Author: Jake (Page 2 of 12)

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.

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 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.

Guess who’s back?

Back again?

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.

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.

No rain today, miraculously. It was 75 and sunny. Too hot for my tastes; I suppose I can’t be pleased. I stopped for breakfast at a local chain, Mr. Ronnie’s Donuts, which is perhaps the best name for a donut shop in existence. Good, cheap food, especially the buttermilk special. On southward, to where the land is slowly sinking into the sea.

The Mississippi Delta is experiencing the fastest-rising sea levels in the world. It’s currently clocking in at about 1cm of rise per year. That doesn’t sound very dramatic; the visual of losing a football field every hour to the Gulf of Mexico is more striking. It’s so quick here because the land is primarily sediment from the Mississippi, which is much looser and more prone to erosion than your run-of-the-mill coastline. The end result is a region that has, seemingly, been let go by humans. Nobody wants to build here, and the few structures that remain are junked or on stilts. Marshes surround Louisiana Route 1 on both sides, and by my estimate will overtake it within my lifetime. 

Egrets were out in full force, with their strange kinked necks, and so were commercial trucks and sportsmen towing fishing boats. I was the only sedan. I thought the area would be quieter, but the vehicles that do pass through were pure noise pollution, belching and squealing as they passed. I drove to the toll bridge and saw the road rise into the sky, renovated fifty feet into the air. Treat the symptoms, not the disease, I guess (although the Delta would still be sinking without the effects of climate change). I drove back to solid ground feeling less inspired than I’d hoped.

A quick forty-minute jog brought me to the New Orleans suburbs. I stopped at Waffle House, because I had to. The hash browns there were more like spaghetti, which was not an unpleasant sensation. I sat in the parking lot, marveling at my trip so far. It took me three and a half months to get to that Waffle House. I earned those potatoes.

Lastly, a programming note. Livi is once again flying down to join me for a Vacation-ception, so I’ll be off the grid for the next few days. I’ll probably be back on Thursday. Until then, I will be thoroughly ignoring my diet.

Today was all rain. I woke up to it—sharp, irregular, sounding like hail—on the roof of the car. If it wasn’t 60 degrees, I would’ve guaranteed it was hail. It picked up quickly until it blocked everything else out. Sure, you could see well enough to drive, but you couldn’t focus on anything else. It was constant and unyielding. People acted normally, though, so I supposed these storms were normal for Louisiana.

I drove south. The locations weren’t important. The differences in the landscapes were washed out. Towns came and went, and still the rain came down, strong enough to flood the sides of the road. Water sprayed from every car’s tires, and occasionally it gathered deeply enough that small ponds formed on the highway. I was grateful for the free undercarriage wash.

I think the static pattern of the rain lulled me into its rhythm, because when it finally stopped at sundown, I became irritable. Every bit of stimulus was too much. In a parking lot, the car next to me blasted Chris Brown. I have no strong feelings regarding Chris’s music, but I could not think about anything else. I couldn’t disengage. I missed the rain. Is that meteorological Stockholm syndrome? I’ll have to ponder that tomorrow with a clearer head.

Not much to report today, folks. I’m creeping infinitesimally closer to New Orleans, where I have a hot date on Monday. This is the travel equivalent of showing up to the party fifteen minutes early.

I stopped for a coffee in Opelousas, then continued to Lafayette. The morning’s soundtrack was Creedence Clearwater Revival, the best swamp-rock band to ever come out of San Francisco. I stopped along the way to write down some lyrics. By the afternoon, I’d thrown them out (too self-indulgent) but kept the frame and the tune. I once heard in passing from the preeminent director Matt Cahoon that a great artist sets aside ninety-seven percent of their output and highlights the best three percent. With the amount of absolute junk that passes through my head, I’m inclined to agree.

I stopped for lunch at the Judice Inn, which is not an inn but rather a burger bar. No fries or sides, just meat, cheese, and toppings. Simple and spectacular. I think New Englanders might be too uppity for this kind of restaurant, which is horribly depressing. I drove across the street to a local coffee chain and listened to the Bruins set the NHL record for most home wins to start the season. This may just be their year.

Groceries, laundry, gas, water. The rest of the afternoon struggled by. It has been desperately hard to limit myself to one restaurant a day, but I will hold strong. Tonight I have a delicious, scrumptious-looking salad to ingest. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Today was strange. Not just because I wasn’t home for the holiday, but because I was out. I had moved to a Walmart to sleep last night—the forest was a bit skeevy for my taste—and I awoke to an empty parking lot. The streets of Alexandria weren’t deserted, but they were very, very quiet. It was a calm, reflective morning, perfect for Thanksgiving.

I didn’t care about missing Labor Day (mediocre) or Halloween (actively terrible except for the excitement of the little kids), but I am somewhat broken up about missing this one. If you’ve followed this blog, you can guess that I enjoy the food. But I also appreciate the sentiment of the day and its lack of pretense. There are no decorations, no Thanksgiving songs. The myth of Thanksgiving’s origin is dangerous, but I tend to associate that with the shortcomings of our public schools and not with the day itself. No, Thanksgiving is a wonderful day and an even better weekend. Best of all, it kicks off the halcyon glow of December, when the entire country celebrates the end of one cycle and the start of another. Christmas as a holiday is nice, but December in total? Incredible. A true blessing before we collectively nosedive toward the nadir that is February.

