I downed a few highly caffeinated “energy drinks”, took the wheel from Alan and continued north from Iowa to Minneapolis. Reaching downtown early in the a.m., I navigated the streets, looking for a good place to park the bus. I couldn’t tell you the characteristics of the “good parking spot” I was searching for, but I ended up setting the bus between a few pubs and a Borders book store, likely attracted by the still swarming people late on a Monday night. The caffeine still pumping through my veins, I sat up for a bit, read some Steinbeck and watched the people pass by. It was an interesting mix of night dwellers. The intoxicated stumbled down the sidewalks speaking loudly to friends. A few tired souls dragged home from the late shift, their eyes never wandering from the next step ahead. They crossed by others working the night shift who scurried past with a clear destination. Pimped out Hummers and Escalades circled the block with the music blaring, the bass rattling the change in the cup holder next to me.

I woke the next morning to tapping on the window.

“You need any grease?” Dave asked.

“Nah, I think we are good. We are almost full. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I got a lot of clean filtered grease from our restaurant here,” he replied as he pointed to the sign that read Gluek’s Bar and Restaurant.

“I guess we could take a few more gallons.”

With a bucket of clean grease hanging in each hand, Alan asked,

“How long have you been in business?”

“Since 1935. My great grandfather opened the brewery and restaurant just after prohibition ended. It’s been a family business ever since.”

Dave Was in the process of installing a vegetable oil kit in his car, and in the mean time was glad to part with some of his growing grease supply. After filling up, Dave invited us in for lunch.

Despite my moral qualms with the cruel and highly polluting meat industry, my body keeps telling me I’m an omnivore. So I pledged to the Earth, with Alan as my witness, that I would only pay for organic free roaming meat. I inquired about where the meat came from, expecting to get the usual answer of ‘I don’t know’, or from some unknown distributor.

“Nearly all of our meat is organic. The chickens are from a local Amish farm, one hundred percent grass-fed and free roaming. The beef’s organic too, from a local free range rancher.”

“Bleu cheeseburger with mushrooms please.”

After a series of stops at auto parts stores (our home on wheels is continually a work in progress), we were off to the airport to pick up our newest crew member and photographer, Jenny. We’d found Jenny through an internet ad and we were praying that the vibe we got from her Myspace page, email communications, and a brief phone interview was accurate.

“Twelve feet, six inches,” I read out loud the low clearance sign that provided no prior warning on this one-way airport road.

“Pull over and I’ll grab the tape measure,” Alan said

“Eleven feet, seven inches,” I called up to Alan.

After giving the security guard the thumbs up, we followed him as he led us to Jenny and out of the airport.

We weaved through a maze of residential streets to find one of Minnesota’s famous “ten thousand lakes”. After a swim, Alan and I and Jenny sat down on grass by the water’s edge, as powerful wind gusts flew off the lake swishing in the trees above. We sat and talked about Burning Man (Jenny had been this year too). We returned to the bus and continued the conversation about traveling and life over some hookah—first impression: we had chosen well.

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