Welcome to this week’s edition—and the sequel to Once Upon a Time in America… Pt. 1. Today, I’ll take you through the long, eventful trip that Lyra, Roy, and I embarked on in late summer 2023. Turns out, it wasn’t 22 or 19 days, as I previously said. After trying to solve the puzzle, the journey had 21 pieces. After much trimming, it’s still a plentiful ride, so fasten your seatbelts.
There were adventures, of course, but also arguments—plenty of them. Mostly between Lyra and me, though Roy and I had our moments too. Lyra and I have known each other for as long as I can remember, and while we’ve always gotten along, something about this summer felt different. Was it just our opposing views on life? Or were we already shaping our own versions of adulthood, quietly leaving parts of our childhood dynamic behind?
I hadn’t seen her in almost two years, and I was genuinely looking forward to her arrival in the States. I told her to pack up and come work here for the summer—it’d be good for her, both financially and mentally, especially after her long relationship ended. But what I didn’t expect… was just how much our friendship would be tested.
Meanwhile, Roy and I had our own mission: raise money to fund the creative projects that had brought us to America in the first place. We had microphones ready, and the “Hope Show” was set to launch. The idea was simple: roam the streets, talk to people about their dreams, ask what they were willing to sacrifice for success—and reflect on those conversations through our podcast. It was meant to be raw, honest, and a mirror to what people truly hoped for.
But reality hit hard. We barely made any money, and we didn’t improve much in the socializing or connection-building department. I spent most of the summer in constant arguments with Lyra, while Roy drifted off—focused only on his own goals, unwilling to be tied down by bosses, distractions, or anything that didn’t fit his vision. Lyra, on the other hand, was chasing love in every direction—every age—convinced she deserved it and that it would come, no matter the cost—even trying to get into something with a billionaire.
As summer wound down, one thing became clear: I needed a car. I had given my Camry to Roy, who crashed it not long after his birthday and couldn’t get it fixed before our departure. My dad suggested renting a car for our upcoming cross-country trip, but I figured I’d be better off buying one. Long-term, it made more sense. That, in hindsight, was one of the worst financial decisions I’ve ever made—but more on that later.
Long story short: I bought a 2016 Chrysler Town & Country with 158,000 miles (254,276 km) on it. Not perfect, but it was the best I could find under pressure. And just like that, after a summer full of lessons, fights, and setbacks, the night of October 1st arrived—my final shift after three summers at M.R. Ducks.
When I got home, it was time to load the car. I handled most of it myself—not because I thought Roy was incompetent, but because, like my dad, I’m a pedant. I’d rather do it right than fix someone else’s mess. After about an hour and a half of real-life Tetris, the Chrysler was stuffed with luggage—close to 1000 pounds (450 kg).
Then, at 12:30 AM on October 2nd, we hit the road. First stop: Orlando. The beginning of a 21-day journey across the vast landscape of America.
Before we dive into the miles and memories, I highly recommend checking out Once Upon a Time in America… Pt. 1. It lays the foundation for everything that follows. And in case you missed last week’s edition—or are new to the blog—check out: Money, Friendship, and How Being of Service is Harmful…
Day 1 — The Great Honeymoon Has Started
Only 894 miles (1,457 km) stood between us and Orlando. But before we could hit the highway, we had to deal with a minor issue: the car’s tire pressure warning light was on. The first two gas stations we stopped at had broken air pumps—or maybe we were just too dumb to figure them out. Finally, at a third station just outside Berlin, Maryland, we got everything sorted. By 1 AM, we were officially on the road—full throttle.
Unlike our last road trip in spring 2023, I wasn’t the only driver this time. Roy had his license and some experience—one accident included—and Lyra had been driving for years. Still, I trusted her skills less than Roy’s. And no, I’m not a sexist. I just know what I’ve seen. Since I trusted myself the most—and it was my car—I took the first shift.
No one takes care of your stuff the way you do—if you hadn’t known.
Not long after, we crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel—17.6 miles (28.3 km) of endless water beneath us. Later, Lyra took over while I crashed in the backseat, half-praying I’d wake up alive. Hours later, I did—just as we were pulling into Jekyll Island, Georgia.
More specifically: Driftwood Beach. The place was surreal—twisted trees, harsh wind, and endless photo ops. Lyra, of course, wasn’t happy with how any of her photos turned out, despite taking twice as many as Roy and I combined. Meanwhile, Roy needed exactly five photos.
Driftwood Beach exists because of relentless natural forces. Erosion from the Brunswick River and St. Simons Sound has slowly pushed the shoreline inland, toppling trees along the way. Over time, saltwater seeps into the soil, killing the oaks and pines before erosion uproots them. The result? A ghostly forest of skeletal trees—definitely worth a visit if you’re ever nearby.
Three and a half hours later—with Roy behind the wheel—we finally rolled into Orlando around 9 PM. This time, we stayed in a better located hotels, thanks to Lyra’s summer job with Hilton—her employee discount came through clutch.
The first argument of the trip happened in the parking lot.
I had told Lyra before we left to pack a smaller suitcase with just the essentials. That way, she wouldn’t have to dig through her entire wardrobe every night. Naturally, she didn’t listen. The moment we arrived, she started rummaging through multiple suitcases, bags, and what felt like an entire moving truck’s worth of stuff—ruining my carefully arranged Tetris-style car pack within one night (women’ll wreck you every time).
After wasting an hour debating whether or not to go out, we finally stepped into downtown Orlando—only to find it completely dead. Maybe five people on the street, and a single bar with ten sad-happy souls inside. We got rained on, waited out the storm, then called it a night.
Tomorrow was Universal. But before sleep, there was one problem: our hotel room only had one queen bed. Lyra didn’t want to sleep next to Roy for whatever reason. I jokingly suggested she take the couch. She snapped at me. Another argument sparked. Eventually, after long, continuous puffs from Roy’s weed pen, our lungs gave out before our brains did.
Day 2 — Universal? More Like Lyraversal
Turns out Roy and I both woke up on the couch. I’m telling you, Lyra and I had a couple’s spat—without actually being in a couple. All of us showered—not together (otherwise we’d probably start arguing over what parts to scrub and how)—, and headed to Universal Resort.
The moment we arrived, music from Despicable Me blared at the entrance. From the get-go, we could barely figure out which direction to go. Lyra wanted to be in control—not just to be heard, but to be obeyed. I was this close to leaving her there to figure it all out while Roy and I filmed what we had planned. She was like a broken radio on full volume.
Still, I didn’t think it was fair to ditch her so early into the trip. So I compromised and let her lead the parade.
First stop: the studio version of Los Angeles. There, we entered a theater dedicated to the Jason Bourne series. It felt more like an opera than an amusement park show—no live actors speaking lines, just perfectly synchronized playback paired with shifting 3D set pieces. We were watching a live movie unfold in real time. Honestly? Impressive.
We hit a few more attractions, but the one that stuck with me most was Springfield: Home of the Simpsons. Not much of a ride—just a screen simulating a roller coaster, with a queue that felt longer than the show’s running seasons. On the way out, there were those weird carnival mirrors that mess with your body image.
Next came the World Expo. We were supposed to see something related to Men in Black, but it was closed. Still, we got to see the replica of the abandoned World’s Fair site in Queens, New York—from the outside, though.
Then came the big one: the Harry Potter universe. Hogwarts Express. King’s Cross Station. This time, I managed not to get a concussion trying to run through Platform 9¾ like I did in London. We queued for some roller coaster I’ve already forgotten the name of—twice as long a line as in Springfield—and passed these creepy goblins along the way. A massive dragon loomed over the street from atop a building. Every time Lyra asked a dumb question, I couldn’t help but shout: Expelliarmus.
After that, we strolled into San Francisco—Universal’s tribute to the Bay Area’s most iconic city. A bunch of fast cars and even faster tempers, because, of course, there was a Fast & Furious ride. I mean, when does that franchise end? 20? 30? Maybe my kids’ grandkids will get another sequel. At this point, it’s just a cash printer with NOS.
