I woke up gasping and choking at 5am to the beautiful sounds of construction work. I had the sense that I had woken up unable to breathe several times during the night, but wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not. The humidity and pollution were killing me. I went back to sleep for a little while, then got up, tired. We headed back up to Starbucks to get our email, and the people there remembered us:

Barista (looking at my superspecial Starbucks card from Seattle): Are you from there?
Me: Nope, I got it on vacation.
Barista (looking at my tshirt): Oh, you’re from Vancouver!
Me: Um, no. Vacation.

Right as Heather started to reply to her first email, her computer shut off. Just died. We stared at it blankly for a few minutes, then got on the road. We were going to the Gulf of Mexico.

I don’t remember much of the drive to Tampa, apart from the fact that I didn’t see any alligators. I was tired, and it was raining. We stopped in Tampa long enough to determine that it was kind of crappy, except for Ybor City. Since everything was closed there, we decided to stop back later in the day. We kept going to St. Petersburg, and got there around lunchtime.

I dug St. Pete completely. There were a million little shops, galleries, and restaurants. Fortunately for my bank account, most of them were closed, because it was Martin Luther King day. In the north, the holiday is generally unnoticed except by banks (which sucks), but in the south it’s at least celebrated. As we walked over to a Cuban restaurant for sandwiches, they were blocking off the main street for a parade.

We drove through town, out towards the coast. There were a million more awesome shops. It was a little rundown, but really cool. Then we crossed onto Treasure Island, and the tacky began. It was great.

It was still cold and raining on and off, but I was determined to see the ocean anyway. We parked at a public beach, took off our shoes, and headed towards the water. I immediately realized my mistake, as the beach was all crushed shells, which was slightly more comfortable than walking on glass. It started raining again, so I headed for a little beach cabana. Heather and I huddled at the back of our beach chairs to keep out of the wind and rain, but, dammit, I was at the ocean again.

After the rain let up, I left Heather talking on the phone in the cabana and went to look for shells. I found one huge one that I bravely dodged the surf for; otherwise the beach was littered with fish carcasses and hermit crab shells. We left.

We headed down the coast to St. Pete’s Beach, which was your typical beach town. We found a little ice cream stand that advertised sugar-and-fat-free ice cream. I went up and asked the guy which of their 66 flavors came sugar-free, and he said, “All of them!” It only took me about an hour to pick one. I’m not used to having options. After that, we got coffee at a coffeeshop that had one effective and one completely ineffective employee, and headed south along the coast again. I didn’t want to get on the giant toll bridge while eating ice cream, so we drove around and ended up in Pass-A-Grille, a city so small it took me forever to find its name online. It was pretty and untouristy, and the waterfront along Boca Ciega Bay reminded me of Charleston. At the very southern tip of the peninsula, there was a public beach, so I demanded to see it. And I’m glad I did.

The sun had finally come out, and it was warmer. There was a huge storm rolling in from the Gulf, but we were ahead of it. The beach was incredible: fine, white sand, and tons of shells. I was searching for a sand dollar to replace the one I found on the Atlantic coast and broke. I didn’t find a whole one, but I found plenty of other stuff, including dead fish with no eyes, and later, a thorn that embedded itself in my heel. I found a questionably-live starfish, and lots of squirming conchs, and tossed those back in the ocean. And I found many cool shells, too.

After the beach, it was time for Heather’s favorite part of the trip: driving over the Sunshine Skyway. It’s one of those large bridges over open water, in this case Tampa Bay, that makes her freak. In a phobic kind of way. To keep her from panicking and diving out of the car into the ocean, I hand her the camera and tell her to take pictures, which is why we ended up with about 20 blurred photos of the cable span in the middle of the bridge. Did I mention that this bridge collapsed once? Awesome.

We drove back up to Tampa so we could check out Ybor City. It’s the old part of town, and used to be cigar central. It’s getting overrun with Urban Outfitters and about a hundred tattoo studios, but it’s cool. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to have any good restaurants, so we decided to go back to Orlando for dinner.

On the drive back, Heather called around and then announced that she had found the perfect place, and that they were going to make me a special vegetarian dinner. And that’s how we ended up back in Celebration, at Columbia Restaurant.

We were extremely underdressed, and didn’t care much. There wasn’t anything vegetarian on the menu, but they made me up a plate with plantains, yuca, and vegetables. I had a cafe con leche. We spent all of dinner quietly ridiculing the super-annoying couple at the next table, because we’re assholes. On the way out of Celebration, I got lost again, in the same exact under-construction neighborhood. At night, it was infinitely scarier, and Heather couldn’t get me to turn around fast enough in the dead-end street. I realized that I had gotten lost driving around town twice, and also taken the wrong exit and ended up there twice. Coincidence? I think not. Celebration was trying to trap me.

Back at the condo, we found the rest of the Ripleys eating tacos my mom had made. Scott and Ali had gone home, and my mom had apparently tried to erase all traces of our existence there by moving all our stuff into the other half of the suite. I didn’t know how to feel about that, but at least we got to sleep in a real bed for once.

We awoke at 9am and happily realized that neither of us felt sick to our stomachs anymore. On the way out of town, we stopped for coffee; all the Starbucks baristas were singing along with that Natalie Merchant song about getting older, and complaining about their pathetic barista lives. We took a detour to the town of Juliette, home of the Whistle Stop Cafe (of Fried Green Tomatoes fame). The residents are totally working it as far as the tourist trade goes, which is kind of amusing. All the shopkeepers are chatty and eccentric and cute. We considered maybe eating at the cafe, so went in to look at the menu. I looked down and saw a tableful of deep-fried food and I knew it wasn’t going to happen. So we continued on to Macon, Georgia, the location of our originally-planned lunch spot: Len Berg’s.

(And, yes, since you asked, we are the type of people who could consider Macon a destination.)

Len Berg’s is a bizarre little place. It’s in a small building in the alley behind the courthouse, and has been doing its thing for almost 50 years. It’s all about down-home cookin’, and it’s incredible.

We had discovered it in the AAA guide the last time we were in Georgia, and Heather has had recurring fantasies involving their biscuits and sweet tea ever since. They’re only open for ‘luncheon’ during the week. The kitchen is in the middle of the little building, with a lunch counter facing it. There’s a hallway on either side, and then dining rooms that branch out from there. The rooms are small and connect together like a maze. One of them has a large table with eight seats around it; another has two huge old creaking booths and nothing else. The seating is á la VFW post, cheap veneer tables and vinyl chairs. The waitress brought us the bread, which is amazing: buttermilk biscuits and little corn bread sticks. I asked her where the restrooms were located, and she gestured off towards the distance somewhere, saying, “through that door, you take a right and a right and a left and a left.”

The restaurant features classic southern cooking that you pick from a printed-daily menu. You can choose ‘lunch priced with two vegetables’; Heather ordered the baked stuffed pork chop (W) with fried fresh corn (Y) and country cole slaw (Z). I picked the vegetable plate, and selected my four vegetables: fried fresh corn (Y), country cole slaw (Z), tossed salad (S) with homemade bleu cheese dressing, and broccoli casserole (L). Worth noting: macaroni and cheese (M) is one of the vegetable options. I love the south.

The fried corn is sort of liked creamed corn, only with no cream. The bleu cheese dressing was the color of thousand island, but it was good anyway. My diet coke came in a tiny glass bottle. It was perfect.

Well, actually, the broccoli made me puke, but that was more my issue than theirs. Have I mentioned I’m fun to go out with? Yeah. Anyway, while I was in the bathroom, I could overhear the conversation in the eight-person room (which was a little disturbing, but still). There were a bunch of guys in there who obviously worked over at the courthouse, probably lawyers or judges. One of them was telling the others that for the last year, he had been exercising every day and trying to eat right and lose weight (what Len Berg’s had to do with eating right, I don’t know), because he had the new pacemaker. It occurred to me that everyone has their own personal struggle that nobody else knows about until they hear that person’s story. I mean, I know that should be obvious, but you don’t think about it. You go around thinking that your own life is this intense, gut-wrenching drama, and you envy other people’s simple, happy lives. And it’s not like that at all.

Back at the table, Heather was picking apart her peach cobbler and smiling about the people at the table behind her. It was a group in town for a conference, something about the needs of the blind. The women had the most stunning southern accents, stereotypically polite and genteel. One of the guys at the table was talking about how he helped set up a blind baseball league for kids in his county, and it was fascinating: he talked about the effect that success in sports had on the kids’ self-esteem and ability to function normally in school. Across the way, there was another old couple who had obviously been married since the beginning of time. They had ordered the exact same thing and were eating in silence. When the waitress visited their table, the woman would hold very lively conversations with her, then go back to dead silence when she left. Len Berg’s rules.

Leaving the restaurant, I again felt like crap, so Heather got to drive. I passed out for half an hour in the passenger seat, then felt like returning to the living. She informed me that I had missed the bamboo farm that I was intentionally looking out for, and then pointed out the hurricane evacuation crossovers that allow people to drive on both sides of the freeway while running for their lives. We figured those would probably be in use before long, since Hurricane Isabel was headed that way. At 2:50, I sighted my first seagull. We were getting near the ocean.

By 5pm, I was laying on the beach. I checked into the hotel and was instantly in love, once again, with Savannah. Or in this case, Tybee Island, but close enough. (Tybee island is on the Atlantic, 20 miles east of Savannah, across a series of bridges and causeways, and past miles of seagrass, turtle crossings, and palm trees.) The girl at the counter called me honey and sweetie and told me I was very striking. I swooned.

