Sleeping in a Trailer, Showering Occasionally

Try fitting your life under the back seat of a 15-passenger van. What would you pack? I went with clothes, hiking gear, a laptop, important electrical cords, bug spray, a mexican blanket, toiletries, the weekend hat, a camera, “Live Free or Die” bandana, a bag of smushed bread ends no one else wants, and a plastic nose and mustache. I didn’t just do this for the hell of it. Someone paid me to.

For the past couple months I was a tour leader–guiding people from overseas across the United States. We stopped at the amazing parts and flew right past the shitty ones (Well, except for Roswell). By “guiding,” I mean I drove the van, tried to say something intelligent once we reached our destination, and attempted not to leave our campsite looking like a high school keg party. I don’t have a better idea for this post so I am simply going through my pictures and writing down the first thing that comes to mind. You’re about to enter a world of cramped vans, campsite showers, too little sleep, too much caffeine, and approximately 94 sandwiches eaten while standing at a rest stop. Don’t ask me how long until we get there and get ready for semi-coherent ramblings.

Best part of L.A.? Beers in the courtyard of the Hacienda Hotel. Worst part? Everything else, especially Hollywood. The original London Bridge is now in a town best known for college kids getting drunk and making out on boats. Makes sense. Grand Canyon helicopter flights are much better when it’s not pissing down rain. Plateau Point is an amazing hike, but I would recommend going on a day that is a touch cooler than 107 degrees.

You’re not ballin’ unless you stay overnight in Monument Valley with a Navajo guide who is a devoted KISS fan, rock the pow-wow dance-off, and visit the world’s most educational Burger King. When diving down a sand dune watch out for Yucca plants. If you go to only one National Park in Utah whose name means ‘little temple of god,’ make it Zion. I recommend going three times per eight weeks.

What happens on the Vegas party bus gets photographed, laughed at in the morning, and posted on Facebook. Also, it’s much easier to dance/work the stripper pole when the driver is not taking exit ramps at 50 mph. A two-hour pre-trip van inspection, 13 hungover tour leaders, and several wrong turns equals no Tuolumne Grove. Yosemite equals incredible.

As soon as I increase my bank account by 3 million percent and become more tolerant of clouds, I’m moving to San Francisco. Beavers are better than bears at flip cup. Page, Arizona has the world’s slowest Wal-Mart cashiers, and I would bet my life savings on that. Blind-folded or with a bag on your head is the best way to enter the Grand Canyon. If you had any doubt that Carlsbad Caverns were used as bat poop mines, smell the natural entrance.

Nothing says ‘Merica like a beer can house, and as a tile in the bathroom says, “Beer makes everything happy.” Some Louisiana swamp tours have a pervy Cajun guy who says inappropriate things. Some have ten-foot female alligators that jump out of the water right next to the boat. Choose wisely. In the battle of signature New Orleans drinks, the Hand Grenade is champion, the Hurricane is runner-up, and dead last is you, come the next morning. Preservation Hall had a trumpet player with no front teeth whose monkey has a hole in it. Snug Harbor had Ron Jeremy on the piano. Call it a draw.

The Cupid Shuffle is good in a bar, better in the middle of Bourbon Street, and near impossible on the party bus. No one, and I mean no one, serenades tall blondes like Big Al Carson at the Funky Pirate. He’s young and able, just ask him. When the white water rafting guide at the New River yells “James Brown,” he wants you to get down, not break the raft. Mississippi rest stops don’t have information, they have info mation. Alabama gas stations have humongous weapons for sale, and sex lessons for free. God wants you to have great sex. Good to know. The new look for men this fall will be straightened hair, make-up and a half-beard. Griffendorf is better at flip cup than Bus Daddy. Vegas will steal your wallet, cut you, and taint a perfectly good ice machine.

San Antonio has the best karaoke, best showers, and friendliest campground attendants. D.C. campground attendants think a “Beaver Hug,” is a sexual bribe. It is not. Louisiana and New Mexico are in a fierce battle for worst roads. The San Antonio hospital provided a woman fit to play a ghost in a movie while the Atlanta hospital took eight hours to put in three stitches.

But now it’s back to a life in which I don’t have to ask people in my vehicle if they have their seat belts on. I don’t have to get a receipt for everything and I don’t have to worry about the availability of wi-fi at the next campground. But I don’t get to see a new city or national park each day. The good news is I get to keep the plastic nose and moustache.