Summer 2023 was on its deathbed, and I had promised Lyra a trip of a lifetime. Meanwhile, Roy and I were delusional enough to think we’d become the kings of Los Angeles—chokehold our dreams and not fuck ourselves into oblivion; two mics, two phones, two stands, and two small dick (one average and one small to be exact). Spoiler: just another lie stacked higher than the Empire State Building. And we? Just a couple of dumbasses who lacked grit—though we’re damn good at talking shit; just not in front of a camera(or the right people).

This wasn’t some polished Hollywood script—more like a second cross-country shitstorm, powered by THC, a Chrysler packed to the roof with unsaid things, and the kind of blind hope that lands you in a ditch—or a jail cell. If you’re expecting a fairy tale, you’re reading the wrong damn blog. But before we get to the end of summer 2023, let’s rewind to the spring of that same year, where this dumpster fire first sparked.

We’d been rotting in a shared house in the heart of West Hollywood—But you are not gay. Why would live in WeHo? We are not but why do you care, huh?—since late 2022—me chasing the bullshit inside my head while doing UberEats, Roy bussing tables, both of us mumbling about some vague startup we’d never start. By April 2023, the City of Angels had curb-stomped us; eviction vibes, empty wallets, and dreams leaking out the seams—though still picturing ourselves on imaginary billboards.

So we pointed the car east, back to Ocean City, Maryland, where our so-called American Dream first sprouted like a weed—not the kind we smoke. The plan? I had a Camry back then, which we stuffed—weed first, first-aid kit second—and burned rubber across the U.S. in under ten days. We made it. Never got stopped by the cops either. Sanity dangling by a thread. The goal? Stack cash over the summer to fund our next big swing in 2024. The reality? Too many half-baked plans—like Roy’s sad excuse for bread—zero alignment, and a partnership saved by joint after joint.

If you like my blogs—or if you’re new and missed the last one—check out my previous edition: Who I Was, Wanted to Be, and AM—in reverse order. Here’s the link: https://daboisastrgledt.wordpress.com/2025/03/20/everything-everywhere-all-at-once/

Here’s how it went down—day by glorious, stupid day.

Day 1: LA to Vegas—Plan. What plan?

Our budget was $800 each. Sounds decent—until you remember America’s a greedy bastard that always wants more. Or worse, it lures you in with a deal you can’t refuse.

I bought the Camry just before Christmas of 2022, patched it up with mechanic visits and prayers—shaky legs, not faith, and new tires. The grand plan? Film our adventures on Route 66, let freedom pump through our veins like cheap gas—literally—, and somehow take over the internet—or at least give Joe Rogan some competition.

Except I torched the plan before we even hit the highway. Picture me at Jiffy Lube in Burbank, oil change humming, when it slams me—I left half my shit at our old place. Clothes, chargers, shoes, and my dear toothbrush (well, part of that sentence is true). Cue a 40-minute detour through LA’s traffic hell, while Roy glares from the passenger seat, thick Karakalpak accent dripping with judgment: “You serious, Ivo?”

It’s day 1, and I’m already the patron saint of screw-ups—nothing new.

Once everything—including our two brain cells—was stuffed inside the car, we were finally ready. Target? Albuquerque, New Mexico—789 miles (1,270 km). 12 hours if you don’t stop, which is a fantasy for anyone with a pulse—or a urinary bladder.

We had stops planned, like Elmer’s Bottle Tree Ranch—a freaky desert shrine where some lunatic glued bottles to metal spikes and called it art. It looked like my living room back at home—no joke. We roll in, and it’s a trip—glass shimmering in the sun, loud music, and the ghosts of bad ideas lurking around. I’m snapping pics, Roy’s fumbling with his new phone mount, and then;

A biker gang rumbles up.

Chains clanking. Boots with spikes. Beards—definitely not like Santa’s.

I glance at their leather vests – Hells Angels.

For a moment, I think we’re about to star in an episode of Sons of Anarchy. I try to signal Roy, but he’s got the attention span of a 10-year-old on a Nintendo Switch. No shots fired, no fists swinging—most importantly, no glass broken.

Forty minutes later, we’re out. The map says 699 miles (1,136 km) to go. It’s 1 PM—already. I’m not driving 10 hours straight. Roy doesn’t drive. And I’m not that suicidal—not yet.

Food stops. Piss breaks. My dad’s voice nagging in my head: “Let the car rest. Think about her, too.”