Our room was on the 4th floor overlooking the beach. We ran in, dumped all our stuff in the room, changed, smeared suntan lotion all over our pasty northern-european flesh, and went out to the beach. Heather went for a swim, which mostly meant standing about 10 feet into the water and getting knocked around by waves. I spread the blanket on the beach and laid down, meaning to read, as usual, but getting stuck just laying there instead. I pulled out the camera and took a picture of my viewpoint from the blanket. I called the parents to let them know we had arrived safely. They couldn’t believe how quickly we had gotten there, and I could hear my dad silently calculating driving times and speeds in his head, as usual. He highly disapproved of the fact that we had driven all night as well, of course. I told them about Atlanta and Macon and our early-morning visit to the Waffle House. Then my mom told me Johnny Cash had just died. That kind of dampened my enthusiasm for the beach.

I watched Heather’s head slowly bobbing south, and considered calling Alex in Miami to tell him to be on the lookout. I watched kids paragliding, and was a little jealous. Heather showed up after an hour or so, and we decided to go to dinner before we got sunburnt, then go back to the beach later.

We drove up to the other end of the beach, by the lighthouse, to a place we had eaten at on our last trips, the North Beach Grill. We had agreed it was one of those perfect moments: the ocean, the salt in the air, the wind, dinner on the beach. We sat out on the deck and ordered fried plantains with salsa. The Flying Sheephead Band was just warming up, a bluegrass trio with banjo, upright bass, and guitar. I ordered the veggie plate, which ended up being two black bean cakes, pineapple salsa, sweet potatoes (I can’t even describe how they were prepared, but they were the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life), and sugar snap peas. The band dedicated their set to the memory of Johnny Cash. The food was excellent and the weather was perfect. It was beautiful.

After dinner, we drove through the little neighborhood of bed & breakfasts and vacation rentals. Passing the pond in Jaycees Park, we saw a funny-looking duck standing there, so we got out to take a look. It turned out that she had a crowd of ducklings, and they all came dashing towards us as we approached. We resolved to come back the next day with something to feed them. I also noticed as we were leaving that the cicadas there near the ocean are unbelievably loud. When I’m walking at Lake Harriet, talking on the phone, and a plane passes overhead, I have to stop talking for a minute because of the noise; it’s kind of the same thing with the cicadas there. Crazy.

We drove back to the other end of the strip, and decided to go all the way to the south end to see what was there. Tybee Island is the typical beach resort town, although it’s still fairly unspoiled: there are a few tacky beach shops and convenience stores, and the obligatory motels and little cafes. But it’s no Virginia Beach; it’s uncrowded and friendly and nice.

We drove three blocks past our hotel and found the end of Highway 80, and a block and a half of little shops and restaurants. We went into a couple stores, which had everything on end-of-season clearance. Heather saw Ben & Jerry’s, so we stopped in, and discovered that their flavor of the month was sugar-free blueberry. Yay!

On the way back to the car, we saw an old guy come out of his shop, lean over and hock a huge gob of spit on the curb, then go back inside. Apart from that, the night was beautiful. We took our ice cream back to the hotel and sat out on our balcony, staring at the ocean. Then we went back downstairs and walked down to the pier. Apart from the wind, the weather was perfect, and we could see a million stars. There were probably 20 guys out there fishing in the dark. We went back down to the beach, took off our shoes, and walked all the way down to the south end, where it was pitch black and signs were warning us not to do something, but we couldn’t read them. There were kids scrambling around the beach catching crabs, and people strolling slowly, being in love. The tide was coming in, and we waded in the surf, my pants legs getting soaked for the second time that day. When we got back to our room, the moon had just come up. I watched Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash playing ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ on VH1. We decided to sleep with the patio door open so we could hear the sound of the ocean.

I woke at 7am to the pinkish glow of the sunrise on the wall. I sat up on my elbow and watched seagulls and pelicans flying past the balcony. I realized that I was hearing almost the same sound I hear at home when we have the window open, only at home, it’s traffic on Crosstown, not the ocean. Sigh.

We drove into Savannah and parked near the City Market. We found a little breakfast place called the Express Cafe, which had a million tasty-looking pastries and espresso. I got oatmeal with apples and cinnamon, and the world’s largest iced americano. From there, we walked down to the riverfront along the Factors’ Walk. It’s a level down from the rest of the downtown, with cobblestone streets built with the ballast from ships coming from England. The shops there are all pretty cheesy/touristy, and we stopped into one for postcards. One of the women who worked there came running at me from across the store, raving about my hair. And, yes, I had to admit, my hair was perfect. We had named it ‘ocean hair’, because of the effect of the humidity. It was really curly, but not at all frizzy. I hardly had to do anything to it in the morning, just poke it around a little and spray it. It was magical. I wanted ocean hair to come home with me, but that was not to be.

We walked down to see the waving girl statue [OK, I found this link about the Waving Girl, and I order you all to complete the Suggested Activities, and get back to me with your very own monument design], then went back up to the main part of town. We wandered amongst the huge trees draped with spanish moss, through squares with statues, and past beautiful old homes. Around 11am, just as we were arguing about whether the south understood decent coffee or not (Heather’s standpoint being that there’s nothing in between Minneapolis and New Orleans; I hold out that there are little enclaves of espresso-consciousness), we happened across a cute little coffeeshop right on the corner near SCAD*.

*Heather also has a deep and burning fascination with SCAD, since she works for MCAD, and there’s some kind of art college rivalry, or something. Don’t ask me.

Anyway, the cafe doubled as a little shop, and at least 99% of what they were selling was cute. Our experience there might have been ideal, had it not been for the women. OK, back up a bit. At our hotel, there were all these people who were in town for a wedding. Seemingly everyone there but us. Which was fine. But, then, at this coffeeshop, all of the women there were in town for a wedding as well. We were starting to get the sense that, in fact, everyone was in town for this wedding, to which we were not invited. And I’m perhaps just a little miffed by that. Yes, I said miffed.

So, I kind of hated these women. They were so very Ivy-League-Sex-And-The-City-South-Beach-Diet-Ann-Taylor. They talked about their sorority reunions and their babies and their socially clueless lawyer husbands. But the way I see it, it was good to spend some time in close proximity with those girls. It was a reminder of exactly what I hope to never be. Hopefully it’s not contagious.

We left the shop and did some more walking. We wandered into a little gay gift shop (Yes! There are gay people in Georgia! Outside Atlanta, even!) with a supercute puppy by the door. Heather stayed outside and got chewed on, and I went in and wandered around. I ended up talking to one of the owners, who used to work for Norwest Bank, so he spent much of his time in Minneapolis. He missed the winter mornings where he’d walk outside and the air was so cold it cleared his sinuses instantly. I told him he was crazy.

We eventually ended up back near the City Market, and decided to try our luck with lunch there. The City Market is this little pedestrian mall about three blocks long with shops and cafes. When we first went to Savannah, I was excited about going to the market, because I thought it would be all cart vendors and local crafts and food and such. I was wrong, but that market does actually exist in Charleston, so I got my wish later. Anyway, we went to shops and looked at menus and didn’t find much promising, but by then it was about a hundred thousand degrees (in the shade), and humid, so we finally settled on the City Market Cafe.

After lunch, we went back to the car, which had been sitting in the sun all morning and had warmed up to the internal temperature of a combustion engine. Heather got in, because she is a trooper, or possibly a masochist, while I stood outside and danced the there’s-no-way-i’m-getting-in-there dance, until a car pulled up wanting my parking spot and I felt stupid. So we were off. We drove around and explored some more, ending up at Colonial Cemetery, which was really cool, and almost as good as those in New Orleans.

There was a mix of above-ground brick vaults and regular graves and some random headstones affixed to the wall. Some of them were ancient, cracked and barely readable. I liked the font, or whatever it was called before there were fonts. Typeface? On a gravestone? I’m not sure. Many of the headstones were worn down almost to little nubs, which made me wonder. Why were those so much more eroded than the others? Crazy wind patterns? Poor choice of materials? People rubbing them for good luck? Hmm. Also, the walkways were made of oyster shells. Neat.

We went past Mercer House again (you know, because of that book), took photos, mailed some postcards even though the folks back home wouldn’t get them until long after we were back in Minneapolis, and headed back to Tybee Island.

On the way to the hotel, we stopped again at Jaycees Park to see if our ducks were still around. Heather found a gigantic, cranky blue heron, various other waterfowl, tiny fish, and finally, the ducks. This time, we came armed with some styro-corn chips from Schnucks, so they were happy. We met a guy out walking his dog, Lucy. He called her a hound dog and said, “Y’all have a good night,” and I was charmed by his Georgia-ness. We stopped at our hotel, changed, and went back to the beach.

Heather swam again, and since there were more people around to notice if she started drowning, I told her I was going to take a walk on the beach. I left my shoes on the blanket and set off, heading north, walking at the edge of the water. Now, the problem with me is that I’m not good at stopping. If you set me walking in a straight line, I’ll keep going until I run into something, or collapse. In this case, I ran into the huge rocks at the north end of the beach, by the lighthouse and the place we had dinner. It was where all the huge cargo ships came out of the Savannah harbor, and headed off into the great unknown.

So I stood there for a minute, looked at all the funny people and the ships, then turned around and headed back. I had no idea how long I’d been walking, but it felt like a lot. A woman pointed out a stingray that had beached itself, wondering out loud as she picked it up by the ‘wings’ if it was going to sting her. It didn’t, and seemed a little stunned to find itself back in the ocean. I started to notice jellyfish on the beach, which I knew had definitely not been there the first time around. They were those perfectly transparent blobs, and they were hard to see on the sand. I started seeing more and more of them, and realized I was walking through a jellyfish minefield. Also, my feet were hurting, and I could feel blisters starting to form on the bottom of my left foot and heel. I thought walking on the beach would be all soft and comfy. I was so wrong.

About the time I was beginning to wonder whether I was going to make it back alive, I spotted the pier. My feet were killing me, and my injured hip was aching. I had the choice between walking on the wet sand or in the water, which was causing blisters, or walking on the dry sand, which was hot and slowed me down. In the distance, I saw Heather on the blanket, and figured she was probably wondering where the hell I had disappeared to. I laid down, and we shared a protein bar and figured out that I had been walking for two hours. It hurt.

