Mosquito Apocalypse

 

February 6–9, 2026

We started the morning with a peaceful sunrise walk on the beach. I found all kinds of weird sea debris and did what any modern explorer does: pointed my phone at it and let Google Lens identify it. Although I did not love some of the answers. For example, that long rubbery thing with shells stuck to it? Not seaweed. Not driftwood. A worm. Apparently the ocean just has worms lying around like that.

I am basically a marine biologist now.

Did you know there’s a protected live coral reef sitting out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico thanks to a bizarre geological hiccup? I didn’t either. But somewhere along the way I learned about the Flower Garden Banks National Marine Sanctuary, where coral reefs somehow thrive hundreds of miles from the tropical places you’d expect them. Something about ancient salt domes pushing the seafloor up into sunlight where coral can survive. It sounds like a scientific accident that worked out beautifully.

This trip is slowly turning into an accidental homeschool science curriculum, and honestly I love it. One minute you’re identifying mystery beach debris with your phone, the next minute you’re deep into reef geology and ocean worms before breakfast.

After our morning walk, we did the responsible adult thing and worked. For a while. Until we looked at each other mid–giant work project and said, “You know what? The sun is out. Get out the spandex. We're going biking.”

We rode the seawall in Galveston, which boasts the longest continuous sidewalk in the United States—10.3 miles of concrete glory, certified by Guinness World Records. It was built after the horrific Galveston hurricane of 1900, when 8,000 people died. We rode the entire thing from start to finish just so we can say that we've rode the longest continuous sidewalk in the United States. 

Big RVs were lined up all along the seawall. I assumed it was for the Mardi Gras parades the next day, but I needed confirmation. So I stopped to interrogate four ladies drinking beer and sitting in folding chairs on the sidewalk.

Were they saving spots? Oh honey. They were saving spots.

Their group had:

• A massive RV

• A U-Haul packed with a cooker and enough food to feed a small nation;

• Separate port-a-potties for men and women (the women’s reportedly had a chandelier); and 

• Hotel rooms across the street so they didn’t actually have to sleep in the RV or accidentally drive drunk.

This was more than tailgating.

Best part? They invited me to their party.

George had biked ahead and eventually had to circle back to retrieve me. When he rolled up, he joked to the ladies that I have a chronic condition where I talk to strangers and he has to come track me down like a misplaced toddler at Costco.

To be fair, there was that one time at a campground, after dark, when I wandered into a large gathering of actual bikers (not cyclists) and he couldn’t find me for a solid stretch of time. He was fully convinced I had been murdered. When we were finally reconnected, he was so mad he refused to talk to me for an hour. 

Minor detail. Totally unrelated. Clearly an overreaction.

The sassy sidewalk queens informed George that my talking had secured me a Mardi Gras party invitation. And they might generously allow him to tag along.

We are absolutely going.

While chatting with the ladies, I was hyper-aware of my hairy legs. With our water issues, shaving is simply not happening. At one point I considered committing fully to the bit and speaking in a European accent so the legs would seem like a natural byproduct of my culture, but my accent skills are not strong enough to sell it.

George has been working with the RV dealer, the RV manufacturer, and watched approximately 47 YouTube videos with technicians named “Brad” to diagnose the problem. He is now at least 62% certified in RV Plumbing. Turns out at least part of the issue was that the shower handle had been installed upside down. George fixed that and while he was at it, feeling bold and mechanically inclined, he removed the mixing valve entirely. And guess what? We have hot water! Progress. 

But the pressure? It goes from “kinked garden hose” to “sad hamster tears” in 30 seconds. To get enough water, you use it for 30 seconds, then when the sad hampster tears start to run, you turn it off and wait for the pressure to build again. Then you repeat that cycle until the bare essentials have been washed.

Unfortunatley, RV showers are already a military operation--Wet. Off. Lather. On. Rinse. Off. Shampoo. On. Rinse. Off--so it's not too different. 

We packed up and left the state park early the next mornign to secure parking near the parade route. We’re 45 feet long with the car and camper, so parallel parking is less “maneuver” and more “strategic naval operation.” You have to find a spot where noone can park you in.

News outlets said the street closures would start at 59th. We parked just past 61st to be safe. At 8:30 a.m., traffic officials swooped in and barricaded the street directly in front of us. Not where the news said. Of course.

But—accidental jackpot—we were now in the golden no-parking-for-anyone-else zone and didn't have to worry about getting parked in.

 

We walked ¾ of a mile to the party and detoured for matching Mardi Gras shirts. Because if you’re going to crash a party, you have to do it coordinated.

