Fairhope, AL - Home of a True Renaissance Man

I arrived at the home of Ken and Marilyn Holland in Fairhope, Alabama on June 26, 2011.  I met Ken at the Dog River Marina in Mobile, Alabama in 2004. He lived on a sailboat at the marina and I was there working on Simba. We rode bicycles together a number of mornings, often ending up at a local McDonalds for coffee and an egg mcmuffin.

Ken is extraordinary in a number of ways. To begin with, back then he led what I felt was a unique life. He would work for a couple of years as an electrical engineer and then sail off to wonderful places until his kitty was emptied, returning once again to somewhere in this country where he would restart the cycle.

Later on I learned more about Ken. He was raised in the hill country of northern Alabama. His parents were sharecroppers, meaning they were allowed to till another man's land in return for paying him a portion of their crop proceeds. They were “dirt poor”.

Ken's uncles brewed bootleg whiskey. They built their stills back in the woods on other people's property; when the revenuers periodically came searching for stills, they would not find any on the uncles' property. When scarcely teenagers, Ken and a buddy delivered home-brewed whiskey to metropolitan areas in mason jars concealed under the car seats. They were never caught.

These days we suburbanites may boast that we rode a Beemer GS model off-road. We think we're adventuresome, but GS bikes were designed for off-road riding – not so Harleys! Ever hear of a Harley GS? Ha!

However, starting at a young age, Ken fiddled with Harleys, tearing the motors down to learn how they functioned, then modifying them and the bike suspensions. He rode his Harley's in the woods where the irregular terrain forced him to often jump obstacles. Word of his exploits got around: “He's jumping a Harley?!”, asked the kids in town. “Sure, and my pig can fly!”, they'd shout. But the rumors of Ken's off-road exploits continued. Finally the townies had heard enough and issued a challenge. They set up a jump which few bikes (and certainly no Harley!) could possibly manage, and staked a week's wages on the outcome.

Ken picked up the gauntlet. At the jump site, his challengers had selected a five foot high mound which they figured would be his Waterloo. But the only thing that Ken could see that he would consider a real jump was a 10-15 foot high hillock many yards behind the mound. He couldn't see the other side of the steep-faced hill, so asked what lay behind the “jump”. The townies thought he was trying to belittle the mound, their challenge, and ignored him.

Gunning his motor, Ken flew over the townies' “jump” with ease and then, to their consternation, sped on and up the steep face of the hill behind to soar out of sight. Although the backside of the berm dropped precipitously, Ken landed safely on his rear wheel. There were no more challenges issued.

Ken has been a ham radio operator for many years. The requisite antennae of various shapes tower over a large portion of his expansive back yard. And while from the front the Holland's attractive brick single story house and two car garage seem similar to their neighbors', there is a unique difference. At the rear of the garage is a door which leads to a room as large as the garage itself, and then a door at it's rear opens to an even bigger room. The first room houses motorcycle repair equipment (Ken has ridden the top-of-the- line Honda Gold Wings for decades), and extensive shop equipment including three sizes of drill presses (six foot, three foot, and a one foot tall model he uses to work on printed circuit boards). Upon entering the second room, one walks past several substantial pieces of. exercise equipment, then tables and shelves laden with electronic gear, and finally enters a ham's “radio shack” with the customary impressive black boxes faced with meters and gauges. The “shack” doubles as an office and Ken uses not one, but two, flat screen monitors to more efficiently utilize his computer.

Most impressive were the radio power supplies already built or under construction. I don't know the correct terminology, but let me say that where I might use a 7 volt supply for a computer accessory, Ken's power supplies are on the order of 10-15 THOUSAND volts. Yikes!

I had recently purchased a Garmin nuvi for my car. I was able to mount it on my bike and it served to tell me where I was and how it thought I could get from there to another point. However, Ken and I tried to install routes of my own design on it and failed despite numerous attempts. We finally determined that only a few of the nuvi series could perform this feat and that my 200 series unit was not one of them. I located a nuvi of the proper series in a neighboring town and purchased it. Ken found software that we also needed and downloaded it to my new unit. Through trial and error we learned how to create a route map on the internet Mapquest program that could be downloaded to the nuvi. So thanks to Ken, since leaving Fairhope I have been able to almost faultlessly follow scenic routes I design prior to taking to the road. Many thanks, Ken!

