I have an ear infection because the clouds in San Francisco are on the ground. I can’t get any moisture in my ear or I immediately get an ear infection. This means that I avoid putting my head under water. Don’t put my head under water—don’t get an ear infection—-or so I thought. The reality is I could never live in San Francisco because the fog is so bad that moisture gets into my ear while I walk around.

Maybe I’m not supposed to be a hippie?

Rock Out,

Jonathon Kendall

This road trip has been a tremendous journey thus far. As I write, the car nears 5900 miles traveled, and we’re not even at Las Vegas! We have visited countless places large and small, from the most grandiose of cities (Los Angeles) to the tiniest bastions of small-town America (Gillette, Wyoming). We have encountered foods of all flavors, the most spectacular expanses of nature I have ever seen, and people of all shapes and sizes, colors and beliefs. In all of these variables, the only constants have been myself, Jonathon, and the Saab, who remains nameless but is certainly not without its own quirks and foibles. And as a result of quite literally assaulting my consciousness with the most incredible variety of experiences it’s ever encountered in such a short amount of time, I am finding that I am forced to define myself, my desires, hopes, fears, and values. Aside from my luggage, they are indeed all I carry with me as we traverse this great and majestic and paradoxical country.

In particular, I have encountered people of every possible variety. One is a quiet man named Sean with intense tattoos painted all up and down his arms, who’s occupation (a 1st grade teacher) is so unexpected it leads one to evaluate the very way they look at people. Indeed, he says that the goal of his tattoos is to get people to question their perceptions of him, and thus potentially the way they perceive the world at large. Another is a most remarkable vagrant named Hippie Tom, who approached us on the streets of San Francisco, marijuana joint and incense in hand, and proceeded to enlighten us with incredible stories of found thousands of dollars and hidden tipis deep in the woods of Ann Arbor. Also noteworthy was a man with whom we had the most brief encounter while walking in Berkeley. We stopped to ask a man for directions, and as he described to us the path to take to reach Peet’s coffee shop I literally could not wipe a grin from my face as I listened, captivated, to this man speak with a pace and sureness that left me breathtaken by virtue of its unwavering nature. He was intensely firm in his reality. Also interesting was meeting Adam, a man fresh off a heartbreaking relationship and apparently in some kind of funk who has a book teaching women to talk dirty to men in bed with confidence and sensuality. Or Ron, my tarot card reader from Boulder, Colorado who impressed me with his earnestness and conviction (and of course remarkable analysis) when looking at the cards I had drawn. And of course I have met countless other cashiers, attendants, bums, strangers, and pretty girls with whom I’ve had more typical interactions of various lengths and degrees. The list goes on and on.

In all of these interactions, I have made my best efforts to communicate with people with two maxims in mind. 1 – communicate as effectively as possible. If I am trying to communicate a certain point, then say it in such a way that it will be received correctly. And 2 – speak what is truthful to me as often as possible. In taking this trip as an opportunity to discover myself, I am also making a conscious and concerted effort to express my real opinions, thoughts, and feelings on whatever the topic may be. My hope is that people will respond in kind, and that as a result we can have some authentic communication. So as you can see, I have two competing interests going on here. One is that I am constantly interested in social interactions, how they work, the subtle nuances of energies involved in communication, how people perceive value, and more. On some level, I am interested in achieving social mastery. Utter capabilities of communicating how I want with anyone. Yet at the same time I have this nagging feeling that the best way to communicate should always be the most honest. If I feel something is wrong, I could make some nuanced comment that might not offend someone’s tendencies, or I could just outright express what I am feeling on the matter. I have been trending towards expressing my feelings honestly, and it is quite wonderful.

The above paragraph is an aside; it appears there is something more going on in my head regarding this topic than even I was previously aware of. Nevertheless, the point of this essay is to outline one unmistakable value of mine that I have become increasingly aware of on this trip. As I communicate with people, some have struck me as able to tell me what’s really on their minds. Take for example Israel, whom I met when Couchsurfing at his girlfriend’s place in Lincoln, Nebraska. Within ten minutes of sitting down and sipping on some of their delicious home-made brew, we were having a serious, meaningful, and dare-I-say passionate conversation where we both were authentically expressing what we thought and felt about topics of meaning to us both. And as I look back on this trip, and on the people with whom I have interacted, I can’t help but remember that conversation – not primarily for the topic of discussion, though it was fascinating and indeed opened my awareness to an aspect of life that I continue to focus on – our connectedness as human beings to our Mother Earth – but more for the fact that it was really authentic. And I deeply and truly appreciated that.