 

The people were lovely. There was indeed a chandelier in the women’s Port-a-potty, which is a level of elegance I did not previously know was possible in portable sanitation. There was also plenty of traditional Mardi Gras food: sausage on a stick, sliders, chips, and Jell-O shots—which we declined like the responsible Mormon adults we apparently are.

I asked a lady if “sausage on a stick” had a festive Mardi Gras name.

The lady paused thoughtfully and then said, “Sausage on a stick.”

Fair.

Instead of candy, people in the parade throw beads. We collected an impressive amount. In New Orleans, I understand beads come with… negotiations. But this was a family-friendly Mardi Gras so I kept my girls under wraps. 

 

Though we were having a great time, meeting lots of people, and enjoying the food, we only stayed for the first parade--yes, there is more than one parade--then said our goodbyes to all the slightly drunk partiers in our large group and headed to our next destination, Sea Rim State Park. 

To get to Sea Rim, we had to take a ferry (which is just casually part of the highway system here). We set up camp. Made dinner. Killed approximately 20 mosquitoes and went to bed.

We were camping near a bayou, which apparently translates to: “Mosquito breeding headquarters.” Fun Fact: we were also near the Port Arthur Refinery—the largest oil refinery in the country. It’s changed hands so many times I couldn't actually figure out its name. Motiva? Maybe. Amcor? Possibly. Big and industrial? Definitely. The place was crawling with security at every conceivable entrance. I assume they’re worried about terrorist threats…though based on the mosquito population, I feel like they already have a pretty effective perimeter defense.

The next morning I turned on the bathroom light and it looked like a mosquito rave. There were about fifty of them. I spent 10 minutes in battle before getting ready for church using our under-pressured shower.  

After church, we drove to Beaumont, TX and visited a small art museum featuring pointed houses made out of cloth diaper meant to honor the pink collar work of mothing and domesticity… but honestly it just left us confused and amazed that someone spends there time like this. Clearly we lack the proper appreciation and are not art aficionados.

We also visited the much more straightforward and informative Spindletop-Gladys City Boomtown Museum and learned all about the Lucas Gusher that put Beaumont on the map.

Back at camp, in mosquito-ville, we took a walk on a boardwalk through the marsh, searching for alligators. Saw none. But when we returned to the camper, we had to kill 30 more mosquitoes just from opening the door.

George upgraded his kill tactics: vacuum the suckers with the handheld. Amazing innovation.

We went to bed fairly confident we had killed all of the mosquites in the camper. But when we opened our eyes the next morning, there were roughly 100 mosquitoes on the ceiling and walls. One hundred. Just hanging there. Like they’d held a strategic planning meeting overnight and decided to launch Phase Two.

We vacuumed them up. Felt victorious. Sat down to work subconsciously scratching. 

Fifteen minutes later? Twenty more.

We had absolutely no idea where they were getting in. There were no visible gaps. No open windows.

So we began our new morning routine: emails, vacuum mosquitoes, repeat. Off and on for several hours while dressed like desert nomads—long sleeves, long pants, socks, hoods—every inch of skin covered despite being parked near a beach. We were taking no chances.

By noon we'd had enough and packed up to head toward Louisiana and hopefully leave the mosquitoes behind. One the way, we stopped at the Museum of the Gulf Coast. I learned the coastline used to extend 50 miles farther out. Meaning there are archaeological sites offshore and artifacts sometimes wash up. So now when I’m beachcombing for shells, I’m also scanning for arrowheads and pottery shards, like a very underqualified archaeologist.

I also learned Texas has way too many venomous snakes. Three kinds of rattlesnakes, Cottonmouths, Copperheads, and Coral snakes. George is terrified of snakes, so this information did not help with my quest to do some hiking along with our biking. 

Finally, we crossed into Louisiana—one of the last three states George hadn’t visited.

When we started off that morning, we had installed a sway bar on the camper since our new rig is bigger and we'd been feeling the sway. When we opened the camper after driving, everything inside had staged a rebellion and was flung helter skelter. Apparently “more stable” equals “shake your belongings into submission.” According to google this is normal. Quote: "While your stuff is falling, the sway bar is preventing a much more dangerous issue (excessive body roll/rollover risk). The goal is to secure your cargo to match the new, more stable, but stiffer ride." So I guess we have our work cut out for us trying to figure out how to secure our stuff.

We took the scenic backroads in Louisiana. The interesting thing was that every building was on tall stilts—churches, libraries, entire high schools. Flooding is clearly not a hypothetical situation here. Not the cemeteries, though. Those folks are already dead so its okay if they wash away.

Toward the end of our drive, we took our second ferry of the trip, which crossed a small river, and then camped right on the beach near Creole, Louisiana.

No mosquitoes.
Just gentle waves.