Screw it. I said, “Roy, Vegas?”

He flinches—budget’s tight, eyes narrow—but how could you resist it? It’s Vegas.

Three and a half hours later, the real-life Harold and Kumar roll into Sin City, where dreams get drunk, laid, or buried in hotel drywall. Roy booked Circus Circus for a surprising $18 a head plus tax. The neon sprawl mocks our broke asses through a grimy window.

We hit the Strip before sunset. First stop? Ross Dress for Less—because treasure hunts include Calvin Klein shoes at 70% off. Then Mirage water shows—where I swear the water sprays just to tell me “fuck you, buddy.” Then the Bellagio fountains danced like they’re too good for us peasants.

I felt inferior.

What did we eat? No clue—probably some greasy burger I’ve erased from memory.

The plan? Omnianightclub. An overpriced thumping hellscape. But we roll up early like clueless rookies with no game. Roy, the saintly buzzkill, pitches sleep—6 AM wake-up for Hoover Dam, Grand Canyon, then Albuquerque.

Me? I’m in Leaving Las Vegas mode—thinking, let’s find a Sera-type girl, or blow our cash on strippers, and live the sleazy cliché.

Roy shuts it down. Waves our $800 limit like it’s the Quran.

“Fine, Mom.”, I said with frustration.

Day 2: Vegas to Albuquerque—Bumps on the Road and Dumb Luck, Per Usual

Pre-dawn, I’m yawning, eyes as heavy as Roy’s private part—so, not at all. He hands me the pen—our morning ritual—and I take a dab, then another; within seconds, I’m coughing like a WWII soldier in a gas attack. What a way to start the day.

This is the big one—700 miles (1127km) in a day. Me driving solo, Roy navigating like he’s blindfolded and stoned—because he is both. I pick a back road to Hoover Dam because, apparently, I’m the navigation savant. Reality check: we experience “Bumpy Ride” by Mohombi live.

“What the fuck, Ivo? You motherfucker!”, Roy snaps, gripping the dash like it’s an ejector seat.

I tell him to chill. A quick course correction later, and we find Boulder Highway. Forty minutes of chaos and regret, and we finally roll up to Hoover Dam: 726.4 feet (221m) of concrete badassery, powering Nevada, Arizona, and California, while keeping SoCal hydrated. Built on the backs of 100+ dead workers, a Nazi bomb plot that fizzled, and a river ecosystem absolutely fucked beyond repair. Too dark? Maybe. Progress ain’t cheap—it’s a lube-soaked middle finger to nature; suck it up you environmentalists. Make a video about everything that’s bad using your phones.

An hour of pictures—me posing like a monkey on Nat Geo, Roy filming vlog footage that’ll never see YouTube—and we’re off to the Grand Canyon. I’d seen it before, so my plan? Nap in the car, windows down, let the universe do its thing.

“Come on, man, we’re a team”, Roy guilts, his accent thick as mud, eyes pleading.

Fine. Vlog footage it is. Roy hikes the scenic route, I throw in my usual stupidity:

“Do you know if I cut my dick off and threw it in the Canyon, there would be one more rock?”

Roy: “What? WHAT?!”

You guys figure out who’s funny and who isn’t.

I beg for my rest and head back to the car—eyes closed, ass numb, no sleep, just pure misery in a parking lot while Roy plays Dora the Explorer. By 5 PM, he’s back, sweaty and smug, grinning like he just conquered Everest—or had his usual 1-minute sex session.

I say, “You know we’ve got 405 miles to Albuquerque, right?”

He gives me the pen. I hit, he hits it too and back on the road.

We were supposed to see the Barringer Meteor Crater. “Sun’s down. Next time”, I mutter. Roy is out cold, doesn’t even acknowledge me. So, it’s just me, the road, and endless black for three hours straight. An hour before the city, I wake him up.

“Book something, dude, or we’re sleeping outside.”

Cue the shitshow. We find a Holiday Inn Express at 1 AM—lobby’s a ghost town, phones are dead. It’s just me, Roy, and two more zombies standing at the door like extras in The Walking Dead.

“This is how we die”, I mutter, half-serious, scanning the dark like I’m expecting an ambush.

Roy paces, pissed, muttering in Karakalpak or whatever language his brain spits out when he’s mad. After an hour of this crap, we bail. I found a Motel 6 seven minutes away.

