coast of Florida. A hint of warmer temperatures and hopefully relaxation tempted our joy.

  What do we know about Jacksonville?

  The art galleries are most definitely worth visiting. Especially at the Burrito gallery.

  The people are designers. At least a proportionately large percentage are.

  JAX was hit by four major hurricanes in the same year. 2004. By Hurricane Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Mister T.

  It was also hit by Hurricane Carl, at NgenWorks, who made JAX the awesome party town it is today. And when I say party town, I actually mean that the parties are at the NgenWorks office. And they’re rad. Carl welcomed us with open hurricane arms, bought us lunch at the Salt Line, and rockbanded with us till 2am. We didn’t come to JAX for the downtown scene (it’s shut down and silent like a lot of towns we’re seeing). We came for great conversation and beer drinking with the awesome people here.

  A huge thanks to all the people who made us feel so welcome this week. The semis that roar by on the Phillips Highway don’t seem half as loud now that we can rest easy with JAX friendship in our thoughts.

  Posted on January 23, 2010

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• Day 91

  Travis takes a Tallahassee Shower (via Vimeo)

  Posted on January 21, 2010

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• Seven Cool Things About Swamps

  

  Day 90

  1. Swamps do not smell like rotting bodies like Hollywood portrays. In fact, they do not have any smell at all.
  
  2. Mosquitoes do not like swamps. The water is constantly moving, and skeeters like standing water. Leave the OFF at home
  
  3. As early as 50 years ago, it was common to have a mattress stuffed with Spanish Moss that dangles from the branches of the cypress trees at home in the swamp
  
  4. Alligators who inhabit the swamps of Louisiana will not attack you unless fed chicken and then shot with a paintball gun. They are docile creatures
  
  5. Bayous and swamps run east to west, rivers north to south.
  
  6. Gumbo was traditionally made from ingredients that could all be gathered from the swamp: bay leaves, wild rice, crawfish or mudbugs, sassafras, okra (introduced from Africa), and a farmed chicken or hog.
  
  7. Swamps clean the water better than man-made filtration systems. I still wouldn’t drink swamp water, though.

  Posted on January 20, 2010

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• The Pulse of Nawlins

  Day 86
  

  Let me tell you a story about the beating heart of the US. It’s right here in a little town called New Orleans, which isn’t a town, and isn’t so little after all. This story starts when two road weary travelers beeline their way through the parched deserts of Texas and into the humid underbelly of Louisiana. Cypress stumps jut out of greasy quagmires. Spanish moss hangs from the branches.
  
  These tired hooligans roll into a quiet RV park in New Orleans after hearing hyped claims of violence and rape and gang activity. Nothing bad happens to them in the French Quarter. Awestruck by lights and the trumpet sounds of Bourbon Street, they sip overpriced draft and watch 73 year old Jimmy  in a smart jacket belt out his Dixieland blues. He’s one Cool Cat. Jazz club after theme pub blur together in the throngs of Cajun locals and gawky bead covered tourists as these strangers gorge on the culture. The Louisiana sun sets on the 300 year old streets.
  
  Then comes the food. Spicy gumbo, crab bisque, and crawfish, alligator, frog legs, etouffee, blackened catfish, fresh cornbread muffins, They eat till they bloat and roll off of their stools. Drunk and happy, they let the voodoo pulse of New Orleans lull them to sleep. Man, this place really gets ya, they think. The Cajun dialect sings in their brains.
  
  The boy and the girl set out again, and this time stand before the wreckage of the most devastating hurricane in history. The 8 foot water line is fading, but most of the buildings on the Lower 9th Ward still gape with storm punched windows and rotting beams. The National Guard has tattooed their initials on the doors of homes where they have retrieved victims and only 30% of folks have come back to their wooden remains. FEMA trailers still sit occupied in front yards, but the displaced people are strong and homes are springing up once more —not without controversy. These two strangers feel the heart beat stronger. New Orleans will be rebuilt within two years, they are told.
  
  Vines cover the architectural giants of New Orleans. Plantations and libraries look down regally at the two, later that afternoon. Shotgun houses, line the streets like pretty teeth. The Napoleon House, the oldest relic in the city sits with brick & mortar walls and rickety tables. The strangers don’t feel like strangers anymore; they sit and sip a Pimm’s cup or two, revelling in the breath of the city.
  
