Finca

I met Alexis in Guatemala.  He ran a breakfast restaurant in San Marcos La Laguna when I visted there back in 2008.

Thanks to the marvels of social networking, I learned that he had acquired a finca in Colombia and was turning it into a hostel.  A finca is basically a ranch, often with crops and livestock.  Sometimes they are used as a family getaway.  Others are fully operating farms.

His Finca Hostel San Sebastian is in the mountains of San Jerónimo about an hour outside Medellín.  He and his girlfriend Matilda had been fixing it up for months and were preparing to throw a party for his birthday as a kind of soft opening for the place.

I remembered Alexis has good taste when it comes to creating a paradise for himself.  So when I received his party invitation, I couldn't think of a better way to spend April.

I did have second thoughts when I remembered all of the violence Colombia has become known for in past decades.  But after some research, it seems most of it is a thing of the past, at least in the parts of the country I'd be visiting.  Tourism has been increasing in the past few years.  This would be a good opportunity to see the country before heavy tourism begins to erode the sights and culture.

Looking out the window while my plane was landing at the Medellín airport, the landscape was surprisingly green and rural.  I was expecting a large metropolis.

It turns out, the airport is on the other side of some high mountains, about a 45 minute drive from town.

As my shuttle came over the peak and headed down toward the city, I got a bird's eye view.

It was a beautiful sight.  The steep, narrow valley cups a dense sprawl of terra cotta buildings, many of them highrises, surrounded by bright green nature.

It wasn't exactly what I was expecting.  Although it is the most modern city in Colombia, Medellín still has the feel of many other South American cities.  A little bit gritty and run down in places.  At least where the shuttle dropped me off.

I planned to meet Alexis at his mom's apartment in town.  As I got into my second taxi to head that way, I passed a congregation of street people huffing from plastic bags.  Although the scene was pretty bleak, it wasn't that unlike a scene from my own home city.  We have plenty of street folks.  I just never saw the huffing in person before.

Alexis and Matilda greeted me enthusiastically and whisked me up the mountain toward San Jerónimo.

They seemed a little bit apprehensive since the weather was turning a bit rainy and we wouldn't be there before dark.

They described the small dirt road to the finca as, well, adventurous.  Full of pits and big rocks.  Compound that with rain, mud, darkness, and a mototaxi loaded down with far too many people, groceries, and luggage, and the outcome was not exactly guaranteed.

It was a wet a wild ride indeed, but with some expert driving, and the occasional get-out-and-walk, we made it.

The next day I got to see the grounds in the light of day.  They have a grounds keeper, Ignacio, that not only keeps the place looking like paradise with green lawns, purple orchids, and tropical plants, but also tends the vegetable garden and chickens.

The finca could, in theory, sustain its inhabitants with its crops and eggs and chickens.  The water supply comes from the nearby river and flows through a simple purification system for drinking.  The garden contains all manner of fruits, veggies, and herbs, like tomatoes, yuca, mangos, guanábana, cilantro, onions, thyme, and countless others.

While I was there, Ignacio helped Alexis kill and clean his first chicken that we promptly grilled up that night.

They have a tremendous view of the surrounding mountains.  As far as you can see in every direction is wild nature and other beautiful fincas.  The occasional motorcycle or horse rides by, but other than that there are very few vehicles driving around.  There is only the sound of colorful birds and blowing trees.

The only Internet access is via a cellular USB stick they have, so laptops here are mainly to be used as jukeboxes with welcome new music to play.

I was the first of the party guests to arrive.  The rest of the folks were coming up a few days later - some local from down the hill in Medellín, others from far and wide.

My hosts invited me to come down to pick some of them up and party in the city for a night, but I felt such value in the peace and quiet, I figured I had better soak it up before things pick up here.  So I opted to hold down the fort.  I'd have my very own finca for at least a little while Matilda ran some errands in San Jeronimo.  I can party in the city anytime.