New York was next. As Frank Sinatra said—it was extraordinary. Though, to be fair, he said that in a love song. The Transformers exhibit was closed, which I didn’t mind… unless it had featured Megan Fox. Then I’d be mad. But hey, I had Lyra by my side. She’s a fox too—just not as hot and twice the brat—but I don’t know the ral Megan Fox (poor MGK).
The Jimmy Fallon Show attraction was cool, though. I felt like a real New Yorker—the world starts at Wall Street, ends at Central Park, and maybe, just maybe you venture out east… only to admire Manhattan.
Then came Revenge of the Mummy—hands down my favorite roller coaster of the day. Even the queue was awesome, packed with props and artifacts from the movies. Downside? If I thought Hogwarts had a long line, this one was even worse—and it wasn’t even the busy season.
Afterward, I wanted to ride Rip Ride Rockit, but neither of them wanted to join. Pissed off, I went alone. For a second, I thought some cool girl was sitting next to me—turns out she was underage. I said something to her—not even remotely inappropriate—but regretted it instantly. The moment the ride ended, she ran straight to her family sitting in front of us.
Great. I always pick the wrong ones. Some are legally off-limits. Most don’t know what they want. And none of them care about my stories.
When I got off, I realized I had left my phone with Roy and Lyra. So there I was, high and phoneless, wandering in circles around Universal’s version of New York. And somehow, somehow, I couldn’t spot them. It was like Trainspotting—except I was searching for one frustrated woman who didn’t know why, and one confused Asian guy just staring at her.
Forty minutes later, I finally found them near Despicable Me Minion Mayhem—our last stop before leaving. And it was garbage. I suggested skipping it, Roy agreed, but of course, Lyra refused. So we waited another 30 minutes while she berated me for “abandoning” them and wasting their time.
And then—oh, the poetic justice—a voice from the speakers announced: “The exhibit is closed for the day.” I don’t even remember the rest of the message. I was too busy relishing the way the Universe at Universal had just clapped back at Lyra’s tantrum.
Guess how she reacted?
We grabbed Panda Express before heading out, but even my joy was crushed by Lyra’s continued ranting. I won’t forget that meal. I can still feel chunks of Kung Pao Chicken and Beijing Beef stuck in my throat. Roy and I were silently eating, while Lyra kept pouring out her special brand of love language. I wasn’t really happy—but I’ll admit, her rage lit a little fire in my soul.
Roy just sat there watching. I could feel his thoughts: What a mistake it was to bring Lyra on this trip. And it was only Day 2.
By 8 PM, we left Universal. Four hours to Miami, where we’d spend Days 3 and 4. I nearly pissed myself just before we found our hotel. Had to jump out of the car and relieve myself in the bushes outside some building—normally, I don’t do that (well… not every day). We parked, went up to the room—two beds this time—and I laid out the plan for the next two days in the city.
Day 3—Dazzling Hot Arguments and The Art of Opinions
As you can guess, the day in Miami started outrageously. I suggested we get a CityPass for the next two days, since Lyra had mentioned wanting to visit the zoo the night before. Turns out, there’s no CityPass for Miami. After a quick search of top zoos in the U.S., I told her to wait for San Antonio or Denver—both already on our route, and ranked way higher.
Of course, she didn’t agree with me deciding what we should do. I made it clear: I wasn’t going to a zoo in Miami. If anything, an aquarium made more sense—we were by the ocean. But no, according to her, “London had the best one, and she had already been there, so there’s no point doing that here.”
Cool. So what was the point of her even suggesting anything?
We left the hotel and headed to Maurice A. Ferré Park. We had a great view of a Virgin cruise ship at the far end. Roy barely took a picture—meanwhile, I had ideas. Lyra, naturally, took the most photos out of all of us, yet still complained she didn’t like any. Then she insisted on picking a museum and dragged us toward this playground with weird animal statues.
At that moment, I flat-out told her I wasn’t listening to her anymore. I had a plan, and we were going to follow it.
Maybe I was being dismissive. Maybe I was done with the attention games. Either way, our arguing escalated. I finally snapped: “Sort yourself out.” I turned to Roy and asked if he was coming with me. He hesitated—didn’t want us to split—but the second I walked toward the subway, he followed. Can’t blame him. Dealing with Lyra’s tantrum wasn’t exactly his dream vacation.
By the time she realized we were gone, we were already on the train heading to the Miami Design District. Then she started calling. I ignored it, but Roy picked up. The moment she started yelling in Bulgarian, he handed the phone over like it was a ticking bomb.
I told her we’d wait at the station. If she wanted to come, fine. If not, even better.
She had no other choice.
Forty minutes later, she showed up. And the second she stepped off the subway, it began: “Who are you to talk to me like that? Who do you think you are?” I tuned her out and focused on finding an art gallery. She kept ranting while I was looking at street signs.
We wandered through overpriced designer stores, barely glancing inside—why pay Tom Ford prices when you can Alibaba the same thing for a tenth of the cost? (that’s a Bulgarian cultural joke, for the record).
Eventually, we found the Institute of Contemporary Art—a three-story gallery with free admission. We explored separately since our interests didn’t align. I took my time, reading descriptions and trying to understand the abstract pieces with imagination and curiosity. Lyra blitzed through the floors in under an hour and deemed the whole place meh. Classic.
My opinion? Totally worth it.
By then, it was around 5 PM, and we debated our next move. The beach was out—we’d have to go back, change, and by then the sun would be gone. I already had tickets for E11EVEN, so I suggested checking out more art installations.
That’s how we ended up at Jungle Plaza, where we saw an insane Brazilian-themed mural, a giant blue man-with-no-legs, and a blister-covered igloo-looking structure. Weird, wonderful stuff… but my grandmother, who spent her youth working from dawn to dusk, would have shrugged it off as lazy.
Just when I thought I had salvaged the day, Lyra demanded we go back to the park—for those same stupid animal statues. I thought it was ridiculous, but fine—we went. Ironically, Roy and I ended up having more fun than she did. This time, I took the most photos. Roy, as usual, stayed camera-shy.
Then we went back to the room, and my plan went straight down the toilet. Lyra wouldn’t stop—how I’d ruined her day. Ruined her vacation. How she didn’t know if she’d ever come back to Miami, and now it was all wasted because of me.
That was it. I’d had enough. I told them I wasn’t going anywhere else that night. Roy tried to talk me out of it, but I stood firm: I wasn’t spending another minute with Lyra. Didn’t care that I was in Miami. Didn’t care about the nightlife.
I went to bed.
Day 4—America’s BBL Capital and The Invisible Alligators
The day started well—peace and quiet. Then I had to wake up Roy and Lyra, but she refused to move. We didn’t have time to waste, so after another 20 minutes, I told her she had two options: get up or get on a plane to LA and wait for us there.
As soon as she was conscious, she started bragging about how much I’d missed last night—and how I’d regret it forever. According to her, Roy had “gotten good” with one of the dancers—or maybe a couple—who wiped the tears from his sad almond-shaped eyes with their fake-but-soft silicone-infused balloons. I’ll admit, I did regret not going. But with her there, it would’ve felt like a kid’s birthday party I never asked to attend—standing in line while clowns twisted balloons into… interesting shapes. Preferably female clowns.
We checked out five minutes before the final deadline and headed to the dock for our boat tour around Miami—and it was awesome. Star Island, North Bay Road, La Gorce Island, Fisher Island—we saw the mansions of Jackie Chan, Shaq, J.Lo, Shakira, Floyd Mayweather Jr., and more. The skyline, Biscayne Bay, the Port of Miami—it was all stunning. I loved it. Roy did too. Lyra? Not so much.