There is another side to human communication, one that is darker and less ingenuous. All too often, people communicate based on what they hope to gain out of a situation. I am guilty myself, and I hope that I do this less often than previously in my life. Or people will comment on a topic not because they actually believe what they say, but rather because they think it will be more readily accepted by the group. I can write to you now, and with the utmost assurance say, that I absolutely do not vibe with that. There are incredible beauties and atrocities occurring daily in this world. How can you not care?
I was never one of the popular kids in high school, though neither was I disliked. I like to say that I was well-liked, but from a distance. I never caught on to the game of who and what is cool with any semblance of competence until I got to college, but even then I didn’t fit well into my major social group (the Evans Scholars). Certainly, when studying abroad in Chile I caught a glimpse of a different way of life, with a core group of friends, a strong social base, and a number of wonderful experiences that continue to affect how I live my life.

I am unsure of why exactly I write about my lack of fitting-in. I certainly don’t mind it now, though it was troublesome then. But I can’t help but look at a number of social interactions, and think that they often amount to bullshit. I hate small-talk. I can recall a couple years ago making a Word document of “bullshit conversation topics” that people would say to each other, but didn’t actually give a flying fuck about. I used to ask people “How are you?” as a social grace. And all too often, communication between people is relegated to just that, two people using their social minds in a way that is socially appropriate, but not actually communicating anything of value either about themselves or to the other person. But now, when I ask “How are you?” I ask it in the hopes of actually finding out something about a person. And of actually eliciting a genuine response.

Today I asked the lady gas station attendant how she was doing, and she responded that she wasn’t happy because some woman hadn’t shown up for work today. I told her that I hope her day gets better, and to have a good one, and I appreciated her honesty. She was communicating something real about herself to me, and I was able to respond in kind.

In particular, one man comes to mind. We were walking through People’s Park in Berkeley, California, on a whim, and a lightness was in the air. I was intensely tuned in to the present moment. We stopped at a building completely covered in colorful, hippie-laden artwork of people at the park, and flowers, and all kinds of messages about hope and humanity and community. We walked up to the front, where a slightly-strange but nonthreatening-looking man was seated, and I asked him how he’s doing. He responded by telling me – oh if you want to get some park info you should talk to that guy, pointing to the man sitting at the computer desk just a few feet away. I remained standing there, not breaking my eye contact with him, and repeated – that’s great, but how are you really, I’m curious? He was flabbergasted for a second or two, and then responded – well, I guess I’m doing fine, I’m sitting here on a nice day, etc. etc. And we proceeded to have a real, meaningful conversation. He told me about the protests and the incredible history that took place at the People’s Park, and we looked through a picture book. And at the end of it, something incredible happened. He got genuinely inspired. He had enjoyed so much telling me all about the history of the park, that the idea had popped into his head that maybe he would enjoy being a tour guide around the park. He confided that he was at a time in his life where he was trying to figure things out, and that he had entertained the thought of moving to Thailand for a while but decided against it when the economy there went to hell, and that being a tour guide at People’s Park might be great, and not because of the money but rather because he loved talking about it. I don’t wake up in the morning with the intention of inspiring people, but when someone becomes inspired as a result of having an interaction with me (which most likely was a genuine one), I can’t help but feel really amazing inside.

So what is my point in this diatribe? Well, if you hadn’t been able to guess by now, it’s that what I value most about people is being real. Talking about things that matter, not necessarily because it is world-changing but because it matters to us. I sat in the car, while Destiny drove us near the outskirts of Las Vegas, and I thought for a moment, as I do at times, about the girl who I will eventually give my heart to, whoever she may be. And about the kind of girl I imagine will end up being my first serious girlfriend. And what came to me, this time with a clarity not previously experienced, was a girl who was completely comfortable in her own skin at expressing herself and really being herself. The kind of person who will sing a song out loud on the street because they feel joy, rather than worry about people staring. Or the kind of person who wears a shirt because it called to them, rather than because it carries the mark of some over-priced brand that serves as nothing more than a status symbol.