We went back to the hotel room so Heather could shower. I considered changing, since my pants were wet and would be all salt-stained when they dried, but I figured it was the right thing to do, wearing ocean-wet pants to a restaurant on the beach. Because, yes, we were going back to the North Beach Grill. It’s that good.

The exact same band was there again, playing the exact same set. We had plantains yet again, and watched the people around us. They were weirder than the previous night, so it was good entertainment. After that, we stopped in at Ben and Jerry’s again, and were back to the hotel by 9pm, sitting on the balcony and watching the tide come in.

I got up at 6:15 and practically ran out of the Econolodge. Oregon Boy #1 was still at the front desk when I checked out. I said, “Hey! You’re still here.” He said, “Hey! So are you.” I replied, “Not for long!” He told the whole red-hair story to the girl at the counter. They directed me to a drive-up coffee cabana, where I scored a triple-shot americano for $1.50. Shit is cheap in Oregon, my friends.

I got back on the 5 and headed south to Highway 199, which cuts across to the coast. 60 miles later, I found myself in California. Never having been before, it was a big moment for me. Some guy in a truck with Oregon plates seemed to think he was off on the trip of a lifetime, but I had him beat. I was hoping for the California border produce shakedown, but I guess they only do that on the interstate. I was a little disappointed, but pressed on.

I drove through Redwoods National Forest, which was beautiful. I was really glad to have a sunroof. Furthermore, I was extra glad I had had the brakes done in Seattle, because I would have been miserable driving through the hills to the coast. As I got nearer, I started to notice weird clouds in the sky to the west. It took me forever to realize that it was the mist from the ocean. I had never seen anything like it before.

I arrived in Crescent City around 11am, and got my very first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. It was less spectacular than I expected; not that it was the ocean’s fault, but it was about 50 degrees and overcast, and Crescent City seemed deserted. I walked out on the pier, took photos, and talked to some kids who were netting crabs.

I got back in the car and headed south, finally on the 101. It was a little disconcerting to see mile markers in the 900s, and realizing I was probably going to be driving every one of those miles. The fog was incredible. It hung over the road, and occasionally the sun filtered through and made rainbows. I wished it was sunny, because I wanted to stop and sit on the beach, but the cool weather was a nice change. I stopped a ways down the road at a black-sand beach and got out to see the ocean. The beach was covered in driftwood, oysters, and crab shells. I climbed amongst the rocks, looking at the seaweed and above-water anemonies. The rocks were slippery, and I decided to leave before breaking my bones.

I drove past Trees of Mystery and saw the statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Until recently, I wasn’t aware that Paul Bunyan was a big deal anywhere outside Minnesota. It made me a little homesick. Then I saw some elk, and many, many redwood trees. At that point, I was 280 miles north of San Francisco, and wasn’t planning on getting there until the next day. That meant I could take my time along the coast.

Based on advice from Road Trip USA, I stopped in Arcata for lunch. The book said the Utne Reader (also a Minnesota original) described it as ‘the most progressive tiny town in the US.’ It was really cute, with a town square surrounded by little shops and restaurants, and totally hippie; all the girls were wearing peasant shirts and sarongs, with their long hair up in ponytails, and the guys had dreads and wore cutoff shorts. Also, almost everyone I saw was college-age. I felt old.

I stopped at the Big Blue Cafe and ate a tofu burger. While I was sitting there drinking my cappuccino, a couple of college kids came in for lunch. They turned down the first table they were offered because it had bad feng shui. The second table was acceptable. I half-listened to their conversation as I wrote. The boy was babbling about Echelon, which I found interesting because I thought that kind of government-conspiracy paranoia was exclusive to the right wing. He went on and on until my hands started to twitch, wanting to wrap themselves around his throat. The conversation eventually drifted to living in Arcata. The girl said she liked living there now, but wouldn’t want to raise kids there, because they’d end up as drug dealers. The boy said, “Well, that would be OK, as long as it wasn’t crack or heroin or meth or something.” At that point, I knew I had to leave, or I’d soon be overturning tables in a rage.

I wandered around town for a bit, getting a really weird vibe. There were a bunch of drunk guys laying on the sidewalk outside a bar, and in the town square. I went into a cute glass shop and talked to the guy there for a long time about the weather in northern California, and the possibility of tsunamis, which I somehow found really amusing. He seemed starved for human contact. I stopped at the natural foods store and stocked up on protein bars and produce. Then I drove to Eureka, which was a super-cute, artsy little town. I got coffee at the bakery and shopped at a few galleries. Once again, the place was almost deserted. One of the women working there said that you could never predict when it would be crowded. It was kind of cold and overcast, but it was still a holiday weekend. I stopped and talked to all the people working in the stores, and everyone was really friendly. One girl I met said that it was hardly ever sunny there, but you could go 15 miles inland and it would be 100 degrees.

I went into a shop (OBJX) that I could have spent hours and all my money in. It was like a museum, with bizarre junk from everywhere. My favorites were brooches made of ear bones, bingo cards from a mental hospital, and the hundreds of glass slides from medical schools and colleges. I bought three slides of patients with facial deformities to bring to Jay. They totally creeped me out.

I got back on the 101, then exited at Ferndale. It’s the kind of town my mom would love: all victorians. The cemetery was amazing; it reminded me of New Orleans. It wasn’t a port like the towns north of there – at least, there was no huge waterfront. Lots of beef and dairy farms. A lot like Wisconsin, actually.

I was a little tired of driving, and considered whether to take the 101 (faster), or Highway 1, where it began further south. I figured if it stayed foggy and cold, I’d stick to the 101. All of a sudden, it was sunny and beautiful, and my decision was made. I must have been far enough inland, because it went from 60 to 80 degrees. I opened the sunroof and windows, even though I was going 70. It was so perfect. I exited at the famed Avenue of the Giants, a 35-mile route that parallels the 101 through the redwood forest. I stopped and saw the Immortal Tree with a bunch of Japanese and Indian tourists. It probably goes without saying, but I love that there’s this entire route devoted to giant trees. It’s kind of amusing. I mean, people like giant things. Biggie fries, SUVs, redwoods. Put them all together, and you’ve got yourself a party. Unfortunately, this time it was just me and the trees. I drove on, and finally, I stopped for the big event: the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I pulled up to the booth and the little old man inside asked, “Just one?” I said, “Yep, just me for the drive-thru tree today!” He laughed and asked where I was from, and commented that I was far from home. I considered telling him that I had driven all that way just to drive through his tree, but I couldn’t lie to a cute old man in a booth. He gave me a coupon for a FREE postcard at the gift shop. $1.50 for the drive-thru tree and a free postcard. How could I go wrong?

I sat and waited for the dumb woman with 15,000 kids in an SUV (and probably some biggie fries) to nudge her way into the tree in her gigantic vehicle. It was 7’x7′ clearance, and she barely made it. They had to fold in the mirrors and everything. It took forever. Finally, it was my turn. Chico fit easily, of course. I took a picture looking up out the sunroof through the hollow tree, then pulled up so I had enough room to get out and take a photo of the car inside the tree. I was pretty damn happy with myself, and thankfully no one was watching.

I went into the gift shop to claim my FREE postcard. There were two old women sitting in there. One of them said, “Girl, you got such purty hair!” I thanked her and ran away as fast as I could. This wasn’t the first evidence I had that northern California was actually part of the South.

I got back on the 101, laughing to myself. I decided that I was indeed going to take the 1, because it was beautiful outside. I exited and immediately, it became a tiny, twisting mountain road. At that point, I was positive that blowing a tire was a message from the god I don’t believe in to get the brakes done right away. I would have hated myself otherwise. There was no way I’d have made it to San Francisco, or at least I’d have had to stick to the interstate, and missed the whole coast.

Highway 1 wound up and down for 40+ miles. I had to keep putting on and taking off my sunglasses; one moment, I was blinded by the sun, the next it was dark from the overhanging trees. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in 20 minutes. I had to use 2nd gear most of the way down. With all the sharp turns, it was like slaloming, which was fun for a while, but quickly started to wear me out. With all the mountain driving, my arms and shoulders were killing me.

Half an hour later, I drove up another big hill and came around a curve that finally had no trees. The sun was glaring. I got to the top and started to round the curve, and my jaw dropped. It was the Pacific Ocean – the rocky, rugged coastline I kept hearing about but didn’t really believe existed. The water was perfectly blue. I pulled off at the overlook and started crying. I couldn’t believe how incredible it was. It was perfect.

I took about a million pictures at six overlooks. I thought about stopping at the beach, but it was getting late. The road began to straighten out at various points along the coast, so I drove as fast as I could, feeling my stomach drop as I went speeding up and down hills. I was the only one on the road for miles. I drove through Fort Bragg, then decided to stop in Mendocino for dinner around 8pm. It was a cute, tiny little town (Road Trip USA told me it was the idyllic scene for many movies and TV shows, including ‘Murder, She Wrote’). I decided against trying to get into Cafe Beaujolais dressed the way I was, so I picked a place next door: the creatively-named 955 Ukiah Street Restaurant. The servers there were kind of snooty, but nice. They put me upstairs in the very back corner. I ordered a salad and cappuccino, and got out my notebook. A short while later, they seated a couple of women at the table right next to me, even though the upstairs was almost completely empty. The next time the server came back, they quietly asked to be moved. I laughed. Was it me? I hoped so.

I still had no idea where I was spending the night. Based on my book, I was hoping to reach Gualala, because it was one of the few places along the coast with relatively inexpensive lodging. I was amazed at how remote some of the coast was. The towns were few and far between, and the fact that I could drive 40mph at the most on Highway 1 made everything seem even farther apart.