After the tour, I wanted to grab a few photos outside the Miami Heat arena—I’ve been a fan since I was a kid. But Lyra insisted we go to the museum she’d picked yesterday. Another argument broke out, and it felt like an episode of Judge Judy. Lyra was the feminist prosecutor, I was the accused, and Roy played Judge Judy—except he lit a cigarette and took a break. In the end, I gave in but made it clear we couldn’t waste too much time. We had a long drive to Tampa ahead of us and plans for the night.
Of course, we didn’t rush. But credit where it’s due: the museum—Pérez Art Museum Miami—was actually incredible (and no, nothing to do with Emilia Pérez). Lyra breezed through it in 30 minutes while I was just warming up. I tried to hurry, but there were too many striking installations to skip. We ended up staying for two hours.
Oh—and I almost forgot—we’d also planned to see alligators in Miami. I told Lyra it was too late and that we’d catch them in Florida, Louisiana, or even southeast Texas. But no. She insisted: “It has to be Florida, or I’m not going anywhere.” Fine. Roy bought tickets for Gator Park—one of the top-rated spots, about 30 miles (48 km) away. I warned them we might not make it in time because of traffic.
We arrived at 5:07 PM—seven minutes after closing. No refunds. We lost nearly $100.
Lyra, predictably, was crushed. But there was nothing we could do—still she was talking non-stop from the backseat. We drove for over three hours and made it to Tampa around 9 PM. I’d ordered food on the way, and it showed up just after we checked in. We ate, I showered, and when I came out, they were already in bed. I told them to get up—we had a night to enjoy. They refused. It seemed like a payback for last night—fine.
Even if they didn’t want to, I went out. I walked nearly two hours from our hotel to downtown. I stopped at a few bars—tried the bar-hopping thing solo—but none stood out. At the last one, I was dancing with some girls when two guys started pressing into me—not because the girls were their girlfriends, but more likely because they were their girlfriends. Proudly, I left—standing by my words that I wasn’t gay—and decided it wasn’t going to be a party night.
Still, I got to explore Tampa. And here’s the weird part. I made my way to Curtis Hixon Waterfront Park, then followed the Tampa Riverwalk. At 10:30 PM, not a single soul in sight. This so-called college town was silent. Not even five cars passed. It felt surreal—but oddly peaceful. I recharged in that solitude, enjoying my lonely-but-not-so-lonely walk—mostly because Lyra wasn’t there (and trust me, I love her from the bottom of my heart, but she can be such a bitch).
I was at the corner of Whiting St and Tampa St when I heard what sounded like a gunshot coming from the park. Just ten minutes earlier, I’d walked through it, and it had been dead quiet. Suddenly, chaos? I picked up the pace and headed toward One Tampa City Center. I tried to grab an electric bike, but for some reason, none of them worked.
So, I kept walking toward the 7th Street bar area—there was no way I’d make it all the way back on foot. While waiting for an Uber, a group of students passed by and paused when they saw me. One of them handed me a small rock—which I still keep. Three guys, two girls—looked like a 2+2=4 situation. So, what was the other guy doing there? Maybe they were out looking for me—again? C’mon.
They lit a joint and invited me to a party. Honestly, I would’ve gone just for the adventure, even without knowing where I was headed—that sounded wrong. But I told them I was traveling with a group, and like them earlier, I didn’t want to mess up tomorrow’s plans. Plus, my Uber was already en route.
Day 5—No Tom Brady, but We Podcasted Next to The River, Baby
Day number 5 started, and shortly after waking up, Lyra demanded to know the plan. I explained it to her in detail, and she literally said, “It’s a crappy plan.” However, after I showed her some photos, she decided there might actually be something worth seeing. We parked the car for the day at Channelside Bay Plaza. Somewhere around there, we spotted the big red “Tampa” sign—which, naturally, I climbed on for a few photos. Lyra and Roy were hungry, so we sat down for a quick bite on some interactive stairs—it felt a bit like an outdoor college dorm.
It was about 10:30 AM, and she immediately started complaining about the heat, saying she had no interest in going anywhere. I told her Roy and I had a job to do—we needed to shoot some content—and since I’d already explored downtown Tampa the night before, I knew exactly where to take him without wasting time. The walk to the Riverwalk was only 20 minutes, but in that time, I heard at least 10 complaints about how uninteresting Tampa seemed. When we arrived at the park just before the boardwalk, she flat-out refused to keep walking and asked for the car keys.
So, Roy and I let her do whatever she wanted and continued with our photos and videos. We recorded a sort of podcast sitting right next to the Riverwalk, did a few photoshoots in the park, and captured additional footage about the trip and what lay ahead. Eventually, at the far end of the Riverwalk, we found Lyra sitting on a bench—coincidentally, the exact spot where I’d heard those eerie sounds the night before.
By then, it was around 3 PM, and she insisted we find a place to see alligators. I explained that our last stop for the day was a Thai-Tibetan temple, and we needed to get there before sunset to catch some good footage. That immediately got her attention, and I promised she’d get her gators soon enough—our next destination was New Orleans, home to more swamps and alligators than she could dream of.
When we arrived at the temple, it was more than stunning. Even Lyra was momentarily speechless as she stepped onto the temple grounds. Trees, flowers, cats, breathtaking scenery, and an overwhelming sense of harmony—no city noise, no car horns, just the whisper of the wind. We spent nearly two hours there, capturing incredible footage and photos, until the rain forced us to leave.
And so, a little after 7 PM, we set off for New Orleans. That marked the end of Day 5 and the beginning of Day 6—starting in the car as we embarked on an 11-hour overnight drive covering 656 miles (1,056 km). This is where the whole trip almost bit the dust—Roy wanted to bail and fly to LA, Lyra got possessed by some spirit (welcome to New Orleans), and I started thinking that becoming gator food wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
Day 6—System Overload, System Overload…
This was the first day we hadn’t slept near a downtown area. As we approached the hotel in the early morning light, I kept wondering how the day would unfold—especially since I had promised Lyra we’d see alligators without fail. For Roy, it didn’t really matter—he’s basically Jim Carrey from Yes Man. I told him to book an alligator sightseeing tour for 9 AM. We pulled into the hotel just before 6.
The moment Lyra woke up, her voice blared like a car alarm—no theft, just pure chaos. I call her ‘Mother Nature’ because, like nature, she’s an unstoppable force once she gets going. What followed felt like a 15-minute parody of Scent Of a Woman—if the prosecutor were a woman, blind in more ways than one, and armed with arguments so loud they drowned out the fact that none of them made sense.
Roy eventually walked off to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes rather than endure another second. Lyra refused to check into the hotel—the reservation was in her name—, so we had no choice but to wait her out. I’d wanted to surprise her, but the surprise had backfired spectacularly. After another 10 minutes, we gave up and just sucked whatever THC we could from our cartridges.
Roy, still fuming, said he wouldn’t tolerate another fight like that and threatened to fly to LA and wait for us there. I promised I’d try to keep things normal and got back in the car, waiting for Lyra’s storm to pass. Eventually, I promised she could plan the rest of the day—as long as we did the alligator tour first. We only had one night in New Orleans, and if we wanted to really experience the city, we had to stick to a schedule.
After another 10 minutes of reluctant —and insencere—apologies, she finally agreed—though not without reminding me that she was “not to be trifled with.” I held my ground. Someone had to make the decisions—and it had to be either the most competent one, or the one most willing to suffer the consequences—which almost started another argument.
You decide who’s who.
We managed about two hours of sleep before heading to Ragin Cajun Airboat Tours. At 9:30 AM, we set off through the marshes. We saw a grand total of two, maybe three, alligators—barely peeking above the water. Roy and I, running on little sleep, still managed to make the whole thing hilarious, while Lyra reminded us that Florida’s gators must’ve been bigger and cooler.
After the tour, we went back to the hotel to rest. Lyra woke me up around 3 PM—Roy was already up but had declared a personal day from traveling. In hindsight, he missed out—this turned out to be one of the best days of the trip. And, surprisingly, one of the most restful.