To me, that level of status, the one of the social sort, is completely artificial and void of meaning. I don’t care about what shoes you wear or jeans you wear, unless you wear them because you like them. I don’t care what you think about US foreign policy (such as the guy at the bar in Santa Barbara who diatribed about it for half an hour) unless you actually care about it. What has value to me, is a person who is comfortable being their authentic self, regardless of social implications or repercussions. If you know me at all, then you’re aware that I frequently do things that aren’t considered socially normal. I might yell at the top of my lungs while walking through downtown Chicago, or swing through the subway of Tokyo like a gymnast, or start random conversations with complete strangers (all over the world). But as I continue on this journey, what I really find is that I don’t care if people think I’m normal. I’m definitely a little weird, maybe a little crazy, and certainly a bit eccentric. Maybe a lot weird, massively insane, and beyond all forms of recognition when it comes to the word normal. But honestly, I don’t care. It’s not what’s important to me. If you find conversations with me interesting because I graduated from UM and drive a Saab and wear Express Jeans, then I don’t want to talk to you. If you find conversations with me interesting because I speak my mind then I definitely want to talk to you.

I take issue with brand names. If you have a Coach purse that you spent $500 to get, I probably will think inwardly that you could have gotten an awesome organic and locally-made purse for $50 and then donated the extra $450 to needy children in Africa. So much of wealth is used to convey status, and to one-up. A Russian billionaire set a world-record for the most expensive yacht, which now that it is complete spans a length larger than a football field and contains a swimming pool. Price tag: $300 million. I couldn’t help but think that he could have got an amazing, beyond fathomable luxurious yacht for $3 million and then donated the excess $297 million to some noble cause like, say, building a school, or purchasing malaria nets to prevent the spread of a vicious illness by virtue of disease-laden mosquitos (not a fan, see my other post) across entire countries, saving possibly millions of lives.

So what do I care about when it comes to people? People that want to help others. That are generous for genuine reasons. That care more for others’ wellbeing than for their own perceived social status. That express themselves by virtue of what they care about rather than what they think will make them seem cool. You know what makes you cool? Being you. I’d rather spend a day with a genuine person than with a high-status one any day. My next girlfriend will probably be a hippie chick who likes art and music and dancing in the rain because it feels good and some weird tattoo and probably smokes pot or has tried drugs (though I’ve now sworn off pot, at least for the time being) and passionately wants to help people, and wants people around her to be happy. She might wear expensive jeans, and she might not. I hope that if she does, it’s because she genuinely likes them and not for the designer’s name adorned on them. I get the sense it will be so. I just don’t see myself spending my life with a person working their way up the corporate ladder for a nine to five. I mean, who knows? Maybe I will. But if I do, I guarantee she will be real as hell. Call me out on my shit. Viciously honest. Beautiful and comfortable in her own skin. Because as I figure out how I want to live my life, I’m not going to care about what you say unless you want to say it, and because you mean it. I will be myself so fully, so real, to the point that the kinds of people I will attract will be real as well. It is the only way I can be comfortable being myself. I must be authentic and true to myself. Disingenuousness will be my anti-Christ. And as I make this decision with firmness and clarity in mind, I can only hope that doing so will attract like-minded people into my life. I value real. I will give real to the world. And I can only hope that karma will dictate that real people should come into my life. It already has begun. As Ron wrote to me, it’s working. I can’t wait to start my life, because I will be living it according to what matters to me, and what I care about, as deeply and as truly as possible. For me, it is the only way. So let’s cut the shit, cut the games, and the social value garbage. Because at the end of the day, it’s all irrelevant. The only thing that matters is truth and love. Bring it, raise people’s vibes, and you’ll leave this planet better than the day you found it. The first major chapter of my life has finished, and the next one has begun. I hereby call it The Chapter of the Real. I invite you to join me on its pages as I begin to script its prose.

Rock out with love,

Auren

Yosemite National Park feels clean. It has been untouched, period, forever– not touched. Trees fall as they do and cliffs drop as they wish. The roads insignificantly narrow to the whole, are aliens to the ground. They are too organized. They were created rather than have always been. Alas, they allow tennis shoes and synthetic shirts to experience mother nature like infants on her chest– gazing out, present, baffled by every sense perception. Yosemite is a rebirth, turning us innocent again, so we may rediscover how to actually use our senses.

But even more, Yosemite is all around us, we just have to open our eyes to each moment, discovering our own lives with wondrously sparkling eyes. This is what if feels like to be alive. What a gift.

Rock Out,

Jonathon Kendall

I’ve decided to get a tattoo and considering my view on life changes with the wind– this may be a risky endeavor, but I feel like in these moments full of smiling it would behoove me to capture these feelings for a reminder to myself. Maybe my life will fall into perfect symmetry, but maybe it won’t– it won’t– and in those moments of desperation I want a reminder of how to live correctly. I’m in a wonderful head-space NOW, therefore I’ll use that energy–print my life’s slogan firmly and deeply upon myself, knowing that what is written never dies.

