We said good-bye to my little brother and his girlfriend and commenced driving West. After a bit, we came to New Braunfels -- perhaps the worst city ever, according to our notes. Inexplicably, it was also home to a winery, which, even more inexplicably, charged visitors seven dollars to taste a couple of ounces of Central Texas wine.
We also saw another shooting range. Thinking this place had to be cheaper than anything found in Austin, we again renewed our commitment to indiscriminately use semi-automatic weapons to shoot at random targets. Unfortunately, the place was closed and deserted, with the exception of a creepy shirtless man strolling around the shooting spaces. When we asked him what he was doing there, he muttered, "I just like to walk around and see what people are shooting these days." Riiiiight. We slowly backed away into the car, and got back on the highway, but not before spying the following sign:
Presently, we came to the worst golf course ever: a ten dollar fee nine-holer with barely more grass on it than Death Valley. Moldman immediately befriended a very nice little girl and her dog, Thor, as Alan and Dustin took turns losing the ball amidst the rocks that littered the course. After checking for ticks, we got back into the car and drive off.
At this point, it was time to redeem our coupons for free Chick-Fil-A sandwiches. Dustin, who'd heard wonderful legends about these sandwiches, was particularly excited. Well all got free sandwiches and the three Jews got themselves radioactive-looking mint milkshakes. The grand total? 32 cents. The Jews were in heaven.
We drove to a Jiffy Lube to have the car serviced and enjoy our sandwiches. As we settled down to eat, Dustin tragically pulled a Moldman and dropped his entire sandwich. Understandably distraught, Dustin proceeded to pitch a hissy, kicking, cursing and, as an ultimate move, ripping the sunglasses from his head and hurling them across the room. The sunglasses narrowly missed some poor woman, who probably still remembers that day with something approaching fear.
After a short time-out, we set out on the road again and came to the last outpost of civilization before New Mexico, several hundred miles away. San Antonio is a nice little town, small and somewhat charming, but ultimately not of much consequence. Think of it as the South's answer to Providence, Rhode Island.
We did not forget to visit the Alamo, and, of course asked the question on everyone's mind: where is the basement here at the Alamo? "Why right down those stairs," replied the tour guide, obviously pleased at seeing our obnoxious expectation turn to disappointing shock. It seems that there actually is a basement at the Alamo, and that PeeWee Herman has miseducated all of us. Damn you, PeeWee. Damn you.
(Later research has revealed that the basement was constructed after the movie came out. This is a bewildering fact -- it would seem the impetus was to stop smart-asses (such as ourselves) from asking obnoxious questions. This seems like a very silly reason to alter a national monument, which means it's probably not the actual reason. Regardless, there is a basement at the Alamo).
After a quick early dinner at the Riverwalk, we set on the road again, but not before stopping at an awful Wal-Mart so that Dustin could return the sunglasses he had mangled horribly during his earlier outburst. Thanks to Wal-Mart's liberal return policy -- to this day we are not sure whether those sunglasses were actually purchased at a Wal-Mart -- Dustin had brand new shades he could wreck the next time he dropped a sandwich.
Then we started on what would be a 732-mile drive from San Antonio to Santa Fe. There was not much on the road here, unless you count charming little towns like Welfare and Junction. The latter did have a terrific BBQ joint. The best thing about it, though? This:
A STUFFED BEAVER!
(Giggles for ten minutes)
Apologies. After hitting 98 mph on a mostly-deserted highway, we finally decided to cash in for the night and find a hotel somewhere. Thus we came to Ozona, Texas, a random town in the middle of nowhere. Seeing the sketchiness of the town, we decided to spring for the most expensive hotel available, since logic dictates that more expensive equals less sketchy. The lucky winner? An America's Best Value Inn, which featured rooms at the extravagant price of $50.99 a night.
Even the parking lot was sketchy. You know how in horror movies, the soon-to-be-slaughtered teenagers pull into a motel and as they drive through the parking lot, they see that most doors in the motel are open, and truckers who, if you're lucky, have a wife-beater on, are just drinking warm 40s and kind of just stare at you? This happened to us, thankfully without the part where we get stabbed or killed on the side of the road. After making sure that the door to our room was securely locked, we all prayed to our respective Gods and turned in for the evening.
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