It was getting dark by the time I left Mendocino, and Gualala was seeming really far away. I had gotten used to the fact that it was light until after 10pm in the Pacific Northwest. The fog made it seem a lot darker, too, and I was feeling like I was really out in the middle of nowhere, completely alone. I drove and drove, looking for a motel. Finding nothing for miles, I decided to just camp in my car, because there were numerous state-run campsites all along the beaches. So then, my goal became to find a payphone so I could call home and reassure them that I was alive. I had been out of contact for over 24 hours, and the last anyone knew, I was in Portland. Also, I had forgotten the two-hour time difference, which made it after 11:30 in Minneapolis.

I finally arrived in Elk, California. It struck me as a nice coincidence, as I had just read an article in a travel magazine at my mom’s house about this tiny little town called Elk that no one knew about, but which was worth the trip. It was about 10 buildings in total, and even though there were cars and lights at the resort, it seemed deserted. Not even a gas station. I ran into the post office, looking for a phone. Finally, I saw the glowing green PacBell phonebooth at the side of the road, looking ominous. I rushed to call Heather. She yelled at me that mom my was in a panic, and wanted to call the highway patrol. I have to admit I loved the idea of Eric Estrada coming to my rescue, but she wasn’t so amused. I was in a hurry to find somewhere to sleep, and it was getting later and later. She agreed to call my mom, and I ran back to the car. A hitchhiker carrying more than his own weight in packs came staggering up just as I started the engine, and scared the hell out of me. My car went screeching back onto the highway.

I headed south again and finally saw a camping sign about 10 miles down the road. I couldn’t find the state beach, but there was a KOA. I pulled in ten minutes before the office closed. The woman at the counter was super nice, like a mom. She put me in a campsite near the bathroom, and told me that she’d let the security guard know I was there, so he could keep an eye out for me. Not that they ever had any problems, but I was a woman on my own, sleeping in my car. I found my site, parked, and hauled my sleeping bag and blankets out of the trunk, setting up a semblance of a bed in the backseat. I ran to the bathroom and washed up. The restrooms there were way nicer than I expected: private, and really clean. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have showered.

Sleeping in the car wasn’t as bad as I expected. It would have been pretty comfortable if I hadn’t been so sore from mountain driving and falling down. I had the sleeping bag on the seat, my big pillow against the door, and three blankets. I woke up and flipped around a lot, but otherwise I slept well, and I knew that the next night I’d get to sleep in a real bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i’m dressed like crap and i look like i’ve been beat up, but i totally fit in here anyway.

there’s no cell phone reception up here. isolated in california? go figure.

omg. he just said, ‘the way of the tao’. why do i hate them so very very much? and why do they serve so much meat here?

is it weird to have all this redwood stuff for sale in the redwood forest? i mean, aren’t we celebrating the majesty of the living trees?

holy shit, gas is expensive in california.

further evidence that norcal is part of the south: i’ve had no signal all day. i’m within 150 miles of sf! wtf?? i feel like i’m in montana. although i suspect calling people and raving about how unbelievable the ocean is might be unpopular anyway. man, i’m totally going to have to find a payphone.

– – – – –

I woke up at 6am, feeling a little stiff. I got dressed, which consisted of putting on my shoes; I was going to arrive in San Francisco wrinkled and smelly, and didn’t really care. I went to the bathroom and put on my bra and contacts, shifted my hair around halfheartedly, and was on the road by 6:30. I ate a protein bar and drank a Red Bull (the poor man’s meth) and was wide awake. It was cold, in the 50s and foggy. I drove south, looking for somewhere to have breakfast by the beach. The roads were deserted until after 7am. It was still all tiny, winding highway, cattle farms, run-down houses, resorts, state beaches, and road construction. I was within 120 miles of San Francisco and might as well have been in Iowa.

The sun came out around 9am, as I arrived in Bodega Bay. I came across The Wharf, which got my business because it had the word ‘breakfast’ out front; everything else I had encountered up to that point had been closed. I had oatmeal, which I ate very slowly while I wrote postcards and in my journal. I almost peed my pants with excitement when I realized my cell signal had returned. There were a bunch of messages from home from the day before when they were considering sending out a search party. I messaged Heather, and decided to drive to the beach to hang out for a while and make some phone calls.

I went to the post office to drop off a huge bundle of postcards, then stopped at the espresso shop. The surfer dude running the place said that the beach north of town was the best in the area, but the currents were really dangerous. Even if I had wanted to swim, it was still too cold and windy. The beach was the southernmost of the Sonoma Coast state beaches, and it was incredible. I had the whole place to myself for a little over half an hour. I laid out my blanket, took off my shoes, and walked along the ocean. Then I sat down, grabbed my phone, and realized I was once again without a signal. So I wrote some more, then just sat and stared at the ocean. I looked down and noticed that I was writing with a pen from the Glacier Gateway Motel in Kalispell, Montana. It seemed so long ago.

Finally, I got up and decided to head back into town so I could call home. Before I did that, though, I felt like I had to get my life back in order. I opened the trunk and all the car doors. I dragged the entire contents of my vehicle into the parking lot, then set out to reorganize. I rolled up my sleeping bag and folded blankets. I emptied souvenirs from their bags and consolidated all of them in one large bag. I tossed out all the trash, dug wayward CDs out from under the seats, and spent a long time peering at my map to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. Then I went and had the Port-A-Potty experience I never wanted; I knew I had packed antibacterial wipes for a reason. My car organized (and, therefore, my sanity restored), I was on my way.

I figured my mom would yell at me for scaring her the day before, but she was just happy to hear from me. I talked to her for about 10 minutes, and then lost the signal again on the way out of Bodega Bay.

I drove a couple miles off the highway to see Bodega, the little surfer town where they filmed The Birds. From there, Highway 1 heads inland. I drove along Tomales Bay and saw oyster ships. Point Reyes Station was really cute, and one of the last towns before crossing into the Bay Area. I decided to stop there for lunch. I had time to kill, and I was worn out. I had a really good veggie burger at a restaurant I don’t remember the name of. I walked around the main street, stopping into a few shops, then got back on the road.

I decided to drive up Mount Tamalpais to get a view of the city I’d soon be visiting. About halfway up, I remembered that I really, really hated mountain driving. I went up and saw the amphitheatre, then drove all the way up to the lookout. It required hiking, which I was even less thrilled about, but I had to do it. I climbed up to the top and sat on the rocks at the base of the fire tower. I took a million pictures and tried to get my bearings by picking out features I could see: the Golden Gate. The Bay Bridge. Alcatraz. I once again could use my phone, since I was essentially sitting right by the cell tower. I called Heather and talked for a long time. I tried to tell her everything I’d been doing, but I was so tired that it was all a blur. Then I called Jay and got directions to his apartment. I wrote down everything he said: bridge – famous – red. s 101. downtown/marina. fork – right. 45 mns. I started back down the mountain and ran into some talkative old people. We compared cell phones. They welcomed me to California. One guy said he could tell I was excited because I sounded so enthusiatic on the phone. For a minute, I actually regretted my constant casual swearing. Who wants to offend friendly old people? Not me. At least, not these particular old people.

I drove down the hill and found myself lost in the wilds of Marin County. After a while, I managed to get myself back on the 101. Within five minutes, I was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.

I didn’t mind paying $5 to enter San Francisco, but I wondered what they do to you if you don’t have cash. Shouldn’t they warn you about the tolls in advance? Anyway. It was clear and sunny, 60 degrees, and incredibly windy. I hated the hills instantly. I drove around for a while looking for a parking spot. When I finally found one two blocks away, I worried that it wasn’t a real spot, because it seemed too good to be true. I finally understood the street cleaning thing, too. What city cleans its streets every single week? I think it’s just an excuse to give parking tickets. I called Jay and he was just leaving work, so he told me where to find a Starbucks nearby. The guy behind the counter (I have trouble calling guys ‘baristas’) begged me to sell him my superspecial Starbucks card. (I haven’t mentioned this before, but my Seattle Starbucks card made me a celebrity everywhere I went. The baristas always wanted to know where I got it. Apparently, quite a few of them collect the cards.) I told him no way, I drove all the way to Seattle for that card. I sat and wrote and stared at the passersby, happy to be in a city again. At 4:30, I walked back up to Jay’s. His apartment is so cute. Also, he is correct about it being a fishbowl, which is pretty cool. The building has one of those old elevators with the gate you have to pull shut. Awesome.

We sat around and talked for a long time. Or, actually, I rambled, he listened. I couldn’t believe what a relief it was to see someone I knew after so long. We went to get my stuff out of the car, and I finally showered and changed clothes. He had decided to park my car over by Michelle’s where it would be easier to find a spot we could leave it in for a while. We drove over there, and the three of us went to dinner at a Thai place with trippy artwork and weird music. I had almost forgotten what tofu was. After dinner, they dropped me off at his apartment. I got my email, took another shower, and crashed. Hard.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i wondered how long it would take me to start talking to myself in the car, and now i know: 8 days. it’s more a function of disconnect with the outside world, though – remoteness and lack of cell signal – rather than time, i think.

at 8 days, 3300 miles, that means i’ve averaged 400 miles a day. insane.

i saw an accident on hwy 1 – a timber truck had overturned on one of those hairpin curves. yesterday on the 101, i saw a camping trailer that had turned over and dumped its contents everywhere: cabinets, beds, luggage. it looked like it had been packed full. (is runawaytruck.com available? probably not.)

i have my own roadtrip inside joke: the garage magnet. it sucks having inside jokes only with yourself. sigh.

why do sf cops look like the village people?

i’m worried about my brakes here, even though they’re new. my car knows it doesn’t belong here, so it hates it.

is my butt orange from sitting on that mountain? i wonder if i look like a hick. cool.

i have a bruise on the palm of my hand from driving.

i hunch when i’m writing. i have to stop that. i don’t need a hump. not that kind of hump, at least.

