Having embarked on a train voyage from fair Portland to the mountain village of Flagstaff, AZ — where Olivia and I will spend nearly a week alone — we decided to take a solid day’s rest at LaQuinta Inn, Bakersfield, California. The summer has been squeezing record sweat out of Americans all across the lower 48, but arriving in Southern California and heading into the desert, the heat finally broke into degrees we Pittsburghers are rarely treated to. “Treat” being a subjective and highly debatable word for sure.

Bakersfield as a town is very spread out, quite suburban though seemingly adequately served by it’s local public transit. Our hotel, especially given it’s high affordability, was immaculate; fingery palm leaves silhouetting shadows across brilliant yellow stucco walls reflected in the crystal blue waters of the pool. Near the hotel was a sushi place that was dissappointingly closed on a Sunday, but Benji’s Basque French Restaurant just down the street didn’t let us down. Expensive, for sure, the food came out in droves: baked beans, cabbage soup, stewed tomatos, not-fried calamari and so much more.

We’re now in a cab, headed for the bus that’ll shuffle us off to LA where we’ll catch our train to Flagstaff, Bakersfield was a great one day respite from our otherwise non-stop trainery.

The Inn is directly across the river from Portland’s downtown, with a beautiful view of the city at night, a few PBRs and a crew of old friends, how can you go wrong?

Webster reaching out to grab a tree that’s grown 7 stories high.

So imagine my surprise when the KOA RV park was only $35 / night for full hookups, including tax. The park isn’t so bad either, though it’s essentially a giant parking lot, primarily occupied by rental RVs (the 1-800-RV4Rent types), it does have a really nice playground and a pool as well.

So that’s the RV park lifestyle, but after we stowed our RV into storage for the next couple of months as we loaded up some backpacks (in my case my guitar case with whatever extra underwear and shirts I could fit around my lately-more-played acoustic, in Olivia’s case a giant suitcase with enough clothes to last a lifetime, Tristan landing somewhere in the middle, with a bag packed 50% with clothes, 50% with GI Joes) that would serve as our homes for the next couple of months as we head for Myrtle Beach for an extended-family vacation and then to Pittsburgh to visit our kin in their natural environment, we caught a cab across town to the Desert Rose Resort. It was the cheapest hotel I could find, nearest to the airport, and I thought it a steal at $55, so close to the Strip (about a block or two away). So imagine my surprise when we arrived to an incredibly swanky resort, certainly living up to it’s name, where free beer and snacks were served during happy hour (5-7), and our room was actually a small condo, with a full kitchen, living room and even two TVs. The room was fancier than our first apartment as a family, and as I sipped a Heineken from the balcony in the perfectly warm Las Vegas evening I was overcome with excitement for the coming year, our second since leaving Pittsburgh last August.

The next morning we enjoyed nothing short of a majestic view of the parkway and lounged around in bed just long enough for it to be time to investigate the hotel bar. Drinks and an episode of Family Feud would ensue.

On the third morning Olivia had grown tired of the hotel and so we packed our things and headed into the open air of just-outside-of-Pittsburgh. The girl working the front desk gave us directions to a restaurant by the name of Foli’s, and on the way a slow walking, big smiling local smacked his chest in satisfaction of a deed well done, after giving us the low down on the local bus stops and schedules. We made it to the restaurant, frustrated over the circumstances, not so much the loss of forward momentum and a general place to call home, but more so over the lack of knowing what the situation is with repairs and timelines and reality. I enjoyed the feta quite a bit, and there were two posters in the bathroom, one that read “Beer, helping ugly people have sex since 1644.” and another featuring the Three Stooges on a wanted poster which read “Reward: 50 cents each or three for a dollar.” Both where exactly fitting for the place.

A few minutes later our taxi pulls up to ferry us across town. We’d found the location of our RV, having been towed extremely far from where we’d broken down, and were determined to make ourselves get to that location. The driver was Jamaican, and at first seemed quite angry. His voice said so, and his driving could only be described as 0 to 60 every 30 seconds. He would jam the pedal down as soon as there was a foot or more between him and the next car, only to smash the brake into the ground a moment later. He took us completely out of the way to get from point a to point b, and all I could generally think about was how this unsociable, angry, bad driving, no sense of direction guy was the least suitable candidate for being a taxi driver. Nonetheless, he eventually got us to our destination, so in the end the means were met.