It’s late, and I don’t feel much like writing, so this will be the quick version of today’s events. I drove up north to Selma, and watched the buildings slowly grow more weathered. It was a gray day, and the ramrod-straight trees seemed tired as they lined the road. I stopped for lunch, a pretty good barbecue sandwich with some crispy pork mixed in, and set down US-80, the same road Dr. King and company took as they marched toward Montgomery. The road is only sparsely marked with interpretive signs; you have to know what you’re looking for to find traces of that march. It wasn’t the most inspiring road I’ve traveled, but I’m glad I drove it.
One of the marchers’ campsites outside Montgomery, AL
I’m overnighting outside Montgomery, then heading south to dodge the incoming storm. I just may hit my third panhandle tomorrow.
I’m guilty of often forgetting the United States’ third coast, the Gulf Coast. That’s the one that starts around Brownsville, Texas, curves upward around the Louisiana-Mississippi-Alabama area, and ends at some nebulous point in Florida. I will no longer forget after driving US-90 along the edge of Mississippi. The ground hardened up and formed into a proper coastline. The beaches were pristine, save for some dune buggy marks. The water wasn’t especially clear, but it shone with intense Southern sun. And, for you tropical enthusiasts, the streets were occasionally lined with palm trees. It was 70 degrees and sunny, but the locals must be used to that, for nobody was at the beach.
Gulfport, MS
Gulfport and Biloxi are casino towns. The houses are still small, but show some wealth that would be out of place in Louisiana. The casinos themselves tower a hundred feet above the ocean; if I wanted to gamble, I would find this a much more satisfying destination than Las Vegas. I stopped for lunch at a gas station that the Food Bible proclaimed as a top-tier po’ boy locale. The cashier said, “You look like a roast beef kind of guy.” I suspect that was because it was the most expensive sandwich, but who am I to reject such wisdom? The roast beef was more stewed than roasted, with a pulled-pork texture and a considerable slather of natural gravy. This sandwich was the word “sopping” incarnate, and it was delicious. Chalk one up for the gas station chefs.
I kept driving east until I reached the thoroughly predictable sign: Welcome to Sweet Home Alabama. Shameful. I followed the road until I pulled into Mobile, home to more Hall of Fame baseball players than any city beside New York and Chicago. I’ll stay here tonight, then continue digging into the Civil Rights movement tomorrow.
It’s me. I’m back again. New Orleans is a delightful city that is only smelly every once in a while, and Liv and I enjoyed it such that I forgot to take pictures. My mind is my album, I suppose. It’s absolutely bursting with character, which should be expected of a city with Spanish, French, and English culture all smashed together. I won’t write a travel guide, but if you go (and you should), check out the Frenchman District as an alternative to Bourbon Street. The party does not rage quite as hard—even on Monday, Bourbon Street was stuffed with vaguely lost-looking “revelers”—and it’s cleaner and features more interesting music.
The view from our hotel room’s balcony overlooking Chartres Street. This is the only picture I took. Sorry, Mom.
Anyways, I dropped off Liv off at the airport, drove back into town, grabbed half a muffuletta (what an exquisite sandwich), and proceeded northeast. Today was about getting back into the groove of travel. Tomorrow, I’ll start the final leg of my journey through the South. Zack is graduating from UNC on the 11th, so I’m heading to Chapel Hill with some detours along the way.
