I don't even want to write about this..

On Sunday the 21st, at church, everyone said goodbye to us like family. The grandmas didn't hide their tears, the men shook our hands firmly, the women hugged us warmly, and during the morning service, Pastor Jay said a prayer, asking for a safe journey and many good things for us.

Then, at home, we quietly and resignedly made our final preparations. Or rather, I masterfully stuffed, wrapped, and packed Kirill's sea of junk, which he somehow managed to order online, and everything without exception was very important and required maximum care during transport! There were super cool tubes for his amp, tuning pegs, a moon, discs... in short, I carefully wrapped every piece of junk in underwear and t-shirts, shoved and tucked them into his sneakers—in general, by a miracle, everything managed to fit into his two small bags. A more difficult task remained. No, no! I had packed and prepared a week in advance (almost all my sea of new t-shirts went into wrapping the guitar), it's just that Kirill's friend Lesha ordered a guitar for himself, and it turned out we couldn't send it by mail. So, by the day of departure, we were left with three guitars and the rest of the luggage. What to do? We decided to wrap each of his guitars with as much clothing as possible and shove each into its own fabric case, after which we fused two cases into one with neon duct tape. It turned out to be a mega-case... and the weight, of course, was corresponding. On the 22nd, we quickly cleaned up our home one last time (so Grandma would have less trouble—she has a bad back), said goodbye to our faithful, well-traveled bikes, and went to the beach one last time. Grandma wasn't feeling well, but she still drove us in her powerful snow-white Chrysler. We stopped by Root Beer to say goodbye. At Greyhound, the police were searching some guy, gutted all his bags, and for some reason, they weren't treating him very respectfully. There was a bit of an Arab look to him. I felt uneasy. I don't understand such things. But that's not for this diary.

From the bus, we looked at Grandma crying for the last time, and we ourselves... let's say, were not in the best spirits. We were leaving our fairy tale.