Blog of a Newly Minted Housewife

Visitors

It might seem a little weird to have "visitors" on a road trip, but that is what it felt like when my mom, sister, and some friends flew out to Washington, D.C. to participate in the March for Women's Lives on Sunday April 25th. I was excited to see them, and hopeful that being around family and friends would boost my energy a little bit. Not that I was homesick; far from it. But my energy level had been low, and I was feeling burnt out on sight-seeing and being "on" all the time – a necessary by-product on solo travel.

The initial greeting was not all I could have hoped it would be. I got to the hotel, and pressed the button for the elevator. When the doors opened, Mom stepped off and swept me into a big hug, saying "It's so good to see you!" And then, instead of jumping into the elevator with me, she went outside for a cigarette.

Upstairs, my best friend Maria opened the door of the room I was sharing with her and my sister, Lisa. Big hugs from both, some quick catching up and unpacking, and soon we were on our way to dinner. "Let's go to Alexandria!" Lisa said, and we tried.

I felt a bit like a local or a tour guide, since I'd been in town a couple of days before and knew how the Metro ticket machines worked, and how to figure out which train and direction to take. That's about where my "expertise" ended, though. It turns out you can't get to Alexandria from the Metro, but thanks to the help of a couple of real locals, we managed to find a decent restaurant in Crystal City (after a long walk through a mall – strange town).

The next day, we set out for some sightseeing, the only such day for Maria and Lisa. We walked to the Mall, saw a few exhibits at the Museum of American History, and then jumped on the TourMobile for a ride past the Capitol building, Union Station, and out to the Jefferson Memorial. Where a fire alarm went off, triggering an "evacuation" of the building. Not that anyone really went anywhere – we sat on the steps and watched a high school band set up. They looked hot in their uniforms, and the sight of so many instruments had Maria commenting, "And this one time, at the Jefferson Memorial…"

From the Jefferson Memorial, we walked around the Tidal Basin – enjoying the beauty until we saw dead fish floating at the edges – to the FDR Memorial and further on to the Lincoln Memorial and Vietnam Wall. It was nice to have others to talk to while checking out the sights, to make snarky comments to, and to lean on when I got tired. The pace wasn't what I could have accomplished by myself, but maybe that's OK. Maybe I needed to slow down a little bit to appreciate what I was seeing. And hearing the comments of the others, especially at the FDR Memorial, made me think more than I would have if I had been cruising through on my own.

We had been trying most of the day Saturday to hook up with another couple of friends of ours who'd flown out for the March and were staying at another hotel. Eventually, we decided to go out to their hotel to meet them for dinner. "I'm too tired to take the Metro," Lisa said as we were getting ready. "Do you mind driving?" We found their hotel on the map – seemed easy enough – and found out there was parking, so I agreed to drive. What a mistake! Besides the confusing intersections and random name changes of the roads, we had to contend with numerous blocked streets thanks to protests at the IMF and World Bank buildings. It took us about an hour to drive the five or seven miles to our friends' hotel. I was very frustrated, but had to laugh when Lisa said, "Next time I say I'm too tired for the Metro, just tell me to buck up!"

As great as it was to see Mom and Lisa, and as appreciative as I was of having companions, I was reminded of the little things we do that drive each other crazy. It is such a curious dynamic that occurs when we are together. There were times when I had to remind myself to be patient and considerate of their desires and limitations, and remind myself that I was not the one in charge, that in fact, no one was "in charge." Am I just too used to traveling on my own now, to following my instincts and whims? I was glad Mom had a friend with her, and glad Maria was there to deflect some of my irritation. Although I did feel sorry for Maria, poor thing, for having to put up with us!

Here I am with Eleanor Roosevelt at the FDR Memorial:

First D.C. Visit

I've been having a very restful time at my friend's house in southern Maryland. It is all very low-key, and I think maybe I'm getting the rest I need to power through the rest of this trip. She and I have taken a couple of short trips, one to Solomon's and one to Point Lookout, but mostly we have hung around the house, reading and blogging and taking naps ;-) I did, however, take one day to go into D.C.

I went to the Museum of American History, one of the museums on the Mall run by the Smithsonian Institute. You hear all the time that such-and-such from a TV show or whatever got donated to the Smithsonian, and this is the museum that houses all of that. However, their pop culture area is really very small, and although they have a few other small bits scattered around, I was disappointed. Oh! They did have Julia Child's kitchen all set up. That was cool.

