Trip to Penland, Part 1

My stepfather, John, arrived after lunch on Friday the 22nd. Naturally, I was nowhere near as far along with packing as I had anticipated. Heading to his truck to go to the bank to close my account and to Minnetonka to pick up the towing dolly that we would use to pull my car behind us, we made an unfortunate discovery: John had left his keys in the ignition and locked the doors. A quick call to Mom in Bloomington, Indiana confirmed that the spare set was just where he'd left it, hanging next to the telephone in the kitchen. Fearing the approach of the end of the business day, I went alone to the bank, which took just enough time for AAA to arrive and jimmy the lock.
Closing my accounts was the most pleasant customer-service interaction I've ever had with Wells Fargo: they smiled, they flirted, they took my personal identification documents at face value, they gladly accepted my word that there were no outstanding charges or transactions, they handed over my cash with politeness and ease. It was delightful, and I must say that if I had even once been treated so kindly by Wells Fargo when I was actually banking with them, I might consider opening another account with them some day. This has to be considered some kind of customer-service in reverse; I found myself wanting to stop doing business with them again, because the experience was so enjoyable.
Back at the apartment, the truck was open and so we headed out to the western suburbs to pick up our U-Haul device. I elected to let John do most (in fact, literally all) of the driving once we had the tow dolly hooked up, since he's into that sort of thing, having spent most of his adult life hauling around scientific equipment behind a Suburban. Thanks, John!
The rest of Friday night was spent packing. And Saturday morning. Ugggh. The less said about that, the better. I had stuff I didn't even know I had. I had stuff I didn't want. I had stuff I thought I had gotten rid of a decade ago. I had stuff I assumed was Ashley's, and let me assure you, if you naively assume that we're still living in the days when you can just foist an unwanted blender or rice-o-mat off on a soon-to-be-former roommate and she'll be happy about it, we are not.
We left Minneapolis around lunchtime on Saturday, John's truck filled to the gills with stuff earmarked for long-term storage in Indiana, my car, similarly stuffed with belongings bound for Penland, in tow. We had driven as far south as Savage when two guys in a pickup truck pulled up alongside and motioned that the tires on my car were smoking. So we pulled off, confirmed that there did in fact seem to be some nasty frottage and burning going on around the rear driver-side wheel, shifted some weight around to take it off that corner of the car, filled the tires (naturally, I had not done this before embarking on a cross-country trip), got gas (at $2.93/gallon; I suspect I shall never pay so little for gas again as long as I live [the lowest price I've seen in Spruce Pine is $3.19]), crossed our fingers and started off again. Subsequent stops for meals, bathrooms, snacks and gasoline appeared to confirm the theory that we had solved the problem - there was little, if any, smell of burning rubber and no sign of smoke.
I can't remember the name of the Interstate oasis/town in Illinois where we stayed for the night, only that it was one stop west of I39 on I80, a 5-mile digression that brought us a greatly expanded field of motel options, and that it looked oddly familiar (it is extremely unlikely that I had ever been there before). I think I can safely say that this is the only motel room I have ever stayed in where I did not turn on the television. I did steal all of the soap and shampoo, though, figuring I might need them in the future.