We're not in Kansas anymore.

Thankfully.

If you're wondering why this is my first post of my roadtrip adventures that has no pictures, it's because there's nothing worth taking pictures of in Kansas.

I know that's harsh, and rude, and I apologize - every place I visit, even if it's not my favorite, I try to be respectful of the fact that people live there, and there have to be some redeeming qualities everywhere.  There must be some good qualities of Kansas, but they are certainly not visible from I-70.  Unless you think pretty landscape is grass, dead grass, and wheat.

Yesterday I drove the 846 miles from Denver to St Louis.  This wasn't quite the plan - I stopped in Kansas City, Missouri, where I had a hotel room for an employee rate thanks to a relative.  Of course, they wouldn't let me use the employee rate without a staff ID card, which I obviously didn't have, so when I realized it would cost me 2.5 times more than expected, responsible unemployed citizen that I am, I drove across the street to a no-name motel advertising rooms for 40 dollars a night. 

I'm not totally naive - I know that 40 dollars for a night won't get me a continental breakfast, plush cozy bedding, Wifi, or a pool.  All I really ask for is that bedding be clean, the door be lockable, and a functioning smoke detector be in the room.  

I checked into this no name motel (actually, it has a name I'm considering reporting to the Department of Sanitation...as well as the local Fire Department) and proceeded to room 120, and called Amanda to let her know I'd safely arrived somewhere from the night post-Denver.   Oddly, it was while I was on the phone with this fire protection engineer friend of mine that I noticed the smoke detector was sitting on the floor, battery-lessly, next to a wall with distinctive black burn marks.   Her response was "No, you can't stay there," but I decided to first check for bed bugs and if I didn't see anything gross or alarming on the bed, it was do-able for the night.  Though I didn't find bed bugs, I quickly noticed the burn marks on the comforter and sheets, followed by some hair on the sheets that....we'll just say confirmed my suspicions that they weren't washed after a previous visitor. Er, visitors - plural, probably.

This is when I ventured back to the motel office to let them know I'd need a refund and would not be staying there that night.

I hate being that person - I really do - it's not like I didn't know I was getting some shady accomodations for $40 - but as I mentioned, the only basics I expect for that low price are clean sheets and a room where I am sufficiently warned if there is a fire.  

"Um hi - listen, I don't mean to be difficult - " I started with the staff person who checked me in "but there are a few problems with that room."
"Give her a different room," spoke a man nearby that I quickly realized to be the manager.
"Well actually...," I started to say, I just want a refund and to get the hell out of here before bed bugs start climbing on me.  But I never got the chance.
"Oh that's okay, we'll just give you a refund."
"Oh um  - perfect.  Just so you know, the smoke detector in that room..."
But again I was interrupted.
"Oh sure, there are some problems.  But look at our clientele.  That's what you get."

A second later, I did indeed get to look at the client(ele), as she burst through the door screaming that they let someone else into her room.   A woman, probably no more than my age, wearing the uniform of a nearby retail store, erupted into a screaming rant about how she just got back from work and someone else was in her room.

"I paid for a WEEK," she started "I don't have to be out until TOMORROW, and you *&#*% # gave my room away!!"

I watched as she and the manager, who had politely, almost psychically accomodated my request, both screamed at each other, arguing about whether she had to be out Sunday at 11am or 11pm.  Though the client was obviously wrong, I didn't stay to see whose screaming finished last, and quickly scrawled my signature on the refund receipt the staff person printed for me and bolted for the door.

Now to be fair to Kansas - this ordeal was actually in Missouri, which misguidedly allows itself to have a city named after the most boring state in the Union (again, apologies to any Kansas lovers).  But after wasting 6 hours of my life driving through possibly the most boring landscape known to mankind, and witnessing up close how this business owner legitimately did not care whether impoverished long-term clients died in a fire or not in own of his rooms, I was pretty done with the whole region.

So I trekked on another 4 hours to St Louis, where I planned to arrive on Monday evening, to stay with a friend, Abby, from grad school.   Though this meant skipping my hippie-town adventure planned for Westport, Mo on Monday, I am perfectly okay with this.  And will be satisfied if I never venture into Kansas, or Kansas city, ever again.