However, they are running an exhibit on the First Ladies, with lots of memorabilia, dishes from the White House, Inauguration gowns, etc. Most interesting were some of the facts the put forth, such as the First Lady hosting an "afternoon at home," such as what you read about in a Regency Romance novel (if you read that sort of thing) or imagine from Austen and other writers of the period. And they had some of the invitation cards as well as calling cards left by visitors. I found that interesting.

But the only thing to make me really choke up or feel a sense of awe was what I saw when I entered the museum from the Mall side. Hanging on a wall directly across from the door, where I'd always imagined the "Stars-and-Stripes" hanging, was a huge flag. With black scorch marks. It was the flag that was draped over the damaged side of the Pentagon on September 12, 2001. I'm not sure why that choked me up, but it did.

After wandering around the museum until I was both bored and annoyed by all the groups of school kids, I went out to where I was sure to find more school kids – the Mall and the monuments. Again, there were too many people, too much noise for me to feel the sense of awe and wonderment that I had thought I would feel. And yet I did feel it, at one point. And that point was reading the Gettysburg Address as it is engraved inside the Lincoln Memorial.

There were so many little "normal" things that you don't think about seeing when you go to a place like this, of place of so much importance. You forget that it is a normal city, and there are commuters and joggers and school kids and people selling ice cream from carts, and there are birds and weeds and buses and taxis and planes coming in for a landing and people who don't care that you've never seen this before, that you hoped to feel an importance to the day, because this is something they see everyday. This is just part of their life, part of their background, and they treat it as such.

This is why I'd much rather hang out with locals than sightsee. Because once you've seen, what else is there to do? Still, I enjoyed taking photos. And I'm headed back up to D.C. tonight, to meet Mom and Sis and friends for the March for Women's Lives on Sunday.

This is the new World War II Memorial, which doesn't actually open until Memorial Day weekend. However, it is possible to see most of it through the chain link fence:

This is part of the Korean War Memorial. It's a little creepy to come up to these guys from behind:

The Vietnam Wall, which kind of sneaks up on you from a behind some trees, because it is built into a hill:

This may or may not be a cousin of my mom's. The dates and location are right, the middle name is a family one, but I don't know for certain:

This was funny. There are vendors set up near the Vietnam Wall who sell MIA and POW bracelets, patches, pins, etc. One of them had an "Iraqi Most Wanted" poster tacked to the side of his booth, with "GOTCHA!" written in red over those who'd been captured.

Literary Weekend

The North Carolina Literary Festival wasn't as great as I had hoped it would be. However, I met some interesting people and discovered great new (to me) authors and got to see my Maui teacher, so it wasn't horrible, either.

I had intended to go to at least one of the keynotes, but the reception costs were out of my budget. Consequently, my first "lecture" was on Saturday morning with Orson Scott Card. I've heard many, many stories about the type of crowds this guy attracts, and was shocked to enter the auditorium five minutes before the start to find it practically empty. I'd guess a total of maybe 50 people by the time it started.

He sat on the edge of the stage with his friend and they basically talked. Well, it was titled "A Conversation with Orson Scott Card," after all. I can't say that I gleaned too much new information, but I liked some of his ideas on what is wrong with workshops and writing classes and MFA programs. Or I should say, I agreed with them in principle. And afterwards I did get a book signed for my haridresser, who is the one who introduced me to OSC's books in the first place. While he was signing, I mentioned the reason I had read "Ender's Game" and "Ender's Shadow" in the first place, the fact that they are essentially the same story told from two different POV's, and how that interested me as a writer. He asked about my background and said it was great that I'd been out living life instead of being in an MFA program. Then there was another person holding something out and I went over to the festival bookstore to browse.

I saw a woman holding one of the later books in the "Shadow" series but looking confused. I convinced her to buy "Ender's Game" and "Ender's Shadow" instead (for her husband) and explained why. I also pointed out where OSC was standing, just outside the store, and told her if she hurried, he would probably sign them for her. I don't know if he did or not. After she thanked me and walked to the cash register, one of the bookstore workers made a comment about my selling their books for them. I just shrugged.

I was much more intrigued by a panel called "The New Strange." I had no idea what this was to be about, but it sounded more interesting that the other sessions being offered at the same time. It turned out to be about the cross-genre fiction which had really taken off in the last few years, and featured authors Dale Bailey, Richard Butner, Andy Duncan, and Kelly Link, moderated by John Kessel, who teaches at NC State in addition to being an award-winning writer. It was interesting listening to them try to come up with a category for this brand of fiction that combines elements of sci-fi, horror, fantasy, magical realism, etc. They each read pieces of stories.