Night clerk’s a weirdo, scans our IDs like we’re on Interpol’s hit list, then smirks, “No body in the trunk, right?”

I fire back, “Not the trunk, but in a suitcase.  We are too tired for this tonight, but we’ll bury it tomorrow.”

He blinked and looked at us with serious eyebrows.

I add, “We’re not the usual serial killers. If the cops show up, you haven’t seen a thing.

Unamused, he handed us the keys—probably regretting his life choices.

“Thanks, boss. Good night!” we said.

By 2:30 AM, we’re baked. Eyes half-open. The joint’s ash is still warm before we crash on the beds like we got hit by a train—out like a light.

Day 3: Albuquerque to Denver—Negotiating With Fate and Surviving a Blizzard Hell

Up at 9 AM, fresh—ready for another fever dream. Albuquerque’s ace in the hole? Sandia Peak Tramway, a ride to Sandia Crest with views that could make you believe in God—or at least rack up Instagram likes. Plot twist: down for maintenance. Just another big “fuck you” from the universe.

City’s a bust. Nothing to do but kick rocks and watch tumbleweeds roll by. Walmart stop—water, snacks, plus a joint smoked in the desert. We stare at a horizon so vast it feels pointless, like staring into my love journal. Roy’s quiet—quieter than usual—probably plotting my murder. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.

Santa Fe’s next—no skyscrapers, just adobe huts and galleries vomiting pretension; like an art school dropout’s wet dream… or someone inspired by Salvador Dalí. I rant at a Mark Twain statue about TikTok, nihilism, and how my generation’s screwed. Best listener ever—zero backtalk, stone-cold wisdom. Roy, meanwhile, is drooling over a four-foot bronze otter, some overpriced monument to capitalism.

Feeling fancy, I join in. The salesperson wants to play a guessing game—challenge accepted. I throw out a ridiculous number: $40K. She smiles. “Close. It’s actually eighty.” Roy nearly chokes. “Eighty thousand? What?” I wave it off. “Excuse him. My assistant usually doesn’t speak.”

She’s not done. Persuasive as hell, she tries to make me picture it in my bathroom. “An otter in my loo? That’s a little fucked up, don’t you think?” I quip. She laughs, says they don’t have Greek goddess sculptures—which, honestly, is more my style. Fewer clothes, preferably. She drops the price to $50K, then $40K, my original joke price. I haggled it to $20K, still playing the rich prick. Luckily, she doesn’t bite, because if she had, I’d be royally screwed. I signal Roy to bail me out, but he just stares, confused. “What, Ivo? What?” Smooth. We awkwardly skid off like nothing happened.

Denver’s 400 miles (644km) out. Smooth sailing until Colorado Springs, when April 13th decides to flip us off: 26°F (-3°C), a blizzard out of nowhere, and one and a half hour to go. Roy’s filming on Instagram like a jackass; I’m white-knuckling it, gripping the wheel while Dr. Steve Peters blares about stress and chimp brains on “Diary of a CEO.” Perfect timing for survival mode. Cars spin out, sirens wail, ambulances flash like a disco in hell. But the Camry’s all-season tires—and my dumb stubbornness—push through. “You’re not dying on me”, I growl, half to the car, half to Roy, who’s too busy scrolling to care.

Well, this is the USA. Not everything is sunshine and palm trees like Cali—though sometimes, there are wildfires. And here we are just survived a freaking blizzard. Hotel’s not so far away, but we’re dry—three days in, all weed torched. “We smoked more than we breathed“, I laugh, throat raw. Roy hits a dispensary, dodging snowdrifts, and comes back with a stash like it’s Christmas morning. We check in, light up, and collapse by 2:30 AM, snow howling outside like it’s pissed we made it.

Day 4: Denver to Manhattan (Not That One)—Fun Times Followed by Paranoia

We’re waking later daily—11 AM now. Denver’s arctic, breath fogging like we’re in a freezer—it’s April 13th for fuck’s sake. America is great as it’s fucked up. “Mile High City—sun, snow, wind, blue balls”, I posted on Instagram, expecting laughs, getting crickets. Either my audience’s humor sucks, or—well, there’s no or. Union Station pics, a giant blue bear in front of the Convention Center that Roy calls “bɪə” in his foolish accent.