I read.  I wrote.  I sampled each hammock in their extensive collection.  I swam in their lovely pool.

I could feel myself relaxing more each day.  I could feel the speed of life slowing, my mind clearing.

Then one day the party arrived.  A large van pulled up, and out poured all the far and wide visitors.

I poured everyone a welcome-cocktail made with a panela simple syrup Matilda made, some local limes, and mint from the garden.  Olly, the English DJ, hooked up his jukebox and a whole new groovy finca vibe was born.

Later on, Alexis' Columbian friends joined and brought an enormous sound system.  It was hard for me to imagine how this might transform the otherwise quiet valley.  Well not that hard.  I hope we don't bother too many people.

The party went on all night and into the next day.  Sleeping was futile.  I pictured the neighbors - packing up and fleeing to the big city for some peace.  They must have, because we never heard from any of them.

That next day, the Columbians and their speakers promptly headed back home, while the rest of us sank in and relaxed for the next few days - cooking, lounging, and sharing some softer groovy music.  Each morning we'd wake to fresh baking bread and Columbian coffee brewing on the stove.  

One day, we made a beer run on foot.  The closest grocery store is about a half hour by taxi.  But about a 20 minute walk down the road stands La Fonda de Abraham.  Abraham is the 80-something proprietor of a tiny roadside store.  His cowboy-hatted likeness is painted prominently on the outside wall with his trusty mule.  He sells a few staples finca residents can't grow themselves like beer, grains, cooking oil, cigarettes, and animal feed.  Not too much more, really.  

Abraham brings out chairs for all of us to sit on his porch and enjoy at least one cold beer together.  He asks if we know anything about that racket earlier in the week.  Sheepish shrugs.

We walk home as it gets dark, weighed down with backpacks full of beer, and note that the valley is twinkling with fireflies.

I soak up the next few days, savoring the natural surroundings, the new baby chicks that just hatched, Mateo the rambunctious finca dog, and all of the cool people I got to know.

It's been fun here, but I can't leave Colombia without checking out some of those Caribbean beaches.  So as tough as it is to tear myself away, I must explore this country at least a bit.

The others are all leaving over the weekend and plan to head down to Medellín for their last night.  I coordinate and ride down with them.  I'll catch my overnight bus to Cartagena after having some dinner and drinks in the city with everyone.

I say my goodbyes, and as I get into the taxi to Terminal Del Norte, I commit a Colombian cardinal sin I had read about in my guidebook.  I slammed the taxi door.  The driver makes a hissing sound like I just slammed his fingers in the door.  Apparently taxi doors tend to be kind of flimsy and delicate here.

Sorry, dude.

Norte.

New Orleans

After leaving Austin, I spent about a day and a half driving toward New Orleans. I made sure to pass through Lockhart, Texas on the way. Although I had spent the past week and a half binging on Texas brisket already, Lockhart is widely considered the state's best BBQ. I stopped at Black's BBQ, a cafeteria style joint near the highway with a perpetual half hour line out the door. I stuffed as much delicious brisket as I could stand, smiled big, and then promptly swore off beef for awhile (probably).

After lunch, I realized that, although I was already en route to New Orleans, I didn't have an actual destination in town. I wasn't too sure about camping in the van in the middle of town, so I looked up some motels on Yelp. I found one called the Royal Street Courtyard that appeared to be well located near the French Quarter and had good reviews, and programmed Google Maps to take me there.

As soon as I got off the freeway, I knew I was somewhere new. The bumpy streets were narrow and tree-lined. The buildings were old and a little run down, but full of color and character. I was in a residential neighborhood called The Marigny. I felt a little bit like an intruder. I didn't see any tourists anywhere. A few relaxed folks walked and biked along the very quiet streets.

Before I left, my friend Annie connected me via email with a local resident, Gabriel, that lived nearby. He said he might have some ideas for places to stay or camp out, but he hadn't responded yet so I stuck to the hotel plan for now.

