Blog of a Newly Minted Housewife

Beads on Bourbon

Ah, travel. You can never tell what is going to happen, and it is best to be flexible. Trust me.

I had barely sat down to take care of that headache when an Aussie accent caught my attention. I just love an Australian accent, I think because I love Australia. I still have a thought in the back of my mind of moving there someday, for a month or for a year or forever. The accent belonged to Tony, a seasoned hosteller who was organizing folks to go into the Quarter. I'd been having fun with Pippa, Julia and Jo, but I jumped at the chance to go out with people of legal drinking age.

Tony and I hit it off, chatting through dinner and while we wandered Bourbon Street looking for a particular band. Before long, we'd lost the others, but found the band. Dwayne Dobsie and the Zydeco Hellraisers, I think they were called. The lead singer is a black guy with odd green eyes, and the kid playing the washboard was fantastic – fast and so into what he was doing.

Unfortunately, the drinks at this club were exorbitantly priced ($6.75 for a bottle of beer!) especially compared to prices at most of the places on Bourbon. We left at the end of the set and went back out to the spectacle of the street – people shouting from balconies, beads flying, alcohol flowing. We bought Hand Grenades from one of the closet bars and headed to Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Bar to listen to the old piano player there.

It was after we left there that I earned my first string of beads. There weren't many people around, and some guys on a balcony were hassling me, so I just gave them a taste, one side only. I think I shocked Tony a bit, especially since I had said earlier that I wouldn't participate in this "tradition."

Well, that Hand Grenade had let loose my inner exhibitionist, and before the end of the night, I'd earned an even dozen beads, tossed a few of my own ("borrowed" from Tony, who had a pocketful), got a guy to "flash" his own stuff, and partied on a balcony. I don't even know what time it was when Tony and I got back to the hostel, but I know I wasn’t too happy to be woken at nine in the morning.

You'd think that would have been enough for me, a dozen beads. A good night. But no. Tony and I, and another Aussie named Joe, went back the next night. We drank beers this time instead of Hand Grenades, but that inner exhibitionist of mine just wouldn't lay low. I earned three times as many beads as the night before. Tony and Joe earned a few strands of their own, and we saw a lot of boobs and even some other things that would get you arrested in a normal town.

I had such a great time hanging out with these two. They were up for just about anything, content to wander or stop in a bar and listen to a band – zydeco, rock, blues, whatever. We went back to the Blacksmith Bar for a while that night, and a guest piano player was there, a Frenchman with a better voice and more humor than the other guy. Some guys from a bachelor party came in and sang along. One of the guys had a fantastic voice, and I could have stayed there for a long time listening to him. He reminded me of someone, but I'm not sure whom.

NOTE: I have Tony to thank for these photos and those to follow for the rest of my time in New Orleans. He graciously let me download them to my computer. Thanks, Tony!

Plantations

There are several plantation houses near New Orleans that are open for touring, but it is very expensive to go on one of the bus trips. So I offered to drive the British girls (I hate calling them that, but it's easier) out to River Road. We looked at the brochures and chose 2 houses to tour: Laura and Oak Alley. We decided we could stop by others if we had time, but figured these two would provide good contrast. We weren't far wrong.

I am writing this nearly a week later, so please forgive me if I remember some of the details incorrectly.
I don't know about you, but when I think "plantation house," I think of Tara. Gone With the Wind. Big white house with Greco-Roman inspired columns. And if that's what you have in mind, your first view of Laura Plantation will be a disappointment. But take a closer look, listen to the story, and you'll be impressed, I promise.

This is a Creole plantation house, not an Anglo (or American) one, and it's colorful façade proudly declares the fact. The plantation was owned by one of the premier New Orleans families, starting in the early 1800's (like 1807 or 1808), and it was a business more than a home. Though the family spent summers there, they also owned several townhouses in New Orleans (which consitute a fantastic tour of their own, or so I'm told).

The man who bought the land (had it deeded to him?) and planted the first crop of sugar cane died before the first harvest. His widow ran the plantation – and other businesses – for 20 years before passing the management not to her first child, but to her third – her only daughter. Women ran the plantation for nearly 100 years, right up until Laura herself, born in the front room in 1861 (most of the babies born in that room lived to between 90 and 100 years old!). They renamed the plantation for her, but she didn't want it. She married an American, moved up river to St. Louis and never looked back. The plantation was bought by a German family in the 1900's or 1910's, and they owned and ran it until the last one died in the 1980's and the house and fields were abandoned.

So much is known about the place now because of Laura herself. Her children came to her after reading "Gone With The Wind," wanting to know if that was what life was like for her. Disgusted with Margaret Mitchell's depiction of plantation life, she wrote down the story of the plantation and her life. There are copies of her story on sale at the plantation (in both English and French, in keeping with the Creole history). I'm kicking myself now for not picking one up.

Also available in the gift shop are the original tales of Br'er Rabbit, which were first recorded at this plantation. The tales were later traced to their point of origin – Senegal! There are intact slave cabins still on the property, along with other historic buildings. And in the basement, wine bottles and racks. Part of the wealth of the family came from a French man who married into the family and brought a vineyard in Bourdeaux. Guess how well that wine sold in New Orleans?

The Laura Plantation is run by a historical and preservation society, and between that distinction, Laura's memoirs, and the number of original family heirlooms in the house, we were fairly confident in the accuracy of the information relayed by Michael, our tourguide. Such was not the case at Oak Alley, a plantation that did fulfill those "Tara" fantasies.

The commercial feel of the place was a turn off from the start. Giant gift shop, restaurant, mint juleps for sale on the back porch, loads of buses in the parking lot. It was a show for tourists on a schedule, questions not really welcome, but won't you buy one of our picture books? Some of the info given in the tour directly contradicted what we'd been told at Laura, and since the guide seemed to be reciting the tour speil from memory, rather than actually being knowledgable about the plantation and culture, it seemed likely that at least some of the information was false, or had bee adjusted for political correctness.

