Holy smokes, everyone! We’ve hit one hundred days of travel. Back in elementary school, the teachers would make a huge fuss about the hundredth day of school, and we would participate in themed activities, the specifics of which I’ve long forgotten. I did not celebrate one hundred days. I’m not sure what that would look like, exactly. One hundred Diet Cokes?
I had my heart set on Martin’s Restaurant in downtown Montgomery, so I hung around the suburbs for a while, reading and relaxing. Once lunchtime rolled around, I schlepped into the restaurant and was immediately out of place in the post-church crowd. Everyone else wore collared shirts or blouses; I had my New England Patriots t-shirt and a baseball hat. I was also the youngest patron by thirty years. Go figure. The meal was absolutely worth it. I ordered the “famous” fried chicken with stuffing, greens, and string beans, and received a top-notch plate of Southern specials. The turnip greens in particular were exceptional. I suspect it had something to do with the chunks of bacon fat floating around in them.
I waddled out and settled into the driver’s seat for a long afternoon. I wound through southeast Alabama and crossed into Georgia as the sun set. I was finally back on Eastern time. The route was nondescript, but there were moments when I forgot I was in the South and felt like I was driving the roads back home. The placement of the trees, the curvature of the roads—especially once the sun had set and the sharp sunlight was gone, it felt completely natural.
Then I smashed into the Florida panhandle and the world around me snapped back into tropical focus. The palm trees were back, almost on cue. I drove into the Tallahassee vicinity hoping to stay at the Walmart, but they don’t allow overnight parking. Then to the rest stop off the interstate—but, of course, Florida only allows passenger vehicles to stay for three hours. I’m off to the forests now, hoping to find a quiet spot there. Wish me luck.