While I was waiting for the session to begin, Karen Joy Fowler, who was my teacher at the Maui Writer's Retreat last summer and the reason I'd come to the Festival, came into the lecture hall. I smiled and waved and she came and sat next to me. We didn't get a chance to say anything except "hi" before the session started, but afterwards, she invited me down and introduced me to these people, all of whom she knew, and we (all of us - about 10 people) walked down to the book signing area together, and hung out. I especially enjoyed talking to Kelly's mom, who lives in the area. Annie (I think was her name) loves travel and we talked about my trip and the last time she did a cross-country trip by herself a couple of years ago. I gave her the address of this site, so I hope she visits. And I talked to the wife or girlfriend of one of the guys about "Morbid Curiosity" and gave her that information, as she is interested in submitting.

Each of them asked me questions, usually starting with how I knew Karen. I had to talk about my writing, and my books, and how hard it is to find an agent, and how tough it can be to stay motivated. Everyone was very encouraging, and between that and talking to another friend on Thursday, I am feeling more confident than I have since I came back from that dreadful retreat to Oregon.

After lunch, it was time for Karen's panel, a time she shared with a North Carolinian author named Pamela Duncan. They each read bits from their books, and Karen read part of an essay she wrote about reading Jane Austen, which was published in Believer magazine's March 2004 issue. (And later that night, Karen won the Nebula for Best Short Story for "What I Didn't See.")

I had never heard of Pamela Duncan, but I bought her book "Moon Women" (along with Kelly Link's short story collection) after being impressed with the strength of her character's voices. I recommend her books highly to anyone who likes a strong female voice.

The whole gang of us had trooped over to the panel together, and we trooped back to the book signing area, too. Karen signed a copy of one of her books for Pamela, and Pamela returned the favor, and we all sat around chatting for a while. Well, they chatted, I mostly listened. They all seemed to know each other so well, it was sort of like being at a party of old friends and being the out-of-town cousin with nothing in common.

And then the day was over, except a performance by a rock band. I got a funnel cake and sat and listened to them for a little bit, while next to me a couple of teenage girls did backflips across the lawn. Then I came back to my hotel and took a look at my list of agents I've chosen to query. I think I'm ready to send out "Says My Heart" to a few more agents, though that means finding a Kinko's or someone with a printer.

I was feeling fairly down on Sunday, though not able to pinpoint the reason why. I didn't much feel like leaving the hotel, or even my room, but had no choice when it came time for lunch. I drove over to what someone had told me was a trendy street and found the first open restaurant. Wouldn't you know it, it was an Irish bar?? Hibernia, it was called, and the guy behind the bar was Colin, and it was all dark wood and Guinness signs. But the food was good, and the beer cold and I had a section of bar to myself most of the afternoon, and I read "Moon Women" and tried to write some in the little journal I carry around.

And then the bar got more crowded. I was tired, but I'd had too many beers to leave, so I ordered some fries. And then a couple of men sat next to me and started chatting. The one closest to me, Rick, had played in a golf tournament that day, and the other, John, had acted as his caddy. I lamented to him that my only golf buddy was moving to Raleigh. We chatted golf for a while, he bought me a beer or two, and then he paid for my lunch.

Now, I am not one of those girls out looking for a "sugar daddy." I like to pay for myself, and depending on the situation, I might pay for the guy, too (as I did when Shaun and I went to lunch/dinner in Southport). But Rick insisted, saying he wanted to pay for a tank of gas for my trip. The tab was for a little more than a tank's worth of gas, but I finally gave in. And when he invited me to dinner, I gave in to that as well.

Which I shouldn't have done, in retrospect. For one thing, I wasn't really hungry, and of course he, John and I went to a chop house, which served large portions. But also, he was on the verve of getting drunk, a line he crossed for a little while at dinner. Still, he was a gentleman and acted accordingly, including telling me to drive safe at the end of the evening. Although not before trying to convince me to go to his facility in Greensboro for golf lessons! I might have taken him up on it if my knee weren't still acting up. Hmm, reason for a return trip?

Puppy Love

I don't miss my dog, exactly. I mean, I'm on the road, having adventures. What is there to miss? But that doesn't stop me from petting every semi-friendly dog I see.

