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. 🫠