The place sure was pretty, though. 28 oak trees, planted in the early 1700's, lead from the river to the house, which was built in the 1830's with a cooresponding 28 columns. Everything at the site was well-tended and we enjoyed wandering the grounds and taking photos (though not the $10 it cost us to do so). We even climbed the river levee before we left and took photos in front of the mighty Mississippi.

We drove home via the River Road and took a small ferry back across the river. It was a quick trip across the river, and although I didn't always know exactly where I was during the rest of the trip back to New Orleans, my directional instincts didn't fail me, and we arrived back at the hostel without getting lost.

I had a headache, though, either from dehydration or low blood sugar, and sat down in the courtyard to drink some water and eat a snack. And that's where the tone and goal of my New Orleans week took a decided twist.

Disturbance

I had made an early night of it on Tuesday, looking forward to a good eight hours sleep. Unfortunately, I was awoken at 4:00 a.m. by a man shouting "HEY!" and pounding so hard on the front door of the hostel that the building shook.

"Some drunk," I thought, and voiced that opinion to the other four women in my room. The shouting and pounding stopped after about five minutes, and I figured the guy either gave up and went away or actually found his key.

I was just beginning to drift back to sleep when the pounding started up again – on the emergency exit door next to my bunk! The only way to get up to that gallery is up a flight of stairs "protected" by a locked gate and a short fence. Easy enough to climb or jump over if you are desperate enough. Which is exactly what worried me. What was making this guy desperate enough to pound and shout for such a long time? I grabbed my jacket and cell phone and went to see if I could find the night manager.

The office was locked. I tried to duck behind the counter, but the crazy guy had come back downstairs and spotted me. "Let me in!" he shouted. "GO AWAY!" I replied, and moved further back in the hostel, away from his line of sight, to where the pay phones are and dialed 9-1-1. While I was on the phone to the operator, the night manager rushed past me and just opened the door for this guy! I have not idea where the manager had been this while time, and never did find out.

As it turned out, the man was from the airlines, and delivering someone's luggage. At 4:30 in the morning, and pounding on the door of a place where people are sleeping! I watched from around the corner as the manager collected the gear and signed the ticket and the man left.

The manager rushed back past me without even acknowledging my presence. I followed him back into the courtyard, and told him I had called the cops. "You better call them back then," he said. "Call them yourself!" I was really ticked off at this point. "That asshole climbed the balcony outside the women's dorm and was pounding on the window. You've got a bunch of girls up there who are awake and scared." And I went back up the room to let those girls – who probably weren't as frightened as all that – what was going on. The cops did show up – three cars – and I thought of going down to talk to them, but decided against it. Let the goddamned manager deal with it.

I never did hear what the result was, whether the manager was off napping somewhere, or boffing someone or what. I just hope someone called the airline and told them what an ass they have for an employee.

Windshield Tour

There is nothing like having a local to show you around a new city, and I got my chance on Monday morning, when my friend Jim picked me up at the hostel in his BMW Z3. Convertible! So glad I put on sunscreen :-)

We drove into the central business district to get breakfast at Mother's, a New Orleans institution. The line snaked out the door, but it didn't take up too long to get inside (still in line) and eventually up to the counter. Jim said they are known for their ham, so I got scrambled eggs, ham and biscuit (no grits). Very good. Also very greasy, but no matter. When I ordered coffee, I was asked "dark or light"? No choice as to amount of milk, apparently, but caffeine was good.

After breakfast, we drove back along Magazine Street, a long arty, funky road that runs along the back of the Garden District. We came out at the end of St. Charles Ave. and drove back towards town on the same route as the streetcars, past Tulane University, Loyola University (I found it very weird that two universities are immediately next to each other), the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and a few dozen exquisite houses. This was truly a "windshield tour" of the area.

I was still learning my way around town, so didn't know where we were going when Jim took us on the freeway, and before I knew it, we were on the 23-mile long causeway to the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. This lake is massive, though not really a lake. I was no less in awe of its brackish expanse than I was the day I arrived in New Orleans. Once on the north shore in Mandeville, we tooled around the residential streets, looking at houses. Many of them reminded me of Queenslanders, the houses found all over that Australian state. Must be something about the tropical climate that makes people build that sort of house. I love the way they look, though, and have always thought it would be nice to live in one. Different, certainly.

At one end of the lakefront road, we came across a bunch of trailers, a blocked off wharf or jetty, and a cop who told us they were filming a movie for Lifetime. No actors on hand, but apparently Kelly Lynch is the star and the movie is called "At Last." I'll have to look it up on the Internet Movie Database later.

After a bunch more driving around and a ferry ride, we ended up back in New Orleans, in the Quarter, at Deanie's Seafood for a late lunch/early dinner. I knew Jim would be merciless if I had something as ordinary as a chicken salad, so I ordered the crawfish quartet. Thankfully, they were out of boiled crawfish. I really didn't wanted to be goaded into "suckin' da head." My dish came with fried crawfish (like popcorn shrimp, though it tasted more like calamari), crawfish au gratin, crawfish dressing balls, and – my favorite – crawfish etouffe. And I had more of a local beer – Abita.

Next stop was the 360 Club, on top of the WTC on the riverbank. We watched the sun set and the lights come up over New Orleans and the barges and ferries cruising the river. No paddleboats, though. More drinks, something that hardly need to be said in this town!

We ended the night on Bourbon Street, going from club to club to hear music (and drink). At the first stop, we were pretty much the youngest people listening to the jazz trio (piano, clarinet, drums). Next stop: the Cajun cabin for a zydeco band. Or a Cajun band? I never quite got a grip on the distinction. I also ate some red beans and rice there, soakage for all the alcohol. We left when the band took a break and headed over to Pat O'Brian's piano bar. I wasn't as impressed with these musicians, although the pan player was definitely different! More importantly, I was crashing, 15 hours into this day, and asked Jim to take me home.