When I was in Nashville, the woman across the hall from me had a little Addie-dog, same flopped over ears, shaggy black coat, white patch on the chest. This pup was much younger, only a year, and had a tail, but still. The resemblance and the fact that this woman was traveling with her pup made me a little sad to have left my pooch at home.

I saw quite a few dogs in Asheville, a couple on the beach at Wilmington, but the kicker was the day I walked into the office of the hostel in Kitty Hawk and found a little ball of chocolate fur twining it's way around my feet. Had I come into the room for some reason? Who knows! I dropped to the floor and pulled that pup in my lap and stayed there for a good ten minutes, smelling her puppy breath and letting her chew on my shoelaces. How could I resist?

And I made sure to stop in the office often on the rest of my visit. I needed pup time, even if it wasn't my pup, wasn't anything remotely like my pup. I just loved cuddling up to that wriggly little girl. Ain't she sweet?

Clarity

One night in Kitty Hawk, I had a "Oh my God, what the &$#* am I doing with my life?!" moment. I've done no writing or editing since leaving home, and not even much reading. I've been gone a month, and am no closer to figure out what to do when I get back. Is it time to go back to work? To rejoin the "normal" life my friends lead? Since it was the middle of the night, there wasn't much to do but try to ignore the doubts and go to sleep. The next morning, though, I took a solo walk on the beach:

The sun peeks out of the clouds for the first time since I've been here. Its the kind of beach day I love, with the wind blowing, just warm enough to go barefoot if you don't get your feet wet too often. Too cold for families or sunbathing teenagers. Only a few surfers and beachcombers out and about. I walk along at the edge of the hardpack, alternately looking down at the swathes of shells and pebbles, searching for something interesting, or else out at the wide expanse of the ocean, nothing to the horizon but water, not even a fishing boat to break the line where sea meets sky.

I disturb a cluster of different kinds of gulls who have been sitting on the sand for so long I have to be careful not to step in their poop. Another cluster of birds, black-and-white, unidentifiable to me, shifts closer to the dunes as I walk between them and the water.

I stop to face the sea breeze, close my eyes and tip my face to the sun. I can hear a couple of kids squealing down the beach. Probably got their feet wet! There is a tang of salt in the air, mixed with something fertile. Seaweed, maybe. The course sand is rough against the soles and sides of my feet, exfoliating.

I open my eyes and look up the beach, but I can't see where I started. I look the other way, and can't see where I intended to go. There is onlty the sand and the birds, the sea before me, the dunes behind me. There is only this moment, these sounds, these smells, these thoughts. There is no beginning and no end. There is only the here and the now, until I step forward, into another here, another now. Always, just the present. It is all I know for sure, all I want to think about, all I dare to think about, as I step once more and the ocean washes over my feet.

The Outer Banks

Ah, the beach. It brings up so many images – sand, sun, surf, shells, seagulls. That didn't seem too much to expect when I decided to go to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. But nothing on this trip has gone as expected, so I shouldn't have been surprised when I crossed the Virginia Dare Bridge – the second of three bridges that link Nag's Head to the mainland – in a driving rain, the sky nine o'clock dark at five-fifteen, lightning splitting the sky so close that I wondered if it was safe to cross the open water on a steel bridge.

I made it across the bridge just fine, made the turn onto 158 (the bypass, the big road) and drove north to the hostel in Kitty Hawk. It seemed deserted, but it was still raining and gray. After I checked in, I discovered it wasn't jus the weather, though. I was in a 14-bed dorm, similar to New Orleans, but I was the only one in it.

The hostel at Kitty Hawk is built on a large piece of property, compared to most I have been to. There is a wide expanse of land to one side, which is used for campers, who have access to a bathhouse and the hostel kitchen and common room. There are also several private rooms, peacocks, goats, barbeques and fire pits. I think it would be a very cool place in better weather and with more people, although I was a little concerned that there was only one shower and one toilet for the 14-bed dorm I was in. And they were in the same room, so if someone was in the shower, the toilet and sink were unavailable. Still, I'd come back, esp. in high season when the surrounding accommodation prices would be astronomical.

The continuing gray skies and intermittent rain made it seem a sane thing to spend the afternoon at the bar, as I did the next day. OK, it was an oyster bar, but the guys were still great at keeping my beer perpetually full. (All the bartenders here have the same knack, I discovered. They just keep replacing the empty bottles – or glasses – with full ones until you tell them not to.)

