Off the Grid by Randy Denmon

Author:Randy Denmon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2017-03-13T04:00:00+00:00

We Ain’t in Orange County

I’d been to San Salvador once, seven or eight years before. It’s rumored to have the best nightlife in Central America so I hoped we might finally get in some late-night entertainment. As I checked in to the hotel, I asked the cute girl at the hotel’s front desk for an after-hours recommendation.

She cocked her head back, exposing her long, smooth black locks and wonderful bronze skin, before flashing her deep brown eyes to Dean and then me. “The national elections are tomorrow. The law mandates no alcohol is sold in the country for three days before the election.” She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Not anywhere?” I asked.

“No.”

Dean spoke up. “That’s some crazy shit … voting with a clear conscience and without chemical enhancement? These Central Americans are getting serious about this democracy.”

I chuckled. “In Louisiana, elected officials would be tarred and feathered for this.”

The young girl looked at me with perplexed eyes.

“It’s a gringo joke,” I said, returning her smile and walking off.

El Salvador’s election laws may have been a blessing, because our charging situation wasn’t as ideal as I’d initially thought. Though I’d set the charging rate at 26 amps, we’d flipped the 30-amp breaker after only two hours of charging. This was the third time this had happened since leaving the States, further mystifying my simple little brain when it came to determining available power. Luckily, I realized it by nine, while César was still at work, and he had the hotel maintenance man reset the fuse. Checking the car’s trip meter, we’d gone 234 miles that day in ten grueling hours. I set the charge rate at 17 amps and did a quick calculation. We’d be fully charged by ten-thirty the next morning.

I then walked next door to the pedestrian mall to buy a large cheese pizza from Pizza Hut. Heading back to our room, I picked up a recent copy of The New York Times that somebody had discarded in the hotel lobby and skimmed the headlines. Not much going on in the States, just the everyday stories—the Republicans and Democrats fighting about everything, something about the drought in California, and a story about the Super Bowl, to be played the next day.

Back home I devour the news, reading three or four local papers daily, and any number of national news websites. The Times didn’t pique my interest. I had all but divested myself from the twenty-four-hour news cycle that saturates daily life in America. It didn’t really seem that relevant now. Mine was a simple existence, my only purpose: finding 240-volt electrical sockets, daily sustenance, a roof over my head, avoiding bandits, and not getting lost. My only guide was the compass.

I spent an hour sending Marcus some more pictures of the car at the border crossings and Lake Atitlán. He had the day before called Dean complaining that we needed to send him more pictures with the car in front of famous places or signs.

“We ain’t in Orange County, where you can drive out to Disneyland and take a picture with Mickey Mouse,” Dean reminded him.

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