  Rain plops down on the streets, smearing mist over the city. To warm up, the couple visits Du Monde Cafe and sips chicory coffee with powder-covered beignets. They wander the French market, they sniff the humid swampy air. They watch the colourful people. They feel connected.
  
  More than Vancouver, more than Seattle, more than San Francisco, more than San Diego.
  
  The beating heart is New Orleans.

  Posted on January 16, 2010

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• PS— We Didn’t Win

  But thanks for those of you who voted! Hugs and XOXs.

  Posted on January 16, 2010

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• “Do It Yourself” for 2009 Calgary Film Racing (via gordonmcdowell)

  Posted on January 13, 2010

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• A Shameless Short Film Plug

  Also, a shameless plug for my (non) acting career. As many of you know, Wil, Gord, Sarah and I made a short film in 24 hours for the 2009 Film Racing Tour and won the Calgary contest. Now we are up against 20 other winners around North America. We need your help and your vote. So if you liked us, vote now.

  Posted on January 13, 2010

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• Houston, We Have a Problem

  

  Day 83 

  Okay, we did the NASA thing (actually, the Houston Space Center). On a scale of 1 to 10, we give it a hearty 6.5.

  Now here’s the thing: It’s about space. So that makes it cool. We ventured through the most stunning exhibits! Life size replicas of rockets, pods, the moon (joking), & astronauts. And we got to rub shiny, black moon rock. I have rubbed shoulders with the moon, ladies and gentlemen. The best part was the initial introductory movie featuring all the expeditions that got our neck hair standing on end. How freaky is that? We are razzle-dazzling in environments that are completely inhospitable to humankind.

  Also neat: the Canadarm. Terrible name. It’s the giant arm that moves super heavy space stuff on space stations and on earth. Except they needed a lighter one for earth (aptly named Canadarm2) because of the terrible weight of gravity (I incidentally weigh more on earth than Mars, so I am packing my bags). That’s right, I paid attention. And it’s wicked because that arm is a Canada arm. So we are no longer the hat of America, we are now a U.S. appendage.

  Things that discontented us….

  Oh, the patriotism. If you haven’t guessed, we’re a little anti-let’s-brag-about-how-great-we-are. Applies to any country. The whole thing was about how awesome the US was because they had already met their space objectives, while the USSR was struggling to keep up. It wasn’t offensive —tastefully worded, I suppose. But it was so tired! And we were so tired of speed reading those bristol board brags.

  Other things that sucked: of all the exhibits, only 30% actually worked. The ball was missing for the gravity measurer, the scale was broken for the Your Weight on Different Planets exhibit. I do NOT weigh onehunafu—nevermind pounds. The flight simulator was a crock and didn’t even let you steer. Everything was covered in plastic sheeting, so you couldn’t dingle any buttons. I love dingling. Just see if we can get this ole’ rocket started, shall we? Not only this but it was time to upgrade some software. They used Macs but they hadn’t been updated since 2001. Consequently, none of the simulation games worked, and any of the interactive parts looked 8-bit at best. For a space museum, you would have expected bells and lasers, right?

  The rest you had to pay for. Granted it was only $4 for the virtual ride and $4 for the air-hockey type chair, but when you already have to pay $25/person at the door, it hardly seems worth it.

  Then there was the tram tour. Our guide looked like she had the Hiney (H1N1) and would rather have her head in a meat grinder than be repeating the listless words she said through her CB mic. We stopped at two places and walked up 89 + 26 stairs. So that’s what, a million? And it was air conditioned to take the nipples off a tourist! We did get to sit in the old mission control room where the first moon landing was coordinated and saw the astronaut training room, but I was kind of jaded by that time, so I forget what was so great about it. And the chairs were musty. No offence, NASA.

  The most disappointing thing was that there was nothing about the future of space travel. Nothing about projected next steps. Just a whole lot of “hey, if we used the moon’s helium3 we could really light a lot of light bulbs”. Meh. We wanted a pop-up book of all the crazy Mars Rover, Jupiter splend-ventures that are bubbling up to the NASA surface in the next decade. Sad that Travis read more about the future of space exploration on Wikipedia than at the actual home of all things space. And we all now how reliable Wikipedia can be (right, Anders?).