I am humbled and delighted to know this living proof that America is truly a land of opportunity.   Ken, the son of sharecroppers (who clawed their way up the socio/economic ladder to own their own farm(s),  is now in demand as a designer of chemical plant electrical systems.

One never knows where a conversation will lead in the Holland's house. For example, one day over lunch Ken and Marilyn spoke informatively about the Civil War, Martin Luther King's duplicitous actions in Birmingham, Alabama, and Custer's Last Stand. I listened in awe and felt like an ignoramus.

The little boy in me identified with Ken's newest toy: a six foot long blow gun. It arrived while I was there. Ken had seen a picture of one on the web and just had to have one. He wasted not a second to test it out. He dropped a four inch dart down its gullet, inhaled mightily and puffed out his cheeks like a five-year-old determined to blow out all those candles. With a noise like that made by old men aiming for barbershop spittoons, Ken propelled that dart 30 feet where it tore a hole in the target we had hastily drawn on a carton leaning agains the wall. “Bulls eye!”, we cried.

This unique man talks with a southern drawl and charm that puts one at ease immediately. I was gratified to learn that his wife Marilyn has the same fine qualities. In fact she is so generous and emblematic of “Southern Hospitality”, that I fear my waistline grew by two inches during my stay!

Clearly, I had an exceedingly pleasant and fruitful time at the Hollands!

Pensacola,FL to Fairhope,AL

June 26, 2011

I made the hour's hop from Pensacola,FL to Fairhope, Alabama on Monday morning, stopping in little Robertsdale, AL for breakfast at Mac'n Jerry's restaurant.

I am new at this travelin' business, so neglected to carry inside my motorcycle's tank bag which, in addition to maps and camera, contains pens, notepad (I purchased one the next day), etc. I realized my mistake

I had sat down for only a few moments before I felt a strong urge to record what I was seeing and feeling, but I had no writing tools. (The very next day I purchased pens and a notepad which I now carry in my motorcycle tank bag, along with camera, binoculars, etc., and now always remove and tke with me when I stop.) I went up to the cashier, a pleasant lady c.55 (she turned out to be Jerry), and asked if she had scrap paper and pen I could use. She gave me a pad of blank “kitchen checks” and pen. I sat back down and started jotting notes on the back of the checks.

Before entering, I had noted a sign on the door: “No credit or debit cards. Local checks only.” Up at the cashier's desk another read: “Please make BAD checks out to the Baldwin County Sheriff's Dept. Make GOOD checks out to Mac'n Jerry's Diner. Thank you. “ I guess restauranteurs had a little problem collecting in Robertsdale. On the brighter side, there was also a sign prominently displayed stating: “Will trade coffee for gossip”.

The interior was clean and bright, with pine walls on which were mounted several stuffed deer heads cum antlers. The deer sported large bibs fashioned from football jerseys: “Crimson Tide”, “Crimson Tide National Champs”, “Alabama”, and one wore “Auburn”. (I guess there was no doubt where the owner's heart lay.) Two large “Bud Light Playbook” posters displayed the past season's football schedules for the Crimson Tide and Auburn. Game scores had been added by hand with magic marker.

I asked the cashier if she was Jerry and if perhaps husband Mac worked the kitchen. She told me that she surely was Jerry, but that Mac was her mother, who had recently passed. I expressed my condolences and asked if the pretty and personable waitress (c.30) might be her daughter; she confirmed my guess with a warm smile.

Good venue, food, and people: Gee, this trip should be fun!

Tonopah,NV to Santa Cruz,CA

Wednesday, July 13^th

After yesterday's 369 miles at high speeds, I was seriously considering taking it a bit easy today by dividing the remainder of the route in two and attempting only one half today. I exchanged emails with Jeff late in the evening discussing whether to make sausage links of it or go for the gold, and if I chose the former then how best to arrange it. I worked on the route itself as well, and Jeff supplied a valuable short cut. I decided to let the next day's riding conditions, and my body, make the decision for me during the course of the day.

I woke as usual at six. High wind gusts were forecast for the afternoon south of Yosemite. So while I did some cals and stretches, I skipped the customary hour's walk to get an early start and was on the road at 7:45 after an Egg Mc Muffin and container of jo.