– – – – –

Saturday morning, I got up at 6:30. Leaving the blinds open was a natural alarm clock that I was getting to like. I had been having a dream that I was making out with Dave Matthews, and that he had some kind of weird kink I couldn’t remember afterwards. I got ready as fast as possible and went for my last caffe extreme at Royal Gourmet Coffee. Sigh. I got on the 101. It was sunny and cold in SF, and got more and more foggy the closer I got to the coast. I drove along, my stomach hurting from drinking so much coffee, thinking, “I know there’s an ocean here somewhere.”

I got to Santa Cruz a little before 10am. The rides at the boardwalk didn’t open until 11, which was fine. I walked around, took pictures, and got a cappuccino. I watched the karate classes taking place on the beach, which was already crowded despite being cold and foggy.

I took a detour from the 1, heading inland to San Juan Bautista. I saw truckloads of migrant workers laboring on produce farms in 90-degree weather. The mission was incredible. It reminded me of the ones we had seen a few years ago in San Antonio. I’m fascinated by missions; being nonreligious, I find their history pretty horrifying, but the architecture is amazing. It’s a good blend of scary and cool. I especially like the cemeteries, with their circles of stones and simple wooden crosses.

Not only is San Juan Bautista on El Camino Real, it’s right on the San Andreas Fault. I contemplated this as I walked into the little town to see the outdoor craft market. The crafts were the same kind of thing you could get anywhere. It was hot and I wasn’t feeling well. I stopped at a coffeeshop which just happened to have sugar-free ice cream, and was happy. I sat and drank a bottle of water, watched people wandering around the street, and wrote postcards. I walked some more, then stopped at a food stand where they cheerfully agreed to make their sampler plate into something portable just for me, shoving falafel, hummus, and vegetables into a pita. I walked back to the car, dripping tahini on the sidewalk.

Heading back to the coast, there was a huge traffic jam on the 101. I looked up and saw a sign that read Los Angeles: 350 mi. I wanted to cry. I hadn’t looked at my map in days, and had no idea it was that far. It was after noon, and I had hardly made any progress. I’d have to hurry.

It took about half an hour to get to Monterey. It was beautiful and sunny, so the town was crowded. I parked and jumped out of the car long enough to see the waterfront, use the bathroom, and walk down cannery row (why do all west coast cities seem to have a cannery that’s been converted into cheesy shops and restaurants?) then got back on the road. I found the entrance to the 17-Mile Drive in Pacific Grove. At $8.25, it was worth every penny of the $.50 per mile. The coastline was unbelievable. I saw the Lone Cypress. I saw the Ghost Tree. I saw how people live when they’re completely cut off from reality, and decide to charge people for the privilege of driving through their neighborhood. I saw seals! Fat and grey and lazy, they made me homesick for my cats.

I stopped at Pebble Beach to get postcards to prove I was there. Unfortunately, you can’t buy postcards at Pebble Beach. You can buy golf shirts and antiques and probably your very own custom-built servants, but no postcards. I peed angrily in working-class protest (in the restroom, of course) and exited at Carmel(-by-the-Sea! Best city name ever!). It was such a cute, artsy little town, I wanted to spend time wandering around it, but I had miles and miles left to drive that day.

I got back on the 1 and drove as fast as the narrow, winding highway and slow traffic would allow. Big Sur was desolate and beautiful. I was pretty sure it was even better than the northern coast. Every 10 miles or so, there would be a gas station that would have everything: cabins/motel, restaurant, convenience store, etc. I wasn’t picky and wanted to stop, but every time I neared one, the slow vehicle ahead of me would turn and I would think, “Hey! Now I can go fast!” and I’d speed off. I alternated between ‘performance-car commercial’ and ‘unsafe tailgating out-of-towner’.

I saw the Hearst Castle from afar, not wanting to take the shuttle bus up to it. I decided to get off the highway for dinner in San Luis Obispo, since I wanted to see the mission anyway. The city was really cute and seemed to have lots of good restaurants. I put it near the top of my list of places to re-visit when I have more time to spend. I saw the mission quickly, then went to find food. I didn’t want to take the time to stop and eat – I had only managed 200 miles in 9 hours – so I found a natural grocery and ran in. I got a bunch of fruit, and some protein bars and snacks, and got back on the 101, shoving a banana into my mouth. On the way out, I passed the Madonna Inn, which Jay had told me about months before and I’d completely forgotten about.

I was starting to worry because I still had so far to go. That was the problem with not planning. I called my sister and talked for almost an hour, calling her back whenever I’d drive into a valley and lose my signal. I passed Pismo Beach and Solvang, barely noticing. I got to Santa Barbara just as the sun was setting. I might have considered just staying on the highway, but there was a huge traffic jam anyway, so I exited. I was glad that I did, because the city is beautiful, and sunset was the perfect time of day to see it.

Santa Barbara is touristy, but in a classy way. The main drag is lined with huge palm trees all along the massive beach. I wanted to stay, but it was getting dark.

I got back into the traffic jam and almostly immediately felt sick. Something I had eaten had too much sugar in it. I slumped against the door and tried to concentrate on traffic. All I could think about was passing out in my hotel bed in LA. I switched the CD to the Foo Fighters and cranked it, hoping it would keep me awake. Luckily, it passed after about 15 minutes, and I felt my head clear. At that moment, I was passing through Ventura. The moon was full and bright, and they were shooting fireworks from the beach. It was a perfect moment.

I was thrilled driving in LA after spending so much time on 2-lane, winding highways. I loved those massive, 12-lane structures where everyone drives like they’ve got to get someone to the emergency room but quick. I was laughing out loud as I drove because my primary frame of reference for LA was The Big Lebowski. Everytime I saw an In-N-Out Burger, I thought, “Shut the fuck up, Donny!” Then I laughed even harder when I saw that there were FIVE exits for LAX. I got off at Century Boulevard and quickly found my hotel. It was 10pm – I had spent 14 hours in the car that day. I gasped with relief as I spiraled down the parking ramp. I dug clothes out of my bag (I was unsure of the weather, but figured I wouldn’t be needing my hoodie anymore), organized the car, grabbed my travel guides, and took the elevator to the lobby.

I made my way to the check-in line, trying not to stagger. I was exhausted and my blood sugar had crashed again, so I was disoriented and dizzy. I did my best just to hold it together enough to not seem crazy; I accomplished this by fixating on my phone, messaging Heather. Finally, it was my turn, and it was all I could do not to put my head on the counter while I was checking in. I got to my room and dumped half my stuff on the floor and the rest on the bed. I wanted to write and look at maps, but I couldn’t. I switched on the TV for two minutes to try and find the weather for the next day, but even that was too much effort, and I switched it off right away. I jumped in the shower, then fell into bed. By 11pm, I was comatose.

I was awake by 5:45, but laid there until 6:30 when the phone rang for my high-tech automated wakeup call. A computer voice read me the breakfast menu, and I hung up on it. I scribbled a list of notes about the previous day so I wouldn’t forget anything, then looked at my travel guide. Daniel had given me a list of the must-see items in LA, and I decided to focus on those, since he had my main interests covered: Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, shopping, overlooks, good food, Santa Monica. I tore a map out of the book in the hotel and was on the road by 8am. I had the whole monster freeway to myself. I drove up to Mulholland Drive and headed west. It was another winding mountain road, but it had good views of the city. I found the overlook and finally got my first view of the Hollywood sign. Unfortunately, the picture didn’t turn out because of the smog, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Facing the other direction, I looked down on the Hollywood Bowl, Hollywood, and downtown LA in the distance.

I drove down the hill and parked near Hollywood Boulevard. At 9am, there was already a huge line outside El Capitan waiting to see The Pirates of the Caribbean, and pirates crawling all over the place, swashbuckling and such. There was a film crew on the street filming something that looked especially unimportant. I gave a guy the pen I took from the hotel that morning so he could get autographs from a bunch of people I wondered if I should recognize.

I bought postcards and went across the street to Starbucks to write them. I had the feeling I should wait a bit before walking around, because everything just seemed to be waking up at that hour.

I called Heather and watched a guy pressure-washing the walk of fame. She swore that people bought their own stars, that they weren’t awarded. Then I walked down to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre to see the handprints. It was hard taking pictures with tourists standing all over them, but I managed. Not being a huge fan of mainstream movies and TV, I was mostly unimpressed, so I took pictures of the ones I thought were funniest.

The strange thing was, I’m not that into Hollywood at all, and yet, I was loving it there. The whole scene was so surreal, I had the impression that LA was not a real place, but made up for my amusement.

While I was on Hollywood Boulevard, I talked to the Incredible Hulk. I watched a second film crew setting up down the block from the first, and I suspected maybe they were in competition as far as trying to look professional without having a clue about what they were doing (which looked to be filming tourists outside tacky souvenir shops). Especially for Heather, I had my picture taken with Fat Elvis. I gave him a dollar, he asked me where I was from and method-acted like he cared. I made sure to use his name in every sentence: “Can I get a picture, Elvis?” “I’m from Minneapolis, Elvis!” “Thanks, Elvis!” I walked back to my car, giggling.

I drove down the Sunset Strip, having a million Big Lebowski moments. I laughed every single time I saw an In-N-Out Burger or Ralph’s. I drove into Beverly Hills, and pulled off on a side street so I could write postcards and mail them right away. I imagined that I was parked in from of some second-rate actor’s house (I think Kirk Cameron was the star of choice), and that he was going to come running out in his underwear to yell at me. I considered buying a star map, not because I cared about stars’ houses, but because I liked the idea of supporting an industry that makes them uncomfortable in their exclusive homes.

