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Thursday night at 9pm, Trudel was picked up by a car transporter and whisked off to Los Angeles. I was hoping to maybe catch a ride with the trucker, but due to insurance reasons he wouldn't let me ride along. The trucker community is well know for being a stickler for rules, so I understood.

I stayed the night at the Winslow Day Inn, booked a ticket on the 7:40pm Amtrak, and fell asleep in a room in which I'm almost positive someone was murdered. It could have been a cat or chicken, it didn't have to be human, but you just got this creepy feeling that something was killed in that room.

I extended checkout until the last possible second so as to avoid spending extraneous time at the train station with my thumb up my ass, but the latest I could get was 12pm. I called for a cab and was at the station at 12:o4. And since my train would end up being 20 minutes late, that meant I had only 8 hours to kill. Thankfully there was a cool hotel next to the station called La Posada. It was an old Spanish style mansion that had been restored and turned into a swanky hotel, and there were several huge lobby type areas with couches and nooks where I could sit and read and not be noticed. Winslow isn't the worst town in the world; it's got some historic Route 66 type charm and if you were ever passing through I'd recommend stopping for lunch and having a look around. After three days, though, I was ready to get the fuck out.

As the sun set on the town and the train station, I got off some great pics. It was a pleasant way to say goodbye to this town that I was never supposed to be in, yet played such a major part in my trip thus far. It's where I met Oprah, it's where I learned Trudel was toast, it's where I spent two days living in a truck stop, and it's where I killed a man just to watch him die. As I climbed aboard the train, and Winslow started to fade into the night, a single tear rolled down my cheek. Or maybe it was a bead of sweat rolling down my ass cheek. It sure was hot on the train.

After a restless night spent on the train talking to a girl with thick red and black dreads and a Hispanic meth addict missing two of his bottom teeth, I arrived at Union Station in Los Angeles at 7am, an hour ahead of schedule. A quick subway ride later and I was home. I feel a little bit like a wild bird who's just been put in a cage, and I don't know if this restless feeling will go away or not, but I kind of don't want it to. I hope that the second the car is ready, I'll be ready too. Part of me just wants to hide while I'm home, kind of like if I don't see anyone I know then I'm not really here. The lower I lay, the easier it will be to just take off when the time comes. And there's also something in me somewhere that thinks if I have a good time while I'm home, I won't want to leave. It's weird to think that I was living in a metal box about a third the size of my bedroom, but that felt more spacious than sitting in this big house. I'm like one of those guys who just got out of prison and feels confined by the freedom. I just can't wait to get on the road again...

(By the way, I tried to post a pic or two, but blogger wouldn't let me. It would tell me it's uploaded, but nothing shows up. I've probably reached my storage limit, so until I figure out what do, I guess I can't post pictures. Funny that the last picture I was able to post was of Oprah. So Oprah killed my blog and my car.)