Beaver Fever

February 2–5, 2026

We left Houston headed for Corsicana, TX to visit George’s cousin, Cheryl. If you look at a map you will see that we've been zig-zagging across Texas like a Roomba. All to dodge the Big Freeze.

Somewhere on the highway we started seeing billboards for Buc-ee's. Not just a billboard. Like fifty-seven billboards. Every five miles. Each one sassier than the last.

“Risk it for the Brisket.”
“It’s giving potty.”
“My precious.”

By mile 75 we had to stop and see what Buc-ee's was all about.

Now, this was allegedly a small Buc-ee’s. Only 32 pumps and an equal or greater number of bathroom stalls. Basically a gas station for peasants, because the big ones have 64 pumps. Inside, they were making fresh fudge, tortillas, brisket sandwiches, and more. Buc-ee's also has its own line of jerky, salsa, chips, candy, sodas, basically anything edible you can imagine. 

But the best part? The place was cleaner than my own home. I watched an employee swap out soda machine spouts like they were sterilizing equipment for the CDC. Every bathroom stall had sanitizing foam so you could wipe down your throne like royalty preparing to sit. I nearly wept. Germaphobes, Buc-ee's is our Disneyland. 

After writing this, I fully expect my social life to tank because now everyone knows I’m a raging germaphobe and they’ll be panic-scrubbing their baseboards before I come over. 

The Buc-ees's employees were cheerful, polite, clean-cut teenagers who made me think of the kids at Chick-fil-A or In-N-Out Burger. The beef jerky guy kept shoving samples into our hands before we even asked. Which is perfect, because asking for samples makes me feel like a beggar on a street corner. We bought four kinds of jerky (I guess the samples paid off), a hot cinnamon roll, two breakfast sandwiches, AND a fudge sampler. Buc-ee’s even has grocery carts because they know you’re about to buy things in bulk.

Back home, Maverik is the fancy gas station. Buc-ee’s ate Maverik’s lunch and sold it back to us in souvenir tins.

Across the street was a dead Exxon. May it rest in peace. That beaver don’t play.

After our long, unexpected delay at Buc-ee's, we finally made it to George's cousin's house. Cheryl hosted a full-family hangout with kids, grandkids, partners, and tiny humans running everywhere like sugared ferrets. The theme was a fast-food potluck, which I had never heard of but fully support. Someone brought fries from McDonald's. Someone brought corn nuggets, a first for me. I approve. Someone brought tamales. Someone brought Chinese food. Someone brought cookies. And someone brought a sandwich tray. It was chaos and cholesterol and we loved it.

We slept parked on Cheryl’s street like classy RV people. We forgot to take a picture with Cheryl, so we did the next best thing and took a wierd solo picture of George in front of her house. 

Next day: back to Houston for trailer repairs. Three-hour drive. All-day wait. But hey—we stopped at Buc-ee’s again. We're officially addicts. 

When the trailer was supposedly fixed, we drove to Galveston, TX and camped near the beach. Guess what? We still had no hot water or pressure. But I was greasy and desperate so I took a cold shower. It felt like bathing in punishment for crimes I don’t remember committing. Meanwhile, George was fighting off a hoard of mosquites that had managed to invade our camper. 

The next day I worked nonstop while George tinkered and researched our water issue like a man possessed. We didn’t even see the beach. After sunset, George refused to go outside because of mosquitoes. I was basically a prisoner from from sundown to sunup. 

It took us an embarrassingly long time to figure out why everything was lit up like a disco in purple, green, and gold. Mardi Gras, baby. We had accidentally scheduled our road trip to Galvaston, Texas, smack dab in the middle of Mardi Gras with zero clue. 

We survived the freeze, found the cleanest gas station on earth, and were only mildly traumatized by a cold shower and a mosquito invasion. Honestly? Worth it!

We Did a Thing

 January 29 - February 1, 2026

We woke up at Padre Island National Seashore to the soothing sound of ocean waves and zero responsibility… for about seven minutes. Then we remembered we still have jobs. If you have to work, though, working on the beach is elite-tier adulting. Laptop open, salty breeze, occasional pelican dive-bombing the water. But first we took a sunrise walk on the beach because the work day hadn't even started back on the Pacific Coast where our clients assume we are sitting. 

That afternoon, we biked to the visitor center and around the park. There’s an old ranch area, because apparently every National Seashore used to be a ranch until someone said, “Hey maybe let’s not let cows trample the fragile ecosystem,” and the government agreed.

We also saw one of only six high-saline lagoons in the world. Very exclusive. Very salty. My kind of water feature.

And here’s something alarming: I think I’m becoming a bird person.

