June 1 1998

The saga thus far:

So I get to Bloomington, semi no problem except that the surrounding "National Forest" is jetski and pod [tourist] infested... But all seems well.  Until.... I forgot the Westfalia guy's phone number.  Shit.   No way to get in touch with him.  So I follow every lead I can remember, like that he said his uncle works at a Marathon gas station.  Turns out there are like 20 "Marathon Stations" in Bloomington alone.  I start calling them one by one, giving my vague description of the Westfalia.  No luck of course.

But then out of the blue he sends me an email with his phone number, hallelujah.  But  he lost the damn title.  So now I'm stuck here in Bloomington in some roadside motel for 3 or 4 days in a room that smells like fossilized cigarette smoke and with a window that won't open, battling the urge to watch the boob tube.