We left Virginia (it’s true btw that Virginia is for lovers) at around 9:30 am today in the drizzle. Just a light mist that made my hair go wild. Molly wasn’t interested in her food whatsoever, but managed to squeak out a meagrely 318. Luckily for us, Frank prepared our windshield with rainx and new wipers! Totally made our day.
The highway was busy in both directions. Steady streams of cars doing 130 km per hour. It was kind of awesome and made me secretly wish I had my car. Rudy was driving so we listened to another episode of the podcast. It’s getting more intriguing and makes us realize that slow deliberate governing is not always bad. I’m not sure I entirely trust Huawei at this point in the story. But I’m impressed at the Vancouver real estate market; I had no idea it was so crazy!
Our first stop for a quick fill and change of drivers. The drizzle has stopped but I’m a frizzled mess from the humidity. It’s 23C and my feet are sweaty in my winter Merrill’s. I have created a driving playlist for my leg of the drive. And the GPS is programmed to our days destination: Santee, SC. I crank the stereo and head out. We drive along I-95 for a bit then the gps tells me to turn off which I do. Rudy is questioning the decision but conceded that I’m driving. We end up on a backroads two-laner that cuts through some very humble neighbourhoods. Rudy and I refer to these as “love shacks ” (it’s about all they have going for them … well that and Jesus). We must have passed a dozen churches. Anyone not on the road was in one of the churches. Oh. There was also one mall that was packed with sinners.
When we get routed back into the interstate we see the accident that the gps avoided. Clever girl. We jump back on the US version of the autobahn and do carpool karaoke. Well I at least do the singing and wish like heck my sister was on board when Bohemian Rhapsody comes on. Rudy cringes inwardly. Then outwardly. I’m oblivious. I morph from Freddie to Elton to Carly and never skip a beat.
There’s showers at times but it doesn’t slow the drivers. Unlike the autobahn where left lane losers are punished, on the I-95 it’s dog eat dog as drivers from everywhere (according their licence plates) cut each other off and pass on the right. Ruthless jerks. I glance over to see poor Rudy with white knuckles even though I’m driving.
It’s only a few miles to go and Rudy has game day on his mind. The NFL is in playoff mode and this weeks games are decisive or duds. Rudy cheers (mostly) for Pittsburg and there’s an outside chance they could clinch a playoff berth. That is if they win. And if another team loses. And if Bill Cower sees his shadow … it’s very bizarre how the playoffs shake down. Anyway, since I was driving, I shave quite a bit of time off our ETA and we end up well in advance of the afternoon late games.
While Rudy gets us unloaded in the room I take Molly for a walk. She’s been such a good traveller. Luckily there’s a lot of green space at this stop as it backs onto a golf course. Molly’s sniffer is in high gear. We walk around the property and she sniffs another dogs poop. The code word is “yuck” and she usually backs away. Today she dropped onto the ground sideways and rolled in the shit. She’s never done that. Clearly I’m in the doghouse and now so is she. It drives me nuts that folks don’t stoop and scoop. Really.
When we get back to the room (it’s a motel and we’re parked in front of the room) I wait outside with Molly and ask Rudy to bring me the dog bag with her gear. I have pet wipes (thankfully) and will need a few. I use wipe after wipe until there’s no lingering brown stain or smell. Then I drag her into the room and use soap and water. It’s essential that I get her scrubbed because she sleeps in our bed and spoons with me. There are no words. All of this action is taking place while I have to pee desperately; I’ve been holding it all day. As usual. How do I spell “relief”. P.
Game day is a bust for Pittsburgh. Better luck next year.
Molly is fast asleep. On our bed.
Our landlord texts me to say the house is ready and waiting for us.
FFY. Can’t wait. Our Gypsy days are over. One more sleep.