The Home Stretch!

Faced with the prospect of just one more meal on the road and mostly just chains and fast food in sight, we decided to go for something distinctly regional: Whataburger. I'd first heard of this amazing chain on a teen tour of Europe one summer in high school from Iyleya Fitch, from Sugarland, Texas. She and the trip's two other Texans were appalled to learn that we lacked such ammenities on the East coast.
As we approached ours on the outskirts of El Paso, we had some gigling about the logo. It's very much "Weezer". Slightly less "Wu Tang" and "Whatever." But still, very evocative.
My favorite thing about the menu here is that many of the items start with "Whata." Liz got a "Whataburger" with jalapenos and stuff, and Betsy and I went for "Whatachicken." You can observe the chain's mascotts, Whataguy and Whataboy. It's just so durn cute.
They have the same system as the DQ: you order at the counter, then they give you a little number and bring your food over. (Only chi-chi little cafes seem to do this where I come from.) So we wait.
Liz's burger comes out right quick. And we tell her to go ahead and chow down. She does, with approval. Time goes by. No whatachikens. And still none. And still. I'm approaching my threshold of "get up and go ask", which is fairly high, because I hate doing that, when they arrive, along with a complimentary apple pie for each of us, to thank us for being patient. Jackpot!
Whatachicken is really quite good. Definitely beats Wendy's and BK. I've never had one from McDonald's. Mmmmm. We're fortified. One apple pie gets sampled by all of us. The other comes in the car.

We stop for gas and I finally remember to sponge the windshield! Woo! Now we can see out it! And we're ready to head straight to Tucson.

We cross New Mexico without much incident -- except that this is where we find the town of Antelope Wells, a key final ingredient in our yummy linguistic road trip stew. And we also pass a series of souvenirish stores with great advertising -- billboards for miles before you approach, offering all kinds of strange items. (Girls: help? Can't quite remember?) There are also ads for "The Thing," an attraction whose identity we never discover.
And we cross into Arizona. Or "The Zone."
And it starts. . . raining? What? Yes, definitely raining. Who does that? In the middle of a desert in summer?

We're fast-closing in on Tucson -- familiar territory for me, as I've traveled here twice by plane to visit and find an apartment, nay, HOUSE, so down go the maps. Ladies, we're cooking.

Waffle Houses have become much less common -- but fear not, Gentle Dixie, the motel I stayed at was right across the street from one, so I will take you there for breakfast tomorrow, and there will be pecan waffles for all!

As we drive past the campus of the University of Arizona, we see the banners that decorate all the streetlights, bearing the letter A. A for Amy. We're home.

We pull into the driveway and come through the door. J is there to greet us (what a good boy, coming ahead by plane to meet the moving van) and the house looks beautiful. Once we have a chance to pee, we're all happy and sad at the same time because we made it! But our epic trek is over. We can pin the map to our wall with the route hilighted, and we might smell kind of bad and have bandanas tied around our heads and one-armed tans, but this is it. At least for now.

I realize writing this that the last leg of the trip sounds really rushed. It kind of felt that way, too. But getting this close, I gave in to the desire to get where I was going, my house, all of my things. Perhaps that was a failure of will on my part, or the triumph of my tamer nature.

Betsy and Liz are staying for a few days. You stick around too -- I'll tell you about our sweet, sweet trip to Waffle House, a much-needed mission to Target, the miracle of frozen custard, and how J learned that cacti are sharp.
(J is being referred to by initial to protect the innocent, since he's not really implicated in all this road-trip business.)