It didn't seem all that long before he was picking me up again, although it was an hour later than the previous day. This time, I had pecan waffles at the Camellia Grill, one of my favorite places in New Orleans. I wish I'd had a chance to go back. Next time!

After breakfast, we went to the art museum in City Park. They had an interesting photography exhibit called "Inner Cities" – four different photographers working in four different decades and cities. Harlem. Mexico City. New Orleans. Paris. The photos were of people and local scenery and every day street scenes, not tourist attractions. My favorites were of Mexico City. The photographer (I wish I had written down his name) had caught all sorts of swooping and flowing lines which lent his pieces a lot of movement and interest.

The museum's other exhibit of note was a collection of pieces by Fabregé. There were some Easter Eggs, cigarette cases and the like, but the best were the perfect miniature flowers carved and constructed from stones and gems. Very interesting and beautiful.

Jim left me then, back to real life. And I took a nap. Which I was very glad about later in the night.

Haunted New Orleans

Or: Why not to take pictures of ghosts

I had mentioned to the girls at lunch that I wanted to go on a ghost tour that evening, and they decided to join me. We grabbed the streetcar into the French Quarter and made our way to the Royal Blend Café. There, we met up with Julia, a guide for New Orleans Spirit Tours, and about 20 other people for a walking tour of the…shall we say "less traveled"…portions of the district.

Once you get away from Bourbon Street, the Quarter can be very quiet and a little dark. The streets are narrower than I had imagined, and the houses come right up to the sidewalk, much like parts of San Francisco. And you can have a dilapidated house attached to a fantastically restored mansion. There is no rhyme or reason to it.

Julia took us around to some of the haunted portions of the Quarter. One of the things I really appreciated was the mixture of proper history in with the ghost stories. And the fact that she would tell the entire story and then tell you what was real and documented versus what was merely anecdotal.

This was supposed to be a ghost and vampire tour, and she did tell one vampire story. But apparently vampires in New Orleans arose with the publishing success of Anne Rice, not the other way around. Even the one supposed "historical" vampire story can not be traced any further back than the mid-1980's. Besides, as Julia said, if they were around New Orleans, what self-respecting vampire would have stayed in New Orleans after all that publicity?

I'm going to tell you a couple of her stories here, so be prepared for some disturbing, gross, or just plain scary stuff to follow. Also know that I am paraphrasing her, so credit goes to Julia and New Orleans Spirit Tours, not to me.

At one hotel, she asked specifically if any of us were staying there before she would tell us the story of a woman who checked out almost as soon as she checked in. Apparently, there was a man in her room when she first entered it. But when she blinked, he was gone, and she figured she was just tired and seeing things. It was late, but she and her friends were going to go get some food and drinks, so she went into the bathroom to freshen up. At some point, she saw in the mirror behind her a different man than before, this one holding up bloody hands! She screamed, ran into the hall where her brother found her. After talking to the concierge, they checked out. Not only checked out, but the concierge found them rooms in another hotel and got a car to take them there. Apparently this hotel was once part of a convent, and was used a hospital during and just after the Battle of New Orleans (part of the War of 1812). Reports from the time describe a "surgery" full of amputated limbs with two or more inches of blood on the floor.

The most disturbing story she told was of an upper class family, whose name I can not properly remember (Lawlery?). Delphine was one of the most coveted belles of her time, from a well-to-do family, who married a doctor. She wasn't as pretty on the inside, though, and was arrested from cruelty to her slaves (Louisiana had very strict laws on how owners were allowed to treat slaves) when she was caught chasing a young slave girl with a bullwhip. The girl jumped from a third floor balcony rather than stand for the treatment she was getting. She must have known what was going on in the rest of the house. A couple of years later – Dauphine was stripped of her slaves, but managed to buy more with her family's money – a fire started in the kitchen during a dinner party. The hosts had the guests help with removal of the furniture, artwork, etc., but no move was made to save the slaves. When firefighters arrived, they found an elderly woman chained in the kitchen – not the right way to treat a slave, especially one of that age. It turns out the woman had deliberately set the fire, to "save them," as she told the firemen. Save who? She directed them upstairs, where they found a small door hidden behind a wardrobe. Narrow stairs led to a garret room, a torture chamber where apparently the "good doctor" had been conducting medical experiments. Some of the slaves there were alive, some mercifully dead. One man had a hole drilled in his forehead with a stick through it, as though someone had tried to "stir his brain." Another had his tongue stitched to his chin, so he could not swallow or close his mouth. One woman had had all her limbs removed, another slave had not a single unbroken bone.

Amazingly, the couple who inflicted all this cruelty escaped and were never found. Reported haunting in this house include kids who wake because they can not breathe – an icy hand has closed around their throats and a crazy woman is standing over them. They are "saved" by a large muscular black man with shackles on his wrists, dangling broken chains.

Other hauntings Julia related are more benign. One of my favorites took place in the Bourbon Orleans, the most haunted hotel in a town full of haunted hotels. A woman from California was careful to turn off all the lights and the air conditioner when she left her room for the day. Upon her return, she found her room the temperature of a meat locker, the A/C on high, the lights all blazing and the faucets running at full blast.

Another hotel – the Andrew Jackson – is on the site of an orphanage which burned to the ground in 1791. A couple found a young boy, a toddler, in their bathroom. When, after talking to the concierge, they tried to video tape him, he disappeared. The spent the rest of their stay in relative peace, taking many rolls of photos. After they got home and had the film developed, they found a photo of them together – asleep, in their locked room!

