Route 66 Trip Report

Route 66.

The Mother Road. 2400 miles of history and nostalgia, winding its way across the US-of-A.The old road snakes it’s way through an ever-changing mix of landscapes, people and cultures, and up until the development of the interstate system, it was this storied old two-lane highway that linked Chicago to the West Coast - a true arterial route. Trade and transport weren’t the only blessings brought about by the early road - along it’s path you could once find dozens of thriving little communities, which sprung up in the most unlikely parcels of America, standing proudly and serving the travellers of Route 66.

By bypassing almost all of these towns, the interstate highways did their best to kill off their viability. Fortunately, nostalgia’s doing it’s best to fight back, and each year the Mother Road sees more and more travellers - travellers less concerned with setting a great time, but with having a great time. With each Mustang, motorcycle or minivan, a little extra life is injected back into the towns who managed to keep their heart beating.

America is a fascinating country in more ways than one. The sheer physical and cultural variety is off the charts, and since my first taster 9 years ago I’ve had a serious appetite to explore it. A bucket-list item for Dad, I was fortunate enough to be invited along for the ride.

As a recently-retired man, Dad first came to me with the idea a little over a year ago. The original idea involved a tour company, but my immediate instinct was to quash that instinct and take on a project - a project that would afford our trip a little more freedom, and be unique to what we both wanted out of it. In the months that followed I did a stack of reading, and put together what I thought would be a thorough exploration of the old Route 66. The following is my account of 14 days in the USA with my dear old Dad and our trusty rental Mazda CX-5.

The Beginning - Chicago.

It’d be remiss of me to start this story in Chicago, since one of the highlights of this trip occurred before we’d even left Australian soil - the hospitality provided by Karel and Terry in Brisbane. I hit them up for a bed to stay in the night before our departure, and the response blew us both away. Not only did they provide a bed to stay in and a dog to pat, but in addition we were treated like visiting dignitaries. Delicious home-cooked dinner, a ride to and from the airport and Terry washed and serviced my car while we were away! With warmth like that, I can even give Frankie a pass for his constant farting throughout our dinner. Thanks K+T, there’s always a return invitation on the table when you need it.

The flight to Chicago was kinda like any other long-haul flight, mostly in that you just don’t wanna hear about it. I did however FINALLY use my carry-on cocktail kit, a Christmas present from Harvest from 2015, and I enjoyed it to the tune of two Old Fashioned’s while finally watching Caddyshack for the first time.

For anyone who gives a shit, I ate literally everything they offered me because I am a piece of shit, and I also watched Get Shorty, Family Guy and Cars 3 for a little pre-Route 66 inspiration. Also a big shout-out to Sue - a friend of K+T who was working the business class section who ensured we took off with a glass of champagne in our paws - unlike the rest of the Economy peasants around us.

Our shuttle driver from Chicago to the hire car place could not have been more USA if I’d tailored my request to a redneck deepthroating an AR-15 - she was amazing. Acrylic nails, impossibly perm’d and multicoloured hair, a pout most goldfish would be jealous of, and my God… That arse. It was huge. Sister - I love you.

We also had a short layover at LAX, but you can thank me later for sparing you the details.

Short on sleep, I took the wheels of our hired chariot, and set the GPS to the Swissotel in Chicago. Unbeknownst to me, Wacker Drive, Chicago, has an upper AND a lower section. I wish our fucking GPS knew that. Up until then it’d done a bloody fantastic job of avoiding traffic and tolls, and even took us via a Kilpatrick Avenue for a laugh. All the brownie points earned in the first hour of our relationship were incinerated by it’s inability to get us to the hotel.

Fortunately, I was born with a brain (shock, horror), and I figured out what was going on, and got us to our hotel, where our lovely inbred valet gave us an ultimatum - either pay $70 per night for valet, or venture back out yonder and attempt to find their self-park facilities (also $50/night).

Yeah, I was born with a brain - just not a very big one. Half an hour later - after attempting to find the parking lot ourselves - we signed our keys over to the valet attendants.

Poor start to Chicago aside - I loved this city. It’s so full of wonderful architecture, art, culture and life in general. An old mate of mine - Wes - just so happens to live in there, and gave me a grand introduction to the Windy City, including a shot of the fermented ass-water they call Malort. Apparently it’s a Chicago staple. No wonder they’re all a bit loopy.

Wes and I had an absolute ripper night out in Chicago, starting at Headquarters - a great bar full of free pinball machines and video games. They had all the classics - it was a great trip down memory lane playing Time Crisis, NBA Jam and even NHL ’94, where I led Eric Lindross and my mighty Philadelphia Flyers to a clean sweep of Gretzky’s LA Kings.

It was here we also met Chris, who’s a good mate of Wes and a really cool dude. Both these guys were great friends with the DJ, who played in front of a backdrop of the biggest collection of cassette tapes I’ve seen. I was in awe. While they talked about God-knows-what, I pored over the collection - which all contained the actual tapes - of just about every album you can think of throughout the cassette era. The only one they didn’t have that I would’ve stolen was Billy Birmingham’s ‘Still the 12th Man’. Guess that never made it to America…

We eventually ditched HQ, either due to the lack of females (interested in me) or that Wes and Chris wanted to take me on an after-hours tour of JBTV. I’d never heard of this place prior, but my mind was absolutely blown walking through this building. Halls, studios and stages where just about every major artist/band has walked, recorded or both, throughout the last 20 years. The stickers, signed memorabilia, photos, fan-mail… All of it. This building just reeked of musical history. I thank those guys for taking me on that tour, and in thanks to JBTV for letting me steal a pair of novelty sunglasses and an entire case of Boxed Water…

That Boxed Water really did serve us well on our road trip, though. Boxed Water truely is better, as they say, and it saved us from buying a ton of single-use plastic bottles along the way.

You’re probably wondering how I had time to get off a long-haul flight, drive around lost in Chicago and then go on an absolute rager… Well, I didn’t get back to the hotel until 4:30am. And I completely overlooked the fact that my Dad might’ve woken up at 2am wondering where I was. And that he might’ve tried calling me. For two hours. And that me not answering might’ve been cause for concern.

Well, I didn’t die in a ditch, but sorry for making you think otherwise, Dad.

