Part 2: Cookie crumbs, beef jerky wrappers and bathroom breaks

Cookie boxes, beef jerky wrappers and empty water bottles littered the floor of our sun tanned 1999 mini SUV. When we weren't listening to a podcast, a radio station that "plays all of today's hits WITHOUT the rap" (courtesy of the good folks in Wyoming) or T-Swift, you could hear the ever-constant low whirring of the old, tired engine. Each time we pulled off to re-enter the freeway, we would hold our breaths and push softly on the pedal, worried that the poor creature would break apart from hauling our overstuffed trailer.

When we arrived to Erie, PA after four and a half days of driving (each day packed with roughly 10-12 hours of driving) we gave our 16-year-old golden stallion a good ol' pat on the dashboard and said, "That'll do pig. That'll do." We may or may not have shed a tear.

The only difficult/creepy parts of our trek across country were: my incompetent bladder that forced us to pull over every one-two hours, the one time a motel was over double the cost than stated online because a rodeo was in town, the time I thought it would be a good idea to walk to a restaurant in Vegas at night across shady neighborhoods, the night we didn't sleep because we stayed at a peculiar looking AirBNB host's Indiana home and our coffee shop stop that turned out to be inside a cult church. Aside from those isolated incidents, the trip was smooth like butter.

From California, we went through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and then finally to Pennsylvania. Each state boasted its own unique landscape, and every mile was marked with our 'oohs' and 'aahs' at the beauty and vastness of land. The way the fields or mountains or plateaus (?) would go on and on rivaled the grandeur of the Pacific we left behind. With our faces pressed against the windows, we remained in constant awe of God's glory.

These are just a few pictures. I'm too lazy to add more.

The only thing waiting for our arrival in Erie was Daniel's acceptance at LECOM. 

We arrived at 9 a.m. on Thursday, and immediately went to see if we could land a place to live. The first home we saw was hidden within in row of others behind the train tracks. The outside looked rough, but it was only $525 for a town home and the landlord allowed pets. As I looked around the place -- which seemed promising online -- it was stale and dirty, but it seemed doable. 

Until I saw the basement. Upon which I gave the place a resounding NO. 

(I'm 99.997% sure it inspired the one in The Conjuring. See photo below.) 

We Californians aren't accustomed to basements, because their sole purpose for us is to be the backdrop of everything evil and heinous in the world. Everything I know about basements: 1. People get chained there and left to die, 2. People get stabbed and/or raped there, 3. Demons frequent them, 4. Catholics do exorcisms there, 5. Priests die while doing exorcisms there. 

Politely declining, we slipped away and found an apartment complex that allowed dogs and was made entirely of brick. And though it did have a scary basement... we were on the third floor. (So if there was a hypothetical psychopath murderer lurking in the basement, we would have two floors between us). 

By 11 a.m. the same day, we were moving in.