Not “own parrots and teach them to swear” bird person. More like “Ooooh what IS that?” bird person. It’s weirdly fun trying to identify them. Some are actually stunning. If this is how it starts, someone intervene before I own binoculars with a neck strap. Oh wait...too late. That $5 pair of binoculars that George bought at the estate sale in Sedona, Arizona work great! 

We broke camp the next morning in a frigid wind chill and headed toward even colder weather in Austin to see George’s college friend Walter and his wife Andrea. 

We prefer back roads, even if it takes a little longer to get where we are going because we enjoy “local flavor.” Sometimes that flavor is regret. For example, to get to Austin, we thought we'd finish seeing the barrier islands with a drive through Mustang Island State Park, then catch the Port Aransas ferry to head to Austin. The drive would only be slightly longer. Unless there was a low tide restriction on the ferry that was not discussed anywhere on its website. No campers. No RVs. Just rejection.

So we backtracked like pioneers who chose poorly.

Port Aransas, however, was adorable. All bright pastels like a beach town decided to cosplay as Easter. I tried to look up if there was a city ordinance requiring “Aggressively Cheerful Pastel Color Schemes,” but nope. Just commitment.

In Austin, George wanted to “just look” at the new NuCamp Haven. Ladies, if your man says he just wants to look at a camper (or a car, or a motorcycle, or a house, or a...), he does not.

The Haven is slightly bigger than ours. Same brand we love. We had actually seen part of it during our factory tour—where we signed NDAs and surrendered our phones like we were entering a top-secret government facility instead of a camper factory.

We made a pros and cons list like mature adults.

Then we had dinner with Walter and Andrea. Walter made fish so good I ate it willingly, and I do not like fish. That’s basically a miracle. We played Rummikub, caught up on each other's kids (though our kid rehash took more than twice as long since we have 7 and they have 2), shared pictures, stayed in their guest room, and felt like civilized humans.

We said goodbye and drove straight to the RV store. Guess who bought the Haven? Scott Frewing, wherever you are, congratulations. You win the bet.

Immediately, we ran into a few glitches. The salesman said it was four-season with tank heaters. It was not.

So we split the cost with the dealer to have tank heaters installed. And then we added an extra battery for good measure to make sure that when we leaned into winter instead of fleeing it, we had adequate power to run those tank heaters. 

We had to empty our old camper completely before trading it in. I am still in awe at how much stuff came out of that tiny space. It was like a clown car, but make it sentimental. We loved that little camper. Six solid years. She deserved a Viking funeral, honestly.

Installing tank heaters took all day. Paperwork took forever. By the time everything was done, it was well past closing and the staff was politely staring at us like, “Please. Go.”

So we shoved all our stuff back into the new camper in pure hodgepodge chaos and drove two hours toward our next stop: Houston.

Our first glamorous overnight destination with the new trailer? A Walmart parking lot. Truly living the influencer lifestyle over here. But honestly, Walmart parking lots aren’t terrible. They’re level-ish, they’re free, and you fit right in when you run into the store to buy something in pajama pants. The only time we ever regretted a Walmart stay was six years ago in Montrose, Colorado, when landscapers decided 1:00 a.m. was the perfect time to mow the lawn we were parked next to. Nothing like waking up in a panic thinking you’re being chased by an angry chainsaw.

So now we do a quick pre-park inspection: no grass nearby, no sprinklers aimed at the camper, and ideally no teenagers practicing trumpet nearby. We’ve learned. We’ve grown. We’re basically Walmart parking lot experts at this point. Ironically, as I write this, there is a chainsaw running next door as they work to demolish a house. 

It was after midnight when we realized the water pump had “issues.” But hey—the tank heaters worked great. Which was good. Because it was 26 degrees. No more chasing warm weather. We can finally be all season RV people.

The next morning, I took a lovely cold shower while George operated the water pump like a NASA launch technician. He’d flip it on to build pressure. Then flip it off when it started leaking outside.

Did I mention it was cold?

We headed into Houston for brunch with Walter’s parents—also work colleagues—who live in a stunning high-rise downtown. The kind of place you see in movies with a doorman and valet parking. Only in the movies, the elevator opens directly into the penthouse like you’re Beyoncé arriving at brunch. Here, you had to step out and walk down a beautiful hallway past the five other penthouse doors on the same floor, like some sort of… regular millionaire. We pretended we did not just come from a Walmart parking lot. 

On the way to Houston, we nearly died.

A semi in front of us suddenly whipped into the left lane, revealing a broken-down car directly in our path. George slammed the brakes (which locked), tried to swerve left (pickup truck there), swerved back, and somehow—miraculously—the pickup gunned it so we could change lanes at the last second.