I normally use the most cop-out excuse for not sleeping on the plane, which is that “I’m just trying to set my sleeping patterns to my destination time-zone, duh. Like, haven’t you ever travelled?”. My lack of sleep had nothing to do with the overweight guy sitting next to me, the constant supply of food and booze or the endless Family Guy episodes available on my in-flight entertainment screen, but I digress - I didn’t sleep at all. And this technique was all working just fine, until I stayed out until 4:30am. This is probably why we woke up at 1:30pm the next afternoon, thereby blowing our chances of avoiding jet lag altogether, and severely hampering our chances of maximising our time in such a great city.

Once we did eventually wake, we got our act together quick smart, and ventured off downtown on foot. Fortunately for us, there was a Jazz Festival taking place in the main park nearby, which made for a really pleasant - albeit crowded - walk through the park towards the world famous art installation, the Giant Bean (I have no idea what it’s actually called), where I was able to tick off the first of my goals for the trip: flicking the giant bean.

We continued on foot through the park, and then along the foreshore of the great Lake Michigan, but not before stopping for the obligatory photo-op underneath the sign signifying the beginning of Route 66 in downtown Chicago. We continued to kill time - this time with beers - waiting for our riverboat tour of Chicago’s incredible architecture, run by the Architecture Society themselves. Despite drinking beers at the wrong terminal, we still made our departure time - just - and absorbed the engineering and architectural feats of Chicago, as told by a long-time local who ran the tour.

Keen for a kip, we wandered back towards the hotel, where Dad settled down with his book and I with the US Open Tennis on TV. Eager not to ruin my sleeping patterns even further, I eventually saddled back up and took myself out into town on my own, where I found myself eating an absolute monstrosity of a burrito and downing a few pints at Mother Hubbard’s Sports Bar.

At about 9pm, I had a friend mention Chicago’s rich jazz and blues music scene, and quickly settled my bill in order to seek out some live music. A quick Google consultation led me to Blue Chicago - an old-time Blue’s bar just a few blocks away. I was already pretty tired, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do, so I stumped up the $12 cover charge and wandered towards the stage.

Blue Chicago itself is quite narrow, with a bar running down one side, and limited seating running down the other. As you shuffle in, trying to keep out of everyone’s way, you’re inadvertently shepherded closer to the stage. Before I knew it, I was front and centre, rocking out to the Mike Wheeler Band, and damn they were good! The boys jammed their way through a warm-up set, with the bass player my personal favourite, bopping away like an epileptic Stevie Wonder and loving every minute of it. Mike - who was on the mike - warmed up the crowd beautifully, before introducing a voluptuous lead-lady vocalist who’d been sitting in the crowd. She strode up onto the stage amidst a roar of adoration, and proceeded to blow our heads off with her thunderous lyrics and piercing brown eyes. It was an immediate highlight on only my second night of the trip.

I only survived until the first intermission before bed was calling - Wes and his welcome to Chicago was still taking it’s toll, so I hitched a ride with the cities most patriotic Chicagoan taxi driver and retired for a proper rest.

Illinois.

When we finally loaded up the car - including our stolen carton of Boxed Water - our first step was to get out of the city and find the old road, which didn’t take long. Once we linked up with 66 and the buildings of Chicago faded into the rear-view mirrors, we found ourselves rolling into the first of many little towns along the way, where we settled into a booth at the old Pontiac Family Kitchen.

Pontiac is very typical of the 21st century Route 66 town. There’s not much going on, but it did have just what we needed - a hearty breakfast, where I learned what a skillet is. We had a wonderfully friendly server, which would become a theme in the old diners across the Midwest. We had our first taste of American pot coffee - which I didn’t mind at all - and our server made sure our mugs were never empty.

As per most typical Route 66 towns, the Route 66 museum and murals were pretty much the only discernible attractions, and since this was all new to us, and we were unaware it wouldn’t be our last opportunity to see such things, we drank it all in. Also, being Fathers Day, I made sure I got Dad his Route 66 keepsake from the gift shop on the way out.

Many other guides recommended stopping in Springfield while cruising through Illinois, but at the time we were happy to just roll through and window-gaze at Springfield and the other little towns along the way. As we learned, there are a LOT of towns along the way, and as far as attractions go, they don’t tend do differ too wildly. While some have their own unique point of difference, most are pleasant enough to drive slowly through and take in from the comfort of an air-conditioned Mazda. Springfield would become one of many such towns that we chose to enjoy this way.

Missouri.

The Mother Road snaked it’s way South-West, and before we knew it we were arriving at our first scheduled overnight stop - Cuba, Missouri. The reason Cuba found it’s way onto our map was the Wagon Wheel Motel, a gorgeous property with scattered sandstone motel rooms, interspersed by lush green lawns, gardens, tall pine trees and a rich history. During my initial planning, I contacted the Wagon Wheel Motel and was unfortunate to find they had no double-rooms available, but since we’d covered almost 400 miles in our first day driving, we committed to staying, so we found space at the Days Inn, nearer the Interstate.

The Days Inn is a more modern hotel, and our receptionist made us feel most welcome. She was fascinated with the world - particularly Australia - and when we learned she collected world currency, I fished out a couple of Australian notes and sold them to her collection. When we returned from dinner, we caught up with her again outside where we learned more about her and her story - she was a Libyan who’d escaped Gadaffi’s dictatorship regime with her family 30 years ago and settled in Cuba! Her currency collection comes from a fascination with the world, and is currently her only outlet while stuck in the USA due to two opposing governments. On one side, Libya won’t allow her to renounce her citizenship, and as long as she has it, the USA won’t give her a passport of her own. A cruel side to politics, keeping a woman with a great wanderlust well and truly tied down.

Aside from meeting a very interesting woman at the Days Inn, our night in Cuba involved two delicious dinners. Two, because I couldn’t decide between the Missouri Hick Bar-B-Q and the Rivera Maya Mexican. I’ll start with the Hick BBQ:

The Hick BBQ stands in an old timber building looking straight out of the 1800’s, and is a Mecha for good old fashioned Midwestern BBQ. They smoke all their meats, cultivate all their sauces and wouldn’t know a vegetable if it jumped out of the ground and stole their chewing tobacco.

All that aside, the food was incredible. We shared the sample platter, which featured brisket, short rib, pulled pork and some other carnivorous delight. They also threw in some coleslaw for balance purposes, I assume. They had six homemade sauces on the table, and I did my best to take a mouthful of smoked meat with all of them, and still couldn’t really settle on an overall winner. All I know is that there were no losers.