Randy (pictured) and Dubby were busy behind the bar at Awful Arthur's, shucking oysters and putting shrimp and crab legs in the steamer. They work quickly, shucking half a peck or a peck at a time and stacking them on trays, adding little plastic cups of cocktail sauce and wedges of lemon before serving them up. I don't know exactly what constitutes a peck, if it is weight or a particular count, but it is a lot of oysters!

In between serving other people, I talk to Randy a bit about life in OBX, about the jewelry business he is trying to get off the ground, about tourists and books, since I'm spending about as much time reading as I am talking to him or to the people sitting near me. Randy promises to bring in some of his turquoise if I promise to come back the next day.

Back at the hostel, I met Preston, who has just arrived in Kitty Hawk to spend the summer working at the hostel. I've met some crazy travelers on this trip, but I think Preston gets the prize for craziest. He has spent the past 4 years traveling around the country, going from hostel to hostel, working for room and board in between partying, surfing, biking, whatever he fancies doing at the moment. Last year, he gave away all his possessions and all his cash in Key West and started hitching north. When I asked him why??, he said he wanted to test the good of humanity. He made out all right; he made it to Minneapolis, where he spent the winter.

Preston didn't have a car but wanted to see the sights, and I was happy to have some company for a change. We made plans to drive down to Cape Hatteras the next day. But when the next day came around, there was a tornado warning! Oh, yes, I picked the perfect time to go to the beach. Instead of going to Hatteras, we went back to Awful Arthur's, to the capable beer-pouring hands of Randy and Dubby, and spent the afternoon watching a wall of water fall from the sky.

The tornado watch was over at 4 p.m., and right on schedule the clouds cleared and the sun came out, and Preston and I left the bar to drive south. We made it as far as the Bodie Island Lighthouse, stopping on the way so I could take a picture of a turtle crossing the road. We couldn't go up inside the light, though, and the visitor center wasn't very exciting. None of them are, I'm finding.

I don't know if it is just malaise from being on the road or what, but I am finding that I am very hard to please when it comes to these sorts of destinations. All the exhibits tend to run together after a while, and none of them have the sort of depth I would appreciate. I know whey they are like that, but I still find it frustrating to be given such a slim slice of information on why a place is important or on it's place in history.

The sun came out the next day, and I managed to get down to the beach for a stroll and some beachcombing. I don't know if it is always like this or if it was due to the recent storms, but there were a ton of shells on the beach, of all shapes, sizes and colors, and several whole shells. I picked up only a few to take away, plus a fish skull (yeah, I'm weird that way). And I watched the waves and the surfers and the few other people that were out. It was my kind of beach day – a little windy, too cool for sunning teenagers or kids building sand castles, the stretch of sand nearly deserted.

That afternoon, Preston and I went to Jockey Ridge State Park, location of the tallest sand dune on the East Coast. A windy day is not the best time to visit a sand dune, but I think it is always windy there. They offer hang gliding lessons there, and of course there were many people with kites. From the top – quite a hike – you can see both Albemarle Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. (You can also see the Wright Brothers Memorial, which I never made it to. A little too burnt on historic sights, I guess.)

Next, we drove over to Manteo (which looks like it should be pronounced "man-TAY-oh" but which someone told me the locals pronounce "MAN-ee-oh", as if the "t" didn't exist at all) and the First Colony exhibit. I think it is technically called Fort Raleigh National Historic Site. This is the site of the Lost Colony, the English settlers who disappeared between one supply ship and the next, every man, woman and child vanishing as if into thin air. Although it seems likely they merely moved to another island and blended with the Indian population.

Everywhere we went, there were statues of horses, many of them with wings of some sort. All were fantastically painted, reminiscent of the sharks you could see all around San Jose a couple of years ago. I never did find out if they were meant to commemorate something, or if they were just a community arts project of some sort.

With the weather being so somber, I spent a lot of my time in Kitty Hawk either hanging out at the hostel reading or at some bar or other. Still, I got to see a good portion of the Outer Bank through my car window, and it is a place I'd like to go back to some day. I especially liked Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills, and found Nag's Head to be too commercial and lacking the charm of the other two "towns" on this stretch of sand.

I have the perfect place to come back to, as well. I saw it first from the beach road, but it was when I saw it from the beach itself that I knew. It is a "round" house, it's shingles painted barn red, with steps leading down from the wrap-around porch direct to the sand. Unbidden, the thought came to my head, "When I come back here for my honeymoon, that is where I'm going to stay."