Hunger kicks in, so I propose we try vegan pizza at Mellow Mushroom—if I were Dave Portnoy, I’d score it a 6.3. My second vegan pie ever, Roy is suffering through it for me. Then we wander to the Denver Performing Arts Complex—without attending anything, just strolling through the rather beautiful (and noticeably less homeless-populated, probably because of the cold) streets.

At the entrance stood two massive statues called “Man and Woman.” And by massive, I mean huge—and fat. Unrelated to them, I had recently read that Denver was sometimes jokingly called “Menver” due to the disproportionate number of men in the dating scene. It made me realize I had lived my whole life in my own Menver. Not funny?

We took a different route back to the car because I hate retracing my steps unless absolutely necessary. We walk down 16th Street, which reminds me of “Vitoshka” in Sofia. I take some pictures, toss my long hair—yes, I had Tarzan’s mane back in the day—for dramatic effect, and wonder if it was actually beautiful as girls say or if they just said so out of envy. The trams’s like in Sofia but slicker, modern enough to make me homesick for something I can’t name.

Then we hit the Museum of Nature and Science—every big city in the US has one, and I wasn’t excited. Dinosaurs, mummies, Gold Rush junk, NASA exhibits; Roy drags me in, and opposite to how I pictured it, it turns out great—so great, I’m kicked out 20 minutes past closing. We meet outside next to a huge elephant monument, and the sunset is a knockout, painting the sky.

Kansas City is 616 miles (991km) away—no chance in one shot. Dark roads, a detour I can’t recall—boring as hell. Roy’s asleep, I’m blasting music to stay sane—like that helps. There was some “Easter egg” detour I found on Google, but we reached it around 11 PM, and it was pitch dark. However, that actually turned out to be a highlight—being in the middle of nowhere, free from light pollution, I saw the night sky clearly for the first time in over a year.

A piss break, a moment of admiration for the universe, and we’re back on the road. By 1 AM, exhaustion hits, and I tell Roy to find a place to crash. Manhattan, Kansas—not NYC—is it. Weed’s illegal in Kansas—six months jail, $2K fine, a buzzkill in every sense. We smoke anyway, crouched like WWII grunts in Guadalcanal trenches, ears perked for trouble.

A crack outside—twig? A police car?—and I’m baked, freaking, heart slamming. “We’re done”, I whisper, crushing the joint under my shoe like it’s evidence in a murder trial. Naruto-running to the room, Roy stumbling behind, laughing at my panic. Crash, out cold, dreaming of handcuffs—in a much more pleasurable way (I mean, if you’re into it).

Day 5: Manhattan to St. Louis—The Chiefs’ City, Drug Deal, and Consoling Pancakes

8 AM, drooling on the pillow, wet dream—23 and still a hormonal disaster. Roy snickers when I confess. Freedom Park: the wind’s a bastard, ripping through these flatlands—I’ve ripped through flatlands once (still, it was cool).

Then I climbed on the Atomic Cannon—biggest in the world, or so they brag, like everything in the US—hair whipping like a rockstar’s, joint lit despite last night’s scare. Funny how the cops rolled up just as I finished—stepped out, felt the gale, bailed without a word. Once again – dumb luck or perfect timing? Roy mutters something, snapping pics of me battling the breeze.

Next up: Lessman Farm & Truckhenge—trucks and cars at drunk angles (I know, trust me), peacocks strutting, owner’s Kansenglish a garbled mess, talking gibberish from a shed like a hillbilly prophet. Cool place nonetheless. I wish my dad had such a big space where he could show off his art—or just not in my personal space.

Kansas City’s windier than Chicago—sorry, Windy City, you’re dethroned. I mean the wind blew so much that…—well, you probably know a girl whom you can associate with this joke. The Chiefs won the Super Bowl, and we dodged a parade of shootings—not confetti, dummies. That’s what I call good timing—we’re on a streak. Looked for free parking since we planned to spend the whole day there,e but couldn’t find any.

Turns out, if you spend a specific amount of money, you get a set number of free parking hours at the Civic Center—I’m the human version of Yelp. Fritz’s Diner it was: food delivered by train, $40 spent, free parking—a win-win. I ordered through an old-school phone, calling the kitchen—Roy’s grinning like a kid, filming as if he’d seen Godzilla—though it was entertaining.

The city’s a ghost town—U.S. weirdness hits hard, streets empty save for wind and construction grunts. Coffee break and some parkour-style pictures. Then the Kauffman Center, Union Station photoshoot—Denver’s looks puny now—and last but not least, the WWI Monument (dick-shaped, obviously). Staff screamed at us when we climbed it.