Once we were done, we drove over to Rivera Maya - an entire restaurant adorned with traditional Mexican furniture and artwork, most of which had been trucked direct from Mexico itself. Every square inch of this place was a smorgasbord of colour and Mexican art, right down to the upholstered seats in our booth.

Already full, we still took a swing at their homemade tortilla chips and salsa (amazing), then the worlds biggest hard-shell taco for Dad. I can’t even remember what I had - all I know is that I was heavily pregnant with a food-baby afterwards. Speaking of which, the hostess was also heavily pregnant, only she couldn’t have been older than 15 herself. She had a really childlike face, which made her pregnant belly quite disturbing. I guess if I lived in a town that quiet I’d run out of stuff to do too…

With the US Open on TV, I decided to take the car and find the local bar, where I had a couple of quiet beers before giving up and crashing out. Something that became a bit of a theme once Dad would retire post-dinner, I quite liked heading to the local bar and talking shit with the locals and watching the tennis. You get a different perspective on a small town once you’ve sat in their bar and drank with their degenerates, and I love it.

Carthage.

Once again we hit the road before breakfast, opting instead to find a new town and a new diner to park our arses and indulge in delicious American-style bacon and pot coffee. This time, St James was our spot, and we found ourselves perched in a booth at Bob’s Country Cafe, where this time the food was of the buffet variety. It’s no wonder I saw so many planets masquerading as humans in America, as there was very little self control - let alone portion control - exercised at that buffet. Bob aught to install some bloody speed bumps.

We passed through Fanning, where you’ll find a gigantic rocking chair by the roadside, and also through Devil’s Elbow, where a short de-tour takes you over a great old bridge and past a really cool looking timber building that houses the local tavern, right next to the river.

I’d originally pencilled us in to stay in Springfield, MO, and any night other than Labour Day Monday I’d have done so in a heartbeat. What a great college town - plenty of young people, bars, breweries and potential for a lot of fun and mischief. Despite only being a passing visit, we made the most of a few hours in Springfield by dropping in on the local Minor League Baseball game between the Springfield Cardinals (feeder team for the MLB St. Louis Cardinals) and the Tulsa something-or-others, who comfortably beat our local heroes.

Post-game, and with not a lot to do, we wandered towards the town square where the memorial for the first reported pistol-duel in America took place, between Wild Bill Hickok and Davis Tutt. Apparently a gambling debt spawned the infamous feud, and we were able to take a look at the spot where Davis Tutt misfired and wound up ingesting some lead from ‘Ol Bill.

Next up was a walk to the Route 66 car museum of Springfield, which is a private collection of classics with a full working mechanic shop to keep them all running.

While these ancient hunks of metal were still running after years of service, we could barely walk any further. I’d overestimated both the distance from the ballpark and Dad’s midday-under-the-sun walking capacity, and before I knew it we were both sweating our tits off trying to find this bloody museum. Thankfully this city had Uber to get us back to the car, as I might’ve lost Dad had I insisted we walk the return leg…

As mentioned, we decided against Springfield as our rest stop for the night as we still had plenty of daylight up our sleeves, and some extra time in the air conditioned Mazda seemed an attractive option. Our spur-of-the-moment port of call next was one of the historical highlights of the journey, as we stumbled upon the part-way refurbished Boots Court motel.

Boots Court is a piece of Route 66 I’d not previously read about. Bought recently by a lovely lady historian and her sister intent on restoring what was once a booming motel - proudly having hosted Clark Gable on multiple occasions back in the dark ages. Boots Court is in the process of being restored to it’s exact1949 glory, each room complete with vintage AM radio and artworks from the time. The owners staffer - another lady who’s name I neglected to ask - gave us a 45-minute tour of EVERY room, before allowing us to choose the one we wanted. In normal circumstances, you’d greet this type of time-waste with a swift backhand and a “GIVE ME THE GODDAMN KEYS ALREADY YOU NUT!” Not this time. We both listened with a profound sense of awe at the level of passion this woman had for history and their efforts to preserve it. Each room had it’s own story, and each feature was there for a reason. We walked - nay, shuffled - inch by inch towards room 12, captivated by such a strong sense of purpose and pride. An instant heart-warmer of a moment, where we really felt our holiday and tourist dollar contributed to more than just this business’s bottom line.

I can’t even remember where we had dinner that night, so it can’t have been all that spectacular, but I do remember a note-worthy night at the local - Joe’s Bar. The US Open was in full-swing, and on this night John Millman was due to play Roger Federer in the round of 16. For me, that’s a must-watch.

When I wandered into Joe’s, the only other occupants were heading off, including a local resident and her dog, Coco. Oh yeah, despite never bothering to ask for people’s names, I did always ensure I learned their dog’s names. What looked like a lonely night at the bar making conversation with the bartender wound up being a very memorable few hours.

Not only did (spoiler alert) my man Johnny upset Federer in four sets, but I had a bunch of laughs with the late crowd who rolled into Joe’s after me. Included in the late crowd were Taylor (young local musician), old Jack (hard-arse US Army vet with all kinds of stories, who loved throwing shakkas and calling us all pussies) and young(er) Jack - diehard Kansas City Chiefs / Royals fan, decked out head to toe in KC gear. Great guy who distracted me from the tennis, but was a lot of fun to talk shit with. Left me his email to get in touch but I must’ve spelled it wrong ‘cos I got the wrong guy when I did eventually shoot him a message.

With Millman putting up a great fight, I had to alternate beer and water out of a DUI fear, and after the dust settled I eventually said my farewells and found my way back to Boots Court safe and sound.

Oklahoma.

66 takes it’s original form through much of Missouri and Oklahoma, which is great. In some of the other states, it really doesn’t stray too far from the interstate - if at all. However, the drive from Carthage to Oklahoma City proved itself an enjoyable one as we wound our way through a bunch of pretty little towns with plenty to look at.

One such sight is the Blue Whale in Catoosa, which is just outside of Oklahoma City. It’s this random little dam with a fibreglass or concrete (I should’ve paid more attention) structure of a Blue Whale, complete with slides and diving boards. These days swimming is prohibited, but based on the colour of the water, I didn’t need a sign to tell me not to jump in. Lots of little moss-covered Turtles swimming around, but aside from that the water seemed pretty gross. Still, a unique sorta thing to stop and look at. From memory, some eccentric type built it in the 70’s. Good for him.