Which brings up my own camera troubles. I took pictures at a couple of stops on the tour, then this photo of a statue of Jesus at the back of the cathedral. When I tried to take a photo of us with Julia, my camera died. I managed to get it working again, for a few minutes at a time, by rearranging the batteries. A couple of times, it died with the lens extended. I finally said to heck with it, the batteries I bought earlier were no good. They must have sat on the shelf too long.

Well, I bought new batteries the next day, and the camera worked. For two days. Now it is having different problems, ones I can't seem to fix. I'll try a camera shop, but I may need to buy a new camera.

So, please, if you see a ghost, don't try to photograph it. They really don't like that.

Sunday in the Big Easy

New Orleans is actually a pretty city. The French Quarter and the Garden District are both havens for lovers of architecture and history.

The statue is of Andrew Jackson, the "savior of New Orleans", who led American troops in the completely pointless Battle of New Orleans, fought two weeks after the end of the War of 1812, and a couple of weeks before word of the treaty reached the distant city. The statue is in the center of Jackson Square, which is the center for street performers, tarot and palm readers, artists selling their paintings, henna booths and one booth for those wanting more realistic temporary tattoos. "Tanner freehands all designs" says every page in his book of samples.

On my first full day in New Orleans, I wandered around the French Quarter, the French Market (a combo flea and produce market), the riverfront, anywhere I could think to go. For eight miles. No wonder my feet hurt!

One of my main destinations that morning, and one of the reasons I wandered so far, was a body piercing shop. Somewhere between Bourbon Street and waking up in the morning, I lost the ball off my naval piercing. The best shop in town, said the girl at the coffee shop with the nose ring, was at the far edge of the Quarter. I ended up buying a new piece of jewelry, with hematite balls rather than the cubic zirconia I'd been wearing. I'm hopeful the hematite will work it's supposed magic and help me focus, but I'm not betting on it.

Just when I was looking for a place to eat lunch, I ran across the girls I'd been out with the night before. Julia, Pippa, and Jo had just ordered, so I joined them for lunch, a little jazz, and a lot of people watching. They were just heading out for shopping at the French Market, so we parted ways after lunch, and I set about discovering the other side of the French Quarter.

Everyone who comes to New Orleans, it seems, goes to Bourbon Street. Many of them do nothing but drink and dance and drink and throw or collect beads and drink. I'd "been there, done that" and wanted to see what else the Quarter had to offer. Royal Street is full of antique shops, pricey ones. Decatur has lots and lots of restaurants, souvenier shops, St. Louis Catherdral, museums, and Cafe DuMonde (which had too long of a line on this fine weekend afternoon. I'd have to come back later in the week for my beignets.

I wish I'd taken more photos of the buildings and the details of what I saw. I may have another chance before I leave. If so, I'll put those photos into another post. But my hours of wandering had left me with sore feet and a tired mind. I headed back to the hostel for a few quiet hours before the planned activity of the evening: a ghost tour.

Bourbon Street

Ah, Bourbon Street. In Bourbon Street, every night is Mardi Gras, but without the ceremony, the parades, the meaning. Which leaves drunks, outrageous behavior, and beads as the poor man's stripping currency.

My first night on Bourbon Street, I was with three underage girls - under the legal drinking age, at any rate. We walked the five or six party blocks about four times, bought daquiris and "Hand Grenades" from little stalls and took in the spectacle. It was about what I expected, but somehow seedier, certainly smellier, and at the same time lawless and peaceful.

Amazingly, with all the drink, and the women showing boobs (and trying to get the men to share some anatomy as well) and crowds of people we saw not one fight, not a single cross word.

Well, as long as you don't count the strange guy who bitched me out for not letting him kiss my cheek. But he was quickly forgotten.

I'm not sure I can adequately describe the smell of Bourbon Street. Stale beer, spilled spirits, urine, vomitous, cigar smoke, sweat, garbage. It is all there, the mixture changing as you make your way up and down the potholed street or broken concrete sidewalk. If you are lucky, the smells stay on the street and none of the offensive material actually ends up on you.

The street is closed to cars along much of the main party district - though not to cross traffic - and people milled about in the streets with plastic cups of beer or Hurricanes or Daquiris or Jesters or whatever looked good and cheap. Crowds gathered under balconies, or around willing young (or sometimes old) women who traded glimpses for beads. Those with lots of beads or small tops were constantly harrassed - "Hey! Hey! In the blank tank top! Show us your boobs!" and she would either compy or demure.

I answered a few such calls the first night with calls of my own, striving for gender equality on Bourbon Street (and no, I wasn't asking for guys to lift their shirts). I got one man to comply, and gave him the one strand of beads I'd gotten (though not earned).

Because we couldn't actually get into any clubs - or the girls without IDs couldn't - we stayed only a couple of hours, but it was enough after a long drive. We rattled along "home" on the streetcar and settled into our bunks.

Destination: N'awlins

I left Lake Charles just before official check-out time, knowing I didn't have to hurry to get into town before dark. It is only 200 miles to New Orleans, and that's a piece of cake compared to the miles I'd put in during the previous week.

At first, there was nothing special about the landscape I travelled through. It wasn't appreciably different than eastern Texas. But then I spotted it - my first view of water and dense vegetation along the road. A bayou.

Or at least what I took to be a bayou. Bayou. Waterway. Whatever. It was new to me, and I couldn't resist grabbing the camera and taking a picture while I drove (I am getting better at this, and a digital camera makes it easy. Still, not really recommended!). For a while, I drove along a causeway and could see men and trucks and boats in what would normally be the median between east and westbound lanes. I couldn't get a decent picture of that, at least not while going 70 miles an hour.