I parked next to the bed and breakfast, walked onto the porch, and knocked on the door. A maid answered and told me there was no vacancy.

That's the risk of making no arrangements I suppose. So I hit the second place on the list, Olde Town Inn, that was only a few blocks away.

Luckily, they had some rooms available, so I checked in for two days. They said my van was fine parked on the street out front, but I had better make sure nothing was left out visible in the car because someone might break into it. So I removed my stuff and locked up my bike inside their gates.

Two minutes later, Gabriel called. He wasn't available to meet up until the next day, so I set out on the bike to explore the city solo.

My location was fantastic. The Marigny is located between the French Quarter, the Tremé, and the Bywater neighborhoods. It's also only four blocks from Frenchman Street, which was recommended for some of the best music, food, and drinks in town.

Even with the great location though, I was grateful once again for having my bike to ride around. New Orleans is naturally swamp land so is very flat and perfect for biking. It's a great way to get a feel for that part of town.

The day before, my friend Melissa had emailed me a tremendous list of must-do's and should-do's. Even though I was a bit road weary, the weather forecast for the next few days was a little ominous, so I got as much outdoor sightseeing in as possible.

Over a few days I got some fried chicken at Fiorella's, some gumbo and jambalaya at Coop's, some fresh fish with ocean sauce at Adolfo's, and my share of red beans and rice at a few places. All fantastic. All I was missing at this point was someone to hang out with.

Back at the Inn, I met Timo and Ben, two German music industry guys that had also just come from the Austin music festival. In fact, they knew one of my new Austin friends, Michael, who I stayed with one night in Texas. Small world.

I got to do some eating and drinking with them. On some good advice, we also explored the Tremé neighborhood a bit, and found the Candlelight Lounge, a historic hole in the wall where the Tremé Brass Band plays every Wednesday night. I could feel how fully these older musicians had truly dedicated their entire life to the musical traditions of New Orleans. The place was entirely without any pretense. There is no stage, no lighting for the band. The hostess and the tuba player fought with the light switches making it alternately too bright and too dark. A big screen TV was showing David Letterman with the sound turned off next to a sax player. But everyone was dancing. The band, the staff, the crowd. Amazing energy.

Frenchman Street did not disappoint. It's only a small stretch of two blocks or so, but every night the bars on the block hosted some really great jazz musicians. Generally there was no cover charge for walking in and checking out some music. I was surprised by that given the quality of the music playing. The appeared to survive largely on tips. I tried to make sure never to leave anyplace without dropping some money in their jars.

When I met up with Gabriel, we hit it off right away and he took me around to see all the local spots around the Bywater neighborhood. He's a history buff, and gave me a brief history of Louisiana and New Orleans back from when it was all still part of France. It gave me some good context for how New Orleanians see their place in the world.

I chose not to do a disaster tour of New Orleans. I know that a big chunk of the city is still basically gone. I don't feel the need to gawk at the sorrow. But one night, Gabriel walked me out to a remote jetty in the Bywater they call The End of the World. From there, just a couple hundred yards across the canal, Gabriel pointed out the Lower 9th Ward. I couldn't see any sign of damage from where we were, but it showed me just how little separated these neighborhoods. It reminded me of being in Bangkok during their flooding and how much a few feet of elevation and a lot of luck make all the difference.

During the week, I noticed how poor most of the infrastructure is outside the French Quarter. The roads seem like they haven't been repaved in decades. There are street signs missing everywhere. Gabriel had me look down one road and pointed out there was only one street light working for many blocks. He said the average response time for the city to fix a street light is nine months. It must be hard to complain about anything in this city though when there are still whole neighborhoods that need to be rebuilt.

Gabriel does freelance film work most of the time and also records music. But he and his friend Andrew had just begun producing ginger beer as hobby and potential business. Their ginger beer is fast becoming popular with local bars. Their orders have begun to out run their ability to produce more. That sounded like a great business problem to have, so I started chatting with them on how they might go about getting out of hobby land and into bigger production. I'm excited to see how things turn out for them.