One of the more modern Route 66 icon’s is Pop - which is this fantastic gas station with a giant soda bottle structure out front. What could’ve been just another spot to fill up and buy smokes is instead this crazy glass and steel structure dedicated to soda - or soft-drink as we know it. Inside, you’ve got this great milk-bar type setup, along with an amazing retail section with just about every carbonated drink you could imagine, and candy!

During our stop at this diabetic-Nirvana, I had probably the best vanilla milkshake and fries I’ve ever had, and while indulging in the above, a crazy rain squall hit the area - awesome to watch from a great big glass structure such as the one we were sitting in. I also screwed up and bought the one flavour of Tic-Tacs that I despise. Why do you American weirdo’s call Spearmint, Wintergreen? Stop confusing me you arseholes.

Next up, we land at our hotel in Oklahoma City, after bypassing Tulsa. I mean, Tulsa might’ve been alright in parts, but I just couldn’t be bothered at the time to be perfectly honest, considering we were already en route to another large city. I’d been advised already to seek out Bricktown in OKC, which is - as best I can describe - a really gentrified former warehouse district. It’s full of breweries, great restaurants, bars and hipsters. Don’t get me wrong - the past few days had us hanging out in some very small towns (and gene-pools), so I was pretty happy to land amongst some slightly more modern comforts. I know - I’m a princess - no need to point this out.

After a quick minute or two of research, I directed us towards a New Orleans style restaurant on the canal. Oh yeah, did I mention this area had a canal? Don’t mean to stereotype what gentrification looks like, but you probably should’ve assumed that already. Anyway, the food was fantastic, and our server Lisa was great. I guess I should probably give the place a plug, just in case any of the four people who read this ever make it to OKC - it was called Jazzmo’s. So yeah, go there. I ate Alligator and Crawfish, and drank beer. All of which was delicious.

After Jazzmo’s, we wandered over to Bricktown Brewery for a couple of pints of Kolsch - and the tennis of course. Post-pints, Dad found his bedtime and wandered back to the hotel, which, in hindsight, might’ve been a wise choice for me, as I stayed out and took at least a couple years off my future life expectancy.

When the Bricktown Brewery closed up, I mosey’d next door to some other similarly hipster beer dispensary where I met some fun people. One of whom was funner than the others, so I gravitated his way. My bad influence for the night was Tyler, who was on a business trip from Boston. We talked sports, sports, drinking and sports - even including the bartender for a while - before deciding we both wanted to tie one on and find a late-night venue to indulge.

JJ’s served that purpose perfectly. Upstairs on their outdoor patio, we got WASTED.

Immediately after arriving, we met two local girls who taught us their drinking game. Katie and Jenny, and they played some weird distortion of Rock, Paper, Scissors. It involved drinking and competition, so naturally I was in. After performing far better than I did in my Higher School Certificate, I was sufficiently hammered - as were all of us - and right after watching Rafa overcome Dominic Thiem in the tennis, we ordered a round of Irish Carbombs. For last call. At 2am.

If anyone can tell me why this was a good idea, I’d be really intrigued to know.

Of course, we were now obliterated, and the bars were all closed. Cue the customary half-hour wandering the streets, trying to smoke the pack of Camel’s we’d bought and hitting on anything with a ponytail and a bra. This was not what Borat would call a “great success!”.

Eventually, 9am rolls around and Dad drags me out of bed for obvious travel reasons. I was busy wondering why I couldn’t just stay in OKC to sleep it off, perhaps just meet him in California, but apparently this option wasn’t on the table. Instead, we walked into town and found an actually delicious cafe. Kinda upmarket, but the food was great, and the coffee more than passable.

After breakfast, we continued on to the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial Park, where we hung out for a while and enjoyed the manicured grounds. As my hangover started waking up, we found our way back to the car and made a quick stop at the outlet malls for me to make my annual pledge towards capitalism. My new sunglasses look great.

Texas.

Once back on the road, I tried sleeping my hangover off but it just didn’t work. Plus, I kinda had to stick to my duty and navigate. In between the many moments of nearly throwing up out the window, we passed through a few more ghost-towns before finally crossing the border into Texas.

Once we made it into Texas, we saw miles upon miles of wind energy generators - it was crazy. In a state where I’d expected to see oil rigs, I saw wind. Which, thanks to the increasingly Mexican-influenced cuisine, I was producing plenty of.

We eventually found Shamrock, a country town with a delightfully Irish flavour. The major Route 66 attraction here was the U-Drop Inn, which counted Elvis as one of it’s many hungry patrons over the years. These days, the U-Drop Inn is simply a shrine to the roaring trade of decades past, and no longer operates as a cafe or gas station. History has been preserved, however, with plush pastel-coloured booths, original fuel bowsers, a jukebox and a startlingly life-like mannequin who just about frightened the Irish Carbomb right out of my stomach.

Amarillo was to be our stopover for the night, home of the Big Texan. I tell ya, whoever owns this operation must be making a Texas-sized amount of money, because it absolutely fires. They’ve got an RV-park, a fantastic hotel all painted like an old Western town, and a huge restaurant which features it’s own in-house brewery. Unfortunately, we were relegated to the hotel next door, since a Contiki group full of STD-riddled Aussies had the Big Texan hotel booked up. Not to worry, we still got to experience the giant steakhouse and some hearty Texas beef. At the Big Texan you can order a 72oz steak, and provided you finish it (along with sides and a drink) in under an hour - it’s free. I’ll tell you what’s also free? Not eating 72oz of steak. Regardless, many people have completed this task - not including the four clowns we watched take a run at it while we were there. Three of them were Aussies on Contiki - please try to hide your surprise. If I hadn’t almost killed myself during another fateful eating challenge in 2012, I might’ve added myself to the list of morons who’d taken a run at this novelty heart-attack.

Whilst not 72oz, our steaks were glorious. Real quality Texas beef cooked to perfection. As hungover as I was, I had no stomach for the local beer, which was a real disappointment, but presented me with a great opportunity to have an alcohol-free day. Which I ignored by drinking wine instead. While not realising so at the time, I felt ashamed by ordering dessert. Halfway through our admittedly delicious fudge/caramel/cream/heart attack/sugar assault, I realised that by having room for dessert, it meant I’d clearly not eaten enough steak. In a steakhouse, in the middle of Texas, with walls adorned by hunting trophies and old pistols, where the waitresses all wore plaid, jeans and big belt buckles - I’d failed.

Now, one person who did NOT fail at the Big Texan is the record-holder for the Big Texan 72oz. steak challenge. This woman, all 120lb of her, finished her steak in four minutes, sixteen seconds. Then ate two more before twenty minutes was up. That’s over 6kg of steak in under 20 minutes. What the fuck.