The young guy with the broken-down car just stood there watching like, “Well. This is how it ends.”

Thirty seconds later we ran over a giant chunk of metal we couldn’t avoid.

George stayed calm through it all. An absolute champ. I, meanwhile, aged three years. Between the cold shower and near-death experience, I was fully awake on 4.5 hours of sleep.

Brunch was lovely. Gorgeous panoramic views. Church online afterward—thank you time zones for our 3:30 Washington start time.

Then we reviewed our new rolling financial decision:

The Pros:

1. We don’t have to crawl over each other to get into bed. (Downside: We don’t have to crawl over each other to get into bed.)

2. Separate shower and toilet. GAME CHANGER. No more wet floors or strategic bladder timing.

3. Solar panel charges like a bull in the ring.

4. Backup camera. I am officially retired from “Yell and Flail” parking duty. 

5. Tank indicators actually work. No more playing “Is That Smell a Warning?”

6. We can keep clothes inside. No more freezing our tushes off running to the car every morning.

Downsides? Scott Frewing wins. There is more for me to clean. And that one little no hot water and questionable water pressure issue. 

We slept in another Walmart parking lot that night, the best we can do in the big ol' city.

Our Week-Long Stay at the 4 Seasons

January 21-28, 2026

After hightailing it off South Padre Island—thanks to our extensive collection of police encounters—we retreated to Brownsville, Texas to wait out what the news dramatically called "The big freeze." In reality, it's just a little cold snap that sends entire cities like Houston into full panic mode because their winter gear consists of one decorative scarf. Our plan, as usual, was loose with no reservations. Shockingly, not knowing where we’re sleeping that night does not stress us out or ruin our fun. 

On the way to Brownsville, we stopped at Palo Alto Battlefield National Historic Site, because nothing pairs better with housing insecurity than a quick refresher on the Mexican-American War. Did you know we captured Mexico City during that war? From there, we negotiated a backed-off border and a sort of theoretical peace. Imagine if we’d just kept all of Mexico. How would the Civil War have gone? Better? Worse? Unclear, anyway.

Eventually in our search for a place to stay, we struck gold: a 55+ mobile home/RV park that actually answered the phone and rented by the week. It was called 4 Seasons, and within minutes of arriving I was in jaw-dropping awe of the people there.

Case in point: while setting up camp, our wheel block sank into the very wet grass and tipped. George claims it tipped because someone (me) neglected to chock the wheels, and when the hitch came off the trailer it lurched forward and tipped the block. Either way, we could not fix it ourselves—though I’m sure the attempt was very entertaining to everyone watching. And watching they were.

Out of nowhere, three old guys rolled up in golf carts, hopped out, and lifted the camper up while George fixed the block and I chocked the wheels. Our kids call this “old man strength.” I was skeptical in the past, but no longer. These men could throw me into the sun.

They told us everyone helps everyone here—and they weren’t lying. In the first 30 minutes, we were invited to play pickleball by three people and informed of the week’s entire social calendar, which was quite busy. 

The 4 Seasons (that has to be a trademark infringement) has an entire pickleball schedule. There’s competitive, tournament-style pickleball for people who take knee braces seriously, and there's relaxed beginner pickleball for people who might still be wondering which side of the paddle hits the ball. Not knowing the competition, we decided to start with the beginner group later that week. 

After working most of the afternoon on our first day there and meeting approximately half the park, we took a walk around the gated community to see what amenities we’d accidentally wandered into. Turns out, this place has a 90-degree pool, a 104-degree hot tub, a billiards room, a game room, a library, darts, laundry, a lake, and a full social calendar.

At the lake there was a sign that said Beware of Alligators. This was the first alligator sign we’d seen so far, though we'd been expecting it as we moved east. George has a mild alligator phobia. Realistically, alligators are probably a lot like rattlesnakes or bears—you almost never see them, and if you do, they leave you alone as long as you leave them alone and don’t act stupid. This did not comfort George.

The 4 seasons also has a “free table.” We had a bag full of stuff that was slated for Goodwill that we put on the free table instead. It disappeared immediately, which means either we have excellent taste or there are some hoarders in this group. Possibly both.

That evening we hit the hot tub, chatted with a group of residents, then swam in the ultra-warm pool. It was soooo relaxing—and I don’t even like swimming. Although the pool looked very clean, I did my best not to think about all the questionable things that I just knew were floating around in the water. 

The only downside to this community? At age 51, I feel like an imposter. A young’un. But I can absolutely see how people get addicted to places like this.

The next morning, Day 2, we watched the competitive pickleballers and confidently decided we could compete. That said, we’re still going to start with the beginners tomorrow—just to avoid potential humiliation.