  One for the record book. And a place for which there is likely no reason to return. That is, unless they start making space travel super affordable. Like a $59.99 special. Then we’re in.

  Posted on January 13, 2010

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• Sweet San Antonio

  

  Day 80

  What a blissful vacation! Two days in a warm bed with decent shower did a lot for our morale. And San Antonio is a beautiful colonial city. Trav and I had an ‘alone day’ on Saturday so we could breathe some independent air. Ironically, we both ended up at the Alamo right around 2:30pm. You know when couples start finishing each other’s sentences and eventually start looking like each other? Annoying, right? Well, we’ve got that first part down, but if you think I’m going to start growing chest hair and shaving my moustache, you have another thought coming. We just show up at the same places like Sherlock and Watson. That’s all. The Alamo was a place filled with tons of history; the expected stifling patriotism of American history as it were, but a beautiful wreck all the same.
  
  Anyway, I fell in love with the winding river walk, the decomposing colonial houses, and the chile con queso. Travis snapped shots of buildings with closed signs hanging over fragmented window teeth and ducks basking in the mud of the river that had been drained for winter clean up. I would go back just to see it full. You can take river boat taxis up and down the streets and stop at boutique shops and fancy restaurants. The sad part is, San Antonio was toppled by the recession. There were yards of plywood suffocating the doors of abandoned businesses, whitewashed stains where old bookstore signs used to be, and empty broken people out of work, begging for change. Even still, the atmosphere still felt overtly optimistic. You gotta hand it to Texas for that.
  
  I had an interesting chat with a oddball named Patrick. He was feeding the pigeons on the plaza bench, a social misfit filled with some crazy ideas. While I was basking in the sun, he mistook my smile for a grimace and plopped down next to me, asking if I was sad. His teeth were broken and hanging loose from his rotting gums. He told me so many colourful stories; he was a preacher, not of the bible, but of culture. He knew the Alamo, Texas, and the whole of the earth’s metal core and planetary alignment inside and out through self guided research. He was illiterate (or showed signs of it), but his imagination kept him so alive and animated, it was hard not to listen. I am awe inspired by his passion for people and for his devotion to history. He made me smile, which made him smile. So we smiled together. Patrick is a part of San Antonio’s charm.

  What a wonderful, sad, and yet stunningly optimistic little place.

  Posted on January 10, 2010

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• Really, Texas? Snow?

  Day 78

  Three things that we planned on doing didn’t happen: The Grande Canyon, Roswell, New Mexico, and the Carlsbad Caverns. Wanna know why?

  Snow. Yep. All the way down here in the heat of belle south. Instead of checking out these natural wonders, we ran as fast as Walter’s wheels would take us deeper into the gut of Texas. And though we lament that we couldn’t walk about red cliffs, stalactites, or alien beings, we still had the taste of adventure on our tongues.

  We ran from Kingman, Tucson to Benson to El Paso and then Fort Stockton, to our new temporary address in San Antonio, Texas. And while we raced through these cold and inhospitable cities, we saw the oddest of oddities.

  • Deranged looking people in Kingman AZ. Trav said there must have been something in the water that morphed them all into mutants
  • Truck stops filled with frozen yogurt and old hamburgers
  • Quirky dynamite and rattlesnake souvenir shops in New Mexico
  • The assortment of roadkill spattered across the TX highways: armadillo, weasels, and wolverines? Where are we?
  • The broken toothed smile of Mexico in all its shanty-town glory along El Paso’s ‘safety corridor’
  • The rickety RV park of Stockton and the bristling snow on the highways all the way to Junction TX
  • Oh and seeing what a frozen sewage pipe looked like: frozen.

  So this is where plan B comes in. Instead of just going east, we are waiting out the worst of the storm in a Holiday Inn in San Antone. Here I sit, after a fresh pressurized shower, pizza and sweet beer. In my glory. And dear Walter is parked outside, safely in our view. He’ll have to handle the frozen pipes and bitter winds on his own. We need a break from winter. Again.

  Posted on January 8, 2010

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Walter is here…

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