After playing soccer at a gas station (One fella asked, "You guys a soccer team?" We told him we were. We were dressed in jeans and jackets, shoes falling apart and playing with a deflated ball most likely stolen from a kindergartner. To my knowledge, all traveling soccer players ride in a banged up grey van with no leg room.), we made our way to heaven, AKA Greensboro, North Carolina. We were fed like kings, pampered with friendly conversation, and accompanied by majestic and adorable animals.
The Southern hospitality did not end there. We stayed at another house full of curiously attractive animals. We played fooseball and Nintendo until retiring, only to wake up to another feast.
And here I sit. Clean. Full. Happy. A basset hound named after my favorite fictitious author (Kilgore Trout) sitting by my side, slobbering on the computer.