Day 5, 1-19-2011

The thing that both of us have been super nervous about ever since buying the RV is dumping our gray (sink) and black (toilet) water tanks. Of course, we could always go the way of DMB (Dave Matthew's Band) and dump it through grated bridges as they did a few years back in Chicago. But they ended up dumping on a boat full of tourists, so we've learned from their mistake. Plus, nothing we can dump will be as cool sounding as DMBBM.

That said, we have been really careful about dumping our waste, or have tried to be the two times we did it prior to this trip. We have watched other RV owners with crazy expensive units that are equipped with mechanical dumping stations spray their DNA across campgrounds, and we have sworn that we would never drip more than a drop. Easier said than done. Before dealing with the flat tire, Ward went out to dump the tank. He got the drain pipe ready, pulled on his long rubber gloves, and unscrewed the main cap. Usually when this cap is removed, a little bit of liquid drips out, but this stream was heavy and showed no signs of stopping. He put the cap back on, and assessed the situation: wet toilet paper and old urine in a sizable pond under the RV. The smell was strong. He called for Stephanie, and she came out. “Man, it stinks pretty bad” she noted while Ward tried to subtly signal for her to keep a low profile. “Shhh! We've leaked all over the place!” “Oh shit! What do we do?!?” The first thing was a identify the problem, which was the release valve having been blocked from closing completely the last time we dumped. In October. There was nothing to hold back our waste once the cap came off. So Ward grabbed the drain pipe, twisted the cap off, and struggled to get the pipe to fit. Needless to say, it was lucky that he was wearing flip-flops, though he wasn't sure of that immediately.

Somehow we finished this dirty task right as our “family” friends returned from breakfast, and as we were trying to clean up from our mini-disaster, the woman walked over to ask us if we wanted Fix-A-Flat. We think they left camp to pick it up. We had to resist any social pressure to accept her offer, both because we really wanted to figure out our tire problem, not just mask it, and because we didn't want her to stick around long enough to ask us about the yellow pulpy mess under our RV. So Ward ran off to the showers and Steph readied the RV to drive.

The small bio-hazard and our neighbors being a good reason to drive on the flat tire, we pulled around to the Salt Spring parking lot to change our tire in a clean, quiet area. Though we have both change car tires before, the RV was a little different, and the jack we had didn't come close to reaching the frame. We ended up heading back to the main camp and asking some men in the camp woodshop for advice. Advice turned into them taking over the whole process, jacking up the RV on the axle and bringing the tire to Richard (known throughout the camp as the guy with the air compressor) to pump it up. As we were waiting for the pump to get the tire up to snuff, Richard told us that the compressor use to be used for putting pressure in beer vats. This was a perfect set up for Ward's first old man joke of the trip: “Hmmm, I don't know about that, but I do know how to relieve the pressure in one of those.” The change after their laughter wasn't distinct, but we definitely felt more at ease with these experienced “campers” after that.

After our tire was fixed, we each swam in the Salt Spings. It was only about 55 degrees out, but the Salt Spring stays at a constant 72 degrees throughout the year. It took a little convincing to take the plunge in such chilly weather, but we're glad we did. Mike had loaned us a mask and snorkel, and we took turns swimming around with the mullets and bass. It was hard to get out, both because of the drop in temperature and the beauty of the water. Ward took a sample taste of the water, and while it wasn't bad, he also wasn't sure of it's healing properties.

Later that night, after parking in Keith's gated back yard in Gainesville and eating a great dinner, we went to The Top for a drink and to wait for Senta to get off work. We were the only three in their outside area besides a man reading a book by the fire pit, so when a random guy walked out with two shots of tequila, looked at us, then over to the reader, then back to us before putting the shots down at our table and telling us to wait, Stephanie and Ward assumed that he was a friend of Keith's. But Keith had no idea who he was. He returned with three shots, called over the reader, and said that they were on him. Ward borrowed a great toast from Paul Micou, as best as he could remember: “There are poker chips, and there are tortilla chips, but the best chips of all are friendchips.” Royce, our new friend, ended up buying us another 3 rounds before we went across the street to The Atlantic for dance night. Royce followed us, and everyone there assumed he was an old friend of ours. We found out over the next few days in Gainesville that this might not have been in our favor. Basically, it boiled down to this: “Who was that friend of yours? He tried to not pay for a beer, got thrown out of The Atlantic, followed us home to a small party, and finally got kicked out of there when, told he couldn't sleep in the bed of the guy who lived there, complained 'Well where the hell am I supposed to sleep?!?'” We don't know what happened to our friend, but we have his address and look forward to sending him a postcard from two people he might not remember meeting.