Rock Out,

Jonathon Kendall

It’s not that I like people, I need people. I need their touches, their voices, and their chaos. I realize this more with every passing mile.

We stopped in a cornfield and loved it, like a tourist attraction. We took pictures, videos, stopped the car, and skipped with glee. –A cornfield. A field of corn. For miles. Pictures. Videos. Corn. City Boy.

I haven’t seen so much space in my life and now I realize that being a city boy has less to do with where one lives and more with how ones feels comfortable. People make me feel at home. The country is great for some but it pulls more softly. There is a predictability with the country. When you wake up, what happens, who you see, what you do. I need chaos, if nothing more than to feel something– anything.

It’s nice being a city boy.

Rock Out,

Jonathon Kendall

UPDATE: We’re now in Los Angeles! More to come after tonight’s festivities…

July 13th, 2009

I write to you now on the road to Yellowstone National Park. The road is slow. Construction trucks and workers align the curving, deep-woods roads, holding up signs saying “Slow” or “Stop” while massive trucks with wheels as tall as me ploddingly roll past and Lil’ Wayne blares from the speakers of the car and the stream to my right shines magnificently as the sun above the gorgeous jagged-peaked mountains I see in front me shines down upon us. Not enough, however, to keep it warm outside. A construction worker holds up his “Stop” sign. There are no cars anywhere near us; no discernible reason to stop. And yet we do. I tell Jonathon to roll up next to him, so I can ask him how long we’ll be waiting. I roll down my window, make friendly eye contact, ask my question. He responds that we may be waiting five to ten minutes. Jonathon offers the notion that we play some music while waiting that he may like. I second this idea vigorously. I roll down the window once more, and I ask the construction worker what his favorite band is. He responds timidly, diffidently even, that he does not know. I take this to mean a lack of self-confidence on his part. Perhaps I came on too strong. I lower my volume, and ask him, this time more chill-status, what his favorite genre is. He responds that he does not know, that he guesses it would be rock music. I think to myself that I have numerous types of rock music on my iPod – everything from Lynyrd Skynyrd and Led Zeppelin to Incubus and Muse, and everything in between. So I ask for clarification. Classic or Modern? Modern, I guess. Fair enough, I think. We’re going to give this guy some great music for the five minutes we’re parked here with him. The windows remain low, and we begin to play Sublime for both his and our enjoyment. Jonathon and I begin to ever-so-slightly rock out. Our friend the construction worker does not. It is what it is.

As we enjoy the music, I rest my arm on the window. My head bobs to the music. I feel a prick on my arm, look down, and see two mosquitoes simultaneously lunching on my hemoglobin. Instinctively, I swat them away, killing one. Injuring the other, though it flies away. My arm remains on the car. This time I am prepared. A mosquito lands and is immediately eliminated. Within seconds, a fellow blood-biter lands, and I mercilessly take his life. More arrive, and I swat them away, sometimes attempting to grab at the mosquito in the air, catching and killing it simultaneously. I am ruthless. Only the most accomplished of mosquito assassins can successfully complete such a mission, and I have a habit of succeeding. Death toll: 3. Total casualties: Unknown. I am a warrior.

And then I think to myself. What kind of karmic energy did I just generate with that violent assault? The cold-blooded killing of living beings, manifestations of consciousness in individual forms. My spiritual practice teaches me to do only good, and release only positive energy into the universe. And surely the taking of a life does not constitute the release of positive energy.

But then my mind begins to theorize about deeper possible implications to the question. Perhaps that mosquito would have done untold harm to the universe. For instance, engage the hypothetical question of being able to go back in time, and take Adolf Hitler’s life before his treacherous combination of charisma and insanity lead to the deaths of millions upon millions of innocent lives. Would you take his life? The negative karmic energy created by the taking of his life would surely be over-powered by the positive karmic energy created by the lack of genocide that he would no longer be able to accomplish. I think to myself, perhaps this mosquito was the Adolf Hitler of mosquitoes. I feel a bit better.

The feeling does not last for long. I come to terms with the likelihood that this particular mosquito was no more insidious than any other mosquito. But perhaps there are other karmic loopholes at play. After all, he was taking my blood, without my permission. I find it hard to accept that my karmic duty to the universe is to allow this blood-sucking parasite to take what is unquestionably inside my body as his own. But then I rethink my position once again. The mosquito could simply be trying to get nutrients to feed itself and its family. It is fighting for survival, just like any other animal would, including us humans.