I decided not to try to replace Thanksgiving. Instead, today was a collection of short travel and pastimes. I bounced from spot to spot, walking around if able, then hiding in the car once a signature Louisiana storm blew in. I puzzled, I listened to music and podcasts, I read. It was a pleasant day out of context. My only two concessions to the holiday were a bowl of stuffing with lunch and a moment spent thinking about the gifts and blessings in my life. I think I’ll cook myself a miniature Thanksgiving dinner once I get back home.

After lunch (boudin balls, which are basically Cajun arancini), I drove south to Opelousas. I’ll be moving pretty slowly over the next few days, taking in the state. Enjoy your leftovers!

I didn’t sleep well last night. I think the rest stop where I stayed was too bright. Back into the forests tonight for a completely natural camp-out. My breakfast today was delicious—a simple donut that dissolved in my mouth like a breath strip. It may have been spun out of gold. I crossed the river into Louisiana with plenty of optimism.

The new state immediately felt different. Only five miles down the road, I saw my first drive-through daiquiri shop. There were no sub shops, only po’ boy emporiums. The earth felt just a tad swampier. I drove through several parishes, Louisiana’s equivalent of counties, and wound up in Alexandria. (I just realized I drove from Memphis to Alexandria—not bad.) I sat through an oil change and a tire rotation, then walked around downtown. Not the fanciest of cities, certainly not as posh as Natchez, but down-to-earth and likable. 

I decided to stop at one of the aforementioned po’ boy shops and get my Thanksgiving fix a day early. Everyone, there is something magical in the food here. The sliced turkey, which I usually find bland, had kick. The condiments and toppings were high-quality and complimentary. Maybe I’m the victim of a self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter. My stomach was very happy today.

I spent the rest of the afternoon reading in the library. I’ve been working through The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes as I go, tracking down a copy and banging out two or three stories every week. It’s an inspiring way to read a book. I’ll have more downtime this week than usual, so once I finish I might move onto Shirley Jackson or Flannery O’Connor. Or I might eat more. Time will tell.

Twenty minutes to the west of Jackson, I hopped on the Natchez Trace Parkway. This road is the cousin of the Blue Ridge Parkway, which I drove in Virginia, and it may well be even prettier. The direct sunlight filled up the morning, and the sheer variety of trees kept me interested around every turn. I stopped to walk along a dry creekbed filled with fallen leaves and was surrounded by animals. Squirrels cascaded across the trees, and a white-tailed deer sprang out of the leaves across the creek. What a delightful, natural place to spend the morning.

I spent two hours on the Parkway, which unsurprisingly ended in the town of Natchez. Initially, the streets were populated by chains of all kinds, but as I crossed over Highway 61 and neared the Mississippi River, a true downtown emerged. In many ways, it looked like a New England downtown, with venerable brick and wood buildings and cobblestone alleys. But the streets were gridded, not tangled, and the occasional dramatic mansion gave the area some local flavor.

The best part, of course, was the riverwalk. I took a small stroll in the early afternoon, then came back at sunset. It’s much quieter than I would have expected; the streets aren’t busy and the riverboats are silent. I had slipped a bit with my diet (extra fried chicken), so I needed to get my steps in. I walked a mile each way along the Mississippi, admiring the shifting views and the slow gradient of color as the sun tucked itself away. 

The weather is warm enough that I can start camping again. I’ve made the adjustment several times at this point, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get comfortable in the car again. I will try to return to a normal eating pattern tomorrow, but with some of the restaurants coming up, that may be an impossible battle.

Jackson, Mississippi has a population of almost 150,000 people, and I saw none of them today. That’s an exaggeration, but only just. The streets were as empty as the ghost towns in Utah and Texas. I walked around downtown for about an hour and only saw three or four other pedestrians. Occasionally, a car would drive by. For the most part, Jackson is silent.

I would guess the pandemic hit the town especially hard, and I’ve read inflation is especially high in the South as well. The boarded-up buildings and closed businesses are not ancient remnants—they seem fairly recent occurrences. It’s not unpleasant here; I don’t feel unsafe like I did in parts of Washington and Oregon, or unhealthy like I did in northwestern Arkansas. It doesn’t feel soulless or condemned. It feels empty, like a shed snakeskin. There’s potential here, and nobody around to fulfill it.

The first two restaurants I tried were closed. The third stretched the definition of a restaurant. The outdoor seating was normal, but inside were a row of folding chairs, a trash can, newspaper clippings on the wall, and two windows into the kitchen. The walls were painted orange, and a floor-to-ceiling window looked out into a parking garage. It felt like the waiting room at an oil change shop. The catfish plate, which I took back to the hotel, was just fine, but I will remember that restaurant forever.

The weather is warming up, so this may be my last night in a hotel for a while. I’ll enjoy the sheets and the shower, if not the expense. I’ll see you in Louisiana.