Sleep in a wigwam! That is the goal of my first day on the road. That and forgetting about the woes of the world. I'm off to explore America. I have left Los Angeles, still a bit stressed by how much planning for this trip remains unfinished even though I have left my little cat Jack, my printer, and anything I forgot to pack behind me. And in the rush of packing for four weeks of unknown weather and adventure, I filled my Jeep's cargo area -- not good for spontaneous treasure-hunting along the way. But I do have with me enough maps to have made this year's AAA dues truly a bargain, two coolers of snack foods (that should at least get me to the east coast), and a case of bottled water. I might arrive at every motel in the next four weeks tired and saddle-sore, but I won't be thirsty or famished.

I depart Interstate-40 in Barstow, CA, for old Route 66, hoping to find the mood that only the roadside respites of the past 50 or so years can bring. "The Katz," an old dance hall recognizable by its harlequin-patterned storefront, is seemingly still in business. At 105 degrees F in the Mojave Desert, it's about as hot as it will get for the entire trip.

Next stop: Ludlow, a ghost of a town along old 66 in the CA desert. Its only cafe remains safely intact behind boarded windows, though the remaining letters of its sign seem to suggest it has switched to a low-cholesterol menu. Sadly, the nearby Ludlow Mercantile, a late 1800s general store you have to find by heading south across the train tracks on what seems like someone's driveway, has not survived far into its third century. Most of the building has recently collapsed. Somewhere I know have a picture of me and my friend Enrique in front of the whole store, its name cast in stucco along its flat roofline.

My last stop in CA for a few weeks is Needles. Among the finds along old 66: one of the last standing Imperial '400' motels (their quotes, not mine). I recognize their signature seagull-styled roofline from a 1950s matchbook I have at home, given to me by Enrique because of the connection to my 1960s Imperial automobile.

After a late-afternoon lunch/dinner (a combination meal that will become a daily routine) in Kingman, AZ, I bypass Flagstaff as the sun begins to fill my rear window. Though eager to reach my wigwam before nightfall, I am lured to the frontage road by two giant red and yellow arrows plunged into the earth at (where else?) Twin Arrows, AZ. Alas, the arrows are all that remains of the town, if you can call a gas station and two giant props a town.

Alas, around 8pm and with the Jeep's odometer at exactly 10,000 miles (since new, not today), I arrive in Holbrook, AZ, home of the Wigwam Motel. Built in the late 1940s by the father of the two people who now take turns managing the court of a dozen stucco teepees, it proves to be more than a novel relic. Though not lavish, wigwam #3 is clean, nicely outfitted with period furnishings, and entirely charming. $38 buys me a good night's rest and a free half-hour of oral history delivered with a sincerity that belies the fact that my host has probably delivered the same spiel 20 times this week.

My first day on the road is a success. After a quick download of my camera's memory into my iBook, I enjoy a good night's sleep... my first ever in a wigwam, stucco or otherwise.