We woke up from our NyQuil-induced slumber in Worthington, Minnesota, in the worst motel of the trip thus far. I don’t want to talk about it. We exited the motel room via the window and didn’t look back.
As far as I recall, the day went something like this:
Take NyQuil. Dream of Twitter. Wake up, ask where we are. Fall asleep before getting an answer. Dream of Twitter. Wake up, ask what day it is. Fall asleep before getting an answer. Dream of Twitter. Wake up, ask what time it is, fall asleep before getting answer. Dream of hay bales on Twitter? Wake up, go to Wall Drug, take some more NyQuil, fall asleep again.
Somehow, we magically ended up in Keystone, South Dakota in the midst of a thunderstorm. The sign said the population of Keystone is 344, but I think that’s a generous estimate. It’s about the size of Frontierland at Disneyland, and seems to have been designed by the same architect. We went in search of food, choosing an “all-American buffet” with the thought that it would have something for everyone. It did not. After taking one look at the four green beans floating in a chafing dish and the dried-up piece of meat labeled “prime rib,” we totally bailed. Anna is reminding me that the mushrooms were still in the form of the can they came out of, like a brownish cranberry sauce.
We ended up at a pizza place run by awkward adolescents. One poor kid was at the first shift of his first job ever. He tried to deliver us no less than three pizzas that did not belong to us. We sat next to a family with five children, two of which were mostly naked at any given moment.
We walked back to the motel, I took some NyQuil, and I passed out again.
Welcome to South Dakota.