But the most shocking moment of this short drive was yet to come. I was entering the outskirts of New Orleans and starting to pay more attention to the mile markers and road signs than the scenery when I came around a corner and WHAM! There was a huge body of water off to my left. What the *&%$ ?? It looked like steel gray ocean, and whether due to the haze in the air or the curvature of the earth, I couldn't see the other side. I had to dig out the map to see what it was, and realized I'd paid far too little attention to the country around New Orleans while planning my trip. Lake Pontchartrain. How could I have missed it's proximity to my destination?

The lake sat on my left for a while, and I stole glances at it for as long as I could, awed by the size of it. I could see a line of what looked like power line towers paralleling the highway, a half mile or so out into the lake. Then lake and power poles disappeared behind the encroaching city and my exit was only 5 miles away. I looked around in anticipation, trying to get a little better oriented from my high vantage point.

I had clear directions from I-10: Exit onto Highway 90. Exit at St. Charles Ave. Turn right. Easy. Then a flashing sign caught my attention: I-10 closed ahead. Detour Hwy 610. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and I pulled out the map again. Only I don't have a good map of New Orleans, only the small map that fills a corner of the Louisiana page of my Rand McNally North American Road Atlas.

Hmm. I could get off at Canal. But I have no idea where that goes. That is the last exit before the detour onto the other highway, and it is backed up. I follow the rest of traffic onto 610 and hope for a sign of some sort. I don't see one, but I notice I am starting to pass the downtown area. The tall buildings are more behind me than beside me now, so I exit and pull into a Burger King parking lot. I still don't really know where I am in relation to where I want to be, but in looking at the map, I can see that only a few blocks away is an entrance to westbound I-10, and it would put me east of my intended exit. Backtrack! Excellent plan, and it works, with only a couple of wrong turns easily put right.

Before long, I have pulled up in front of Marquette House, my home for the next week. I settle in, meet a few of the other guests, and join a group of three British girls for the only logical destination for the first night in New Orleans: Bourbon Street.

A New State

There's nothing exciting to tell about the drive to Lake Charles, except maybe getting lost while skirting the traffic of Houston.

I'd thought of detouring through Galveston and taking a look at the Gulf of Mexico – a sight I've never seen – but the "highway" I chose to take proved to go through a multitude of small towns, with the expected reduced speed limit and stop lights. I abandoned the quest about 35 miles from the coast and cut east again, rejoining I-10 just outside Houston. It probably hadn't cost me much in terms of time and I'd gotten to see a bit of the country. It's not a bad looking area, actually, and might be all right to live in except for the heat and the humidity and the Texans.

I pulled into Lake Charles after dark, only barely registering the fact that I'd entered a new state. I'd come to dread getting to a new city after dark, with the resulting confusion and disorientation. But at least here I had reservations at a La Quinta and decent directions.

I checked into a large clean and comfortable room, unloaded more bags than usual from the car and settled in.

In addition to rest and a day free of butt-numbing driving, I had work on the agenda. Laundry. Finishing and filing my taxes. A letter to the manager of the San Antonio motel. Creation of a spreadsheet to keep track of expenses. Blog posting. Exercise.

Nothing special, but it was nice to be off the highway.

I took a little time to walk around the small (and very empty) downtown "historical" area of Lake Charles, and to check out the boardwalk (made of concrete) and the lake itself. On the far side of the lake, I could see a chemical plant or two, just past the floating steamboat casinos.

On the near side of the lake, it was obvious spring was at hand. Pigeons, ducks and other birds were strutting, fluffing and calling along the shoreline and on the grass. These ducks, on the other hand, chose to take advantage of the shade of a commemorative tank (I don't know what it commemorated, as I didn't get any closer than this. Just assuming it went along with the war memorial closer to where I stood.).

Further along the boardwalk, I discovered the residents of Lake Charles apparently have a problem with teeter-totters jumping out on the road in front of cars.

And that about says it all.

Texas

"…they've got big long roads out there…" – Chris Rea

There is nothing for the first four or five hundred miles out of El Paso. Nothing. Forget 50 miles between towns – here it is 75 miles between rest areas, with nothing in between but an occasional empty exit.

The good news is that on this long flat stretch, I could set my cruise control at 80 MPH and increase my gas mileage by 5-7 mpg. And concentrate on Anita Diamant's "The Red Tent" through the car stereo without worrying about pesky things like curves or merging vehicles.

75 or 100 miles out of San Antonio, I entered Hill Country (where my gas mileage dropped to the lowest of the trip so far) and all around me were rolling hill covered with trees, a gorgeous sight after a thousand miles of desert. The sun was setting in my rear view mirror, and I was looking forward to settling into a room and hoisting a pint for St. Paddy.

I'd been thinking of San Antonio with anticipation since leaving San Diego. I had a vague recollection, of an Irish (style) bar overlooking the Riverwalk, a place I'd hoisted a pint two years ago, when I'd stayed in San Antonio for less than five hours.

As I pulled into the hotel I'd chosen from the discount coupon book (walk-ins only, so I hadn't called) I was dismayed to see a full parking lot. A quick Q&A with the desk clerk confirmed my fears – they were full. So, she told me, was every other hotel and motel in the area. I had no idea that San Antonio was a popular Spring Break destination, but now I do. And so do you.

I got back on the highway without a destination in mind. I thought of Austin; I'd enjoyed my previous visit. But I knew the South-by-Southwest Music Festival was on and figured rooms would be in short supply there, as well. I decided to just head east on I-10 toward Houston and hope to find a motel with a vacancy and a nearby restaurant before the hour was out.

Well, being in the wrong lane in the tangle of highways around San Antonio's downtown put me on the road to Laredo. Laredo? I had no idea where that was, exactly, except south and still in Texas. Would it be worth detouring that way? I managed to find it on my map and decided NO, did a u-turn at the next exit, and headed north/northeast in search of the right highway.