And yet – my response in killing the mosquito is simply a survival mechanism of my own. He could, indeed, be carrying some disastrous virus. I must protect myself. My body has its instinctive responses for a reason. I decide that the question is a deeply complex one, and that both sides have merit to the argument (both mine and the mosquito’s). I also decide that if the only negative karmic energy I put into the universe is the killing of mosquitoes, then my soul will nevertheless remain eternally aglow.

I smile, content with myself. The construction worker turns his sign around, waving his bright orange flag and signaling for us to pass as I roll up my window and Santeria now circulates throughout the car but without polluting (or enhancing) the external environs of the Shoshone National forest through which we drive and I gaze at the mountain range protruding into the sky in the distance, its snow-capped peaks causing Jonathon and I to make note due to the season (it’s July after all) and casually mention the possibility of sledding in Yellowstone. We pass a sign encouraging us to avoid contact with grizzly bears. The White Stripes now pervade our speakers, as a Seven Nation Army is sung by the raspy, thin, and soulful voice of Jack White and we come to another stop and a Texas truck passes by with an RV attached and I see hippies from Vermont drive away and I contemplate the absolute glory to be had by spending three days in the thousands of acres of untouched nature in Yellowstone Park, and I hope to be able to find some spots on the earth with incredibly good energy on which to meditate. We begin to drive again.

Rock out,

Auren

As we continue with our travels, it behooves me to make note of the incredible generosity the Holiday Inn hotel chain has bestowed upon Jonathon and myself, even if they don’t actually know it.  Well, if anyone from their service department is reading, I suppose they know now.  However – irrelevant.  The story must be told.

We pulled into the Hill City Holiday Inn around 10:30 pm on Thursday, 9 July.  I must pause to make a mental note.  We, both Jonathon and myself, are crazy.  Mild case of insanity.  Delusions of grandeur clouding our judgment.  We seem to think that we can see the entirety of the Western United States in less than a week.  And given that we’ve coasted through Iowa, Nebraska, South Dakota, Wyoming, not merely seeing sites from afar but actively experiencing the differences in culture, in people, and in vibe, we may very well come close to fulfilling that fantastical notion.  Crazy makes the world go round.

Indeed, another lesson we’ve uncovered this trip is that things don’t get accomplished by sane people… no, they unquestionably do not.  The colonists were certifiably insane to actually think they could take on the most powerful military of the largest empire in the history of world, the British.  Insane.  But if it wasn’t for their insanity, we’d be roadtripping the colonies… not quite the same ring.  Or take for instance the guy who decided to carve a 560 foot tall 3-dimensional statue of Crazy Horse – absolutely off his rocker.  His goal of completely shaping the face of that entire mountain may finally be completed in 200 years or so.  But let’s be real here.  If it wasn’t for all the insanity in the world, we really wouldn’t have much to talk about, would we?

An inevitable Auren digression.  Product of my mind’s insanity (as we all know, because of the readings of Eckhart Tolle, we are not our minds, so I’m comforted by the fact that my insanity is only relegated to my mind, and not actually to me).  So – returning to the Holiday Inn.  As we leave Mount Rushmore, the sky lights up.  At first I think it is a giant light from the display.  After all, there were a number of people gathered around the amphitheatre – thousands in fact.  We continue driving, and the flash continues.  And then again.  And then a third time.  As we make our way back down the massive mountainous roadway, I catch glimpse of an enormous branch of lightning flashing brutally in a horizontal fashion across the sky.  Throwing enormous lances of raw power through the air.  The hair on the top of my head tingles.  The sky looks as it does in movies when enemy aliens arrive from distant planets.  The sky in front of me lights up, bringing daylight for that split second.  Then the sky above me.  Then the sky to my left.  This awe-inspiring, devestatingly potent lightning storm lasts easily for 25 minutes.  It is a spectacle the likes of which I have never seen.  I utter the words “Oh My God” on numerous ocassions, with a vocal tone that insinuates a literal meaning behind my words.  It was indeed Godly.