At Benton, I took Rt. 120 west and soon met a new type of terrain. A sign warned of “DIPS” but that meant nothing to me. Ahead I could see several “ripples' across the landscape and, although I slowed, I soon found myself launched into space for a few seconds. Each “dip” was a veritable ski jump. Although before encountering each series of dips I could see if there were obstacles ahead and adjust speed accordingly, it was disconcerting to lose all view of the road when dropping into the dip and then find myself defying gravity a moment later. Jeff told me the next day that the kids loved the dips and referred to them as riding a roller coaster – an apt description.

When I reached Yosemite it was 11 AM, far too early to stop. I drove the 31 miles through it, marveling at the scenery. I stopped to take pix but soon learned that the uneven gravel turnoffs were unfriendly to motorcycles. Wheels tended to slide, level spots where I could lower the kickstand were rare and usually soft, capable of quickly swallowing the kickstand and turning my upright FJR into a recliner in short order. Consequently, I was forced to bypass numerous photo ops.

The park ride soon offered another frustration: the single lane road contained numerous drivers who drove slowly to take in the vistas or search for a spot to park. In addition, there were many rented motor homes (CruiseAmerica, etc.) whose drivers drove slowly and cautiously. Places where one could pass were few and far between. The ride to the exit seemed interminable. I found myself yawning and losing concentration, not boding well for a safe navigation of the 150 miles lying ahead.

I finally reached the park “Portal”. Just outside there was a service station and restaurant. I pulled in to use the facilities, but once dismounted was disappointed to see a sign, “No Restrooms Provided”. It was 12:30PM. I called son Jeff to tell him where I was and that I would not stay overnight in Merced, some 40 miles ahead, but instead press on to Santa Cruz. He was happy to learn of my progress but said he believed I had about a four hour trip ahead and that perhaps I should stop at Merced and finish the trip tomorrow. As my finally exiting the park and now speaking with him had given me a psychological boost, I demurred and said I'd be there in time for dinner.

I rode to Merced but the GPS routed me into the center of the city, where several streets were closed for repairs with detours. This completely confused the GPS which insisted on sending me in circles. I was disheartened and very tired. I finally pulled over by construction debris and hollered to a sole pedestrian, asking if there was a park nearby where I might rest. The lady was apparently not intimidated by this “man from mars” figure in a bright yellow helmet and wearing a riding jacket with large shoulder pads. Nodding her head, she gestured to indicate I should come into the shade where we could talk. I pulled a California map that I had purchased before entering Yosemite out of my tank bag and joined her. She gave me directions to a park and, studying the map, showed me a route to Santa Cruz.

I found the park. I spread my jacket out in the shade of a tree and rested/dozed for a half hour. I got back on the bike and attempted to find Rt. 59 south leading to 152 west, but was soon lost again. I finally turned off my planned route on the GPS that had let me into the “maze” of Merced city, and called up its basic map of the area. In moments I saw where I was and found Rt. 59 south. “Hooray for the nuvi”, I exclaimed to no one in particular, and started off with renewed energy and confidence. Rt. 59 led me to Rt. 152 west which I was happy to find was a four-laner with cars zipping along at 65 mph. However, after a few miles traffic slowed and then stopped at a series of traffic lights, apparently timed to reduce speed to an average 25 mph. Then the lights disappeared and traffic accelerated to 65 again. In a few miles this scenario was repeated, and then again. Finally I saw a sign indicating I was entering the City of Los Banos, and soon I found myself in the city's bowels and Rt. 152 had vanished.

I entered a convenience store and asked, “Could somebody please tell me where to find Rt. 152, the road to Santa Cruz.” I was met with blank stares from several customers, but then one man said he could help me once he had paid for his purchases. He joined me shortly, shaking his head and saying that following 152 through the city was virtually impossible. He then gave me directions which proved erroneous (or perhaps the error was in my interpretation). After floundering about some more I finally came to a corner where there was small oval green sign “Rt. 152” on a pole below a city street sign. Like a dog picking up a scent, I continued on.