Lyra had booked a guided tour of the city, focused on its connection to death and the paranormal. The guide reminded me of Mark Normand—New Orleans-infused humor. We saw the first-ever pharmacy in the U.S., the house where Interview with the Vampire was filmed, the infamous LaLaurie Mansion—where a slave set fire to the house in hopes of rescue from the notoriously cruel Madame LaLaurie—and even the home Napoleon was supposed to retire to (he never made it to America).
New Orleans is one of the few U.S. cities where you can drink openly on the streets—aside from Las Vegas, and even there it’s mostly just the French Quarter. The city was buzzing. At one point, we stumbled upon a live wedding procession, complete with a roaming band. We chased after them like kids, enchanted by the moment. For the first time in days, Lyra was just having fun. Maybe she was a little bored here and there—but at least she wasn’t full-on grumpy 7/11.
Roy’s absence was noticeable, but strangely, we weren’t arguing. We were just walking, taking pictures, enjoying the moment. I got hungry and grabbed some food, ordering extra for Lyra. She wasn’t particularly hungry but took a bite anyway when she realized I’d thought of her. We tried beignets (in Bulgaria, we call them “fritters”) and Shrimp & Grits Bites—fried grits topped with steamed shrimp, crispy onions, and gravy.
Before heading back, we stopped by the riverfront just past Jackson Square. From there, we had a breathtaking view of the 18th-century St. Louis Cathedral, the Mississippi River, the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center, and the Greater New Orleans Bridge. The city was still warm, even as the sun dipped behind the skyline.
Neon lights flickered on as we made our way to Bourbon St. For a Wednesday, the city was wild. Forget Miami—New Orleans was in a league of its own. If it weren’t for the flooding, the tornadoes—and the crazy naked women—I could genuinely see myself living there. More Booze, more nudity and packed bars with live jazz—it’s the ultimate playground for bachelor and bachelorette parties. Honestly, they should’ve filmed at least one Hangover movie here.
Eventually, we made our way to Canal St and hopped on a tram back to the hotel. It didn’t drop us off exactly where we wanted, but close enough. When we got in, Roy was glued to his phone. I told Roy about our day, he barely reacted. Apparently, nothing we experienced could compete with the peace and quiet of taking a break from us.
Just as I told him Lyra and I hadn’t argued once, he stared at me—waiting for the punchline. Before we even fell asleep, Lyra was already complaining about the tour she’d booked, insisting it could’ve been better.
See? The problem isn’t me.
Day 7—Here For a Short and a Good Time… No Gang Violence
We checked out just before the deadline. Ahead of us was a six-hour drive to Houston, Texas. Lyra had picked a great hotel—not too far from downtown. Once we had settled in, we headed out to explore the city for the evening.
One of Lyra’s finds was a parking lot completely covered in murals. It was great… until a group of cars rolled in out of nowhere. A whole crew of people stepped out—definitely gang members, or at least that’s how it felt in the moment.
We had no business being there.
I suggested we leave—slowly, without drawing attention. Pictures are nice, but I had no intention of ending the night in a hospital… if we even made it there.
Downtown was very much alive—more murals stretched up the sides of tall apartment buildings, music blasted from somewhere around every corner, and cars revved like they were coming out of a Monster Truck show. Mufflers roared. Suspensions bounced. There were mounted police everywhere—more than I’d ever seen in a major city, like they knew something we didn’t. Felt like GTA’s Houston edition.
We wandered into what I believe was Main Street Square, where an art installation lit up the plaza. It was the kind of setup that made you feel like you were walking through a futuristic postcard. We took plenty of pictures—though Lyra, as usual, wasn’t happy with how she looked in any of them.
Before heading back to the hotel, we grabbed something to eat. Not far from where we stayed, some kind of underground party was going off—literally, bass shaking the walls. Lyra wanted to check it out. I suggested we get some proper sleep instead. Tomorrow was NASA Day—we planned to spend most of it at the Houston Space Center.
She wasn’t thrilled about skipping the party, so she made the most of the hotel pool—without us.
Day 8—Neil Armstrong Scammed Us and Roy Almost Stole a Rock From The Moon
“Houston, we’ve got a problem.” That’s how Day 8 started—though thankfully, not because of any real crisis (not yet). We drove to NASA’s Johnson Space Center, where we ended up spending about six hours. The main hall alone kept us occupied the longest. There was just so much to see, but what stuck with me most was a sculpture of levitating astronauts—suspended mid-drift, frozen in space.
Honestly, there’s too much to cover here—if you ever get the chance, just go. My only real regret? We didn’t get to squeeze a moon rock. Not for lack of trying—Roy was dangerously close to making that headline a reality. The rocks on display were easily worth $10 million a pop. That’s one way to end a road trip—or begin another one. Next was the Mars and lunar exploration exhibit. I didn’t exactly feel like Matt Damon in The Martian, but it was still weirdly immersive.
A little later, we sat through a 20-minute reenactment of the day Neil Armstrong supposedly stepped onto the moon—complete with original audio transmissions between the crew and Mission Control (if that even happened). After that came Independence Plaza—a massive three-story museum built inside a replica space shuttle, mounted on one of the two original Shuttle Carrier Aircraft. We capped it all off at Rocket Park, home to one of the last three Saturn V rockets on Earth. It was absurdly huge—363 feet tall (110m), weighing in at nearly 3,000 tons. Seeing it in person made you question the entire concept of gravity.
Lyra had finished her NASA tour at least an hour before us. On the way out—or maybe even on the way in, I can’t remember—we passed a herd of cows. Not just any cows—Texas cows. Big, horned, logo-grade cows. The kind that look like they were designed for a state flag. Good thing I wasn’t wearing red. The heat, by the way, was unbearable—the car felt like a microwave. In October.
Next stop: San Antonio, Military City, USA. It was the shortest drive between cities on our trip—just 197 miles (317 km). Still, getting out of Houston took over an hour. It felt like leaving Earth’s orbit in slow motion. The highway was a full 26 lanes wide, and even going 80 mph (130 km/h), it took forever to clear the city. Driving through Houston felt like a rollercoaster designed by urban planners with a vendetta against sanity—twists, sudden stops, brutal merges. A city-sized adrenaline rush.
We reached San Antonio around 8 PM. I suggested we grab food, so I ordered in. Lyra stayed back at the hotel with a headache, so Roy and I headed out to explore. San Antonio by night? Breathtaking. We walked along the River Walk, a narrow, winding trail along the water, with trees wrapped in vibrant, multicolored lights—it felt like walking through a dream. Only downside? A mysterious smell hung in the air. Could’ve been the river… or maybe it was us.
We stopped at the San Fernando Cathedral, lit from all sides like something out of a Renaissance painting. The photos we took? Pretty sure they were incredible. Up to this point, I thought California had the strongest Mexican influence in the U.S.—but San Antonio felt more Mexican than American. The architecture, the colors, the energy—the language. The only thing keeping it in the U.S. was a line on a map and a Constitution that said so.
We got back a little after midnight. Every step was worth it.
Day 9—The Alamo, the Rainstorm, and The Peace Amidst Chaos
Our ninth day started early. The night before, Roy and I had bought the Big CityPass for San Antonio, which made it easy to hit multiple attractions in one go. We left the car at the hotel and set off on foot toward our first stop: the Tower of the Americas—a 750 ft (229 m) observation tower with a restaurant and café at the top.
The wildest part? At the top of the ceiling, there were openings for the wind to rip through. I nearly got blown off, but Roy grabbed my arm. Find someone who holds you like Roy held me.
Next to the tower, there was a striking photo exhibit and a sculpture of angel wings. I never looked up what they were supposed to mean—figured I’d define it for myself (isn’t that kind of the point of art anyway?). Later, I found out similar wings exist in cities all over the world made by Jorge Marín.
