ROAD TRIP JOURNAL (Part 3)
Sleep on the Cheap

After two nights of camping, I decided to splurge on more comfortable accomodations in a motel and a hostel.

The motel in Lincoln, Nebraska offered sweeping views of an airport runway and a pink neon sign blinking, "Jim's Erotica."

Apparently, my motel --- the "Economy Lodge" --- used to be an Econo Lodge. The name-change wasn't hard to figure out. On everything from the ice buckets to the telephone, the resourceful new owners had scrawled an extra "my" onto the outdated logo, reflecting the new name.

I've never felt so broke as that night staying in a discounted knock-off of an Econo Lodge motel.

All around me were other knock-offs, from a Mariot Motel down the street to the Cheapotle Grille next door.

Across the tracks from me, a new Econo Lodge had opened up. I watched jealously as the noveau riche pulled up in their sparkling Camrys and Escorts.

I pictured the rich and powerful inside indulging in a chlorinated whirlpool, a "Continental" breakfest and free HBO.

My room was a dump, which is no good for me, a Certifiably Irrational and Paranoid Obsessive Compulsive Germaphob, known by the acronymn C.I.A.P.O.C.G.

The carpet was so filthy that I had to cover it with clean towels, creating a safe path for my bare feet from my bed over to my hand sanitizer.

As I was leaving the next morning, I spotted this old boarded-up motel that was now a "Swat Training Area."

My second night in a hostel way up in the Rocky Mountains was devine.

I did have one curious experience though.

I met a kid named Jeff, who seemed ordinary enough. The only thing was, though he had dark hair and seemed quite young, the dude had bushy, gray eyebrows, like an old man's.

As he talked, I watched as the two ferrets glued to his forehead bounced with each word.

I developed a hypothesis. Maybe Jeff had that aging disease in which you age three times faster than the ordinary person. One day you're a 12-year-old kid playing kickball, and the next, you have gray hair, wrinkles and a sudden passion for Canasta.

I had to know the truth. But I had to be sly about it. I had to act like the cunning reporter I hope to become.

"So how long have you had Andy Rooney's eyebrows?" I blurted.

"Excuse me?" Jeff responded.

"I mean, do the drapes match the carpet?"

By the way Jeff furrowed his bushy gray eyebrows at me, I knew I had blown it. Now I would never know the truth. Jeff stormed out of the room, saying it was his bedtime. It was 5:30 in the evening.

On Trail Ridge Road going over the Rockies

Freezing high up in the mountains

I felt like a National Geographic photographer
as I got out of my car and walked 10 feet into
this meadow to shoot this photo.