Day 98

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 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.