Don't Bother

Don't bother leaving a light on for me, Tom Boddett. I don't think I'll be staying at a Motel 6 again anytime soon.

When I was in college, Motel 6 was the place to stay, cheap and clean. But I've grown up now and my needs have changed. Now, I like having a clock in my room, so I know what time it is when I wake up.

I like having a coffee maker, so I can revive myself with some caffeine before I pack.

I like having a hair dryer, so I don't have to bring my own.

I like having a towel that goes all the way around my body, so I don't get cold while I decide what to wear.

I like having MTV and VH1, not just CNN and ESPN

I like having sheets that aren't pilled.

I like having a full "free" breakfast, not just bad coffee.

I like not being able to hear when the people above me doing something…uh…"squeaky."

So it's all right, Tom, if you forget that light. I won't be looking for it anyway.

Wilmington, NC

I reckon there are some things mothers just shouldn't know about until after the fact, and my actions on Saturday certainly fall into that category.

I'd woken up that morning with no idea what I was going to do with my day. Coming to Wilmington had been something of a whim. I'd just looked at the map and picked a place to spend the night between Asheville and the Outer Banks. I'd gotten some ideas from my Lonely Planet, and thought maybe I'd go tour the North Carolina a battleship anchored in the Cape Fear River and open to tourists. Maybe I'd drive over and stroll along Wrightsville Beach – the sun was out and I wasn't sure I'd really feel like I'd hit the East Coast until I dipped a toe in the Atlantic.

But the first order of business had to be coffee. And something to eat. And I wanted to start getting my Asheville experiences on paper before too much time skewed my perception of events. A coffee shop seemed in order, and I pulled into the first one I saw on my way toward downtown, Port City Java.

An hour later, after I'd finished my bagel and my essay, I looked up and caught a guy staring at me. Had he been looking at me before I looked up, or was it just coincidence that our eyes met? Hmm. Kinda cute, looks like a local in that shirt with the cut-off arms. I looked away and packed up my things, then got a refill of my house brew. And when I was turning the dark stuff into sweet-and-light, the same guy appeared at my elbow, saying something about it being a nice day. I smiled and said something inane back, trying to decide if I was creeped out or not.

When I went outside, the guy just ahead of me, I saw him get into a big red F-250, a skydiving sticker covering most of the back window. Which made me think of Greta and Skydive Hawaii and jumpstarted my curiosity, which made me walk a little slower to my car when the truck pulled up next to me and made me decide I wasn't creeped out at all.

His name is Shaun, a former Marine (very recently former) complete with tattoo, and he was headed up to the drop zone to go for a few dives. Did I want to go with him? "Hell, no! Skydiving scares the shit out of me!" And I told him about my one and only jump. "Well, I don't really have to jump today. I don't really have any other plans. What are you doing?" Not sure, I told him. "Want to go check out the beach?"

Which is when I got in his truck, and had the thought that Mom would have a fit if she knew what I was doing. To be fair, he offered to have me drive, but I was sick of driving, and my instincts weren't sending off any warning signals. Good thing, too, 'cause I ended up having a great day, the kind of day I never could have had if I'd headed into Wilmington or to the beach on my own.

We drove through downtown Wilmington and learned we had a shared opinion of your average tourist, and your average vacation to an historic town. On the way, Shaun asked me when my birthday was.
November
"November what?"
The 19th
"Mine's the 18th"
No way! What tipped you off to the Scorpio vibe?
"Not sure – the spontaneity, the self-confidence…" Yeah, okay. ;-)

Shaun asked me what I wanted to do. "I like to find out what the locals do for fun," I told him, and we drove out to Carolina beach. And when I say "drove out" I mean just that – we drove off the pavement and onto the sand and about half a mile along the water to where we found a parking spot in between some fisherman.

This kind of amazed me. There are very few places in California where you can drive on the beach. Actually, I can only think of one – Pismo. And that isn't a beach with multiple activities. People go there to drive on the dunes, not to fish or surf or sun. On this beach, it seemed like anything went. We even saw a 4WD Domino's delivery truck out there, bringing someone pizza! The one sucky thing was no bathrooms, so I had to squat behind the dunes (Sorry, was that TMI? Tough.) We hung out for a while, people watching ("She's too skinny." What? Why? I think she has a nice body. "Nope, too skinny. You can see her ribs. She's all bony." Umm, okay.) playing with a dog that I think belonged to the people next to us, and watching birds. A line of pelicans passed us by, too fast for me to get my camera out of the cab, flapping their wings in series. It reminded me of a scene from "Finding Nemo."