I found a motel just off I-10 not far from downtown. Not the best motel, not the most courteous staff, but it was clean and had vacancies. While I waiting to check in, I chatted with a woman who had entered the lobby just after me. She and a group from her church had just driven from Lake Charles, LA. Less than six hours away, the woman told me, just over the state line, a small town without much to do.

"Is it a nice place?" I asked the woman. It was, she told me, under six hours away, with lots of trees and a boardwalk, but it was small, with not much to do.

I'd just found my next destination, and a place to rest from the two thousand miles of driving before landing in the Big Easy.

I didn't entirely miss out on a St. Paddy's celebration. Once in my room, I cracked open a Diet Pepsi and cranked a mixture of Amadan & The Saw Doctors on my iTunes. Slainté.

Bisbee, AZ

I had planned to push through to Louisiana in a hurry, just drive, drive, drive through the deserts of Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. But when I saw the sign for the turn-off, my car just seemed to go of it's own accord.

Tombstone. Bisbee. The OK Corral. Boot Hill. History.

I didn't have much time for dawdling, so I made a quick stop at Boot Hill, just so I could say I'd seen it. I tend to skip roadside attractions because I find them disappointing, and this tourist trap was no different. A parking lot full of cars and RVs with license plates from a dozen states, people wandering aimlessly through the little graveyard. I know that it is real, that those were real graves with real people in them, but it was hard to reconcile that with what I saw, especially the metal markers stenciled with "UNKNOWN." I didn't stay long, but hurried on to Bisbee.

Anyone who has read J.A. Jance's Joanna Brady mysteries is familiar with Bisbee, AZ, or thinks they are. But it was different than I imagined in my head. The town is nestled in a tiny valley, or maybe it is better characterized as a canyon. Bare rocky red mountaintops surround it rather than the open tan desert I had expected. Consequently, it is smaller and more compact than I had seen it in my mind's eye.

The steep streets of the town were there, though. I pulled into a pay lot and parked next to a camper just before lunch. I wasn't quite hungry yet, so decided to wander around. I wasn't shopping or looking for anything in particular, I just wanted to get a feel for the place, get a sense of it's ambiance. It reminded me more of the Colorado and New Mexico mining towns I'd seen two years ago than a Southwestern desert town, and I suppose that makes sense. Bisbee is a mining town, or at least it was founded as one. There is still a pit mine (copper?) at the end of the historic district.

Walking up one of the main streets, I saw a set of steep stairs and couldn't resist seeing where they led. I thought they would take me to the other main street, which I could walk down and find a place to eat. But each time I thought I'd reached the top, I found another flight, a twist, a landing, a house to skirt around. These steps led to a hillside neighborhood no cars could reach. I couldn't imagine lugging a bag of groceries to one of these small houses, much less all my worldly goods. But people obviously do.

When I finally reached the top and a street, it wasn't the one I expected. I could see the town, could see where I wanted to go. But I saw no way to get there. After a couple of wrong turns, dead-ending into people's driveways, I made my way down the hill and around an old building marked GYMNASIUM, a bed-and-breakfast, a parking lot. Eventually, I ended up where I'd started, in front of the Bisbee Grill, and I decided to eat.

The fare was more upscale than I'd expected, certainly more upscale than I'd seen in many such towns. I opted for the Oriental Grilled Chicken Salad, which was quite good, and I got one of their smoothies (mango) to go.

Back in the car, I followed state highway 80 closer to the Mexican border, through the town of Douglas (where I got lost, but found a beauty supply store and the nail polish remover I needed) and back to Interstate 10.

By nightfall, I'd crossed the state of New Mexico and found a bed in El Paso, TX. My little detour had added 75 miles and three hours to the day's journey, but it was worth it.

Tucson

It wasn't until I left San Diego that I felt my journey had really begun. Actually, it wasn't until I crossed through the rocks and scrub and desert outside El Centro (was this really the view of California I wanted to carry with me?) and over the Colorado River into Arizona that I felt I was really doing it.

I was really going on a cross-country road trip. I managed to do everything I needed to do before I left, even if I left some things incomplete. I managed to fit everything I wanted to take into my car. I managed to make all my electronic devices work together so that I could keep up this travelogue.

The journey had really begun. And only a few hours later, at a hotel on the southern edge of Tucson, I was reminded how dangerous it can be, of the unexpected things that can happen.

A crash of breaking glass woke me from a deep sleep. My first thought was that someone was breaking into cars in the parking lot, and I jumped up to peek out my window. (Actually, I'm sure my first thought was, "Hnhuh? 'atzat?") I saw nothing but a man in the lot, looking around confusedly, and figured he was also looking for the source of the sound. I couldn't see anything, but when I heard another shatter of glass, I called the front desk. The cops were on the way already, and I went back to the window to see what I could see.

I saw a person in a gold sedan, a Mercury Cougar maybe. She wasn't all the way in, she was sticking her head into the car via the driver's side door, butt in the air. Was she searching for something? A man, shirtless and barefoot, rushed up as she backed out and he tried to grab her by the arm. She shook him off and took a few steps away, saying "I don't know. I don't KNOW. I DON'T KNOW!" She was black, he was white or Latino. As she walked away, he took a few steps back to the motel, zipping his pants. Two cop cars pulled around the building, and she walked right up to the second one and pointed to the motel as the man disappeared from my sight.

The car door was still open. The woman was jabbering away to the cops, and I could almost hear what she was saying, strained to hear what she was saying, when a train whistle sounded, tooooot, TOOOOOT, TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT. By the time it was done, cops and woman had also disappeared from sight. Two minutes later, as I strained to hear the voices just outside my range (all the time peering only through the slit between curtain and window edge, so as not to be seen), the train whistle sounded again, 5 or 6 long toots this time as it left the place where it had stopped.

