The Road Trip by Francesca Quarto

The vacation was well-planned, down to the snacks and number of possible rest stops.  The big Dodge Ram truck was stuffed like a Christmas turkey on wheels.  Suitcases, coolers, electronics totes and sundry items needed for the man's hunting foray, were jammed into every available crevice and secured for an adventure covering almost four thousand miles, round trip.
As they pulled away from their suburban home, the wife sat in the front seat, dreamily thinking of beautiful vistas and enchanting small towns, along the roads from Indiana to San Antonio, Texas.  A week there and then on to Laredo and up to the wild Texas foothills, for another week.
The trip would include a stop in Arkansas at the Diamond Crater State Park, known for the discovery of the rare gems, by any keen-eyed bloke and the occasional youngster kicking dirt clods out of boredom.  The wife was prepared to dig for her own diamond and already thinking of ring settings for the one carrot sparkler.
They drove into Arkansas commenting on the lovely scenery, but also noting a paucity of Rest Areas along their road.  Worse still, there seemed no exits off the seemingly endless highway leading deep into the black Arkansas night. 
Driving for several hours, bladders screaming for relief, they finally spotted lights off in the distance.  Civilization!
A small cluster of buildings constituted the town, a village really, on the outskirts of the famed diamond grounds.  Pulling into a motel called "Paradise Rest", the husband secured a room from the owner, a large-boned woman, wearing shorts likely belonging to a granddaughter and a not-too-friendly look.  The couple were told to "park behind our  motorcycles"  sitting like giant black beetles, two feet from their motel room door.
On an early morning walk, the wife discovered a menagerie of twenty parakeets stuffed into an undersized cage near the motel office.  They screeched like witches pleading for mercy before burning, adding a somber feel to an over-cast morning. She hoped it wasn't an omen.
Later, when the husband jumped into the shower, the water ran as cold as a mountain stream, inspiring a hasty scrub and rinse and many muttered profanities.  This occurrence was greeted with a blank look when reported to the floozy running the place.  Evidently, showers were not a significant part of their daily routine, though their bikes looked clean.
Off to the diamond hunting grounds! The two had purchased a small shovel and rented a sifter and other accoutrement, so they could pan for their gems. They came prepared to hit the jackpot, but ill-prepared to dig in the broiling sun.
No hat for the wife, no water, no gloves, knee pads, sun screen.  After three hours of slogging over deeply rutted ground and through muddy channels, where the gleaming treasure supposedly poked out of gray dirt clods, they quit!  Dehydration sucked them as dry as over-cooked chickens. Heat stroke was a real possibility, whereas, finding her diamond was not.
Back on the road, the wife did have a new T Shirt, reading Diamond Crater State Park and the husband a new shovel. 
Many long hours and state highways later, they crossed into the Lone-Star State.  Another night on the road before hitting San Antonio, Texas, where they could board with relatives while they explored the fabled Alamo.
The Alamo was a Mission Fort in its time and offered a rare look back to the formation of Texas.  It seemed to exude a kind of solemn serenity, considering its bloody history. Entering, the wife and husband noted how the big city surrounded the small Mission like the troops of Santa Anna had, in its historic last days.
Onward to Laredo, a city reflecting the warm colors of Mexican tradition, language and faces.  The food was traditional, the antacid liberally employed by the husband.  Visiting another willing family member afforded them the chance to relax between meals, shopping and more food. The wife resolved to diet upon returning home, her husband swore off Mexican sauces in future.
During the quick return trip to San Antonio, before heading back to Indiana, the couple toured another Mission Fort favored by the Spaniards, centuries past.  The wife voiced her objection to using a religious facility so blatantly as cover for the true purpose of the Mission; fortifying Spanish interests and wealth.  The priests proselytized, baptized, and generally ruled over the indigenous peoples with their own brand of "God."  The Indians were housed at the Mission in small, stone quarters, sharing outdoor brick ovens with other families.  As semi-wards of the Spanish, they were expected to plant and garden, helping to provision the population of the Mission along with any garrisoned soldiers.  Proving yet again to the wife and husband, the arrogance of one race over another, long pre-dated modern times, but was no less deplorable.
Homeward bound, on the road for ten hours each day, the couple had a clearer view of what it meant to be a "road warrior."  They had faced travel-monsters along the way.  Heavy road traffic, horrific looking accidents and rubber-necking, beds that sag, food that rearranges internal organs, weather that ranged from sweltering, to near flood stage overnight.
In spite of the challenges, they did learn more about this wonderfully diverse country of theirs.  They felt like foreigners at times, visiting a new land with a vastly different subculture. 
And for the wife, well, she loved the accent!  Bye Ya'll!