Ali and I got up and shambled about, packing like a zombie would. What I mean by that is that we'd mumble and creak our bones while pushing a shirt into a bag.
Joe, who was shit-faced last night, was the hardest to get up. He slept on the far left of his bed, and as Ali and I shook him, he'd roll away. He eventually rolled himself into a blanket burrito on the far right side.
But at 7 a.m. we were able to get on the road and headed to San Antonio. The first hour or so was traveling over waterways and while we didn't really get to see the bayou, it was great to see some of the famous swamp.
Once we were in Texas, it was just one long strip of highway. Five hundred and eighty-five miles on I-10. Somewhere among those miles, the radio was only able to pick up one station: bluesy country.
I was driving (made it through Huston in one piece!) at this point and it began clear to me that this section of the trip was going to be the worst part. Flanked by wide open plains, we had left the area of sights behind us. It was rough.
But we made it to the city. I gave Joe and Ali the Vincent Warning before exiting the highway.
When we reached the house, we had 4th of July BBQ, did laundry and discovered that Vincent had turned into a crazy dog man. hahhaha, he has four dogs!
Barbara was civil, which was expected. While Ali and Joe slept, I visited with my grandma. She told me stories from when she and my grandfather lived in Cali. and I told her about how Mass people.
(Grandma and I)
But eventually, sleep's siren was to hard to ignore and I crashed.
Compared to the other days, this one was more relaxed and less eventful but nothing could replace seeing my grandma for the first time since my grandfather's funeral four years ago.
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