Day 4, 1-18-2011

Waking up at 7 after being out past 2 isn't any more glamorous in an RV, but we had a mission: head to Camping World to have our electricity, our tires, and our broken water filter looked at. The name Camping World is a bit of a misnomer; the store caters exclusively to people in RVs, selling such “camping” amenities as propane logs made to look like campfires, satellite dishes, and an assortment of Christmas lights for your front awning, now on sale! Definitely not our kind of store, even more so after we paid $150 to basically have nothing done to our RV. It would have been $170, but we turned down their offer to inflate our tires for $20. The Ford dealer next door did this for free, with a smirk and shake of his head when we told them what Camping World wanted to charge. Still, the store is thriving, with wealthy “campers” paying to have their Rvs hand washed and their mirrors adjusted. Not kidding.

Mike Pius stayed in St. Augustine to surf a surprise swell, and we headed to Salt Spring in Ocala National Forest. There are a few campgrounds around the actual salt spring, and we met a man in a parking lot who had stayed in all of them and made some great suggestions. He was living out of an old Dodge van, sleeping a tent when the weather was nicer. He claimed that while he didn't enjoy swimming in the salt spring, he made sure to drink a cup of it every day. “It's pretty salty,” he said, “but I have rheumatoid arthritis so I drink it for that.” “Does it help?” “Well, I guess I think it does.” After giving us a few more tips, Ward introduced himself. “Oh, I'm Shakey” he said, and waved his arms around to demonstrate.

Setting up our RV in the state park, Stephanie noticed that one of our newly filled tires was now flat, most likely from the valve extension we put on earlier. Almost immediately, the young woman from the next site over was at our side, asking us if we needed help. This despite the fact that she and her boyfriend were living in a tent and didn't have any visible means with which to help us. She was kind of odd, and seemed to want something from us. “Are you family?” she asked. Ward said yes to not have to go into any further explanation, but this was the wrong answer. “Oh cool, us too! Do you know where everyone's heading. It's a great lifestyle. I've been trying to get him into it but he still isn't sure.” Without knowing it, we had committed ourselves to this woman's “family.” RV-ers? Swingers? Meth Mules? Any of them could have applied, and in her case, these “lifestyles” weren't mutually exclusive.

We felt her eyes on us for the rest of the evening. If one of us happened to look that way, she would perk up and move to the edge of her seat, ready to come over if we so much as said hello. Stephanie told Ward not to answer the door if anyone knocked. “Yeah, I guess we'll just ask who it is?” She got a kick out of that. “Oh, like that's going to make a difference? We don't know anyone here!” Nobody ever knocked, but we found ourselves pining for the good old everyday creepiness of the Walmart parking lot.

Day Three, 1-17-2011

1-17-2011

Sick of being on the highway, we jumped on smaller roads to take us south to St. Augustine. This was much better in terms of sights (we finally saw America's Smallest Church, which was about the size and shape of Snoopy's doghouse), but also great for us finally being able to shop at thrift stores. We hit up a couple around Brunswick, GA, but it was also Martin Luther King day, so a lot of the stores we saw were closed.

We stopped in St. Mary's, GA and were told that this town was “arguably the oldest city in America. But all the records proving that we were here before St. Augustine were lost in a fire.” Aren't they always. But one thing St. Mary's has that St. Augustine can't take away is a used bookstore called Once Upon a Bookseller. Which, to borrow a joke from a friend, it the beginning of a very accurate statement: Once upon a bookseller, you never go back.

We met Mike Pius at his house in St. Augustine, and then went to Jeff and Jeannie's new restaurant, The Floridian. Amazing food! The funniest part of the restaurant is that due to local ABC laws and the fact that their front door is within 50 feet of a church, they can only serve draft beer in the back room, which, thank God, is far enough from the church to corrupt any delicate souls.