Eventually the street became a four lane highway. I soon passed a large flashing sign: “High Wind Gust Warning” and it delivered as promised. Unlike the wind gusts I had faced in the vast basins of Nevada which, while quite strong at times, were from one direction, these gusts came from every direction. It was impossible to prepare for them. I was forced to reduce speed from the posted 65, to 50, while cars and trucks maintained the higher speed. I battled these winds for an hour or more until the highway climbed into irregular terrain. I was able to relax a bit and rest as I no longer had to wrestle with the gusts, but shortly saw a sign: “Hecker Pass ahead, reduce speed”. Then another: “Narrow single lane road ahead, drive carefully.” and another: “Headlights required on at all times.” I soon found myself thrust into a true “twister” containing numerous sharp curves and several hair pin turns. The road first climbed for several miles and then dropped precipitously. This was a road I normally would have relished riding on a motorcycle, but not now, when I was so very tired. My riding style must have been ugly for, with reflexes slowed and physical coordination minimal, I rode slowly and cautiously, surely frustrating the homeward-bound commuters in their autos behind me.

Eventually I exited the pass onto Highway One into Santa Cruz, then soon Rt. 17, and finally turned onto Vine Hill Road in the Santa Cruz Mountains, seemingly much narrower and twisty than I recalled. I descended the road cautiously and at last arrived at the gate at Jeff's home. It was close to 7PM, almost twelve hours since I left Tonopah,NV, and two weeks and 3,810 miles since departing St. Marys, GA. I breathed a deep sigh and smiled as I thought of the pilots' expression, “A good landing is one you can walk away from.”

Fort Stockton,TX to Las Cruces,NM July 4, 2011

Oblivious to the fact it was July 4th, I woke before seven, worked on routes and logs on the computer, then did a 45 minute fast walk.  I tried to get into the town's IHOP but the greeter was inept and rude, and kept me waiting for ten minutes although I could see a number of empty tables.   I finally determined the restaurant was short servers, so I bolted and got an Egg McMuffin instead of the IHOP three stack with blueberry syrup I had yearned for.

The country around Ft. Stockton is pretty flat but soon it got interesting. 

A wind farm of 50 or more giant turbines appeared ghost-like in the distance. When closer, I could see that they were strategically placed to take advantage of the irregularities of the terrain. Seeking a diversion, I let a portion of my brain rhapsodize for a moment: Several dozen turbines were spread uniformly across a large mesa, like the main body of a chorus. A group of five (with exceptional voices) stood on a smaller mesa nearby with music folios in hand, and perched on a sharp butte protruding between these choral bodies, two turbines performed their own special duet.

Once again focusing one hundred percent on the endless strip of concrete ahead, way off in the distance I could see the shapes of mountains shrouded in haze. Before long, at 85 mph, the mountains became sharp and bold. They were the most impressive I had seen so far. They were craggy and striated and clearly masters of the area, not to be challenged by mere mortals.

Every so often I spied an old fashioned windmill whose purpose once was to lift water to the surface, probably for cattle. I didn't see any with blades rotating so suspect they are no longer utilized. Back in Louisiana I did see windmills lifting water for crop irrigation.

Rest stops with bathroom facilities were almost 100 miles apart, with picnic stops offering sheltered tables every 30 or so miles. Like yesterday, at one rest stop I grabbed 20-30 minutes of zzzz on a picnic table bench. Although the temps were in the high 90's, a steady breeze and lack of humidity made the resting opportunities pleasant (although I did notice the back of my shirt was damp with sweat when I sat up).

The land to the south changed from brown to green as the Rio Grande neared. Before long I had entered El Paso city limits and I was thrust into a bustling metropolis. Once out of the city, the route turned northwest and in about 50 miles I reached Las Cruces (The Crosses). With the help of my nuvi, I found the Teakwood Motel, then Furrs Buffet where I jotted notes for this writing, and then a welcome bed.

Tomorrow's trip of 7-8 hours will lead into the Arizona Desert (and Scottsdale at last) so I will try to get a much earlier start.

Freeport (Clute) TX to San Antonio

July 1, 2011

After a hard hour-long walk and shower this morning, I rode a few blocks to Nena's restaurant, which I had spotted on my walk. As I was dismounting from my Yamaha stalion (hey, I'm in Texas now so gotta have a horse:) an hispanic looking man left the restaurant, admired the bike and then told me in English as good as my own that Nena's was a fine place. I entered and saw that most everyone there was also of Mexican heritage. Then I came to the conclusion that almost everyone in Texas was hispanic, quite a change from my experience in George, northern Florida and Alabama. I still have to bite my tongue to avoid greeting everyone with a buenos dias as, unlike in the other states, these people are likely to have been born here, in the ol' US of A, and might take offense at that salutation.