One night, Gabriel took me to Vaughn's, a local Bywater bar that hosts a weekly Thursday night show featuring Kermit Ruffins, a popular local trumpet player. I was excited to see Kermit because, before my trip, I had been watching the HBO series, Tremé, which is set in New Orleans post-Katrina. One of the main characters on the show is a trombone player who is always dying to play with Kermit and brags about it whenever he does. So I figured he'd be fun to check out up close and personal.

We got there a bit late, and couldn't get too close to the stage. So Gabriel and I hung out at the bar and had drinks during the show. I guess we had more drinks than I thought, because the next thing I knew, almost everyone in the bar was gone except for us and Kermit who was still in the corner of the bar playing background music off his iPad. When he put on Feels So Good by Chuck Mangione , I scurried over and started reminiscing about the song with Kermit. I bragged about knowing that it was performed on the fluglehorn and proceeded to air guitar some of the bass line. When I made the proclamation to Kermit that I thought Feels So Good was "the best elevator music song ever written", Gabriel kind of grimaced as if maybe I had gotten too familiar with such a bold critique of Kermit's music selection. But Kermit cracked up, and I'm pretty sure he agreed with me.

It was my brush with greatness for the week.

I'm not sure when I'll be back to NOLA. Mardis Gras is an obvious choice, but I don't much like big crowds.  When I expressed that to Gabriel, he told me he felt the same way until he actually experienced it. He said he'll never miss one from now on. He went on to explain the depth of local tradition surrounding the event. Between that and the rest of the music festival season, there will be many enticing opportunities to return.

Next time I'll fly though.

Austin

I texted my friend Jeremy to let him know I rolled into town to see where I might meet him.

He gave me the name of a coffee lounge, Halcyon, that was mellow and social and in the middle of the action.

I drove downtown, and to my great surprise found street parking pretty easily within a couple of blocks. I took note of the various parking meter rules in the surrounding neighborhood since I was going to spend the better part of a week living on the street here.

When I arrived, it was still the interactive and film portion of SXSW. The music wouldn't get going officially for a few more days. So the parties and other events around town mainly catered to computer professionals. Big companies spend big marketing dollars renting out nightclubs and putting up party tents and temporary venues all around downtown. Often, in return for giving them an email address they can use to reach you, they'll invite you to a party with free music and drinks. These parties go on all over town all week long. There is a ton of branding going on here. But I found it fairly tolerable and avoidable.

Since I haven't been here before, I wasn't very savvy at how to find out about what events to attend and how to do it. But I had some time before the music festival, so I started doing my homework at Halcyon.

People at the coffee shop kept looking at me funny. One approached me and asked me if I had performed there in the past. I said "Nope." Later after chatting with the staff, I learned they all thought I was M. Ward, a popular singer that used to hang out there. In fact, even after I assured them I wasn't, I don't think they believed me, because they kept buying me drinks and food. I guess everyone has their eyes peeled for their favorite celebrities on this particular week.

Someone I met pointed me to a website that listed all of the music that would be playing around town. So I decided to scan the list of artists for things I knew would be good.

I spent about fifteen minutes scanning the entire list and scribbled down about ten or so artists I was interested in seeing. Each of those artists might be playing at a few different places around town, so I'd have to make a second pass to mark my calendar with dates and times.

But then I realized the list I just spent all that time on was only page one of twenty eight.

Holy cow. How am I going to get through all of this? It's amazing how many artists will be here this week.

Someone told me about a website that will automatically RSVP you for every party possible and then give you a pre-built calendar of stuff to do. But he showed me his calendar and there was so much stuff on there on any given hour that you still had to spend time studying it to pick something.

Right about then, Jeremy joined me and explained some pointers for dealing with SXSW and keeping your head from popping off.