It was really nice to spend MLK day in a place where his legacy wasn't shared with those of Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee. Richmond, if you don't already know, officially celebrates Lee-Jackson-King Day, so it was refreshing to see an MLK parade as we left Savannah and to read an article in the St. Augustine free weekly about their spotty history of civil rights. But that night, as if to remind us that we were only so far from Richmond, we were plagued by a 35 year old wearing overalls, a Bob Marley shirt, and a knit hat with Jamaican colors (presumably to hold back his dreads). We ran into him at a quiet bar when his friend offered us a beer and he offered us some poorly veiled insults, but when he found out we were from Richmond he became our immediate ally. “No shit! I'm from Henrico, boy! Hermitage High, class of 93!” This was our bond for the rest of the night, one we could not shake even with direct suggestions that we would be happy if he walked home to Henrico. The worst part is that in reminiscing about his beloved home town, he bemoaned the Arthur Ashe statue on Monument Avenue. “I mean, here's a black guy, who died from AIDS, and they have the nerve to put him on a street honoring war heroes who died for their country.” OK, keep in mind that he was wearing a Marley t-shirt and rasta hat (a fact that he advised we not let fool us when Stephanie pointed out the contradiction), and let us also remember that most of the Confederates honored did not die in battle, and that they were fighting to secede from their country. But facts weren't really an issue here. “He already has a sports center named for him. Why didn't they put the statue there?” Ward replied “Probably for the same reason they didn't put Lee's statue in front of the Confederacy Museum.” Again, logic could not derail his rant. And all this proved on Martin Luther King Day, 2011, was that the old adage still rings true: No matter where you go, there you are... drinking with a racist from Richmond.

Day 2, 1-16-2011

1-16-2011

Waking up in Florence was lazy and relaxed. We used Walmart for bathroom needs again, and waited around for the garage to open at 1:30 so that someone could help us check our tire pressure. This isn't as bad as it sounds; the rear tires are dual mounted, and the outer ones don't have an extension, making the valve really hard to access. We figured we were doing something wrong, but the mechanic, who initially gave us a check-your-tire-pressure-please look, wasn't able to do any better than us. Which was good for our egos, but not so good for the tires. They looked a little low, and we knew we would have to figure out a good way to check them soon.

One of the cool things about driving in and out of Florence was seeing all of the locally owned businesses. Not just the common small businesses that you would expect to see, but larger things, like the bowling alley (as opposed to AMF), The Julia Theater (a really cool 4 screen movie palace), and random video stores (not Blockbuster). Seeing businesses like these surviving both the national chains and the recent recession was really impressive and definitely not what we'd expected to find in the smaller towns.

We left Florence at about 3, and took 95 South to Savannah. Our friend Summer now lives in Philly, and Laura was in Tampa that night. We had just missed seeing her. Kylesa played a “Metal Homecoming” show on Friday, and immediately left town on tour again. The local free weekly, Connect, had a cover article on them titled Heavy Duty. But that's all we got of our friend. Oh, and Ward forgot that Jennylyn, his friend since high school days, lived in Savannah, so we spent the night friendless in this great city.

So, with nothing to do, and nowhere in particular to stay, we parked off of Forsyth Park in front of what looked like a million dollar, ante-bellum Savannah mansion. Southern hospitality did us well, and they residents of this beautiful street put up no fuss over our RV.

First Day Out, 1-15-2011

After spending most of the morning packing the RV, we met at 821 Cafe for a farewell lunch with Skylar, Andrew, April, Curtis, Talia, Shony, Murty, and Michael. Squeezed in at a corner booth, we all shared jokes and stories and food like it was a regular day, so when we got up to leave it was a shocking and sad realization that we would most likely not see these friends for seven months. Leaving home, we had been distracted by all that we had to pack, organizing the RV, and securing our belongings for the bumpy ride south, but our sudden emotions about leaving our friends triggered an immediate sadness for everything else we were leaving behind: our pets, our house, our family, our jobs (we're weird), our daily routines. In short, Richmond. We really are going to miss you!

Not enough, however, to turn around yet. This despite the fact that our crew stayed at 821 Cafe drinking all day, calling us every ½ hour or so to update us on what we were missing and trying to get us to turn around to take shots with them at the bar. It's nice to think that our friends will be right where we left them, waiting for us to return home. Well, all except for Murty, who we were told (erroneously) was so distraught over our leaving that, emboldened by whiskey, he began tipping over tables and throwing chairs until the police came to arrest him. Curtis is still bugging us about the bail money.