Instead, we headed to San Padre Island to bike the entire beach. That was the goal, anyway. In reality, we biked about 15 miles before deciding it would be wise to turn around, since we’d have to ride back into a headwind.

Okay, I also wanted to turn around because I made a critical error: I wore jean shorts to get sun on my legs. Between humidity and sweat, they became denim torture devices. The chafing was aggressive. Vanity betrayed me.

George did not wear his helmet on this ride—a major violation of our core biking values. His argument was that we were “just on the beach” and would “only fall on sand.” However, Texas considers beaches highways. I had to call “car back” about forty times, which is not something you expect to do while biking on a beach—but there we were. 

On our ride we passed UFO Beach, which features an old oil rig escape pod decorated with shells, cans, and garbage. Art is so subjective. Also painted on its side were the words, "Nude Beach," with an arrow pointing to the right. We thought it was a joke, But just a mile down the beach we passed a buck naked man on a lonely stretch of beach. Well—almost naked. He was wearing a bandana. The last naked guy I saw on a beach was wearing a cowboy hat. What is it with nudists and headgear?

People were flying some genuinely cool kites, which briefly distracted me from my denim regret.

Overall the ride was great, but like always it wore me out. We recovered the only way possible: an hour in the 90-degree pool and hot tub while doing laundry. Cheap laundry, too—way cheaper than anywhere we’ve been. Bless this place.

That evening we went to the game room with Bananagrams and played by ourselves because the other groups were deep into games we did not understand—Ponytail, Canasta, Euchre. This place feels like a college dorm. Or a cruise ship. Or summer camp. Or that casino in the Percy Jackson books that lulls you into staying forever. We only have a week this time, but we might just come back someday. 

On day 3, we woke up early to play pickleball with the beginners. Some people were playing for the very first time, at like age 70, which was genuinely cool to watch. After the beginners wrapped up pickleball, we stuck around another hour to play with the residents who had been teaching them. One guy played great—right up until he had to pick a ball up off the ground. Then everything shifted into slow motion, like we were suddenly underwater. Still, credit where due: once the ball was in play, he was solid.

Another guy shuffled deceptively onto the court looking harmless and then fired off a wicked serve that suggested a youth full of athletic dominance. I adapted quickly and learned to lob the ball just barely over the net where he couldn’t shuffle fast enough to get it. You do what you’ve got to do to win. Survival tactics.

But seriously, they were very good players—better than George or me—but not anywhere near as good as our kids (shout out to George, Jake, Alan, and Celeste). Youth. Nothing replaces it.

That said, I’m starting to understand why people live in these communities. They keep you moving, learning, and engaged. They’re still doing things. And they’re still serving one another—like teaching beginners how to play pickleball and helping a married couple fix their trailer before things devolved into a fight. 

On day 4, we woke up early for a bike ride and foolishly trusted Google to find us a bike path. Google led us directly to the landfill. We biked around on roads that said "No Trespassing" trying to escape the dump like confused raccoons. We eventually gave up and backtracked. Lesson learned: do not trust Google. After that misadventure, we had to hustle back so we wouldn't miss donuts and coffe (even though we don't drink coffee). 

Donuts and coffee was a great event. We met even more people and felt like we belonged. They even took our photo and info for the park directory “in case we come back next year.” No pressure.

After donuts and coffee, we joined the pickleball gang again and played several rounds with rally scoring, something new for this old lady. Those older folks will absolutely surprise you. They look like they might nap mid-rally and then absolutely smoke the ball past you.

After pickleball, we cleaned up and headed to Boca Chica Beach near Starbase, Texas. Starbase has entire parking lots full of Cybertrucks. Rumor has it that if you work there, you can rent one for $100 a month. I assume this is Elon’s creative solution to getting rid of those ugly things.

There’s also a massive bust of Elon Musk on the side of the road. I don’t know if he put it there himself or if someone else did, but either option feels plausible. We also saw his rocket, which was genuinely pretty cool.

George really wanted to drive on the beach at Boca Chica, but the sand was thick getting out onto it and I was convinced we’d get stuck. I told him, “Not in my car. But you can take your car if you want.” This was mean, because his car is a fancy-pants BMW Z4 that would never, under any circumstances, be taken onto a beach. I'm just too sweet to be mean for long, so I compromised. I got out of the car and told him that if he got stuck, I didn’t know him—but if he made it, I was on board.

He didn’t get stuck.

We drove all the way down the beach to the mouth of the Rio Grande, with Mexico on one side and the U.S. on the other.

Later that afternoon, back at the 4 seasons, we washed our bikes. Ever since the beach ride, the gears sounded like sandpaper and the brakes honked like a ship lost in fog.