Regardless of their origins, the people in Nena's were surely of south-of- the-border extraction. And the decorations were some different from Mac'n Judy's place in Alabama. No deer heads for these folks, but football was still the theme. Oh sure, there were a few dark colored prints of Madonnas and mission churches, but two huge posters dominated two walls. I took pictures and apparently left my mental image of the graphics of one back inside the camera – but I do recall that the message was clear and it said in Spanish in large letters: DON'T SCREW AROUND WITH THE COWBOYS!

The other poster featured three foot high pictures of the three Cowboy's quarterbacks that have carried the team to victorious seasons in recent years: Roger Staubach, Troy Aikman, and Tony Romo. The logo, in Spanish, was “Carrying on the Cowboy Tradition”.

While I waited for my flapjacks to be flipped, I went back toward the entrance and met Nena's daughter Naomi, another daughter who was feeding her infant his bottle, and son Ed. He and I started chatting away like old friends. He was about 50, stocky (I'm being kind) with a graying mustache that continued down the sides of his mouth. He was very brown.

In a flash I was hit with an image of Eduardo plopped on a low bench outside an adobe ranch house. He had his arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed, chin on his chest and a large sombrero tipped down to shade his face as he caught some “z's”. But contrary to this image, the English that Ed spoke was pure “American”.

Naomi, her sister and brother Ed are the managers and chief employees of the restaurant, as their mother Nena is apparenly retired. It's a true family affair. Naomi's sister and Ed were sitting there eating and jawing because, as Naomi was quick to tell me, they were Off today. Their replacement server was a cheerful (possibly anglo) gal in her early twenties who had social graces but few server skills. I had to go up front for milk for my coffee, and then returned to look for a knife to butter my cakes. I saw a container of plastic forks and spoons, but no knives. Naomi solved the problem by pulling a metal one out of a cupboard, wiping it off with a cloth, and handing it to me with a smile.

And smile is what I did a lot this morning as I watched a corner table of six and high-chaired infant having a good time at one table. They spoke mostly Spanish. Next to me an Anglo 50-ish grandmother with daughter and her two girls (the mother fessed up her infant was spoiled as she picked her up from her high chair for the umpteenth time). Two Anglo workers sat near, and then two late teen males of most likely Mexican heritage. And in came more customers. The place was now hopping.

However, out front near the cashiering counter, sister and brother sat at leisure. I sat down with Ed and two younger brown men to discuss the Cowboy's outlook this coming season. It was fun. This was important for me. I am at home traveling, meeting good people. Like later in the day, at the Angelton Museum, the tourist information lady went out of her way to tell me the best way to San Antonio. And near the end of the day 25 year old Christopher deferred his shopping at Home Depot in order to learn precisely what type of motel I sought and then sketch a map of the best route to follow to find same.

Last night I pondered why these folks were so friendly and helpful. Was it my non-threatening demeanor, my white hair, my glasses? Maybe these and maybe also the two nickel size brown scabs on both sides of my forehead (plus the scars in the center from last Fall's surgery:) Or maybe it's the whole package.

I think it may also be the fact I look at, and into, a person's eyes. Somehow they know I am looking past the color of their skin or their southern drawl or their accented English, to meet them on equal footing, where the rubber hits the road.

Before I left Clute, the neighboring town to overly “refined” Freeport, I had wanted to take a picture of Mama Teresa's where I ate last night. I almost passed it by then because it was difficult to ascertain that it actually was a restaurant. But it surely was. And a fine one at that. It was a one story stand-alone building on a street corner. Some two dozen ceramic planters embracing scrawny green plants outlined a parking area in front. A large rusty empty bird cage watched over the planters. If you stood within a few feet of the building you could read the faded letters on a sign that declared Mama Teresa's produced fine food. I drew up to the building to decipher the sign and would have turned away were it not for a young man performing some chore outside. I asked if the establishment were open and doing business. I was answered in the affirmative so parked the bike and entered.

Inside it was wonderful. Soft warm lighting; browns and deep reds; an aria playing softly, and those wonderful rich Italian cooking aromas in the air. Mama was 75 and garrulous, with a heavy accent. The young man outside was Misha, the sole server. Bright and conscientious. He agreed the exterior aesthetics were pallid. He said they (probably mainly he) had placed a number of attractive ornaments, banners, etc. outside, but they were quickly stolen. He said his ideas were also often spurned by Mama, who was set in her ways. She had had a successful restaurant for many years in the next town, but was forced to move two years ago when the landlord jacked the rent. Now...(you can see where this is going).