1. Relax. You're not going to see everything you want to see so stop freaking out. Jot things down as you hear about them but don't spend all your time planning. Just explore.
2. Don't stand in any long lines to see shows. There is too much other stuff going on and you'll have a better time if you're enjoying it rather than waiting around.
3. Serendipity is a wonderful thing. SXSW is a great place to see artists you've never heard of. You wouldn't have planned to see them. But you might hear them just walking by somewhere. Go stumble on something.

So I spent the next several days doing just that.

Thankfully I brought my bicycle along on the road trip, because the festivities spanned a couple miles in every direction. Riding around also got me a great look at all of the neighborhoods and pockets around downtown.

I was immediately stunned by the sheer number of live music venues in this town. There are all shapes and sizes. Some are dive bars. Some are outdoor beer gardens. Some are fancy nightclubs with roof decks. Many are just restaurants and bars with a small stage on their patio, maybe one indoors as well.

And those are just the permanent music venues.

But during South-by (that's what the locals call it), even all those venues aren't enough. So folks start changing anything and everything into a music stage. The roof of a Whole Foods, a bicycle shop, vacant lots, street corners. I even saw one 5th floor balcony of an apartment building.

I don't think you could have this event in any other city. I can't think of any with this many venues per square mile.

Whenever I got chatting with an Austinite, I'd always express how amazed I am at how much music this town has and ask about what it's like other parts of the year. How can all of these stages be filled with musicians all the time? And how do you have enough people willing to pay to see all of them?

The general reaction was, yes of course our town loves and supports live music. Doesn't yours?

I think that, because of this music culture, everyday people on the street have a more refined taste in music. And that refined taste raises the bar for musicians to bring in an audience. Sort of like all the great inexpensive restaurants in San Francisco. You have to be good to get any customers.

Besides their music savvy, I found the local folks to be very cool people. They were generally eager to talk about what the town has to offer both culturally and naturally. Austin is a very pretty town, flush with lovely parks, natural green belts, lakes and rivers running right through town. There's plenty to do for active, outdoor types. They have their own version of hipsters and harder core cliques. They have all the comforts of a modern, progressive city, including plenty of yoga and vegetarian spots. But what stuck with me most is that people really love living in Austin. Their enthusiasm is rare. I feel it toward my home also. I find that type of enthusiasm to be the mark of a really great pace to live.

A couple of local people I met separately, Missy and Michael, offered to let me tag along with them on their respective south-by adventures. Michael even offered up his extra room so I wouldn't have to sleep in the van. I did stay with him one night, but it turned out to be kind of convenient to have my van parked so close to the action, so at the end of a fun evening I could just crawl in there rather than bike or cab several miles.

Here are some highlights of the week:

The Continental Club in South Congress was one of those places you could always go and know you'd hear something good. It's a pretty small place. During this week, they had a family out in back cooking great BBQ every night. I saw some great stuff there including Alejandro Escovedo, Big Sam's Funky Nation, and a Peter Case/Plimsouls reunion.

Missy turned me on to a great band from Los Angeles called The Belle Brigade, a brother and sister and band that sing upbeat folksy stuff with great harmony. I saw them a couple times. Once at Guero's Taco Bar which also had mouth watering tacos. They put pineapple on them. I'll have to try that back home.

Another pop up venue, San Jose, had a great line up for a few straight days. I caught LP, Dan Magnan, and Meshell Ndegeocello who were all great. LP is a young woman with a beautiful voice who reminded me a little of Roy Orbison.

One show I didn't want to miss this week was Allen Stone, a young soul singer from Seattle. I caught him once at Palm Door downtown. I knew he would be good, but I wasn't prepared for the great live show he put on. Amazing voice, and a great showman also.

I stumbled on a great little group called Nico Vega in a parking lot. I had actually ventured to the parking lot in search of a delicious falafel I got from a food truck called Kebabalicious. I Twitter'd them to find out where they were and found some great music to boot.