6:30 PM, St. Louis bound. Just when I thought the day was over, I had a situation most people wish to avoid—unless they’re involved with the mafia. McDonald’s stop two hours out—Roy ordered and then disappeared into the john forever. I’m waiting, and a drug deal unfolds in front of my eyes like a shitty movie. Manager’s a broke doppelgänger of Jack Black with glasses, dealer’s a Latino—straight out of a Honduran Mara gang (or at least that’s what Google shows when I describe him)—with a pit bull on a tight leash.

He snaps, “You taking pics? Outside, now!” Hand behind his back—gun? My pepper spray’s useless at ten feet—stomach dropping like the first time I showed my Steven to a girl. “Just looking at my phone, man”, I mumble, eyes down, heart pounding. He backs off, mumbling curses or whatever he was saying, and just as he exits, Roy strolls out.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“Almost died, no biggie”, I laugh, prepping the spray for the lot—just in case he really had a grudge.

Two hours later, we arrive at a Super 8 just outside of St. Louis. The Denny’s next to it is calling my name—I can already smell the pancakes. I drown the fear—stacked high, syrup-soaked salvation. I’m eating my stress like it’s a job. Roy nibbles here and there, but I ordered enough for days, and we leave half of it behind—maybe that’s when my stress eating disorder became a thing.

Day 6: St. Louis to Chicago—Arch to Arkham City

Early start—Gateway Arch, 630 ft (192 m). Tram’s a sci-fi coffin (if you have claustrophobia, good luck). The view? Unreal. The wind? Dicey, shaking the top like a threat. The twist: No one died. Apparently, native tribes built similar, albeit much smaller, arches to help them cross rivers. Makes sense, though I have no idea how that worked exactly.

Next? Chasing ducks all around—I did it for content. Then I meditated for ten minutes on the grass, pretending I was Zen while Roy filmed me like a dork. Roy’s pick was next: The City Museum—a riot. Bus off a ledge, wrecked plane, giant pencil (a real one), rooftop Ferris wheel. Four hours of us acting like overgrown kids next to actual brats.

Hunger called, and we got a yummy—budget-friendly—Chipotle to fuel up. Chicago was next: frozen lake (I hoped), Michael Jordan, and Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight vibes fueling me.

Left St. Louis around 7:30 PM, hoping to hit the Old Route 66 Museum in Pontiac, Illinois—since, you know, the whole point of the trip was Route 66. But, as expected, we arrived at 9:30 PM—long after closing. Still, we smoked a joint and snapped some pictures through the windows.

This time, Roy booked an Airbnb. We arrived, only to find it locked. No one answered the number on the reservation—another Albuquerque situation? But just before we gave up, I thought—maybe, just maybe—we should check the instructions.

Turns out, the email explicitly mentioned where the key was, how to get inside, and even where to leave it when checking out. Who could’ve guessed, right? Silly geese, that’s what we are. In our defense, long drives and a little bit of smoking don’t exactly sharpen the mind.

Speaking of mindless things—I had an inflatable for a passenger. Roy, if you’re reading this, “I’m sorry.” But also, not really.

Parking’s hell in major cities. I found a spot via SpotAngels—40-minute trek, legs screaming.

Roy was tired, but I was too excited—our only night in Chicago. I insisted we go out, and boom, we hopped on the L-train at night. A homeless guy hassled us—pepper spray ready. After a staring contest, he dipped. Chicago Theatre pics, Lincoln statue on a bridge, Rosati’s deep-dish—that’s another 6.4, but this wasn’t vegan, so take it as you wish. Roy’s half-asleep, I’m still wired, but tomorrow’s a big day, so I called an Uber.

Day 7: Chicago—Peanut-Shaped Balls, The USA’s Best Skyline, and The Ledge of Shame

8 AM, car runs—shooting article spooks us. Downtown bloodbath two nights back, dodged a bullet, literally—we’re on a streak. Circled around hoping for free parking, but ended up paying $40 for the whole day.

We got a CityPass for three attractions. First stop: Shedd Aquarium. We walked past Lake Michigan—not frozen, sadly. Getting in felt like entering an embassy—belts off, pockets emptied, the usual anti-terrorism drill (I was ready to pull my pants down; whatever the laws say). Inside: fish—wow, really—penguins, and a lame seal show nowhere near a YouTube highlight reel—Roy napped through it.