Next morning we made our escape from Amarillo via Route 66 through the old part of town, where we found what we incorrectly assumed would be a half-decent coffee shop. The area looked kinda hipster, the barista had tattoos in all the right places and greeted us with just the right amount of disdain you’d expect at a quality cafe. Unfortunately, our $9 only got us a couple of coffees even George Clooney’s Nespresso would’ve rejected.

Just before crossing the border out of Texas, we stopped to check out what’s become a must-see tourist trap - the Cadillac Ranch. Sitting about 500m from the Interstate, in the middle of a flat, open, dirt paddock, you’ll find ten old Cadillacs, buried nose-first in one line. Why? I never bothered doing that research, but I don’t think it matters. These days, the arse-end of these ten classic cars are covered - and I mean COVERED - in spray paint. Empty spray cans litter the ground as far as you can see, and the layers of paint covering these old classic cars is inches thick. Everybody we saw arriving had brought a can or two with them to leave their mark. Lucky for those of us who didn’t get the memo, you could still find the odd can with a little paint and gas left, and I took my opportunity to do the most stereotypical bogan-Australian-tourist thing ever - I painted a Southern Cross.

New Mexico.

The flat, dusty nothingness we’d passed throughout Texas slowly began showing signs of desert life. A little more fauna, a few more hills and the occasional natural stone monument. Don’t get me wrong - it was still a vacant expanse of nothing - it was just a slightly more interesting kind of nothing than Texas had given us.

We arrived at our next motel, the iconic Blue Swallow in Tucumcari with a couple of hours up our sleeves before check-in opened, so we hit downtown to see where the action was. A couple of hot-laps down Main Street, and we were yet to even see a tumbleweed, such was the absence of discernible life in this old town. We discovered that Tucumcari had about 40 murals scattered across it’s buildings, so we ditched the car and went off in search of a few.

When that proved sufficiently boring, I took the wheel and like a fly to shit, I found my way over to the local Municipal golf course. This bright green grassy oasis in the middle of the desert looked like a great fun course, but sadly for me they didn’t rent out clubs, leaving me with an acute case of golfing blue-balls. While interesting, the town’s dinosaur museum fell a long way short of relieving me, though it did help to kill another hour.

Still with time on our hands we went to find the local bar - the Lizard Lounge - where two bored-out-of-their-brains servers greeted us with ice-cold beer and delicious wings. The clock ticked over to 3pm right as the last few drops of Dos Equis evaporated from our pint glasses, so we settled up and headed back to the Blue Swallow, which immediately became my favourite motel ever. Greeting us at the door were two adorable golden retrievers. One old girl, Bessie, who really needed a diet and a good exercise regime, and a young pup named Tucker, who we soon found out had been mysteriously abandoned by his owners not even two weeks ago. He seemed to enjoy his new life as a motel greeter, but it really does make you sick knowing that somebody left this beautiful dog to fend for himself.

Thanks to these two furry bouncers, check-in took a good half-hour longer than it should have, but eventually we settled into our room for a brief lie-down before dinner. In between cuddles from Tucker, we’d asked the owner of the motel where we should eat, and he suggested Del’s restaurant. Well, for a town with seemingly zero people in it, we arrived at Del’s to find a packed entrance and a half-hour wait for a table. Go figure. With Lizzard Lounge’s wings barely satisfying our travellers appetite, we recalibrated our plans and wandered up to a little booth-lined place called Cornerstone’s, which advertised pizza and subs.

Inside, it was very quiet, and the servers all looked far too enthusiastic at our presence to give me any hope that the food would be good. I was dead wrong - these guys must be hugely underrated in Tucumcari, as the food was fantastic. Nothing too exciting, but the burger I had, the pizza Dad had and the salad we shared were just spot-on. I’ve always felt that there’s nothing wrong with a restaurant menu that focuses on the simple, provided it’s done right. And Cornerstone’s nailed it. Oh, and my glowing review doesn’t just come off the back of our server thinking I was only 18.

Santa Fe was our half-way destination, where I’d organised a two-day stop in the very comfortable El Dorado hotel. En route to the El Dorado, we had one more stop - the Blue Hole in Santa Rosa. An 80-foot deep freshwater sinkhole with the most crystal blue water you’ve seen. Two quick backflips - including one under-rotated flip leading to a mild concussion - and we were outta there. Oh yeah, I have to mention Scout - another beautiful Golden Retriever I befriended while drying off in the sun. He was awesome.

The desert between Santa Rosa and Santa Fe was quite spectacular, and we even saw a crazy lightning storm off in the distance. Much of the journey was spent following another SUV, where at a roadwork stop we noticed they had four dogs in the back with them. Which, if you know me even slightly by now you’ll know I was excited about.

The reason I chose Santa Fe as a half-way stop wasn’t purely because it was half-way. I mean, that would make sense, but I had other reasons. My vague research had shown this to be a really cool little city - great restaurants, modern bars, beautiful desert architecture and a few golf courses. Given I’d be celebrating a milestone birthday in this town, all of the above suited me perfectly. We’d also timed our visit with the annual Santa Fe Festival, which meant the city was teeming with people, activity and culture. Most of the festival was happening in the central park, just two blocks from our hotel, so we spent our first afternoon wandering around and drinking in the live music before indulging in the first of my two birthday dinners.

Our first stop was Estevan, a delicious Mexican fusion (whatever that means) restaurant with a first floor balcony overlooking the street. They had a great wine list - predominantly French and North American, and our incredibly knowledgeable Belgian server helped guide us towards a delicious Napa Valley Petite Sirah to wash down my Rib Eye. Whether it was the altitude or my concussion - or both - I was feeling pretty well cooked once the wine was empty, so we decided to call it an early night.

Not willing to give up so easy, I snuck downstairs to the hotel bar for one Rye Manhattan before bed to toast my incoming 30th birthday. While sitting at the bar, I got chatting to a lovely couple from Albuquerque who were visiting for their 20th wedding anniversary, since they got married here all that time ago. They were both golfers, so we talked a little about golf in the area, and I did my best to twist their arms into a round with me the following day to no avail. While talking about their anniversary, they told me about this little chapel in Santa Fe that they were married in, and I promised to check it out tomorrow before bidding them farewell and retiring to my super-comfy hotel bed.

