On the Road Again, But in a Hotel

Oh man, I had what I thought was a funny title for this post—and that’s what it got published with—but now I’m thinking it’s a lot less funny and a lot more weird. It’s hard to joke about plumbing, either in the trailer or in the person, and I was aiming at both! Whatever, it’s day three of our tricky nomad week, and I’m writing this from the unlikely location of a decent LaQuinta Inn. Here goes.

Day 1: First Travel Day in Eons

We got all packed up, cleaned up, stowed away, hitched up, and we were ready to roll at 7 am, but the last thing on the checklist, trailer lights, did not work.  I stand behind the trailer lifting my arm with the OK sign for Tracy as he uses the turn signals and hazards and brake lights, and this time my arm did not lift once. Easily fixed though: I broke into my lockup inside the trailer for a Q-tip, and Tracy dipped it in some cleaner that hadn’t been packed in the bowels of the truck, and voila. Electrical connection cleaned without further incident. Frankly, everything got so corroded this winter in the salty air—we’re lucky to have taken off without something falling off behind us. 

Skip through a thankfully unremarkable long travel day. Music playlist was our 11th time through artists that begin with S, so it had to be a mix—we got our local favorite Skribe in there, I do remember that. Spotted from the road: turkeys grazing on gravel, bald eagles at a deer carcass, several exotic animal ranches.

The plan was to stay one night in our usual campground north of Houston, in an easy spot so we wouldn’t have to unhitch. Turns out the spot was sloped, which would be a problem mostly for our propane fridge. Then, duh, we remembered we’re emptying the fridge for the trailer’s service appointment the next day, so we simply turned it off (the fridge) and shoved in the wheel chocks and got to work.  

We’re facing freezing temps, like so much of the country, so we needed to ensure the trailer tanks and pipes wouldn’t freeze while the trailer was on the shop. Which meant emptying the fresh water and waste tanks and pumping a pink antifreeze mixture into them all.  Picture Tracy on his back with his head under the microwave so he can connect a siphoning tube, me above with the end of the tube in one jug of pink stuff after the other.  He then moved to the bathroom, the inside shower, and the outside shower. Done. 

This meant that that night our water for washing and flushing was what we’d saved in jugs, and we captured the kitchen waste water in a bucket and dumped it in the black tank, where it’s less likely to freeze. I will spare you the reasoning on that. So, one night sleeping with our heads lower than our feet, no cold food or running water: Funhouse level complete.   

(In the middle of drafting this, I got a news alert from the Washington Post or the NY Times, either one—ah man, I feel like writing this is trivial.)

Day 2: Leave the Trailer (I hate this!)

Up early, we put long-haul stuff from the truck into the trailer so we’d have room to put short-term stuff from the trailer into the truck. Confusing at times, but: Success. Pulled out of the campground. 

At the trailer repair place, we backed in and unhitched, then attached the converter-type hitch we’ve not used yet: it makes our stinger hitch into a ball hitch so the shop people can tow it into their bay.  Tracy explained and explained to the service center lady, hoping they won’t damage the undercarriage with it up on jacks or who knows what. Done.

We drove away, leaving our home in the parking lot without us. And then I check the rear view mirror to take in the weirdness of no trailer back there, and I see that we’d left the truck hatch open. With all our stuff shoved in back there! Luckily, Tracy could pull off the ramp before we got on the interstate, and none of our stuff had fallen out.  Whew. We’d have been those people you see on the side of the road desperately trying to grab their belongings from the middle of traffic. 

Next up: The stranger dentist we had to make appointments with on the fly because we’re missing our usual stop for that did not pan out. Tracy had a disagreement within the staff about the necessity of X-rays, and we walked out. No success there; we’ll have to figure out a dentist somewhere this summer. 

Final mission for this leg: shopping for food I can eat before my colonoscopy. Yes, this week is about maintenance and repair for the trailer, including its plumbing, and for both ends of my digestive system. Ha! I’m borrowing that both-ends joke from a chemist friend whose projects at work were chapstick and preparation H. We are so funny. 

Day 3: Hotel Weirdness

This hurdy gurdy narrative finds us in a hotel room for the rest of the week, where we are both relieved and bored, already.  

Things I like: 

• Bathtub, hot water, shower, all variations thereof.
• I can walk around wearing my robe without neighbors seeing into our windows! Robes: the symbol of indoor sloth.  

Things I don’t like:

• Having a large mirror in the bathroom, because man have I gained weight over the last five years.  I’m so glad I brought that robe so I don’t have to look in this mirror. 
• There is nothing to do. No trailer to adjust in any way, no condensation on the walls, no electricity decisions or waste tank monitoring or propane or water heater or door adjustment or—on and on—all the things we constantly do to keep the trailer in working order. This weird rectangular box we’re in right now in needs nothing from us at all—we just sit in it?  What do people do with their time? 

Banjo is even more weirded out than we are. Dogs are allowed in LaQuinta, but of course they need to be quiet. Banjo doesn’t bark, but she does talk like a Husky, more than we realized when we weren’t so aware of our sound level. She talks when she says good morning, when she’s excited to go out, when we’re not moving fast enough according to her Banjo standards.

After our first night here, I think she’s settling down, though. It really helps—her and us—to have the window blinds open, and if it weren’t freezing out there, we’d have the windows themselves open so we’d feel less like we’re in this boring box. Note, though, conflict with robe-wearing.

Wish us luck with our plumbing maintenance all around!