That night was the 4 Season's sock hop. There was a live band—a father-daughter trio with guitar, bass, and drums. I entered the hula hoop contest and won. Well, technically I tied. The other woman and I could have hula-hooped forever, but no one wants to watch that, so we agreed to quit at the same time.

She won Milk Duds, my favorite. I got Boston Baked Beans. Ew. Plot twist: she couldn’t even eat the Milk Duds because they stuck to her false teeth. Tragedy all around.

George entered the bubble gum blowing contest. He didn’t win—but later casually blew a bubble just as big as the winner’s, so I’m calling it a victory.

At one point, we got pulled into dancing and ended up stuck doing the Soul Train and the Copycat dance. I was singled out to bust a move for the copycat dance because the leader noticed I was trying to hide in the back of the group. Accurate. The sock hop was an absolute blast!

On day 5, we went to church. We thought it would be in English, but the times online hadn’t been updated for the new year—so it was in Spanish. We pivoted and went to church a second time in English.

Leading up to the big freeze, it was 80 degrees. That same day, it plummeted to 29. Texas weather is unhinged.

Grossness warning: while talking to the kids on the phone after church I bit my tongue. Really bad. It bled everywhere and swelled up. It's so swollen that it's abraiding the roof of my mouth and the gums around my teeth. I have no idea how it happened—I was just sitting there eating a chip and talking on the phone. I guess now that I'm in a 55+ community, I'm losing my ability to multitask. I now have to eat very carefully on one side of my mouth so I don't catch something on it and rip it further. Super gross! 

On day 6 at the glamorous 4 Seasons not a soul played pickleball because it was literally freezing. So instead of sports, we went to a riveting presentation about emergency flight insurance because it came with a free Subway sandwich. Basically, if you are going to do anything fun, it's not going to be covered, so we passed. 

After that, I worked all day while George did his new favorite hobby: Camper puttering—which is basically fixing stuff and planning stuff.  He also took the car through a wash and later discovered both bike racks got eaten alive because the kid forgot to turn off the top spinner. So now our bike racks are being held together with super glue and a zip tie. Fingers crossed.

Day 7 we woke up and played pickleball alone because people were still hiding indoors like frightened lizards. We figured the thwack-thwack of the ball would lure people out, like ringing a dinner bell for retirees, but apparently folks come to South Texas to escape cold weather, not play sports in it. Weird. It wasn’t that cold—we were sweating in T-shirts by the end.

As soon as we finished our lonely pickleball game, we got invited to play ping-pong. These people really know how to have fun! Eventually we had to quit playing because...work. I think we were the only people at the resort that still had to do that dreaded thing. But we rewarded ourselves later with swimming and hot-tubbing. 

Our last morning at the 4 Seasons it had warmed up enough for the seniors to re-emerge, and we played pickleball with our new friends one last time. We then crossed into Mexico for our final drug run. Specifically Matamoros, which is frequently described as “one of the more dangerous border crossings."

While there we met a guy named Rick selling treats on the street. Perfect English. Clean shirt. Sad story. He’d lived in Minnesota for years but got his work visa yanked after a couple DUIs. Now he’s hustling snacks in Matamoros and mistook us for Mexicans because of George’s mustache and “swarthy complexion.” George decided it was time to trim his mustache. 

Matamoros had one fancy store with covered parking, surrounded by buildings that looked like they lost a fight with a tornado. In the fancy store's covered parking sat a shiny new Porsche. The attendant said it belonged to the owner, which immediately made us suspicious because we noticed the pharmacy prices were…creative. Like “$75 on the label, $25 charged” creative. We’re thinking money laundering. Honestly, for all we know, all the cheap Mexican dentists that seniors rave about are also fronts for cartel bookkeeping. (Allegedly. Maybe. Probably. Who knows. Pass the floss.)

When we finished at Matamoras we broke camp and said goodbye to our new pickleball buddies, and aimed the rig toward Padre Island National Seashore. On the drive we got our third rock chip of the trip because apparently our windshield is collecting souvenirs. We also did some Rocket Languages Spanish lessons, which will be helpful next time someone mistakes George for Antonio Banderas.

Our campsite ended up 100 feet from the beach. We took a sunset walk, listened to the waves, and watched the sky turn pink. It was peaceful. Beautiful. Perfect.

Until I said, “Hey…do you think the super glue on the bike rack will hold?”

Stay tuned. 🫠

A Knock in the Night From the Cops

 January 19 - 20, 2026

We left Laredo early in the day to drive to Bentsen State Park, which is a world-renowned birding destination. Like, over 350 species of birds and 250 species of butterflies world-renowned. In my defense, I did not yet realize that basically the entire Gulf Coast is one big competitive bird flex, so at the time I thought we had arrived at the Disneyland of birds.