From there, we made our way to The Alamo, where we saw artifacts from the famous battle—interesting, if a little underwhelming. Then came a short, serene riverboat ride—35 minutes on an eco-friendly electric boat, drifting through downtown on the San Antonio River. Easily the calmest boat ride of the trip. Lyra, of course, wasn’t impressed.
By noon, we were starving. After much indecision, we ended up eating at the one place I least wanted to—but I went with it. When in Texas, eat steak, right? I ordered a Tex-Mex-style cut, but it was forgettable. On the walk back along the river, I fed the leftover potatoes to some cowboy-minded Texas ducks. After that, a pass through the Calvera collection—featuring over 40 giant skulls intricately hand-painted by San Antonio artists.
Then we picked up the car and continued with our CityPass checklist. The Witte Museum was next—an impressive journey through Texas history and nature, from prehistoric bones to modern tech. Texas culture is a living tapestry: part cowboy legacy, part Mexican soul, stitched together with Southern charm.
Our last official CityPass stop was the San Antonio Botanical Garden, but I had found something even better before that—a Japanese Tea Garden right next to the zoo (and the zoo had free admission that day).
We parked near the zoo, but as soon as we stepped out, a light drizzle started. Lyra, still feeling off from the night before, didn’t want to risk it, so she went back to the car. Roy and I pressed on. We explored most of the zoo—until we got kicked out (again). I saw a giraffe, a rhino, and an elephant for the first time. The rain wasn’t too bad—until it was. Roy asked where the car was, and I pointed toward the Tea Garden.
Might as well check it out—we were already soaked. “Lyra could pick us up from there”, I said.
The garden was completely worth it. Roy found shelter and called Lyra to come get us, while I wandered through the park, completely mesmerized. It felt like stepping into another world. Stone bridges, lush trees, koi ponds, carefully designed paths… all radiating a peaceful, unmistakable Japanese essence.
I was in Texas, just an hour and a half from Mexico… and yet I felt like I had landed in Kyoto —art is powerful, isn’t it?
After about 20 minutes of getting lost in it, Roy waved at me from the top of a hill—Lyra was on her way. Maybe I overreacted by ignoring him, but it felt like a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Roy, to his credit, got it. He may shake his head a lot, but he gets me in ways Lyra never tries to.
And then came Lyra—in true Lyra fashion—laying on the horn like she was leading a St. Patrick’s Day parade in St. Louis. Say what you will, but when a woman behind the wheel wants attention, everyone notices. No offense, ladies.
We changed clothes and headed to the San Antonio Botanical Garden. I had expected a calm stroll, but the place blew me away. Giant dragon sculptures, a unicorn the size of a truck, and gardens bursting with detail. The highlights?
• The Texas Native Plant Trail – showcasing flora from every part of the state.
• The Lucille Halsell Conservatory – an architectural masterpiece housing tropical plants and offering stunning city views.
• The WaterSaver Walkway – a sustainable garden path complete with a mini waterfall (which, of course, we walked under).
Somewhere deeper inside the gardens was an abandoned house—but we never made it that far. Lyra was already eyeing the exit.
Pro tip: Don’t bring a Lyra with you.
And yeah—we got kicked out. Routine, at this point.
By 6 PM, it was time to hit the road. Next stop: Denver, Colorado. A brutal 926 miles (1,490 km)—about 16 hours of driving with stops. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, we pulled into a gas station that looked very similar to the Dutchman’s Lodge of Twin Peaks.
I couldn’t figure out why it looked so familiar… until I stepped outside, toothbrush in hand, staring up at the dim sign in the dark.
And just like that, we were back on the road.
Day 10, 11, 12—Climate Change, Zeus Got Pissed Off, and Tireless Delivery Drivers
Roy and I were both asleep when I woke up to Lyra’s restlessness at the wheel. The whole scene gave me déjà vu—like a replay of something from spring ’23. A blizzard ahead. The difference? This time, I wasn’t driving. I motioned for her to pull over so we could switch, but she decided to ride it out, spitting out so many unnecessary words as if that would stop the snow.
Funny how Colorado works—snow in April and October, just to keep you guessing. An hour before we reached Denver, we finally swapped. I took the wheel and drove us the rest of the way. Since check-in wasn’t until 4 PM, I made a practical detour—we stopped at Jiffy Lube for an oil change. After all, we’d already clocked in 4,300 miles (~7,000 km).
Once that was done, we headed straight to the hotel. Lyra, somehow still full of energy, wanted to go out and explore. Roy and I, on the other hand, were completely wrecked and decided to stay in. She wasn’t thrilled. In fact, she was unhappy—and made sure we knew it. So instead of collapsing into sleep, we were treated to a two-hour jazz performance of improvised rants about how we didn’t respect her, her energy, or her ideas.
Not much to explain for Day 11. The storm lingered over Denver—no blizzard this time, but heavy rain and thunderstorms. It shut down our plans for a walk, but in return, gave us some time to rest and recover… or at least try to, with Lyra still orbiting around my peace.
I had this growing urge to go back to Colorado Springs and finally visit Paint Mines Interpretive Park—those alien-looking rock formations reminded me of Belogradchik back in Bulgaria. I also had my sights on Manitou Springs Incline—a brutal hiking trail with over 2,700 steps climbing 2,000 feet (~610 m) in under a mile. Originally a cable car track, it’s now a fitness rite of passage for the bold and the foolish. I’ve wanted to tackle it for years. Honestly, it’s not just the Incline. The entire Rocky Mountain range has always fascinated me. I’ve read, watched, and imagined so much about it—and every time, I’ve been awestruck by its scale and beauty.
But alas, the weather said no. Or maybe Lyra said no and cursed the weather. Who knows anymore? So instead, I settled for two hours at the gym, followed by a swim, and then ordered food via Postmates. Shoutout to the tireless Latino delivery drivers who’d probably still bring your food even if the sky were splitting open—this is your reminder to tip well. Not the day I wanted, but a Colorado version of calm.
Day 12 started after a night of Lyra hammering me about the zoo. I told her that the train had long left the station—she’d passed on the one in San Diego, after all. But eventually, I figured what the hell—no point making this trip any rougher than it already was. So Lyra took over the planning for Denver.
We started at the zoo. There were lions—sleeping, of course. The tiger and all the other cats —missing per usual. A couple of bears. Elephants. Giraffes. Flamingos—way too many flamingos. A photogenic hippo, tons of monkeys, and a few surprisingly charismatic gorillas made for the best photos of the day.
After that, Lyra insisted we head to the famous 16th Street Mall, which I’d told her looked like Vitoshka Street in Sofia. Naturally, she wasn’t impressed and declared that nothing tops Bulgaria. I, on the other hand, had wanted to check out the Denver Art Museum—but apparently, Lyra had “other plans.” So we pedestrianized ourselves around Denver until the sun dipped and the cold crept in. Time to head toward Mount Rushmore.
By the end of the day, Lyra was disappointed with both the zoo and the city—which, if I’m being honest, didn’t surprise me. In other words: it’s the women. The world doesn’t always meet their expectations—and somehow, it’s always the world’s fault. Take it as you will, ladies. Just calling it like it is—or at least not too far from it.
Lyra booked a hotel about 15 minutes from Mount Rushmore. The drive was a little over six hours, and shortly after midnight, we checked in for the night.
Days 13, 14, 15, 16—Rapid City? More Like a Marathon of Big Brother
The day started off promising—and freezing cold. America really is an unpredictable place. From short and skimpy clothes in the South, to warm layers in the Midlands, to imposing jackets and mittens up North. A great adventure—just wait.
We left our lodge for Mount Rushmore, but I took a wrong wroad that added 20 miles (32 km) to the trip—not much by American standards, but in the highlands, with steep, winding roads, it added nearly an hour. Despite the Chrysler’s 283-horsepower 3.6-liter V6 engine, I noticed a sluggish throttle. At first, I blamed the terrain—and the fact that we were absurdly overloaded.