After some creatively-executed u-turns, I found my way to Rodeo Drive. It was 11am, and the shops were just opening. I parked and wandered. As far as the shopping, I was unimpressed – it was either stuff we had at home (Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma), or stuff I’d seen on Madison Avenue, or Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Yet it was somehow even snootier, even though 95% of the people shopping there were tourists who just walked around gawking. It was in the mid-80s, but so humid it felt much hotter. I was getting hungry, so I headed back to the car. As I got there, I noticed activity around the corner and went to investigate: it was the Beverly Hills Farmers’ Market! I drooled over the fresh produce, then stopped and bought a sweet corn tamale with tomatillo sauce. You know I hate to exaggerate, but it was the best thing I’d eaten in my entire life. I sat on the curb in the shade and ate, while listening to a reggae band and watching the rich old ladies stuffing zucchini into their purses. Behind me, there was a kids’ fair going on. I wanted to go pet the ponies, look at the goats, and talk to the firemen, but I decided against it, since I didn’t have a kid with me as an excuse, and I hear that borrowing one without permission is a felony in California.

The car, having sat in the sun for less than an hour, was already a million degrees inside. I sat with the doors open and the A/C cranked, and stared at the map while I waited for the car to cool down. As I looked up, I saw Lisa Kudrow walking down the other side of the street, carrying a parasol and market bag. She looked put out.

I drove down Wilshire Boulevard towards La Brea Avenue. It’s called the Miracle Mile, so I was on the lookout for anything miraculous. I saw two McDonald’s, an IHOP, and a Sizzler. Then I saw the miracle: it was double-coupon days at Ralphs! Of course!

I drove past art museums (almost as good as going in), and the La Brea Tar Pits, which have metal statues of prehistoric mammals. I thought, “This is something Heather would appreciate.” I myself was in search of shopping. I swung past the Warner Brothers Studio and parked near Melrose. I had noticed a few spots along the way where there were parking lots full of what looked like piles of clothing and furniture, with people swarming all over them. I wanted to check them out, but was scared of getting trampled in the mad rush for a discount. I walked down Melrose and got my shopping on. Exercising remarkable self-control and frugality, I only bought myself one tshirt. Everyone I encountered had such an attitude, and I saw at least 10 Britneys. I looked at a lot of menus, and saw nothing good. I stopped at Starbucks (because caffeine is a temporary substitute for food), and asked Starbucks boy if he knew of any vegetarian restaurants in the area. He didn’t, but offered up the Starbucks veggie sandwich. I politely declined.

On the way back to the car, I encountered a hipster couple with their three decidedly non-hipster kids. The hipsters were probably in their mid-twenties, definitely younger than me. As I passed, hipster-boy was whining, “But can’t we just find a sitter? Me and you need to go out tonight!” I said a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that I don’t have kids. It’s a prayer I say probably ten times a day, but it bears repeating.

I drove over to ‘restaurant row’, which I decided should more accurately be named ‘steakhouse row’. I was disappointed. But then I noticed a sign for a place right near the Trashy Lingerie store: Real Food Daily. I didn’t know what it was, but the name was promising enough to get me inside and seated at a table without even looking at the menu. When I did get the menu, I opened it to discover it was vegan, and I was the luckiest girl in the world. I ordered a soymilk latte and a club sandwich (breaded seitan, tempeh bacon), with a caesar salad. I was in heaven, as long as I ignored all the film-industry people around me. I sat for a long time and caught up on my travel journal. I used their bathroom twice. They loved me there, I knew it. They had to. While I was eating, I did the California thing and talked on my cellphone. Heather pricelined me a hotel room in San Diego. She rules.

I drove back up Wilshire Boulevard, and experienced the miracle of double coupons once again. This time, I headed into downtown LA. It was nothing special. I was excited driving through Chinatown, more excited in Little Tokyo, and beside myself with amusement in Koreatown. I don’t know, I just really liked the signs on all the shops. I realized I was managing to have a really relaxing time in LA, despite running around all day. So I did the next logical thing: I went to IKEA. Yeah.

There’s something comforting about IKEA. I went to the store in Carson, and was there for a total for 20 minutes. I bought a pillow for Heather ($6.95, on sale!) and two sets of potholders ($2.99 each). Having satisfied my IKEA jones, I got back on the 405 and exited just north of my hotel, in order to take a picture of a 3-story donut. I drove west to Highway 1, which at that point was officially the PCH. I went north to Venice Beach. Traffic at the beach was insane, so I propped the road atlas against the steering wheel as we crept along, and tried to plan the rest of my trip. When the road angled away from the beach, I turned left so I could stick to the oceanfront. It was ten degrees cooler there, so I turned off the air conditioning and opened all the windows, feeling like a Don Henley song. I got to Santa Monica and parked strategically between the pier and the 3rd Street Promenade, a big pedestrian mall with shops and restaurants. The stores were OK – I stopped into a few – but mostly they were just Gap and Urban Outfitters. The cool thing was the promenade itself. All down the middle of the street, they had these large fountains with dinosaur topiaries. There were also a hundred street performers (the favorite being Mini-Elvis), and a thousand people begging for cash.

Once again, I was in search of decent non-meat dining, and meeting with yet another challenge. A server at a Greek restaurant offered me a salad, but I was really looking for protein. I was tired of protein bars, and even more tired of worrying about my protein intake. I walked in circles for a while, then finally found a restaurant/deli with the magic word on the menu: gardenburger.

After dinner, I walked down to the Santa Monica pier. Everyone said it was best to see it at night. It was 8:15 and still light, so I went and sat on the beach and called home as I watched the sun set over the mountains. Once the sun went down, I put my shoes back on and climbed up to the boardwalk.

The pier wasn’t terribly busy, which was nice. It had typical beach stuff: fried food, tacky souvenirs, your name on a grain of rice. I walked down to the end of the pier to take pictures of the shore. There were several musicans and other performers, and a large restaurant. Also, a bunch of old ladies fishing. Strange. I started to feel a little lonely, what with all the couples down there being in love.

I walked back to the car, still feeling a little melancholy. Heather didn’t help the matter by sending dirty messages while I shopped for postcards. I stopped at Wild Oats Market for car food, then went back to my hotel, packed up my stuff, and went to bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i’ve been called ‘sweetie’ or ‘sweetheart’ three times already this morning, and it’s only 9am.

i hate the girls at the table next to me.

1: i think i’ll have a salad and a side of brown rice.
2: brown rice??
1: yeah. the thing is, i usually eat cheese for lunch.
2: they have cheese here! get cheese!
1: no, it’s VEGAN. it’s FAKE cheese.

hate.

today @ the b.h. farmer’s market, i saw the most perfectly-formed pair of man-breasts ever. they were firm and perky. i was jealous.

there are entertainment-industry women at the table on the other side of me. rage.

i think i was born to drive in la. at least on the weekends.

my hotel is right by the herbalife building. that rules, and i’m not sure why. also, la (especially hollywood) = scientology.

i really hate this humid dampness. i feel smelly.

i was buying heather a trilobite just as she was messaging me that she was watching jurassic park. the store was called ‘jurassic’. weird.

i wonder how many of other people’s photos and home movies i’m ending up in?

i have a 4″ leg tan – from the bottom of my capris to the tops of my running shoes. goofy, to match the rest.

injury list:
– left hand, bruise.
– palm of left hand, bruise.
– right hand, big scrapes on knuckles and wrist. ugly and painful.
– both knees, bruised from pressing against the dashboard.
– right shoulder, big bruise. don’t know why.
– left shoulder, bruise from carrying this bag. dammit.

ok. time to walk and notice my aloneness and english-speakingness.

natural foods stores are cute flirty boy magnets wherever you go, except possibly arcata, california.

there’s some super-formal event in the hotel lobby tonight. i love looking like a slob.

i’m feeling like home would really be nice right now. i’m dying to tell stories and look at pictures.

p.s. i think i could live in california. not down south, though. the heat hurts.

– – – – –

I left LA at 7:45, hoping to avoid traffic. The 405 was clear for a while, then became a parking lot for about 20 minutes. I finally found KROQ on the radio, and Stephanie was right – it’s a good station. When they’re playing music, at least.

I got to San Juan Capistrano shortly before 10am. I stopped at Starbucks, and they directed me to the mission. It was the most impressive one I had seen so far, even compared to the missions in San Antonio. It was a huge complex with incredible gardens: cactus, flowering plants and trees, palm trees, and water gardens.

I went to the Tamale Museum, which was indeed about tamales. They had a great Dia de los Muertos exhibit, which is probably one of my favorite things in the world. I visited the bathroom, the cemetery, the gift shop, and the chapel, in that order – I had my priorities.

At the gift shop, I bought some awesome Jesus souvenirs under the watchful and somewhat suspicious gaze of the old ladies at the counter. They could smell the atheism on me, and didn’t seem to like that I was buying holy water bottles and a bible-on-a-keychain. I went to see the church, and stepped into a chapel off to the side, one of those where you pay $1 and light a votive candle and you get your wish, or something. There were hundreds of candles burning, and the chapel was well over 100 degrees. I’m pretty sure Jesus winked at me, or maybe I just imagined it.

San Juan Capistrano was so great. I loved being able to appreciate the fascinating combination of beautiful and creepy without the annoying filter of religion getting in the way.

I left the mission and crossed the street to the non-mission-sanctioned gift shop. I stopped to take a picture of the sign about the swallows. Proof that I’m still completely juvenile: I turned into Beavis. I thought, “Swallow. Heh heh.” Since all the jokes have probably already been made, I’ll spare you. But, still. Swallow. Heh heh. I think I saw that story on the internet somewhere.

I got back on I-5. It was only in the 70s, but it was so humid it made me squirm. It was hazy and I could hardly see the ocean even though I was driving right alongside it. I was doing 85-90 with almost no traffic. Then I raced the Coaster, and the Coaster won.

I arrived at the San Diego visitors’ center by 10:45. I like visitors’ centers because they tend to offer maps (it’s a fetish) and clean bathrooms. In this case, I was wrong. The women’s room smelled worse than the pit toilets at Yosemite. The women at the counter were less giving directions than they were selling hotel and restaurant discounts. I got directions into downtown on a big sheet of paper that was 5% map, 95% advertising, and a trolley schedule.