Saturday morning - my actual birthday - started off just perfect. From my bed I flicked on the TV to find a Fresh Prince of Bel Air marathon. Brilliant! After indulging in a couple of episodes, we got ourselves organised and went off in search of food. Our 66 guidebook pointed us in the direction of a diner named Tia’s, which was fantastic, although far too liberal with their portion sizes - my chilli burrito would’ve single-handedly ended world hunger.

Desperate to assist my digestive system’s mammoth post-breakfast workload, we laced up our walking shoes and set off on an on-foot tour of Santa Fe, finishing up at the Loretto Chapel, where my friends from the previous evening were married 20 years ago.

The Loretto Chapel is stunning - built in the 1870’s, it includes an amazing timber spiral staircase and the most intricate adornments right throughout. Whilst I’m not a religious type whatsoever, I do have a great appreciation for structures like this one. Right next door we found another restaurant with an outdoor patio - Luminaria - and eager to see what the Chapel looked like under the moonlight, I promptly booked us a table for birthday dinner number two later that evening.

Following on from our walk was what I’d been looking forward to the entire trip - golf. I’d booked a round at the local municipal course, the Marty Sanchez Links de Santa Fe. When I booked, I asked if I could be paired with another single or ideally some locals. One, so I didn’t have to play the course blind, and two, because I didn’t want to play my birthday round on my own. Fortunately for me, I’d been paired with a local high-school golfer named Gabby and her father Esteban, who both played off good handicaps and knew the course back-to-front.

Whilst I was really nervous to begin - playing with a foreign set of rental clubs and not wanting to be a drain on these guys’ Father-Daughter Saturday afternoon round - I soon found some rhythm, and played a really enjoyable 18 holes. Both Gabby and Esteban were great company and more than willing to show me around their home course. For a very slight 17-year-old, Gabby also had a fantastic swing, and definitely showed me a thing or two about tempo off the tee. I got chatting to Esteban about his work as a vet, and he told me all about how Bubonic Plague - yes, Black Death - is still a thing in these parts, and it’s the Squirrels and Cats that carry it! Yet more proof as to why cats are arseholes.

Post-round (I salvaged an 88 by the way, after very scrappy front nine) I had a quick beer, then Uber'd back to the hotel to get ready for dinner and more wine at Luminaria. Birthday dinner number two was enjoyed out on the patio, right next to the Loretto Chapel. As I’d strongly suspected, the Chapel looked beautiful under lights.

With a half-bottle of wine left, we retired to the hotel lobby bar to listen to the last few tunes from the Pat Malone Trio’s set. Oh yeah, the Pat Malone Trio was actually a soloist, which I found most amusing. Funnily enough, his last song was happy birthday - directed at a table nearby. Once it was finished, I walked over to wish the birthday boy a happy birthday. After establishing who the birthday boy was, I held out my glass to cheers, and he tried to take it from me thinking I was buying him a drink. I told him to piss off and get his own damn wine, and that it was my birthday too, to which we all had a good laugh.

After Dad retired to the room, I headed back out into town - this time concussion-free - and joined some local company for Sangria on a rooftop and some mighty-strong vodka-soda at the local dive bar.

We bid farewell to the El Dorado the following morning and made our way along 66 towards Gallup - an old mining town just shy of the Arizona border - which would be our next scheduled stop. Most of the advice I’d received about Albuquerque was that there wasn’t a lot to see, and that if we could avoid it we probably should. Sorry ABQ, but we chose to heed that advice and simply drive on through. Just outside of Albuquerque, we found another little town called Baranlillo, where we stumbled upon the Range Cafe and wolfed down a delicious brunch.

In Gallup, we set our sights on the El Rancho hotel, which is a stunning old timber building, with an internal balcony surrounding the wide open lobby area. Also, this was the second consecutive hotel we’d stayed at with a really attractive receptionist, so extra points there. The El Rancho is another of the more interesting stops along Route 66, and again this one had a storied history hosting the big movie stars from the 50’s, so we felt pretty lucky to score a room with no reservation. While our room was being prepared, we wandered up to the balcony level and relaxed in the lounge chairs, where I got to work updating my trip notes, and Dad did whatever it is that seniors do on an iPad.

Our initial intentions were to venture out into Gallup to find something to eat, but once we headed down into the hotel bar and got comfortable, we ended up staying put. In what had become somewhat of a routine, we ordered a pound of wings and a few beers, then followed that up with a delicious burger each. We had a long day of driving coming up, so instead of venturing out solo, I opted to watch the tennis from my hotel bed.

Arizona.

Our next destination was a bit of a detour, as we left the Mother Road behind and headed north in search of Monument Valley. When I was planning our itinerary, I decided that it’d be silly to pass up the opportunity to check out one of the great wonders of the North American desert when we were so close-by. We weren’t disappointed.

We made a brief stop at Window Rock, which is the Navajo capital and also home to a memorial for the Navajo Code-Talkers, who gained notoriety for their exploits during the Second World War. The code talkers were Navajo natives tasked with developing a new language, based on their native tongue, after the Japanese and other enemy armies continually cracked the US army codes. The Code-Talkers were credited with key victories throughout the US WWII campaign, though due to their success, their factions existence remained highly classified up until not all that long ago, by which time most of the original code-talkers had passed away before their service could be publicly recognised.

Continuing on from Window Rock, we eventually made it to Monument Valley, which meant passing across the Utah state line. Fortunately - and for who knows how much longer - Monument Valley offers a self-guided tour along an unsealed dirt road, taking around about an hour depending on how long you stop at each vantage point, so with the temperatures outside hovering close to 100*F, or 37*C, we were very pleased not to have to leave our air-conditioned Mazda for too long at a time.

I’m really glad we made this detour, as Monument Valley is incredible. I love the Disney Cars franchise, and much of the landscape in those movies is inspired by Monument Valley. While we did bask in our air conditioned chariot, we made sure we stopped frequently to get out into the sun to drink in the desert air and the awe inspiring scenery.

Our original plan had us spending the night in Monument Valley, but with very little discernible entertainment on offer outside of the hotel and plenty of daylight still up our sleeves, we opted to hit the highway and continue on to the Grand Canyon, where we arrived in perfect time to watch the sun setting from a great vantage point on the South-Eastern rim.

