(Dedicated to all the McDonald's we drove past but didn't stop at.)

We’re pretty weak long-haul truckers, after all. We only made it from Myrtle Beach to Cocoa Beach—we didn't reach Miami as planned. But it already smells like the South—in the sense of summer—everywhere. (We’ve basically passed the “South” in the American cultural-geographical sense, having moved into Florida from Georgia. Even though George W. Bush won his second term thanks to Miami-Dade County and the fact that his brother Jeb was the governor of Florida in 2004, there aren't as many churches or “rednecks” here, whom I’ve already mentioned. And generally, Florida originally belonged to Spain, then Mexico, not Great Britain.)

In short: a torrential downpour that forced us to slow down to 45 mph instead of 70, the kind you only get in the South; plants swollen with moisture; swamps—definitely with mosquitoes, and maybe even crocodiles. Everything as it should be.

But we did end up stopping at a hotel for the night. They’re even promising a free breakfast in the morning!

Also, Irina and Lena were actively trying to convince me to write something shocking on the blog, so I have to confess: I think my driver's license is expired. Let's hope we don't get pulled over again for rolling through a stop sign.

Also: Marina got a little tipsy yesterday and asked—very pitifully and for a long time—to stop at a McDonald's, but we got lost and ended up in some completely different city from Myrtle, and we wandered around there until 3 a.m.—and not even because of the booze. What else? I really want to make a witty remark in the style of Stars magazine, which we read in our spare time (something about how we are all actually Brad Pitt's illegitimate children), but it just sounds really stupid. You get the point; we’re normal, cool people. And that’s that.