I drove into downtown San Diego and found the waterfront. I saw huge naval ships and the cruise ship station. I saw the famous Santa Fe Depot. I drove past the Embarcadero twice, and thought maybe I was missing something. It looked like a big parking lot to me. What the hell is an embarcadero, anyway?

I followed my giant ad sheet to the Gaslamp Quarter, the old part of town with shops and restaurants. I parked in the mall ramp (the vegetable half – I was on the onion level, even though I’d have preferred avocado). On the way out, I walked through the mall, which was outdoor, in the sense that it was just like any mall I knew (and, being from Minnesota, I know malls), except it was topless. Um, roofless.

I started my usual wandering and looking for lunch routine. It was 11:30, and there were a ton of restaurants in the area. However, hardly any of them were open. I was confused. It was Monday, but the restaurants didn’t open until noon. Back in the friendly midwest, we often go to lunch at 11:30. Hmm. Anyway, there also seemed to be some sort of city ordinance that any menu had to consist of at least 95% meat. I was irritated. I stopped into Starbucks and asked for restaurant advice while waiting for my americano. The cute british boy behind the counter yelled at me for being vegetarian. He had no idea.

I wandered some more. I called Heather and talked about two Nates and Utah. Finally, I settled on a Mexican place with a few vegetarian dishes, figuring that since I was in San Diego, I should get some local-ish food. It was a mistake, as it was essentially the Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville of Mexican dining. All the servers were blonde and cute and seemed to really care about sports. They were also playing the worst music ever.

I rushed through lunch and walked back to the most confusing outdoor mall in America. I had to buy something to get parking validated. Something, anything, so I decided on postcards. But then I looked up, and way up at the top, there was a Hello Kitty store. Getting there proved to be a challenge, however. The mall was a series of ramps, half-staircases, escalators, and full staircases, that all seemed to spiral upwards but not in any logical way. I’d go up a level and find myself on the wrong side. I’d walk around and go up another half-level and be on the right side, but only able to go back down. I’d see the store, head that direction, and lose sight of it again. Finally, I realized the problem: the mall was designed by M.C. Escher (if you think he’s a DJ, you are incorrect). Having figured that out, I found the store easily, and I had no problem spending money to get my parking validation stamp.

I got my car and drove up to the transit station north of town. It took a while to figure out how things worked, because the station served all the buses, as well as the trolleys, the regular commuter trains, the Amtrak, and the Coaster. I found a kiosk and bought a round-trip ticket to the last stop on the line: San Ysidro. And then I boarded the Tijuana Trolley.

It was about a half-hour ride on the trolley. I figured I’d get a good tour of San Diego by riding the whole route, and I was correct. I was pretty unimpressed, having just seen SF and LA. San Diego is a fairly small town, and didn’t seem to have much going on. Near the last few stops, the trolley barely creeps along. I saw a huge military complex. Once we got near Tijuana, we could see the city on a large hill in the distance. The pollution was unbelievable. A giant Mexican flag flies over the city, way bigger than any flag Perkins has to offer. I was excited, but nervous about crossing the border by myself. I wasn’t that concerned about my safety, but still figured I had to be careful.

When you exit the trolley at San Ysidro, you’re immediately funneled onto a ramp that brings you to an overpass where you can look down on the border crossing. I wanted to take pictures, but there are a million signs warning you not to do so, and that you were being videotaped and monitored. I was really glad I wasn’t trying to cross the border in my car, as it looked nightmarish. Also, who wants to park a Saab in Tijuana? Not me, muchachos. So I walked.

So, when you first cross the border, you walk through this really nice brick plaza with modern sculpture and murals, and a tourist information booth. It’s clean and friendly. Then you go through a rotating iron gate which makes this loud clacking metal noise that I will never, ever forget. It was menacing. Through the turnstile, and you’re in Mexico. Only it’s not really Mexico, it’s this little plaza that’s built specially for tourists who want to dip their toes into Tijuana without getting in too deep. It’s called Viva Tijuana Plaza, and it features ‘pharmacies’ selling roofies, viagra, valium, hormones, and painkillers over-the-counter (in Tijuana, your American driver’s license is as good as a prescription), and crafts: sarapes, sombreros, beadwork, piñatas, aluminum artwork, and anything you can put a Corona logo on. Every shop sold the same thing, and each one had two or three guys standing outside, utilizing various methods of enticement: beckoning, calling, yelling, haranguing. I was vastly amused at first, because this was what I expected. I stopped at a booth with a particularly endearing shopkeeper, who assured me that I was his very good American friend, I was beautiful, and that he would give me a better deal than anyone else in the plaza. I picked out a Mexican wrestling mask, and the guy talked himself down from $25 to $10, while I just stood there laughing. I asked him for $8, but paid $10 anyway, because it was worth it for the entertainment. I rushed past the rest of the booths, and every single vendor said ‘hi’ or ‘hola’ or beckoned me in to see their fine wares. I was very happy to be wearing sunglasses, which made it much easier to not make eye contact.

On the other side of Viva Tijuana Plaza, there’s another pedestrian overpass lined with booths and people begging for change. This brings you across Rio Tijuana, which is a river in the loosest sense of the word. From there, you descend into the real city of Tijuana. I quickly became aware that it was at least 20 degrees hotter there than in San Diego, and had to be pushing 100. The sun was glaring, and the smog was visible even at ground level. I walked a few blocks past street vendors, and was called ‘girl’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘baby’, ‘lady’, ‘sister’, and ‘señorita’. The noise and chaos was charming for about 20 minutes, then I was irritated. I stopped smiling and saying ‘no thanks’, and just kept walking.

At Revolución Avenue, there’s a giant arch welcoming you to Tijuana. The wind made a cool noise as it whistled through the wires. I walked around, disappointed with the ugly crafts and tired of being yelled at. I realized the lone American woman was just asking for it, so I tried to be nice and hurry past. I found my way to what was apparently the largest tourist thoroughfare, based on the number of pharmacies and margarita bars blasting the crappiest dance hits of the mid-90s. I walked into a big shop, and realized that all my tacky-souvenir needs had just been met in one place. I bought a bunch of loterias, a mirror edged with tile and hammered aluminum, some metal ornaments, and lots of dia de los muertos stuff. They wrapped everything up for me carefully, and joked about the giant loteria showdown I was obviously going to organize at home. I was happy.

My Mexican souvenir needs completely satiated, I stopped quickly for an iced latte at a cigar shop, then headed back to the border crossing. It was so painfully hot, and the sun was beating down on me, the man with the donkey painted to look like a zebra, some mariachis, and hundreds of drunk fratboys in semi-offensive tshirts. My bag stuffed full of everything I ever wanted from Mexico (not a single roofie amongst them), all I wanted was to get the hell out of Tijuana. I was sweaty, dirty, and cranky.

I followed the signs showing a determined-looking man walking back to the USA. I went back through fake-Tijuana, and kids kept running up to me, trying to get in one last sale before I left the country. They offered candy, bracelets, or wanted to show me a trick, like juggling. All of them shouted, “A dollar! A dollar!” I walked faster. A little girl, probably 4 or 5 years old, ran up and caught me off-guard:

her: (holding up a beaded bracelet) a dollar!
me: (rushing past) no thanks!
her: (running to keep up) a dollar!
me: no thanks!!
her: si!
me: no!
her: si!
me: no!
her: si!
me: no!!!
her: loca!! (runs away)

My entire life, summed up in one word by a little girl in Tijuana. Sigh.

At that point, I decided I needed a new tattoo. You know those Latino gang tattoos in the elaborate gothic letters? I’m getting one on the back of my neck: gringa. I kind of like the idea.

I walked back across a different pedestrian overpass. The border crossing leaving Mexico was way less elaborate than leaving the US, and there were people with begging children everywhere. Right at the border, there are several last-chance pharmacies. Don’t the border guards watch those? Anyway. I went through a metal detector, then stood in line for 10 minutes, waiting for customs. The guard looked at my ID, asked if I was a citizen, and what I was bringing back with me. Then I went through a second metal detector, and was back in the US. And, yes, I felt a huge sense of relief.

Worth noting, by the way: what’s the first and last thing you see at the US border? McDonald’s. It’s wrong.

I got back on the trolley to San Diego. The ride took much longer this time, and I was tired and hungry. They made us exit at Santa Fe station and wait for another trolley, so it was almost an hour and a half later, around 6pm, that I finally got back to my car.

I took I-5 south to the Coronado Bridge and crossed to the island. Apparently, it’s where the rich people hang out. There were lots of nice restaurants there, so I parked and set off to find dinner. I had really come to see the Hotel Del Coronado, the original Hotel California (Don Henley! Again!), which I expected to be a little motel or something, not this giant castle. I walked around the cute downtown, realizing that the island was also subject to the 95%-meat rule. I picked another Mexican place and had an OK salad, having been warned against their veggie burger. The restaurant was playing Heart on the overhead. I sat near the patio, and it had finally cooled off enough to be comfortable. The sun was setting, and I could see the beach from my table.

Leaving Coronado Island, the view of San Diego was impressive. I should have seen that when I first got there, and maybe I would have liked it more. At several points along the bridge, there were signs with the number for the Suicide Hotline. I called Heather about my plans for Vegas the next day, and talked to her the whole way up to my hotel, which I overshot by 10 miles or so. I called them for directions, turned around, and headed back. I cheered silently when I saw the Starbucks just a block away from the hotel, which meant I’d be fully prepared for my drive the next day. The super-nice girl at the counter got me checked in, then wrote me directions to the nearest Ralph’s (double-coupon days!), so I could get food for the car – since I was driving through the desert, I wasn’t expecting to find much in the way of vegetarian dining along the way. I ran my stuff up to the room, threw it on the bed, and left again. I knew that if I spent too much time there, I’d pass out. I was exhausted and shaky, and I clutched the perfectly-handwritten directions in my hand against the steering wheel the whole way to the store. I thought about the strange things you find comforting when you’re in a weird place. Like coffee shops. IKEA. Text messaging on your cellphone. Good maps. Your travel journal. The pen you got at the Glacier Gateway Motel. Really friendly people you meet along the way.