Before sunset, we were also treated to an impassioned talk from a local mountain ranger, who went through the history of the native fauna and early human life. You’ll have to forgive my lack of photos of the Grand Canyon, as there was simply no way an iPhone would come close to doing what we saw any kind of justice. As stereotypical as it might sound, the Grand Canyon really is one of natures most incredible feats, and watching the way the fading sun illuminated it’s last rays down through the canyon was something I’d encourage everybody to attempt to see. The last thing I wanted to be focused on during the sunset was my iPhone screen, so it stayed in my pocket. If you wanna know what it looks like, go search Flickr or Instagram.

Inspired by the sunset, I made my mind up to get up at sparrows fart and hike to a vantage point on the Western rim to watch the sun rise the following morning. Unfortunately, my plan was foiled, as there was absolutely zero available accommodation at the Grand Canyon. I like to allude to my many hours of research for this trip, but sadly my efforts on this particular stop fall totally flat, so we missed out. Secretly, I think Dad was stoked, as I didn’t sense a whole lot of enthusiasm in his response to my pre-dawn hiking plans.

By this point, it was getting on close to 8pm, and we had nowhere to sleep. A quick consultation with the Route 66 guidebook, and we secured a room at the historic Du Beau motel in Flagstaff, Arizona, which was due to be a stop the following night anyway. Fortunately, we’d stopped for a quick sandwich after taking in Monument Valley, so we were able to survive our first night in Flagstaff without a proper dinner.

Since we were now a day ahead of schedule, I asked the girl checking us into Du Beau if the room was available for two nights, and it was. I made the spur of the moment decision to book it, hoping that Flagstaff would have enough to keep us entertained for two days instead of one.

My instincts turned out to be correct, since once we gathered our bearings the following morning and did a little reading about the town, we found that Flagstaff was indeed a very cool, and very interesting old logging town, with plenty of history, stunning mountain-meets-forest scenery, and most importantly - a golf course.

We spent our first morning in Flagstaff forcing down a very piss-poor continental breakfast and putting together a two-day itinerary. We settled on tours of the old Pioneer Museum, the Riordan Mansion and a walk around Buffalo Park prior to an afternoon round at the Continental Country Club.

Whilst the Pioneer Museum wasn’t really my thing, I was a little bummed to miss out on a tour of the Riordan Mansion, which was built at the turn of the 20th century by one of the founding families of modern Flagstaff. Dad decided to come back for a tour later on while I was golfing, and confirmed that the old mansion was indeed worth checking out. Prior to golf, I convinced Dad to take a walk around Buffalo Park, where I’d hoped to meet some more dogs.

Alas, I didn’t meet any dogs, but I thoroughly enjoyed the scenery. This part of Arizona really is stunning country.

I enjoyed a great fun round at Colonial with three local guys - Denny, Keegan and Kevin - and shot a fairly all over the place 84, which included multiple lost balls, lots of giant geese (or ducks, I don’t really know), and an encounter with a couple of deer crossing one of the tee boxes. To my local playing partner, this was probably the equivalent of me seeing dolphins in the surf, but to me it was fascinating. The highlight of playing golf at such great altitude - about 7,400 feet - is how much further the ball flies. I managed to drive a 318-yard par-4 and give myself a rare look at Eagle. I missed the putt, but I was still pretty chuffed.

The Du Beau motel has an adjoining restaurant and lounge, called Nomads, which comes from the owners extensive experiences travelling the world. The dinner menu is an eclectic mix of dishes from around the world, including the Aussie Meat Pie. Having spotted this on the menu during our check-in beers the night before, we were psyched to try one. Sadly, the Aussie meat pie was more of an English pot pie, though it was still delicious and well filled with beef and veg.

The real highlight of Nomad’s however was our server, Katie. She was stunning. Like, stop-what-you’re-doing-and-put-a-ring-on-her-finger type stunning, and had a sharp wit on her to boot. Sadly, our journey had to continue, and we had a Route to complete (a different sorta route, that is), so we said our goodbyes - mine probably more emotional than Dad’s - and made tracks towards our next stop.

Before resuming our path along 66, we decided to take another brief side-trip and drive south to Sedona, which proved to be an absolute treat. The drive down 89A from Flagstaff is one of the most beautiful drives I’ve ever done. We wound our way down through the canyon, around hairpin turns and along cliff faces for a total descent of about 2,500 feet. Sedona is more of a tourist spot than anything else - you’ll find dozens of boutique Inns along the banks of Oak Creek, then a town filled with quirky Indian jewellery stores, restaurants and galleries. There’s plenty of great hiking opportunities in the area, too, though we settled for the next best thing and ate Cookies ’n Cream ice cream cones while looking out into the wilderness.

Between Flagstaff and Kingman is where you’ll find the longest unbroken stretch of original highway - about 157 miles - which passes through some very quiet towns like Peach Springs and Seligman, which was where the fictional town of Radiator Springs in Cars was based off of. While Seligman is nothing like what it used to be, it’s still a great shrine to the old road, with colourful memorabilia stands and photo opportunities right the way through the main street.

Just outside of Peach Springs, we saw signs for the Grand Canyon Cavern, and decided to call in to investigate. As we learned, the Cavern descends almost 400 feet underground, making it the third-largest dry cavern in the world - right behind my ex-girlfriends v… Never mind. They’ve even constructed an $800/night suite and a small restaurant in the main cavern chamber, which has found itself listed as one of the most unique hotels in the world. Well worth the stop.

Kingman was another town we’d not arranged accommodation in, so we were fortunate to discover vacancy at the El Trovator Motel - another of the many storied and historic properties along the original route. Once we’d had our ears talked off by the owner at check-in, we found a really funky room, still reminiscent of the way it would’ve looked in its heyday. The non-stop talking by the owner did prove valuable, as he gave as a very thorough run-down of Kingman’s history, as well as some great advice on where to eat and drink.

We found our way into the downtown area and to a local brew-pub called Rickety Cricket, which was great. Just for something different, we demolished a pound of wings and a couple of beers, before moving on to the local steakhouse where we forgot to redeem our 10% off. After dinner, I ventured back into town for a couple more beers at the Rickety Cricket - their Kolsch well worth the headache next morning.

Before leaving Kingman, we took our hosts advice and found a booth at Mr. D’s Diner, where we were treated to yet another deliciously hearty American breakfast. Mr. D’s is a real throwback to the 50’s, with bright pastel coloured booths, checkered-lino flooring and a menu printed on an old 12” record. Right next door was a classic car dealership, which stocked some mint condition beauties from the peak era of American car manufacturing. We saw original Bel-Air’s, Stingray’s, a Thunderbird and even a mint, original 1968 Shelby Mustang GT500, which unsurprisingly was the only car in there not for sale.