Well, whatever it was, as we backed into the Mount Rushmore parking lot, I stepped out and saw a puddle under the hood—so large it looked like a mother of quadruplets had just broken her water. I panicked. Roy dropped to the ground, inspecting the undercarriage, but couldn’t identify the source. Lyra, meanwhile, was Googling pom pom. Not that any of us were qualified to make a proper diagnosis anyway. A kind stranger wandered over, took one look, and guessed it was the radiator leaking. He suggested we drive down the slope while we still could and find the nearest mechanic.
Meanwhile, I wandered off in near-panic—not quite a breakdown, but definitely some elevated breathing. I climbed the stairs toward the presidents’ faces and stood there, wondering: Why now? Why this? I’d always expected something to go wrong—but not like this. Not here.
Back in the car, I called every nearby repair shop. It was Friday afternoon. We were in the middle of nowhere-America, where mechanics are either overbooked or nonexistent. Five rejections later, the earliest opening was Monday. I thought that might be the end of the trip. I paced in circles around the Chrysler. Roy and Lyra tried to calm me—but nothing useful was being said. Lyra even suggested we just continue on because “the car’s still moving.” Can you imagine?
Eventually, I found RJ Auto Inc. in Rapid City, about 40 miles away. We somehow made it there without breaking down—my biggest fear. The man at the counter said we’d have to drop off the car and wait until Monday for repairs. With all our luggage, that meant calling an Uber—and the poor guy was visibly terrified by the mountain of bags we crammed into his back seat. Lyra booked a hotel north of Heartland Expressway for the next three nights.
And so began our forced mini-vacation in Rapid City: five days of sleeping in, soaking in the hot tub—to the point my skin began to mushroom—lifting weights, swimming laps, and mostly just wondering why.
Tensions were extremely high. Lyra, unsurprisingly, at the center of it. I tried not to stay in the room too much—but really, where do you even go in Rapid City?
Even between Roy and me, things got tense. I tried to offer him some perspective. Lyra accused me of trying to control him. Apparently, that was enough for him to think I was trying to force my views on him. Suddenly, it was two against one. Lyra, speaking mostly in Bulgarian—as she’d done the entire trip—acted like Roy didn’t exist half the time. She even started talking smack about him in front of him, and he was just sitting there not understanding a word. I kept asking her to stop. She didn’t.
She said our friendship was fake. That I was exploiting Roy’s indecision. That he was—quote—spineless. She’d always played psychologist, but in Rapid City it became her calling. Sure, there was a ray of truth in her words—but the rest was her mood hijacking the narrative.
She claimed this was the worst trip she’d ever been on. That she wished she’d never come. And—of course—that she shouldn’t have to pay for the hotel since none of it was her fault. I didn’t agree. We were a group. In it for better or worse, right? Roy, meanwhile, clearly avoided conflict—probably the reason he was stoned 24/7. I understood. He had a lot on his mind—thinking about his future after the crash in August, and the summer he felt had been wasted.
So he rarely shared his real thoughts. Because when he did, they usually aligned with mine—which would make it look like he was “taking sides” (shutting up was even worse cuz he made her think she’s winning).
After more arguing, I offered to pay for the hotel myself—it was my car, my problem. Eventually, Lyra softened and agreed we could split the cost like we originally said.
Monday came—I called the shop. The part still hadn’t arrived. They’d need one more day—booked another night.
But I couldn’t take one more hour in that room. So I suggested we give Rapid City a shot. We toured a couple of parks, saw a chunk of the Berlin Wall, got followed by a homeless man demanding money, then went downtown and soaked in a bit of local Indian culture.
Day 17—Prison City’s a Story, Presidents’ Heads Didn’t Bobble
I got up early that day—just after 6 AM—and headed straight to the gym. Our checkout was looming, which meant standing in the lobby like punished schoolkids until the car was ready. Luckily, I got a call from the shop a little just after 9 AM: the car was ready. Great news—and costly. The repair came out to $4,800. Turns out the radiator had melted and fused with other components—woo. A few other things were touched up as well. One of them? The transmission fluid—just wait.
A little while later, we found ourselves once again in front of the stoic faces of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln. We took plenty of pictures, and I barely managed to convince Lyra to stand next to Roy and me for a group shot—one of the few we got the entire trip. She was so unimpressed with Mount Rushmore, she could hardly wait to leave. The weather was perfect, my mood was solid, but she was determined to ruin it by constantly bringing up her “wasted time” in Rapid City.
As usual, we photographed her the most—and again, she barely liked any of the photos. And she doesn’t even look bad—she’s just like a homeless cat who’s been kicked too many times.
Later, Lyra took the wheel. We hit some steep inclines where she relied heavily on the brakes. I don’t want to blame her—I’m no mechanic—but at one point, the smell was unmistakably burnt. I asked her to pull over. When we stepped out, smoke was drifting from underneath the car. I popped the hood immediately, but there was no fire. Something had clearly overheated—my best guess being the brakes, which had taken a beating on the hills.
I could tell she was afraid to drive more freely, just like what happened before Denver. We played it safe and stopped for the night in Cody, South Dakota, just before Yellowstone.
Day 18—Yellowstone, Kidney Stones, The Wind and The Views Which Shook Our Bones
The day didn’t start great. I went to grab some clothes for a quick shower before we hit the road, and that’s when I saw it—a huge stain under the car. Maybe even bigger than when the radiator melted. I told the others to wait in the room and immediately headed to a mechanic I’d contacted.
When I got there, I had no clue what I was looking at. I assumed it was transmission fluid because of the color—not because I actually knew, but because that’s what Google told me. Thankfully, I came across M & P Repair & RV. Joe, the owner, and his dad were there. Joe was over 70—his father probably born just after World War I.
I got lucky. The place was fully booked, but Joe decided to help after realizing I was a tourist in a rough situation. Turned out the previous shop had overfilled the transmission fluid. Why? Here’s the fun part/ Joe told me how Chrysler had probably saved a few bucks by not including a dipstick—the kind you use to check levels, like oil. Apparently, there’s a legal loophole that allows them to do that. Long story short, they’ve saved over $2.5 million doing it—corporate brilliance.
So yeah, the previous shop decide to overfill it rather than not fill it enough and I was another $100 behind, but at least my head was calmer—until the next car crisis (which, thankfully, wouldn’t come until LA). We drove to Yellowstone and stayed until dark. We entered through the east entrance, greeted by an incredible view of Yellowstone Lake. Naturally, we stopped. The moment Lyra stepped out and felt the wind, she got right back into the car. Roy and I took dozens of photos and several videos—absolutely none of them had audible sound.
There was a sort of beach, and when I looked out into the distance, it felt like I was dreaming. More than just beautiful—unreal.
Next, we headed north toward Mud Volcano. It wasn’t so much interesting as it was weird. It looked like my toilet after a night of too much Taco Bell. Then came Yellowstone’s Grand Canyon. The wind there was insane. I decided to make the experience a bit more extreme by hiking down some steep cliffs to get photos from the edge. Roy and Lyra were not okay with this—they probably thought I was trying to kill myself after all the car drama. Never… just over my dead body.
We visited the Norris Geyser Basin next. The big eruptions there happen every 7–8 hours and last about 10 minutes—of course, we missed it. We saw the Fountain Paint Pots, which were like smaller versions of the mud volcano.
And then… we arrived at the Grand Prismatic Spring. Easily the most beautiful geyser I’ve ever seen. Worth visiting Yellowstone just for that. Blood-red and orange hues ringed a crystal-blue center.
The night before, I’d watched a podcast with Sadhguru as the guest, and while standing there, looking at the geyser, I wrote a poem titled Life.
Tons of steam, tons of incredible photos—many of which Lyra, of course, didn’t appreciate. This geyser is the largest in the States and the third-largest in the world. The water temperature hits 160°F (70°C). People who’ve tried to swim in it have died—it’s forbidden (like drugs). Oh, how I wanted to accidentally push Lyra in.