Sunset Promotions from the Bay Area threw a silent disco in The Enchanted Forest, a little piece of land in a suburb a few miles from the action. Attendees receive some wireless headphones that play music from two different DJs playing simultaneously. You can listen and dance to whichever one you like best. The headphones make it so you can have a reasonably quiet party without disturbing the neighbors too badly.

Whole Foods had a good line up the final Saturday including Quiet Company, OK Sweetheart, Rachel Yamagata, and Loquat. It was great to take a load off after a long week of pedaling around and dancing so much, and just relax to some great tunes.

All in all, I had a great time at SXSW and was really impressed by Austin.

The night before I left, Missy took me to a great little local pub called Whip In, a lively place where all kinds of locals mingle and drink beer and wine together.

For most of my stay, I didn't hear many Texas slang phrases. When I did, it would stick with me and I'd smile to myself - phrases like "Comin' through, honey", or "I'll tell you what..."

But the Whip In had a little chalk board with a phrase scrawled on it that, to me, summed up Austin in two words.

"Namaste Y'all."

South

I have never been to the South.

It has always intrigued me as a place with a rich culture all it's own - a blend of clever eccentricity and hospitality. But it also has a history of intolerance that held enough of a shadow over it in my mind to keep me away.

Then a young guy named Daan from Guatemala came to stay with me last year. He was a friend of a friend who needed a place to stay in San Francisco. He told me that growing up in Guatemala, he always hated the US, but now that he had the means, decided he should see it for himself. He had a great time during his stay and, although many of his objections may still stand, he was able to appreciate the people and culture of the US, and vowed to return.

I took that as a lesson to live by, and while in Asia last year, started imagining a road trip through the Southern United States.

I know it's very humid and uncomfortable in the summer time. So I loosely planned to try and make the trip in Fall 2012.

But then I found myself with the time to travel sooner than I thought.

A long term project wrapped up at work, and they offered me a generous opportunity to take some time off if I wanted to.

So I took it.

Suddenly I have more time to travel than I really need or know what to do with. So the road trip got moved up to March.

Austin, Texas and New Orleans have always been high on my list to try and visit. They both have a rich culture of live music and great food.

Sweetening the deal for me was the fact that South by Southwest, an enormous annual live music conference was happening in Austin right in the middle of March.

I have always wanted to attend SXSW, but I always seem to forget to put it on my calendar so that I have time to plan for it. This year I would finally make it.

I looked into getting a pass for the event, but quickly realized two things:

1. It's super expensive. The cheapest music pass was over $700 at the time I looked.
2. If you want to get a hotel room in Austin, you have to book it months in advance of the event. The website said all hotel rooms in Austin were sold out for that week.

My understanding about the pass is that, although it's cool to have, there are lots and lots of events going on around town that don't require a pass, most of them free. So I don't really need one.

And for accommodations, I've always got Rusty. Although urban camping can be a little tricky and not super convenient, I really have an ace in the hole there. I can live anywhere, hotel or no hotel.

So it's on.

I nagged many of my friends to come along with me, but none of them could make the trip.

My friend Jeremy was going to be there for the interactive (computer geek) portion of the conference. We'd overlap in Austin for two or three days. The rest of the time, I'd be on my own.

Every now and then someone would ask me, "are you all prepared for your trip?"

Prepared? I'm not going to the moon. All I need to do is get some gas and drive away.

I did carefully pack some clothes and gadgets similar to what I'd bring backpacking. But the difference between packing for a domestic road trip versus somewhere like Southeast Asia is that I'll have the benefit of stocked retail stores all along the way. If I forget something, it will be available.

The one other preparation I made was for Rusty's sake. If she were to break down along the way, I'd prefer to tow her to a solid VW mechanic rather than the nearest gas station. And I wasn't sure I'd have Internet access where I broke down, so I checked the Roadhaus website which reviews VW mechanics across North America, and wrote down contact info for those along my route.

I preferred not to drive the same highways both ways if possible, so I chose to take Interstate 10 on the way there, and Interstate 40 (roughly the old Route 66) on the way back.