At Ralph’s, I bought a protein bar, bananas, an apple, veggie chips, two giant bottles of Evian, and 4 Red Bulls. I thought, “If these Red Bulls don’t last longer than tomorrow, there’s something wrong with me.”

Cashier: Do you have a Ralph’s Club Card?
Me: Nope!
Cashier: Do you want one?
Me: [Tiniest pause as my head says ‘YES!’] Nope!

I have to get over the Big Lebowski thing. But I can’t, so as I drove away, I thought to myself, “I shopped at Ralph’s in La Jolla.” I said it over and over: Ralph’s in La Jolla. Go on, say it. It’s funny, right? La Jolla!

I knew I was tired, because I could barely remember how to get back to the hotel the way I came. I went up to my room, got my email, booked a hotel room for Vegas (my criteria being 1: cheap and 2: oldschool, none of that new-hotel crap). I took a shower and used almost the entire bar of soap while I daydreamed about what I was going to do when I got home. In this order:

1. Take the longest shower of my life, so I could wash the western half of the US from my body. No, wait! The western half of North America! Yeah!
2. Sex.
3. Sleep.
4. Repeat steps 2-3 as desired.
5. Dig through souvenirs.
6. Wash clothes.

Also, I realized the thing about doing stuff like going to Mexico alone: the very fine line between brave and stupid is simply a matter of whether you make it out unscathed. And it’s only in retrospect that you know for sure. With that, I made my pillow nest and went to bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

there is way, way too much long blonde hair here. are they playing motley crue?

did i mention i love the freeways in la? at one point, it was 16 lanes wide. slamming on the brakes. insane.

they’re playing ac/dc now. i hate this place.

why do i keep asking starbucks baristas about vegetarian food? there is obviously some incorrect association in my mind, because i’ve yet to receive a single helpful suggestion. there are less vegetarians in the universe than i suspect. however, my oldschool starbucks card makes me an instant celebrity. i guess that’s the tradeoff.

there are some restaurants who are cool with alone-diners and some that are not. at the good places, the servers always spend more time talking to you, and pay more attention to you than they do to other people there. at the bad places, they look at you funny when you say ‘one, please’, and then ignore you once they take your order.

2:15 and i’m waiting for the trolley to tijuana. that would be a good song title.

i’m never going to tijuana alone again. i mean, it had to be done. and 45 minutes was enough. but as heather pointed out, i’ve covered all the countries in north america on this trip. i rule.

inside the trolleys, there are signs reading, ‘this is a high-performance vehicle. please hold on.’ i need that in chico.

holy crap, i’m going to vegas tomorrow. i’m so unprepared. i should probably book a hotel.

– – – – –

Saturday afternoon, the day before my 30th birthday, Heather and I dragged our sleep-deprived asses to the airport and got on a plane to Charlotte, North Carolina.

No, come back! It gets better, I swear.

Our already late-night flight was delayed due to weather, so we spent four hours in Charlotte, which was exactly four more hours than we wanted to be there. I whined and fidgeted and complained until Heather told me to go away so she could read. I can say with assurance that I have seen every square inch of the Charlotte-Douglas International Airport, from the cigar-store Indian with giant man-breasts to the Stock Car Cafe, and every women’s room and Starbucks in between. It’s not as big an achievement as it sounds.

Finally, our plane arrived and dumped its load of crotchety old people on their way back from Vegas into the airport, many of whom got back on the flight to Miami. I spent the next two hours hearing every single detail of one such woman’s worst vacation ever. Because it was my birthday, I decided to forgo smacking her, but I’ll admit that I did consider it once or twice.

We got to Miami at 2:15am, and Alex was there waiting at the gate. He drove us to the hotel, then showed us around South Beach, which was mobbed even in the middle of the night. I ate black beans and rice and fried plantains at a little Cuban restaurant at 4am, and laughed my ass off at the old waiter, who had it out for Heather. Alex introduced me to Cuban coffee (the cortadito in particular), which was probably a huge mistake on his part, as I’ve been jonesing for it ever since. After dinner, we went to the beach, because my plan was to watch the sun rise over the ocean. I wanted my own perfect 30th birthday moment. And that’s exactly what I got.

We walked back to the hotel. Alex, who had finished a 12-hour shift at 8pm that day, headed directly to work for another 12-hour shift. Heather and I went upstairs and slept for two hours, then headed to brunch. I ate the best gardenburger in the universe. Or half of it. The thing about Miami is, it’s hot. No, you don’t understand: it’s so fucking hot. And humid. You go outside and your clothes are immediately damp, and they never, ever dry as long as you stay outdoors. So you go inside, thinking you can dry off and cool down, but that’s a huge mistake. Everyone has the air conditioning on full-blast all the time, so the second you walk in, you become cold and clammy, and every passage between inside and out is a brush with pneumonia and your potential death. So, anyway. The other thing about the heat? You don’t want to eat. You want to drink iced coffee and sugar-free smoothies all day. Or maybe that’s just me.

The other thing about Miami, or South Beach in particular, is that everyone is beautiful. Even the ugly people. The women wear outfits so insubstantial they’re pointless. Everyone is in perfect shape, only you get the feeling it has nothing to do with being healthy, just looking good. So when you’re a pasty white Minnesotan wearing wrinkly, perpetually-damp clothing and running shoes on the high-fashion streets of South Beach, you might as well be something that escaped from the zoo.

After eating and wandering and gawking and shopping, I did the next logical thing: I got a tattoo.

I don’t know, it just seems like the right thing to do when you’re newly 30, recently liberated from regular employment, and on a 36-hour last-minute trip to a place with palm trees. Here’s the result:

With my arm wrapped fashionably in blue saran wrap and masking tape, we headed up to Lincoln Road, home of no less than one billion good restaurants and some really incredible people-watching at outdoor tables.

We had a late lunch, or half of lunch. By 4pm, the heat and humidity had reached levels previously unknown to Midwesterners. As I stood up from the table, I discovered that my entire right pants leg was wet from sitting with my legs crossed. We walked back to the hotel to rest and dry off. Heather decided to take a nap, but I was too deep in lack-of-sleep (at that point, I had slept 7 hours in the past 72) and caffeine consumption to even be able to sit down. I let my clothes dry for ten minutes, then put them back on, starting to regret my decision to only wear one outfit all weekend, because the only thing worse than hot, damp, clingy clothes is cold, damp, clingy clothes.

I walked over to check out the beach during the daytime, got more iced coffee, and headed up Ocean Drive. It had started to rain, but it’s not like it made any difference in the humidity. I wandered through dinner crowds at even more nice restaurants, watched girls dancing on tables in a club, managed to limit myself to just looking in the cute shops, stood and pondered the Versace mansion, and walked. And here’s observation #3 about Miami: people don’t walk there. They stroll. They amble. They sometimes even sashay. But they don’t walk. That, coupled with narrow, crowded sidewalks, is enough to drive a girl who’s always in a rush absolutely crazy.

I went back to the hotel in time for Alex’s return. He had come over directly from work, not having slept in almost two days. He took us to dinner at a place in Coconut Grove, where we shared a bunch of food and laughed like idiots. Afterwards, he drove us back to South Beach and dropped us off at the hotel, where it was finally time to sleep.

Friday morning, I got up and decided to walk down to Rite-Aid to buy a hairdrier, since the Castle Inn was unequipped. It was the perfect day outside, if a little too humid for someone coming from a state where it was still technically winter. I walked down St. Charles Avenue, smiling at the goofy tourists on the passing streetcars and gawking at the mansions built by people who thought slavery was a really good idea. On the way back, I bought fresh strawberries from an old Cajun man selling produce out of the back of his pickup truck. It was another perfect moment.

I took Heather over to see the Real World house. It’s kind of trashed. I’m not sure what happened there, but it must’ve been a good party. It’s undergoing renovations at the moment. The second picture is taken from the window at our hotel, the one where you see the creepy lit-up suit of armor at night.

While we were walking around, Heather pointed out that the trees along St. Charles are draped not only with spanish moss, but with Mardi Gras beads. Tons of them, hanging everywhere, and on the walkways, ground into the dirt. Also, on the big suit of armor in the doorway of our hotel.

There’s a lot to be said about our hotel, by the way. First of all, it’s supposed to be haunted. The night we arrived, they told us that some people had recently brought a Ouija board, and determined that one of the ghosts (there are five) is a kid named Emily. The ghosts mostly hang out in the Bordello Room, which was next door to our room on the third floor. We stayed in the Voodoo Room, at the end of a long, blood-red hallway with lighting that never worked. The room was all gothed out in a really tacky way. It was awesome.

We went around the corner to explore the cemetery. The above-ground tombs are pretty incredible. I later discovered that this cemetery was one of the most historic in New Orleans. It was kind of surreal seeing the Goodyear Blimp hovering overhead for the NCAA tournament, though.

We ate monstrous burritos for lunch, got back in the car, and headed to Alabama. Why? Ask Jay. Anyway, the Gulf Coast was way nicer than expected. We were dreading spending more time in Mississippi, but it actually had more to offer than casinos and rednecks: it had beaches.

I wanted to lay around longer, but my Minnesotan was showing, and I was turning pink. We drove through more tacky casino country, watched for alligators in the swamps, and bought boiled peanuts from an old woman on the side of the road. Mobile was, you know, a small city in Alabama, and that’s about it. We turned around and headed back to New Orleans.