As the sun dipped and the day wound down, our last stop in Yellowstone was the Old Faithful Geyser. Eruptions happen every 20 minutes, last between 1.5 to 5 minutes, and shoot 106–184 feet (30–55 m) in the air. We stood there for just over half an hour and, of course, saw nothing. I wanted to see more—so much more—but we only had a day, and I think we made the most of it. It turned out to be one of the most wonderful days of the trip.
We stopped for food in West Yellowstone, Montana. While Roy and Lyra were already inside a local McDonald’s eating, I decided to move the car—I thought I had parked it in the wrong place and didn’t want another ticket adding to the “trip expenses.” While looking around, I noticed a Bulgarian shop—but it was closed.
From there, we drove toward Wellington, Utah, where we’d be spending the night. I had this itch to check out Salt Lake City, but Lyra grumbled that there was “nothing to see,” and Roy didn’t bother to weigh in—so she won (again).
Day 19—The Wild Wild West, its Tumbleweeds and The Magnificent Rocks
The day started out pretty promising—until we got to the fork for Bluejohn Canyon (from the movie 127 Hours). That’s when I found out it was a 52-mile (83 km) dirt road, taking an hour and a half each way. That meant having one more nightt. Even then, I thought the canyon might still be worth it.
But the moment our tires hit that “road,” I knew it wasn’t happening. It felt like driving over Berlin cobblestones after the Allied bombings—so, after about 65 feet (20 meters), I pulled a U-turn. Not worth blowing up the car again.
Our next destination before hitting Las Vegas was Horseshoe Bend. But before that, we had a long drive ahead, lined with Utah’s stunning canyons and Arizona’s iconic rock formations.
We first stopped at Dead Horse Point State Park—incredible views, worthy of any national park. From there, it was about a five-hour drive to Horseshoe Bend, along US-191 South and US-160 West. We passed through a long stretch with zero services, but the views kept things interesting—probably more than 100 miles (160+ km) of remote but jaw-dropping terrain.
We also drove through Monument Valley, where the cliffs looked so familiar, you’d swear you were in a movie. And maybe you were—here are just a few that filmed there:
• The Lone Ranger (2013)
• A Million Ways to Die in the West (2014)
• Cars (2006)
• Transformers: Age of Extinction (2014)
The sun was dipping fast, but I believed we’d make it to Horseshoe Bend in time for sunset. Since we’d had to skip Bluejohn Canyon, I also had the urge to check out Antelope Canyon—but both Roy and Lyra wanted to stick to the original plan.
We arrived at Horseshoe Bend about 20 minutes before sunset. I told them we’d need to hurry—maybe even run—because it was a bit of a hike to the overlook. This time, I kinda snapped at Lyra, and even Roy objected, saying he wasn’t in a rush and wanted to enjoy the walk.
Well, guess what. Just as we got to the edge and were ready to take pictures… the sun disappeared. We took no more than ten photos—none of which turned out good (I played the Lyra card this time).
Even though we saw some beautiful sights along the drive—mostly through the windows—, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with how the day had gone.
There were still over four hours between us and our next destination: Adult Disneyland, aka The Boneyard. Lyra had booked us a room at The Strat. We rolled in just after midnight—par for the course on this trip.
Since we didn’t have any club reservations for the night, I suggested we walk the Strip. Pro tip: make those club reservations ahead of time—they’ll give you free entry and maybe even a drink. In Vegas, cover charges and drinks will make your wallet cry.
So we wandered for about two hours, gawking at the thousands of lights and the thousands of drunk people. Then we headed back to the hotel to rest up—for tomorrow’s pool party, and the clubbing night ahead.
Day 20 — What Happens in Vegas is Posted on This Blog
I got up early and hit the hotel’s fitness room while the others were still out cold. By the time I’d showered and returned, they were already up, buzzing about our noon reservation for the pool party at Marquee Dayclub.
The heat outside was brutal. After days of jackets and hoodies, we were suddenly parading around in slippers and barely any clothes. I was totally showing off my 6 pack—okay, 4 ¾. I took my first-ever ride on a double-decker bus and still managed to hit my head twice. Talent.
We queued up at the Marquee. That’s when Lyra started complaining. Said we didn’t belong there—that it was a place for rich people. She wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t care. I was there to have fun, even if it meant selling a kidney by the end of the night. Roy hadn’t brought a swimsuit and wasn’t allowed in. He said he’d go buy one and come back. Spoiler: he never did.
Inside, I was trying to stay calm, knowing full well my bank account was about to get waterboarded. Meanwhile, Lyra couldn’t get out of her own head. She needed someone to take her by the hand and lead her. That someone isn’t me—I’m not her boyfriend. And frankly, I don’t know how anyone could be.
Booths were going for the price of a MacBook. I said I was down to spend, but not $400 for 30 seconds of champagne pop. I just wanted to get in the pool. But before I could, Lyra asked to leave.
I didn’t want to be completely alone—someone had to hold my phone and wallet. I called Roy again and again until he picked up. Said he wasn’t coming. Claimed the cheapest swimsuit he found was $60, and he wasn’t paying that. Weak excuse.
But fine. If we weren’t doing the pool party, I was still determined to make the most of the day. I told Roy I wasn’t leaving Vegas this time without rubbing my magic lamp into a decent lady. I mean, it’s Vegas—you either spend $300 pretending to be interesting or just go straight to the transaction. No disrespect—it’s a joke (kind of). In the end, it’s all meat in the shop. Some fresh, some expired, some on sale. I wasn’t craving filet mignon. Strip steak would do.
I told Roy to look up some of those mysterious women on his magic device. Maybe we could split one—make a sandwich (yes, I meant a threesome.) He didn’t get it. Sent me a bunch of shady-looking ads. Eventually, he found a “two-for-one” deal. That’s more like it. His Asian side finally came through—cha-ching $$$.
The reservation was made for 6 PM. Roy and Lyra went back to the hotel to splash around in the kiddie pool. I went to buy some new boxers for the night and grabbed alcohol on the way back. Gotta pre-drink if you want to survive Tao without dropping half a rent on watered-down cocktails.
When it was time, I asked Lyra to leave the room for an hour. She exploded. “You ordered prostitutes?” and the yelling started. I told her to show some respect—they’re legal professionals. She started ranting about the sheets, about being sick, about no one caring. But today, the entertainment department was in charge—not the Ministry of Complaints.
After a 10-minute argument, I finally got her to go sulk in the lobby. I went down to meet the angels. No sign of them. I texted Roy—“Where are they? Do we know what they look like?” My stomach twisted. No spark in the lightbulb yet.
Ten minutes passed. Turns out, they were already in our room. Asked for my name at the front desk—professionals.
I went back upstairs. To my surprise, they were actually hot. Not blonde gazelles, but juicy enough. Roy, however, made the ultimate rookie mistake—offered them cheap rum in plastic cups. They burst out laughing. He tried to play it off, made some dumb joke. I don’t even remember what it was.
Then came the arrangements. Turns out, sex—professional or not—is always difficult and expensive. One wants flowers and conversation; the other wants cold, hard cash. But in Vegas, you pay $100 just to get them in the room—$200 total. Then more negotiating.
“How much are you willing to pay?”
“How much are you asking?”
I said, “This was supposed to be a fun time, not a game of Deal or no Deal.”
Roy threw out $50 each. They laughed. I laughed too, but doubled down, “What can we get for $50?”
Not a single word—I literally start hearing crickets. I said,
Eventually, we offered $150 each. They hesitated. We added $50 as a tip. Roy ran to withdraw $400. Before the money even arrived, they started flirting, groping—teasing like clockwork. I unbuttoned one of their tops. She jumped back. “Money first.” Always the games.
We paid. “Is that all?” they asked.
