DDC 50: Day 03, Leaving SoCal, And We Start Route 66

Dad and I are in agreement on many issues. The close confines, challenging surroundings we�ve had to overcome and our general ability to �fuck with eachother to the point of no return� has lent to our successful traveling harmony. The main issue, call it �Southern California: What A Shithole,� has been a hot topic. Disgust, fear, puzzlement and sheer, red-hot hatred have gotten the better of us as we navigate this so-called "Paradise."Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic�hastily snailing along on hot, littered highways�.I have to wonder, �How do these people deal with this day to day?� Just how does one learn to accept the lifestyle down here? Land of the beautiful? Man, the beauty, the romance of it all�it escapes me completely. Houses packed in like sardines, �me and only me� mentality�.no way.Never, ever, ever will I call this wasteland home. Never. Good luck to all the lucky ones who we�ll be leaving behind.- - - -We finally made it up to Santa Monica, after 2+ hours of gridlock. Good times, goddamit. We did a little book shopping at Hennessy�s and then walked the pier to take in a little salty air. We found the memorial that ends Route 66, had a moment of silence and made out way back to the rig.So the story goes: You start Route 66 in Chicago and make yer way out west, through the desolation, ending up in paradise, in Californ-y, in the land of milk and honey and Zsa Zsa Gabor and botox and gridlock and star maps and 98 and 99 cent stores.Well, for the record, we look at things a little differently: We�re heading east, back to that proud Midwest�our paradise. We�re escaping this place�leaving it behind.Our well-written guides are turning out to be a bit of a challenge. They are all written with Chicago as the starting point. So it goes.- - - -FACTS ARE STUBBORN THINGS�: You gotta be strong on the road, and firm.- - - -And out we went, into that Inland Empire....So we pull up to this little rathole called the �Rex Hotel.� The entire deal is built out of cinder blocks, with some gross coat of paint to spice stuff up. There�s bars over every opening and a grimy little window with a buzzer to ring. Dad swaggers up, rings the bell and after some time, a little window slides open, but a couple inches above waist level, and, I shit-you-not, a little set of eyes slowly appear to offer help. Turns out the guy was sitting down (we speculate) and due to the lateness of the hour, was slow and a bit cranky and spoke little-to-no English.Of course, dad had to see the room before the big purchase. It�s a good thing, as it didn�t pass his test of tidiness and overall �not too bad�-ness.�Nope, no thanks,� is all that was said as dad flicked the key back into the filthy opening.A couple miles later, talk turned to the Rex Hotel encounter. �Aaron, that was gross,� the old man exclaims with a wave and furrowed brow, �that little guy was freaky.� And off we went into the night, eastbound on the Mother Road.We settled on a wigwam at the Wigwam Village in Rialto. Hell yes. Since 1946. Very satisfied with our purchase for the night, as dad�s snoring in the background can attest to.