It would take me four and a half days to get to Austin. The first two of those days, I'd have a place to stay the night in Los Angeles and Phoenix. The other two nights and possibly the remainder of the road trip would be in Hotel Rusty.

I prefer not to rush when I'm traveling, but it was valuable to me to have those few days with the one friend I'd have in Austin, and to not miss any more of the event than I had to. So I'd push hard on the driving on the way there (the faster but more boring route), and go more leisurely on the scenic route home.

Another ace in the hole I have is my membership to 24 Hour Fitness. They have gyms in some of the cities I'm visiting, so not only can I get workouts in, I also have a friendly place to shower, shave, and even hot-tub.

My journey through LA and Arizona were uneventful. I had done that stretch of highway many times in the past since I used to live in Phoenix. Rusty was doing great and the time was flying by.

But then as I got closer to New Mexico it got cold.

Then it got colder - into the low 30's.

One thing VW vans are notorious for is ineffective heaters. Rusty does put out a trickle of heat, but since the engine is in the back, the trickle only comes out in the back of the van - nothing in the front.

I think something is wrong with her vent controls also, because I learned the hard way that I can't seem to stop outside air from blowing straight at either my face or my feet.

I never noticed this (or cared) before because I never really drove her in weather this cold.

I had checked the weather at my destination cities, but I didn't think to check any of the towns in between. Lesson learned.

Maps aren't very good at letting you know when your altitude is changing so it's tough to tell when you'll be going over a mountain pass. It didn't seem very mountainous where I was. I think it was just unseasonably cold.

By the time I got to Las Cruces late at night, I realized that it might be a poor plan to try and sleep in the van in weather like this, so I checked into a cheap motel by the highway. It was pretty crummy, but it had a kick ass heater.

The next day was my introduction to West Texas.

I had heard that it was a pretty long boring drive. I was ready for it.

It seemed possible I could make it to Austin the next day, but not very likely unless I really pushed hard. You have to understand, Rusty's top speed is about 65 mph on a flat surface, no match for the Texas 80 mph limit. In her defense, she was manufactured in 1981 when the maximum national speed limit was 55, so I guess she gets a pass on that one.

Everyone on the road passed me. Everyone. And each time a semi truck passed me, Rusty would get blown over about three feet to the right, and then shimmy back and forth in the wake of the truck's rear end. It's kind of cute the first twenty or thirty times.

So after passing through El Paso, where you can actually see the impoverished town of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico from the highway, I threw myself into the dark side of the moon.

I say that because - remember that list of VW mechanics I made? It works great in most parts of the country because my platinum AAA membership will tow me up to 200 miles in any direction. The distance between the only two VW mechanics I could find between El Paso and San Antonio? 552 miles.

That's not a stretch of highway I want to break down on.

So I was cold and nervous - bundled up in four layers of clothing, two pairs of socks, a scarf and a beanie cap.

I must have looked funny driving up to the Border Patrol checkpoint out in the desert past El Paso. Everyone else looked all comfy in their modern heated cars, but when I rolled down my window to answer the guard's questions, I looked like I just walked off the frozen tundra somewhere - my scarf wrapped around my face.

Beyond that checkpoint there was a whole lot of nothing. 100 miles between rest stops and the occasional gas station. Rocks and dirt and some sparse shrubs.

As it became evening, it began to rain as well. I drove as long as I could, but at some point I was just too cold. So I stopped at a rest stop and crawled into my warm sleeping bag.

It wasn't until the next morning that I realized my feet were so cold the night before because the vents were dripping the tiniest amount of rain water directly onto my feet. My socks were soaked on the toes. Something else to remember when checking the weather.

Once I was within about 50 miles of Austin, the terrain finally transformed into green rolling hills and ranches.

Around mid day, I rolled into an Austin suburb and found the nearest gym so I could get a shower before heading to the conference area.

After 1900 miles, I'm finally done driving for awhile.