I went back to Virginia and sold the camper.
That sounds so bare and simple, but actually it was kinda heartwrenching. There is nothing like watching all your hopes and dreams crumble to dust, whoo, and I even got some extra emo points by doing it in three miserable hot hours in what amounts to a car and RV graveyard. Well.
What happened was I drove up to Yorktown (about a 7/8 hour drive, depending, usually longer because interstate hell) checked myself in to another Red Roof Inn (I am getting to be something of an expert on the fascinating subculture that is the land of the Red Roof Inn) got dinner at WaWa (my love for WaWa knows no bounds) and failed to load Skyrim onto my laptop. The next day I went over to the storage unit in Gloucester where poor Hermie was languishing and then entertained a couple of potential buyers from both Craigslist and Ebay. I had worked myself up a bit about this part because a) I was alone and had nobody to open the gate to the storage place and b) I was alone, the storage office was closed and what if one of my buyers turned out to be a Craigslist Killer? I left my daughter info on everyone who had contacted me about buying the camper, just in case of ax murder. Anticlimactically, it went fine. Only two sets of buyers came and neither of them was in the least bit ax murdery. And one nice young family bought it. For considerably less than I paid for it, but considerably more than the dealership offered, so all good.
Then I spent a day in Virginia Beach taking pictures and baking again in the same hot hot sun. Several people asked me if I was OK, because apparently not everyone turns bright fiery red and pours gallons of sweat down their faces at any exposure to the malevolent eye in the sky. Virginia Beach is kind of a weird place. First off, the boardwalk is giant skyscraper hotels all the way down instead of friendly fun fairs and french fry places. It looks a lot like Sim City Build It and you actually have to walk away from the boardwalk for all your I Pooped Today T-shirts and Jesus in Seashells needs. Second off, there are military jets screaming overhead and big monuments to the military. I only found one little carnival and the carnie who chatted me up was intimidated by my tattoos. “I never got one,” he said mournfully – he was about my age, long and thin as a rail, with sad eyes and a few teeth gone – “I’d be scared! I don’t think I could do that!”
I’m more badass than a Virginia Beach carnie. Yikes.
Then I drove on home. I have not yet figured out how exactly to program the Garmin so I am running into the same problems I faced with Google Maps and I am a bit irritated. In this year of our tech lord 2017 I want fucking Hal to navigate my car already: I want to say, I would like to go home, but slowly with a maximum amount of photogenic scenery, preferably the coastal kind. This is apparently beyond our current technological abilities and so I ended up on Route 58, which is both slow and boring, the cardinal sin. Thus about 7 hours in I gave up on trying for scenic (it is possible that the middle bits of North Carolina and Virginia just aren’t scenic, full stop) and made it take me to I-40, which as you probably know is fast in parts but mostly flat out horrible. Then I got stuck in a terrifying hailstorm outside Greensboro. The last time I came back from Virginia I got stuck in a terrifying thunderstorm outside Greensboro and so I am trying hard to never go back to Greensboro, where clearly the weather is just astonishingly bad all the time.
Now I’m back in Asheville and I don’t know what the hell the next step is, although rest assured I am working on it. Sort of. For certain values of working, which involve heroic amounts of Minecraft and the occasional DeSoto Lounge patio session. And I’m going to Mexico in two weeks! But here in the meantime are a few pictures from the road trip back.