We pull into the Holiday Inn.  Jonathon runs inside for shelter.  I gather my things, intensely and unnervingly apprehensive at the thought of exposing myself to the open sky and its awful wrath being wreaked above.  I open the door and rapidly step out.  All of my senses attuned deeply and terrifyingly to the present moment.  We make it inside, and sit.  The lobby is filled with interested people chattering about the storm.  And that is when the hailstorm begins.  I first see a man being hit in the head by what appeared to be a white rock.  He shakes it off.  Within seconds, that single pellet is followed by a deluvian shower of rocks of hail – in the middle of July – showering the ground with what can best be described as ferocity.  People begin running for shelter from outside, strategically standing behind columns or just outside the lobby so as to avoid being pelted.  The hailstorm actually increases in its power, and I am stunned.  I am witnessing what seems to be the wrath of god.  I casually mention to the New Yorker to my left – what’s next, the frogs?  I feel as if I am in a movie of the 10 plagues come to life.  It is intense, and powerful, and raw.  The Holiday Inn is my shelter.

The hail and rain finally stops, and we return to the parking lot after discussing our trip, writing, and setting up videos and the blog from which you read this post.  We recline the seats, grab our blankets and pillows, and sleep the night away, without payment, in the Holiday Inn parking lot.  I am awakened around 9 AM by Jonathon.  He has returned from the hotel with a plate on which is sitting 2 bananas, a cinnamon roll, a carton of milk, sausages, biscuits, and gravy.  We eat like veritable kings.  The Holiday Inn is my provider.

Fast-forward two days.  I awaken.  We are sitting in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, Denver Central.  Cost:  Zero dollars.  Sweat:  dripping down my brow.   Heat:  Intense.  I turn on the car in anticipation of an explosion of air-conditioning.  It does not start.  I hold back from the initial creeping feeling of annoyance, and maintain my just-awakened sense of calm.  I walk inside the Holiday Inn lobby.  They give me numbers of mechanics and Saab dealerships.  The Holiday Inn is my assistant.

I call the dealers and mechanics.  They want me to bring in the car for a diagnostic.  The towing will cost $60, and the diagnostic will cost $120.  I decide this cost is unreasonable, particularly given the fact that after paying, nothing will actually have been done to fix my car.  Keep in mind I already attempted to jump my vehicle.  I was unsuccessful.  The battery is not the issue.  I am confused.  The Holiday Inn concierge offers to call in their service-man to take a look.  I am grateful.  The Holiday Inn is my shining beacon of hope in a desolate landscape of doom and destruction.

The service-man comes and checks out my car.  We attempt to jump it once again.  We are again unsuccessful.  He tries to explain something to me, and has a hard time but uses the word “pero” when me means to say “but” so I begin to speak to him in Spanish.  He explains that he has a friend who can check it out for $65 dollars.  I am getting into the habit of trusting people so I go against what might have at one point been my better judgment and accept.  The friend arrives and plugs in his equipment and begins his diagnostic.  Everything works.  My confusion grows.  He tells me I am low on gas.  I laugh, and agree.  We go to the gas station in his truck, and with 5 of his friends around we siphon gas from our red tank into my car.  It immediately starts up.  The Holiday Inn is my on-the-road assistant.

I am n0w much more content.  I decide I would like a shower.  I reason that the Holiday Inn has many showers.  I enter through a side door, and approach a maid with my textbook “Hola”.  She responds in English.  I ask her if I can take a quick shower.  She says she’s not sure, but to check upstairs.  I make my way to the elevator, and upon exiting spot another maid cleaning a room, the cart positioned outside.  ”Hola”.  ”Que tal?”  ”Es posible tomar un baño aquí rapidamente?  Solo necesito dos minutos… muchísimas gracias.”  I offer my cheeky, ever-so-slightly-devilish grin.  She is unsure, and walks with me over to Margarita.  I repeat my question to Margarita, complete with grin and smile.  My tone is lightly but unmistakably flirtatious.  She says “Pues si”, and I stealthily make my way into the bathroom.  The shower feels glorious.  The shampoo, a minty-scented smooth lather of sudsy perfection.  The soap, equally aromatic and lather-ious.  I hear a knock at the door.  I call out “Ya me voy en un momento”.  I jump out of the shower.  She explains to me in Spanish that her supervisor is coming and I have to leave before I get caught.  I pull up my pants, give her one last smile, and exit to the hall.  I descend the elevator, and then enter into the parking lot.  I am in the clear.  The Holiday Inn is my surreptitious showering accomplice.

The car is now running, I am now clean, and the almost unbearable heat of the Denver sun has subsided.  We exit, go to a gas station and fill up, and I purchase a Tornado taco stick and a Jalapeño sausage, which I both devour.  I am happy.  In my pocket is an extra piece of soap, a mini bottle of shampoo, and lotion.  They are adorned with the logo of what is now my favorite hotel chain in America.

I love the Holiday Inn.

Rocking out America,

Auren