Reality check: we saw 12 bird types. Twelve. Some butterflies (no idea how many, they refused to line up for a headcount), a javelina, and a squirrel—because of course there’s always a squirrel. Somewhere in that park were the other 338 bird types, but we couldn't find them being the amateurs that we were. At one point, we were hiking along one of the trails doing the full cartoon sneak: tiptoeing, holding our breath, and trying not to make any noise. We saw nothing. Not a feather. Not a twitch. It was honestly comical. 

At one bird blind, we rolled up to a group of people being incredibly loud. They let us know, loudly, that there were no birds. And then—this will shock no one—they left, and several birds immediately came back. 

Weirdly? Bird hunting (without guns) is fun. Who knew. Not me. I think I could be turning into a bird person. 

The bird park actually allowed and encouraged biking, which of couse we loved. Eight miles of bikeable, car-free roads. After we exhausted the park roads, we biked outside the park to pad our mileage. The surrounding area was a very nice retirement community. Older people were everywhere. On e-bikes. Flying past us like, “Outta the way, kids.” Nothing quite like questionable balance, fading eyesight, and electric-assisted speed to keep life exciting. Interstingly, the majority of people on e-bikes don't wear helmets. 

Also interesting: the border wall here isn’t even on the border. It’s just… between us and us. Naturally, we took photos of ourselves hanging out at the wall because what else do you do? Border Patrol drove by and looked at us like we were nuts, but clearly not a threat.

We didn’t make it as far as planned that day—too much bird skulking—so we figured we’d stay at a rest stop. LOL. Texas rest stops are not rest stops. They’re basically an off-ramp that politely suggests you nap while traffic screams past your face at 80 mph. Hard pass. But shout-out to Bass Pro Shop in Harlingen, TX, for having a massive parking lot and being just far enough from the highway to not feel like sleeping inside a jet engine. 

The next morning, we headed to South Padre Island. In the Walmart parking lot, after we did our grocery shopping, we met a woman whose dad was born in Louisiana and who herself was born and raised in Brownsville, TX. Definately an American citizen. Yet I would’ve sworn she was straight from Mexico. She had a thick accent and struggled to find English equivalents for many words.  Border towns are wild. Apparently, you can go through the U.S. public school system and come out sounding like you were raised in another country. I guess culture does not care about walls or paperwork.

We were only planning to spend a few days on the Gulf of Mexico—or the Gulf of America, depending on who you’re trying to annoy—but winter storm Fern had other plans. Remember: no tank heaters. Our next stop was Austin to visit George's old college buddy, but it was literally freezing there. So we were going to be stuck on South Padre Island for at least a week. Tragic, I know. We were suffering deeply. On the beach.

We camped at the “end of the road” on South Padre Island. A spot we were not entirely sure was legal. The internet said people camp there. The internet also lies a lot. When we arrived, there were zero RVs, which is not usually a good sign if you’re trying to justify legality through what other people are doing.

We worked a bit, then went for a sunset walk on the beach. Beautiful. Peaceful. And then the sun went down, the day trippers vanished, and the vibe became a little creepy.

The only other vehicle parked at "the end of the road" was an old van. It looked like a full-on chimo van. (If you don’t know what that is, read my book Cheaper by the Half Dozen, Plus One.) 

Then two cars showed up, revving their engines like they were about to drag race in the dark, tail lights glowing ominously. They didn’t—because another car showed up and scared them off—but still. Not relaxing.

Then, just as we crawled into bed, there was a loud knock on the chimo van’s door and the announcement: “POLICE.”

This gave George just enough time to put clothes on before they knocked on our door next. The officer was actually super nice—no power trip, no drama. He explained that the county changed the rules last year because the area had turned into a campground.

Of course it had. Who wouldn't want to camp for free at the end of the road next to the beach. 

So at 9:30 at night, we packed up and moved into city limits, where ordinances say you can park in any public parking spot for 24 hours. Note: park does not mean camp, so we did not unhook, deploy stabilizers, or breathe too loudly. No need to draw attention to ourselves.

Morning came. I heard a car pull up beside us and cautiously peeked through the blinds. It was the police again. They didn't knock this time, but they were writing something in a notebook. Nope. Absolutely not. After they left, I woke George up and we fled like bandits before anyone could return with a ticket book or a tow truck.

South Padre Island, it turns out, is not super friendly to free RVing—or paid RVing, unless you reserved months ago or feel like driving your house into sand.

So we regrouped and headed to Brownsville, Texas. Onward. Or in this case, backwards, but as you will see in my future posts it turned out beautifully.