The final stretch from Kingman to Santa Monica began with a winding hillclimb, through really tight corners and alongside steep drop-offs. It’s very hard to imagine this kind of road as a major national thoroughfare at any point in history, but so it was! Once we hit the crest, the view back down over the road and East towards Kingman was beautiful - just the kind of desert I’d looked forward to seeing.

Descending down the other side and into California, we found a hilarious little town called Oatman. Driving down the main street is like taking a step back in time to the old West - with timber saloons, wild Burro’s (donkeys) wandering the streets and even a couple of cowboys who still put on mock shootouts every day! Apparently some prospectors found a buttload of gold here in the early 1900’s, so the town shot up out of nowhere. These days there’s not a whole lot happening, though they refer to it as the ghost town that never dies, and the few locals still around have turned it into an absolute must-stop spot on Route 66. Apparently if you’re really lucky, you’ll get to see the donkeys shagging in the middle of the street. Alas, we missed out.

California.

For our final stretch, we rode out the last few hundred miles through Barstow and straight to Santa Monica. By this point, we’d pretty well had enough of driving, and by the time we hit Santa Monica Pier, the odometer showed we’d covered 2,900 miles since we left Chicago two weeks prior.

We got lucky to be heading in the opposite direction of most of LA’s notoriously horrendous traffic, and had a pretty stress-free run right to our hotel, the Ocean Park Inn. For the final few hundred metres, we ditched the car and set out on foot towards the pier, where we got our photo with the Route 66 End Point sign, and had a quick hug to celebrate completing the journey and not killing each other along the way. We wandered up and down the pier, feigning interest at all the sideshows busking for dollars, before settling in on a rooftop bar to watch the sunset and devour even more wings.

For our penultimate day, we chose the relaxation option - by this point I think we were both pretty done with sightseeing, and more content to just do nothing. Dad got stuck into his book, and I contemplated another round of golf. After some pretty tasty coffee and granola at the Dogtown Coffee shop in Santa Monica, I instead took myself on a wander along the beach towards Venice, stopping to watch the skaters in the Venice Beach bowl, and also a 3-on-3 basketball game, where a few white chicks absolutely schooled three tall black guys. If the TAB was there taking bets on that game, you better believe I would’ve lost my money.

Strolling along the famous Venice Beach Walk, I couldn’t help but notice the tattoo shops, and before I knew it I was torching my would-be golf money on a couple of new patches of ink. When in Venice, do as the Venetians do, right?

Once my artist was finished, I strutted my stuff along the Beach Walk back to Santa Monica and the comfort of our air conditioned hotel room. By now we were rapidly approaching 24 hours without wings, so like any diligent junkies we hit the streets in search of our next score.

Just as the withdrawals were creeping in, we found ourselves a sanctuary in Brick & Mortar - a really trendy hipster-haven in the heart of Santa Monica. It really was a cool venue - brown leather booths, well-proportioned TV’s showing live sport, excellent selection of beer, wine and cocktails, and most importantly - and frankly the only thing we cared about - wings. We ran an absolute train on that plate of ex-chickens, washing each blue-cheese-lathered mouthful down with a healthy swig of California IPA. After every last bone had been picked clean, we opted for a dessert - melted cheese with a selection of salted deli-meats, layered on a freshly baked dough base, finished with a smokey liquid topping.

Pizza. We had pizza. I’m sorry you had to read all of that.

Once again, our wing-high had left our guards lowered, and before we knew it we’d both fallen pregnant with illegitimate American food babies. Always remember to use protection when eating wings.

Saturday morning, 15th September 2018. Our final day. With our flight not taking off from LAX until after 10pm, we had an entire day to kill. After checking out of the Ocean Park Inn, and with no interest in exploring LA, we hit the Pacific Coast Highway and drove up along the coast towards Ventura - home of surfing wunderkind Dane Reynolds.

We saw some pretty epic displays of wealth - particularly through Malibu, where the Pacific Ocean side of the highway is lined with mansions and luxury cars. I still don’t think it’d be worth living there for the sheer amount of traffic you’d have to deal with every damn day. Although hypothetically when I am that rich, I’ll just have a helicopter or something…

North of Malibu, the traffic started to thin and we eventually arrived in Ventura, where the quality of the surf made me really wonder how Dane Reynolds ever got any good. We saw some pretty hilarious displays with weekend warriors attempting to negotiate the paddle out over slippery rocks - now I know how the kookslams and kook_of_the_day Instagram accounts gather so much new content. We also watched competitors in the local board riders club grovelling over sloppy “waves”, then saw a grown woman fall off her bike and cry.

As it happened, the unfortunate cyclist’s tears proved the perfect appetite for our final American meal - an absolutely divine jambalaya from Cafe Nouveau. I find it almost impossible to find a good jambalaya in Australia, so I was thrilled with my final supper. If our fellow QANTAS passengers knew what I was filling my guts with prior to our long-haul flight in a pressurised cabin, they’d have been anything but thrilled.

That’s probably enough repetitious drivel about food, driving, farts and wings, so I’ll wrap it up. All I can tell you about the return leg from Ventura to LAX is that traffic in LA is awful. But you probably already knew that. We actually hunted for more wings in the LAX international terminal, but came up empty. Nearest we got were dumplings at PF Chang’s.

Epilogue.

What a trip. Every aspect exceeded my expectations by a major margin. My research and preconception hinted towards an endless stretch of interstate highways, with very little in the way of Route 66 nostalgia to see. Boy, was I wrong. We were able to travel much of our journey on the original road, and for the most part only used the interstate system where we felt like it. Many of the towns we passed through - while still only a shell of their former selves - still had plenty to offer for travellers like us.

Firstly, I can’t thank Dad enough for stumping up my inheritance to take me along for the ride. It was such a great experience, and I feel very fortunate to have a relationship like this with such a generous Dad. We travelled 2,900 miles together, breathed in unhealthy volumes of each others’ farts, shared meals, beers and laughs with each other, and by some miracle we both came home alive.

I’ve also gotta thank the countless individuals along the way who helped to make our trip so memorable. From Karel and Terry in Brisbane, right through to our friendly servers at Cafe Nouveau and everybody in between - I honestly didn’t have a single unpleasant experience with another human between Chicago and Santa Monica. A special thanks also to those who let me pet their dogs. You’re the real MVP’s.