We headed up for the ferry to Southport to get something to eat. It's a good thing we weren't too hungry, because we were too far back in line, and had to wait for another one. The food was worth the wait, though. We ate at a little wharf-side place where you didn't need shoes, and could watch the boats go by. I wish I could remember the name of it. Provisions, or something like that. We shared the special – half a pound of spiced and steamed shrimp and a crab cake. And lots of Corona. But it was a long time since the bagel at the coffee shop, so then I ordered a salad with grilled tuna on top. Both dishes were excellent – simple, but perfect.

Our drive back to Wilmington took us past the airfield where Shaun usually jumps, so we drove in and looked around, hung out to watch the sunset. We drove out on the runway for that, down to the edge of a waterway. It was nice except when we realized mosquitoes were coming in the truck! That ended that excursion pretty quick!

We headed back to town and had a few more beers and talked about the service and Iraq (he has a brother there, and has been there himself) and traveling and crazy things. He's an adrenaline junky, so he talked about things that made me cringe and say, "Why the hell would you do that?"

It was a nice day, but damn I was tired when I had to drive to Kitty Hawk the next morning. Still, there's nothing like finding a local to show you what a town is really like. And when you show up in a town where you don't know anyone, sometimes you have to take the first cute guy to come along ;-)

The Juicy Aftermath

This is a follow on to the previous entry. Read that first, if you haven't already.

Cassie, Liz and I went down to Hannah Flannagan's and settled in with some pints. Liz is from Boston, Cassie from Ohio (and married to Liz's brother, if I remembered that right) and are both very nice. Cassie even volunteered Liz to host me when I get to Boston, which made me laugh, since it's just what Lisa and I would do to each other. We talked about Cassie's wedding – which was in Asheville, even though none of them are from there – and her daughter and my trip.

We hadn't been there very long when one of the crew walked in. A couple of the crew, actually, though I only recognized the one who'd been running off and on the stage all night, handling the instrument swaps. We waved him over and found out his name was Danny. The other guy sat at a booth with some other girls. I think they had three each at that point ;-)

There wasn't any live music going on where we were, so once the pints were drained we headed up the street. Cassie bitched – good-naturedly – about the wrongs of leaving a perfectly good pub. One glance at the high heels on her boots told me why. There's a lot to be said for wearing comfortable shoes.

We were headed for Jack of the Woods, the pub where I'd seen the old time jam and the clogging the night before. I wasn't sure I wanted to go back there – I'd had a weird vibe – but I sure as hell didn't want to go home. A half-block from our destination, we ran into two of the band members coming out of the College Street pub. There was a good girl singer in there, Alan said, so we changed direction and followed him back in.

The place is a stickler for I.D. checks, and we all had to produce, even Alan and Murray who'd just left. Now, there is no way Danny or I or Alan or some of the others with us were under 21, and it wasn't a busy night, so it kind of annoyed me to have to produce my I.D. You'd think I'd be flattered to get carded these days, and at times I am, but most of the time I'm just annoyed.

I was feeling generous and decided to shout the first round – beers for me, Cassie and Liz, double Myers and cokes (tall) for Danny and jay, and gin-and-tonics for Alan (GBS's vocalist) and Murray (the bassist and former founding member of Moxy Fruvous, though I didn't know that then). The guys tried to demure, but I insisted on paying. Good karma ;-)

Alan was right – the "girl singer" was very good, with a voice reminiscent of Janis Joplin. We'd hit her on the last set, and she was into the groove, especially when she sang "Amazing Grace" in duet with a tall black man. The J. Thomas Band, I think they're called, and they apparently play at this pub every Thursday night. If you're ever in Asheville, you should go check them out.

Jay had brought a couple of the booth girls – Rebecca and a girl from South Carolina whose name I can't remember – and our little group was crowded but cozy around a tall table. I spent most of the time talking to Danny about road trips and relationships, kids and divorce and the trouble with finding rings for size 16 fingers. Jay quickly lost "his" two girls to Murray, though his phone kept ringing, so I don't think he was too sad about it.

Cassie, slightly star-struck, spent most of her time talking to Alan, though I had to give her a shove in the right direction at first. I had absolutely none of that reluctance. Remember, I had no idea who these guys were. At this point in the evening, I don't think I even knew that Murray was the band's bassist! Rebecca and I got Alan to sign CD's we'd bought earlier, and I talked to Alan about Amadan and gave him their web address.

