It’s All About Adventure—A Letter from Florian

The last installment of our Route 66 experience was recently published. We’d wanted to ride the Mother Road for a while, but the centennial finally brought the motivation to make it happen. On top of that, it was the 30-year anniversary of my parents’ Route 66 trip. 

With modern resources, it’s relatively easy to plan a cross-country trip. Marisa plotted the GPS tracks, complete with all the points of interests we wanted to see. She also worked ahead to secure hotels for every night. Finding lodging is always fun. Even with today’s technology, you can still be in for a surprise.

When my parents rolled into Amarillo, TX, and stopped at one of the first motels, a local police officer quickly rescued them. The friendly cop let them know they’re in the wrong part of town. Fortunately, the laughably large Austrian license plate screamed “we’re not from here.”

Our story was a little different. Of course, we had the iconic nightly stops on the itinerary, but some of the in-between towns were a gamble. On one of our first nights in Illinois, we rolled up to a questionable hotel. Judging it by its cover, we should have kept moving—fading paint, a swampy pool, severely cracked parking lot, no other travelers, and a shower surround next to the entry.

The lobby reeked of cigarettes and was full of gambling machines. The innkeeper walked us to our rooms, which was more than strange. The breakfast area had a tanning bed in it, but no breakfast. Our rooms had a face and shower towel, but even my shop rags looked better than they did. I wasn’t going to risk it and air dried myself.

I ended up sleeping in my clothes on top of the sheets, as the linens—like the whole room—hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Both of our rooms had stains on the wall that we could only describe as hooker juice. My window was cracked, but I think somebody tried to escape rather than break in. 

Almost at the end of our trip, we rolled into Barstow, CA. It was hotter than hell and only early afternoon. We found our little motel and got buzzed into the bulletproof lobby. The space was just large enough for the three of us to feel a little air conditioning.

I handed over the credit card, glanced up, and read: “No refunds.” The rooms were actually newly renovated, but the commercial grade cleaner stung our nostrils so hard we all got nauseated. I’m not sure what mess they had to clean up in those rooms. Definitely more than hooker juice.

Sometimes, you have to pivot. We quickly realized that Big Bear was a short ride away, significantly higher in elevation with much lower temperatures, and—let’s face it—it was a much nicer place than Barstow. It didn’t matter that we lost a couple of hundred dollars when floating in a cool mountain lake.

When you make your own adventures on Route 66, it’s okay to veer off every once in a while. There are all sorts of adventures out there for you.

Pack a travel towel, just in case. 

Safe Travels,

Florian Neuhauser
Publisher