Phones were dying, and it turned out we left the power bank in the car. Luckily, Chicago has ChargeBar kiosks, so we rented one. Next stop: North Pier for the boat tour. Skyline slaps—way better than New York (fight me, I don’t care). The guide’s jokes? Hit or miss—some good ones, but I hope he has better material for his stand-up sets.

After the boat trip, we walked to Willis Tower. The wind picked up fast—chills still haunt me. Sorry, Kansas, I take back my “windy city” claim—Chicago, you win. (Sincerely, Ivaniel’s peanut-shaped balls.) On the way, we passed through Millennium Park because I had to see The Bean.

Before that, we found a free climbing wall—pretty cool. To reach The Bean, we crossed a bridge over Columbus Drive shaped like a snake, with an actual head and tail at each end. Amazing skyline views. Selfies and endless pics later, we made our way to the notorious Skydeck, catching a breathtaking sunset through Maison Street—more pics, obviously.

Willis Tower: once the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere. We checked in and shot up 103 floors. I was about to make a one hell of a memory—wait for it.

It wasn’t dark yet, but there was a 24-minute wait for The Ledge—a glass box jutting out of the building, clear view straight down. The closer we got, the sweatier my hands, the shakier my legs. Now, I once jumped from 8,000 ft (2,400 m), and I didn’t feel this scared. Granted, I had no choice—if you saw the video, you might argue I actually was—but at least I was strapped to a guy who jumps for a living. This time, all on me.

Our turn. I froze. Couldn’t step inside. Roy? No problem. I took tons of pics of him—almost dropped his phone. He called me a bitch—rightfully so—and kept chanting, “Ivo the bitch” until we left the building.

Food time. Gyros in the Greek neighborhood—not like Greece (never been, but still), definitely not like Bulgaria; Americanized if I can put it that way. Still hungry, so I had to try Chicago’s famous hot dogs. Portillo’s—meh. Ketchup’s a sin here; locals glared like I’d insulted their moms. Roy skipped this one—it wasn’t halal.

Before getting to the car, I stopped at Taco Bell for four coffees—two hot, two cold cinnamon—for the haul. Not our usual night-end—except for the smoking.

Day 8: Chicago to Ocean City—15-Hour Drive? More Like Forever

11 PM in Chicago, no sleep—straight shot to Ocean City. 876 miles (1,410 km) = 15 hours, right? Wrong. More like 22 with stops—an ultramarathon of pain. Roy was already somniloquizing as we passed Fort Wayne. Three hours later, three—not-so-hot—coffees deep, we rolled past Cleveland, hitting the Pennsylvanian roads—trees galore, déjà vu of Bulgaria’s backroads.

Around 10 AM, I decided to nap and saved one of the coffees for later. God knows exactly where, but I pulled up at a Carl’s Jr. Nap failed—squirmed like a worm, just like back on Day 2 at the Grand Canyon. Two and a half hours later, I gave up, stretched my legs, and drove to the nearest Panda Express—craving orange chicken for a while now.

From there, just the beautiful Amish stench in Lancaster—scenic but pungent. Delaware by 4 PM, sunset pics, and finally, Ocean City at 8 PM—third summer in a row, Roy’s second. Until that very moment, I had no clue where I’d be crashing. Luckily, my house turned out to be a minute’s walk from the job—excitement soured by dread.

That’s a Wrap—For Now

Budget trashed—give or take a hundred more. We stayed at the cheapies: Holiday Inn Express, Motel 6, Super 8, America’s Best Value Inn, Microtel Inn & Suites—worth the scars or the bedbug bites (just kidding). The Camry did the job better than expected.

If you’re in the U.S. or planning to visit, a road trip is a must. For double the price of an East Coast to West Coast plane ticket, you can get an unforgettable adventure on the road. Don’t have a car? Plenty of budget rental options—though that reminds me how I screwed up on the next trip because I didn’t rent. Anyway, America’s a beast—experience it however you can.

Stay tuned for next week’s blog: Once Upon a Time in America… Pt. 2.

Lyra had meltdown after meltdown, Roy was on the verge of bailing in New Orleans, and I was as calm as an active—but long overdue—volcano. Stick around if you’re masochistic or sadistic—there’ll be plenty of both.

Thanks for being part of the journey,
Ivaniel Georgiev