With my departure delayed by my good time at Nena's, I forgot about taking a photo of Mama Teresa's. Perhaps it's just one more missed opportunity the restaurant seems destined for. It is very difficult for a stranger to navigate about Clute at this time as highway 183 is being widened with roads blocked and detours seemingly everywhere I wanted to go. It was tough on me and worse for my bewildered gps. I finally headed north and figured I'd pick up my planned route stored on the gps before long. Bue the gps and I weren't getting along; I felt it was taking me too far north so I hopped off the highway when I saw a Tourist Information Center sign at an exit. I ended up a few miles away at that museum in Angleton which I referred to above where that nice lady, I just remembered she was Rose “of Texas”, gave me the info I needed (anything but I-10 that would get me fairly directly to San Antone). Essentially I headed north to Alternate Rt. 90 which paralleled I-10 to SA. I could see a good number of fields were barren due to the extreme drought in this area. Soybeans looked green and healthy (but what do I know). The other most common crop appeared to be two foot high corn plants with brown tassels. I sure hope they weren't corn for, if they were, the farmers have serious problems.

At 4:30 I still 140 miles from San Antonio and my body began to tell me it would really prefer traveling in a soft-cushioned, air-conditioned car (average temp was 97 today). I stopped in Shriner, “The Cleanest City in Texas. Pop. 2069” to drink a bottle of water and study the map Rose of Texas had given me. I decided I had seen all there was south of I-10 so picked a road pointing north at a not-too-distant town coming up, and hopped on it soon as I could.

I was fresh out of water by now so ducked into a Wal-Mart for an infusion before making the route change. In 20 minutes I was soaring west on the super highway. But dang, these Texans are impatient drivers. I moved along in the left lane with the fastest vehicles, doing a steady 75 on this 70 mph highway. This seemed to create a problem for the impatient drivers with no tail-gating inhibitions. I, on the other hand, believe that the second greatest danger for me, after drivers like these, lies in the truck tire retread

carcasses you can frequently see, usually lying on the side of the road. I would not relish running into/over one of these crittes and consequently try to keep at least 5-6 car lengths behind the vehicle in front of me at highway speeds in order to have time to steer around such a danger. While I do not slow any drivers behind me as I keep my speed up with the flow, some drivers see that space ahead of me and are determined to fill it, “because it's there”. They pass me on the right and cut in front of me. They probably could care less about tread carcasses – they gotta push by me and the next, and next guy as well.

My new nuvi 1450 was not showing me Points of Interest so I could not search for Days Inns or anything else. (Carol and Buz and I like Days because often the price is ok and the quality not too bad.) Once inside the SA city limits, I asked a convenience store clerk where the motels were clustered. He gave me bad directions. I then accosted the afore-mentioned Christopher at Home Depot. He was very helpful. I hit the downtown Days Inn on the chance it wasn't too pricy (near the famous River Walk, Alamo, etc.) Clerk Lisa was wonderful. She agreed their $110 (with tax) price was a bit high, but asked if I should expect a bargain on a holiday weekend. She had a point. We hit it off (she's 42 and a (good-looking) grandmother, yet. I told her I was headed west for a grandson's wedding. She went to work for me calling the other Days Inns in the area to seek lower prices. Lisa found one a few miles away that quoted $180 for two nights and I hopped on it. (She gave me her card and told me to come back some other weekend and she would get me a good deal. She wasn't hitting on me – just being a friend.)

So many nice people!

It was now almost dark. I drove to the Days with the better rate, but the Scotch in me (I thought I was only English/Welsh:) caused me to turn in a block before at a place with a “Best Rates in Town” sign. The manager was having a dispute/discussion over rates with a group of four so I waited patiently. After 15 minutes things calmed down and the manager quoted me $165 for two nights, tax included. I was turned off by the tone of the prior discussion, and was giving some thought to the quality of my potential neighbors at the establishment. I said I'd think about it and ducked out while the manager scowled. I was relieved to finally register at this Days Inn. It is of lower than average quality, but it's clean and does have a Wifi that works (most of the time:)

Today, Saturday, I rode down to city center to see, and photo, the Alamo, River Walk, Needle, etc. I walked quite a bit to get in my aerobic duty, and picked up a “Foot Long” from Subway before leaving. I ate half when I returned to my room, and will eat the remainder NOW.