Fifteen minutes of negotiating had passed. We had five left—not that I needed more (two rounds in five minutes; three on a bad day.) But we didn’t even get sex. Just some rubbing, motorboating, and the driest bacon I’ve ever touched (I bet even Niagra Falls would run dry without enough money for a proper care). I tried turning on the hairdryer—stopped blowing the moment I pressed the button. Right when the pasta was getting firm—time’s up.
Tipping? Ha. We were $250 down per person. It felt like waking up from a wet dream—minus the wet part.
Lyra came back. Saw them in the elevator. “They looked like they did a good job,” she said. “They were as professional as I was as a hotel maid,” I replied.
We killed the rest of the rum and stuffed ten mini bottles in our pockets for Tao. Suit time. Lyra wore her best dress. We took nighttime pics at the Stratosphere, then headed to the club. Vague memories: some queue flirting, a tall WNBA-type girl chatting my ear off. Couldn’t hear a word—I was on the verge of blacking out.
Somehow, I didn’t and by 1 AM, I was done with Tao. Time for round two: Peppermint Hippo. The limo was supposed to pick us up, but an SUV showed up instead—I sincerely hoped the strippers would be real women.
Got in. Sat down. Ordered drinks. My MILF fantasy unlocked—forgot her name. Rachel came to Roy. Lyra wasn’t into strippers. We debated private rooms for 30 minutes. Roy said it was “haram.” I said, “Haram, your ass. You’re drunk and suddenly religious?”
I withdrew $200 to pay Roy back and we went to separate rooms. Told Lyra we’d head home after.
No idea when she or Roy left. I stayed till just before 6 AM.
I wasn’t as drunk as I’d been at Tao. Side note: seven months later, I found two mini bottles still tucked inside my red suit jacket.
Anyway, my stripper—sweet, seductive—offered to extend the night for $500 and hinted at more than just dances. I was tempted but said no. She lowered the price. Offered extras. Even white powder to “set the mood.”
At $350, I almost folded. Maybe that’s why I’m poor—or at least that’s what they say on Instagram ads.
Rachel passed by again—Roy’s girl—said she liked me, wanted to join. I wondered why I only get lucky when it’s either paid or with people I’m not even into.
Eventually, I agreed. $600 total—with tips and drinks, nearly a grand.
I didn’t have the cash. Classic move: “My card’s blocked.” Moved money between accounts, left $520. Said I’d Zelle them everything I have. They laughed. I laughed harder. They agreed. I asked to keep $20 for an Uber. They started crying out of laughing—but a deal’s a deal.
Found a $20 and passed it to our waitress. Told her we wouldn’t need drinks—was explaining how alcohol is bad for you. Can you imagine?
Over the next few hours, it was flirtation, teasing, breaking rules. They touched me naughty —maybe too much (no I didn’t made a mess in my pants). They both smelled so good, I had a retrospection about the first time I had fresh bread from the oven—I wasn’t sure if I was fantasizing about bread or the girl who working behind the counter (perhaps I’m just a twisted fella).
I told them everything—my dreams, L.A. plans, life back home. They asked for my number. Said they wanted to see me again. “Does it involve money?” I asked. “No,” they said. “Not for you. As long as you’re a good boy.”
Spoiler: I didn’t get a threesome.
I told them I wasn’t into paid love. What happened that night was unusual;
But I’ll always pay for a psychologist—or two.😉
And so, just before sunrise, I stumbled out of that club like a broke king who just bought his crown from Burger King. I had two thongs in my pocket, my shirt was half untucked, I smelled like vanilla lotion and poor decisions, and for a brief, beautiful moment—I swear—I felt like the main character.
Two women had just listened to me like I was some tortured artist, not a dude who just dropped his 4 months of car insurance on thigh rubs and sweet talk. It was electric. And yeah, I know this exact scene plays out every goddamn night in Vegas with a different idiot in my shoes—but at that moment, I was the idiot. And it was glorious.
I went to bed poorer, but with a stupid grin glued to my face like I’d just won love, lust, and the lottery all at once.
Vegas, baby. The only place where losing feels like winning.
Day 21 — Broken Hearts, Empty Wallets, No Tears Spilled; The Saga is Over
Roy looked like a homeless war veteran the next morning. Said he spent his last money on another stripper—the most expensive dance of his life, and he didn’t even get a souvenir (he should’ve for $500). The man was on the edge of bankruptcy and breakfast. Lyra was still pissed about the night before, bitching about how we had fun without her, like joy was some group project she never signed up for.
We technically had three more nights left: Yosemite, San Francisco, and the land of the tallest trees—Redwood National and State Parks. But I also spent a huge amount on this trip. Therefore, I pitched a curveball—“What if we just went straight to L.A.? Cut the finale short.” No more nature. No more heartfelt road trip bonding.
She brought up Rapid City again—those damn “lost days.” I told her to fuck off. She sulked, hissed a little, but eventually cooled down. She had her own post-trip plans anyway—ones that thankfully didn’t involve us.
And so we gunned it toward the City of Angels, chasing whatever scraps of magic we had left. Traffic was a living nightmare toward the end—classic LA. I was stoked about Hollywood, but forgot to read the fine print: sidewalks with more human than dog shit, the smell of piss marinating under the sun, and surprisingly polite homeless folks talking with the air.
We crashed at Shenandoah Street for the first month—Orthodox Jews on every side like we’d wandered into a rabbinical Truman Show. For a second I felt like a Palestinian—except I had Wi-Fi and roof over my head. No bombs dropped, unless you count me stomping the floor just loud enough to say: Hey. I’m here too, dammit.
That’s also where Lyra and I had our final blowout. Nuclear-level. I’d promised to take her to the airport, but after 21 days of passive-aggression, diva behavior, and late-night therapy sessions I never signed up for—I snapped. She’d crossed the line too many times, like she thought she was some kind of dictator. So I told her, calm as I could, to go live her life—and leave me the hell out of it.
Still, I left the door open. Literally and metaphorically.
Maybe one day she’d realize what we’d been through. And maybe—just maybe—she’d knock.
In a Nutshell
She dragged all her luggage across L.A. via public transport to get to LAX, probably cursing my name the whole way, as if I were the villain in her biopic.
Funny thing? She’s back in my life. We made up on her birthday. I knew she was too proud to text first—classic Lyra. I hoped it wasn’t me, but I guess she didn’t have the guts to take the first step, so I did. We’ve been talking again—and weirdly, things are better than before. She’s less of a bitch now… or at least working on it. Baby steps. I guess that wise dude was right: all evil really is for the best. Grumpy grumpy didn’t want to be shown in this article, so meet her AI version—Lyra Grumps.
Roy and I? We mostly burned through oxygen and weed. Joints, debates, life talks—we maxed out the vibe quota. The man’s doing alright—as alright as Roy gets. I’ve watched him growing before my eyes. Proud to have met that skinny, BTS-looking motherfucker.
Me? I recorded a few rap tracks. Some are chilling on YouTube with a glorious 20 views. Most are still in my phone’s graveyard folder. I’m not vloging yet—but hey, I started this blog, and finished my poetry book. That’s gotta count for something, right?
Oh, and the Chrysler. Yeah, that disaster. Worst financial decision of my life. I dumped $14,000 into it between buying and fixing it, and sold it for $4,500. That’s a $9,500 kiss goodbye. Should’ve just set my wallet on fire and saved myself the oil changes.
But man—we toured America. Twice.
Every single day was a gift. Not the clean, ribbon-wrapped kind—more like a weird, half-broken present from the universe. But still a gift.
I’m convinced people back in the day lived more freely—not because they had more, but because they saw life differently. That’s next week’s blog sneak peek.
So yeah—don’t just talk about freedom. Don’t just post quotes about it.
Be free.
Life’s still wonderful, even when it sucks.
Freedom isn’t a plane ticket or a road trip—it’s learning to own your mess and tame it.
Your boy from DA BOIS is out here digging through the bad, trying to make sense of it all.
Thanks for coming along for the ride.
—Ivaniel out
Leave a Reply