No cops came to my door for a statement, although they talked to the guy next door. I don't know what happened to the people or the car. They were all gone this morning. But the evidence of their bender was still there, shattered glass on the walkway, drops of blood on the concrete, smears of it on the door, spatters of it on the wall inside. I happened to be outside the room, taking photos, when the housekeeper (surprisingly not Latino) came to clean. Poor thing. Three pizza boxes, two bottles of vodka (one of them Grey Goose, so at least these crazies had taste), crushed plastic cups from 7-11, a crumpled pack of menthols on the table and a broken cigarette on the floor.

"They shouldn't rent to people like this," the housekeeper said, but how do you know, necessarily? I suppose sometimes it is obvious, but I think of all the parties we conducted in hotel rooms and know it isn't always.

That was Tucson. I'm not sorry to leave.

Addendum: When I checked out, they asked me how my stay was. I replied, "Fine, except for that whole incident last night." The woman behind the desk apologized, said that wasn't the normal course of events and comped my room. Nice.

Car Racing

What is it about men of a certain age, especially men of a certain age and ethnicity, that they think it is okay to race their cars down the freeway at crazy speeds, weaving in and out of cars? They have always scared me, and I have always wondered what would happen if the lanes didn't open up for them, or if they hit a pothole, or if they blew a tire. I never knew, until now.

It was Saturday night in San Diego, and we were on our way home from dinner. It wasn't late, we had the boys with us. My sister's boyfriend was driving their Expedition, and soon I was glad for both those things.

We weren't going especially fast, maybe 70 mph, and creeping up on the car in front of us. Sean had just changed into the far left lane to go pass when I heard the whine of a fast approaching car. I looked left just in time to see something race past. I still don't know for sure if it was a car or a motorcycle, though probably it was a car.

We were all still saying, "Whoa!" and putting our hands to our chests when I heard the noise again. I looked right just in time to see a black two-door car SLAM! into the car next to us. Sparks flew, the creeper car slowed down, the black car jerked right for an instant, long enough to sideswipe the car in the next lane, then seemed to regain control. I looked at the speedometer of our car. 68 MPH. How fast must that guy have been going to not be able to slow down to 65 MPH before hitting someone?

The hood of the black car was pushed up in front of the windshield, his lights broken or turned off. I don't know how he could see, but he managed to merge across the freeway to an exit, the creeper car giving chase. We saw no one stop, no one pull over to the side of the road.

Sean called the CHP when we got home. Not only were there apparently no injuries, but no one had reported it. A three-car accident with major damage, and apparently all the cars drove off. Crazy.

"Are you okay, T?" we asked my oldest nephew, who had watched the whole thing.

"Yeah. I saw the cars hit. There was this force, electric force just PULLING them together. And that one car got all mangled. Did you see it, Auntie Karen?"

"Yep. Do you see why it is so important not to speed when you drive? You have to be careful."

"Yeah."

San Diego

The first leg of my journey was a familiar one – mostly south on Highways 85, 101, 152, 5 and 805 to my sister's house in San Diego. Still, I knew I wouldn't come back this way for at least three months (three months? THREE MONTHS?? What am I thinking?), so I looked to the scenery with new eyes.

I noticed the spring-time green of the hills, the way it perfectly matched the green of the golf course. Perhaps this was the only day it would, for the unseasonable heat seemed to already be fading the color to tan. I noticed the dusting of rust on the shoulders of those green hills, the rusty orange of the California poppy, the state flower. Other wild flowers dusted the shoulders of the road – grape hyacinth and ceonothus and lantana and Cape plumbago and others I can not name.

And as I headed south, I hit the bugs. Literally. Spring in the Central Valley means bugs and I'm sure I carried over a hundred into San Diego on my windshield. Spring in the Central Valley also means planting time, and I saw crews planting..what? Canteloupes near Firebaugh? Cotton near the 46 junction? The grapes were bright and the almond trees carried a fuzz of misty green on their branches. Later, I saw further sign of California's agricultural abundance in the trucks and trucks of lettuce and broccoli, and in the deep cool waters of the canals.

The drive was familiar, and so was the visit (save one incident which will go in another entry). My oldest nephew was all over me the minute I got there. "Auntie Karen can we build legos? Auntie Karen, will you play with me? Auntie Karen, how long are you staying? Auntie Karen, I missed you." I complain, but I would miss it if it were different, as I know it will be some day, when he gets too old to bother with visiting relatives. My other nephew, not quite two, wasn't as welcoming nor as sure of me, but I tickled a smile onto his face just the same.

I'd forgotten how early little boys like to get up on the weekends, so got little sleep, but I'll make up for it on the road. I'd forgotten how sweet it can be to have their little bodies curl up next to you, and I'd forgotten – did I ever know? – that almost-two-year olds don't really hold still when you want them to, when you wish they would.

My nephews were fascinated by the Visualizer in my iTunes. T asked me over and over again to play certain songs, and he would come up with explanations for what he saw. A vortex, a ship passing through space, bubbles from a diver. J watched only because his brother did, though I think he liked the colors and shapes.

The weekend passed in a whirl of family activities, going to the park, shopping, fixing something to eat for the always hungry boys.

Soon, it was time for my journey to really begin.

Comment Problems

Several people have told me they are having problems leaving comments because the background and text are the same color. I think I found and fixed the problem, but please let me know if it continues.

(I never had the problem so can't test for the fix; it seems to be most prevelant for those running Mozilla.)

Why a trip?

It's an unexplainable urge, the one to hit the road. I'm not sure I properly understand it myself. I only know there are times when I feel the need to get out of my comfort zone, out of my rut. Hitting the asphalt trail with no company but my own conscience is often the easiest way.

At least it seems like the easiest way, until you are halfway across Texas with no town in sight and no stations on the radio and you are sick of all your CDs and all you really want is a little something familiar - a friend to talk to or a favorite restaurant to eat at and your own bed at the end of the night.

I'm looking forward to that point (although with a new 15 GB iPod, I doubt I'll get sick of the music I brought, or even hear all of it) because it is when I learn the most about myself and the person I am becoming. It is when I must make the choice between staying in the motel and watching TV or venturing out alone in a strange town.

On this trip, I will be on the road for three months. Why three months? Why not? With no job, no apartment and no dependents (aside from my dog, who is staying with her "grandparents") and money still in the bank, there hardly seems a better time to explore the eastern half of my country, the half I've never seen.

I'm looking forward to exploring new territory, physically and emotionally. I'm looking forward to growing as a person and as a writer. And I'm looking forward to having you follow along on my adventures.

Thank you for visiting. Ya'll come back now, ya hear?

Itinerary

Check back to this entry using the link at left for any changes or additions. As I travel, I will update the list to link to the first entry for each location.

Most dates are flexible and subject to change. Same with some locations.

March 12-15 --> San Diego
March 15-20 --> On the road
March 20-28 --> New Orleans
March 29-30 --> Natchez Trace
March 30-April 1 --> Nashville
April 2-7 --> Eastern Tennessee
April 7-9 --> Asheville, NC
April 9-14 --> North Carolina Coast
April 15-18 --> North Carolina Literary Festival
April 19-23 --> Maryland/D.C.
April 23-25 --> Mom, Lisa and friends join me for the March for Women's Lives in Washington D.C.
April 26-May 3 --> Around the Washington, D.C. area
May 3-4 --> Pennsylvania Countryside
May 5-11 --> New York City
May 12-17 --> Ireland
May 18-19 --> On the road
May 19-22 --> Boston
May 23-25 --> On the road
May 25-27 --> Toronto
May 27- June 3 --> Detroit suburbs
June 3-6 --> Book Expo America, Chicago
June 7-9 --> Omaha
June 9-14 --> On the road
June 15 or 16 --> Home again

One of the pleasures of travel is meeting up with old friends and making new ones. If I'm coming to a town near you and you'd like to meet for a meal or a drink, or would like to show me what it is like to be a local, please leave a comment or send me an email. Thanks!

Warm-up: Portland, OR

OR: A chance to break-in new shoes.

I wasn't alone, I didn't drive, and I stayed at a (more or less) proper hotel, so maybe it isn't right to call my quick trip to the Rose City a warm-up for the big trip, but I will anyway. I wore my new hiking boots and did a lot of walking and felt at home.

I like Portland so much, I just might have to move there. Soon.

The excuse for the trip was to bring my sister, Lisa, to see the Celtic-punk band Amadan and introduce her to band member Eric Tonsfeldt. This is the closest either of us have come to meeting someone outside our immediate family with our last name. (The extra "e" in my name was added when my great-grandfather entered the U.S., or at least that's the story.). We settled into the hotel and went straight to Kell's, where we had a good meal before talking to Eric. The music and the crowd were a great introduction to Portland for Lisa, who had never before been to Oregon.

Our hotel was the Mark Spencer, on the edge between downtown Portland and the Pearl District. It's a hotel I chose on my first trip to Portland for it's proximity to Powell's City of Books. I like it despite – or perhaps because of – its' shabby gentility, and I appreciate the small kitchenettes, the included continental breakfast, the coffee, tea & cookies in the afternoon, and the reasonable rates.

The only discordant note during our stay came in the form of a screeching fire alarm at 11 a.m. Saturday morning. It was a false alarm, luckily, since we didn't exactly rush our (no one else did, either, and there was no smoke. We found out later the alarm had sounded at the same time the previous day.).

Once we realized our possessions and our hotel were safe, we hoped the #14 bus for the Hawthorne District. Here's another thing I love about Portland – it has excellent public transportation, especially compared to San Jose. I could see driving my car a lot less if I lived here. The Hawthorne district is something of an amalgam between San Francisco's Haight and San Jose's Willow Glen. With it's own Portland twist in the form of excellent people watching from the bar of the Baghdad, which faces the street instead of the back wall.

When we arrived in the Hawthorn, we discovered there was an Artwalk going on. We tailored our wandering to include some of the stops, although we didn't get to every place we planned to, due to all the ducking into boutiques and bookstores we did along the way. We made the scheduled stop at HEAVEN & EARTH to discover chair massages on offer. Also on offer were the prints of Robert Morr. This artist has an interesting technique – he takes a photo, paints a copy of it (up to 20) and scans them all into the computer. Then he layers the photo and the paintings with different layers of transparency to come up with soft focus prints, some that look nearly photographic, and some which are more like water colors. We indulged in both the massages and the art before heading "home" to the Mark Spencer.

That night found us again at Kell's, indulging in some of their fine food before dancing and singing along with Amadan. I even got my picture taken with Andy, the digeredoo player who shares my affection for Australia. The crowd was wilder than the night before. A bachelorette party moved through early in the night, and a bachelor party came through later. The "groom" had a sixteen-pound bowling ball chained to his leg, and his friends made him do many embarrassing things. We all had a good time laughing with (at?) him.

It was early morning before we got to sleep. Before heading for bed, we stopped at Roxy's, a 24-hour diner, for some late night food. Roxy's is best described as an interesting place with an interesting clientele, but you hardly expect different at four in the morning!

We had a late start on Sunday, and moseyed around the Pearl District looking for a simple breakfast. We wandered into the Lawerence Gallery. They had some bizarre pieces on display, but also some that I really liked, especially some glass pieces and a couple of pencil drawings. Nothing in my price range though! We ate at a tea shop before making the obligatory stop at Powell's and taking MAX to the airport.

They say a sign of a successful vacation is when you return more tired than you left. I'd say this short trip to Portland qualified in spades!