And at one point, I became aware that Alan, Cassie and Liz were singing "Caledonia." I love this song. I guess it is an old traditional and several people have recorded it, but I know it from a tape of the Scottish CD "PRIDE" that Dave gave me (or maybe he only left it in my car when we broke up.). I sang along in my terrible voice. Best sing-along I've had in a long time. Rebecca chimed in with the fact that Caledonia is the name of her hometown, and Liz shared that her cousin sang the song for pints – successfully – in Dublin.

I would have loved to do that all night, sing along to lovely old songs between good conversation and good beer. But the bar was closing and they kicked us out. We headed back toward Flannagan's, but they were closed as well. Asheville had rolled up her sidewalks, and there was only one place to go.

The bus.

Now, I'd like to state for the record that this was no "I PARTIED WITH THE BAND" moment. This is not 1978, and there was no "sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll." Hardly. Ravenswood Cabernet in yellow plastic cups, bottles of Beck's or spring water, mellow conversation. The venue had changed, but not the show.

And yet…it was still hanging out in the bus after the show with the band you've just seen, and that's pretty darn cool.

Room was tighter in the bus than it had been in the bar, Conversation groups formed and broke up and shifted. Jay and Murray went to bed at some point and Sean, the guy with the great voice, appeared. Danny got drunker and brought out a computer to play music, and Alan kept repeating, "No funk!"

I'd ducked over to my car on the way tot he bus and pulled my tape with "Caledonia" on it, but there was no tape deck in the bus. I'd also pulled my Tyler Hilton sampler CD and we did listen to that. Alan liked it, I think I remember.

The best conversation of the night, in my mind, was talking to Alan about writing. (I love to talk about writing anytime!) He is working on a series of character studies, based on people from his hometown, that he'd like to turn into a book. I asked him about a through-line and he told me some of his ideas and who he wants his target audience to be and about the dilemma he is having with writing in dialect. He told a few stories about one character, an old fisherman named Frank with "a face like a catcher's mitt and a cigarette in his lip that wouldn't end," who lived in a railroad car on the wharf. A railroad car on a wharf 150 miles from the nearest railroad. If Alan writes the way he (orally) tells stories, this will be a great book.

I don't think I've mentioned yet that most of these guys are from Newfoundland. The Newfoundlander accent is a curious one, some odd combination of Candian (eh?) and Irish and something else I couldn't identify. I'm just fascinated by accents, so I found myself listening with one ear and processing with the other. My ear is no longer as good as the day years ago when I distinguished between a Zimbabwe accent and a South African one, but I loved listening to the cadence of Alan's voice. Sean and Danny's, too.

Cassie and Liz left around 3:00 a.m. Danny played Toad the Wet Sprocket's "Fear," and I commented on how that album saved my life when I lived in Idaho. Alan and Sean and I talked about how hard it is to be on the road, away from your significant other, and how they deal with that. Danny got drunker, the other girls left, and I asked Alan to walk me to my car (as he'd done all the others). Alan is such the gentleman.

All the guys were great, actually, smart and interesting and I had a great time. It was one of those nights where I was reluctant to have it end, knowing I'd never again the chance to talk to them, but knowing I had a long drive the next day, and they had a gig the next night (the same night, actually, by the time it was over).

I envied Cassie and Liz, who already had tickets to see them two nights later, in Louisville. I wondered if they would have the chance I wouldn't, to say "hey" to the band and hear more of the stories. I found myself wishing I could have more nights like the one just past.

**I was a little bummed, as the night wore on, that I'd decided to leave my camera in the room this night. I hadn't wanted to bother with a bag at the show. Upon further reflection, though, I'm glad I didn't have it with me. I think it might have made for a different night, a less fun, more restrictive night.

The Orange Peel

Sometimes, ignorance really is best. I wrote about that in my last entry, of how I've come to prefer going into movies without really knowing too much about them. The same can be said for live music. And it's aftermath. I'm still processing my Asheville music experience.

I'd had a really good time in N'awlins, trolling from bar to bar, listening to the wide variety of local artists. Then there was my lucky choice of hotel in Nashville, and the opportunity to see Tyler Hilton and Joe Firstman. So when I decided to stay for a few days in Asheville, one of the first things I did was troll the local freebie to see what shows might be going on. Jewel was playing the next night, but that didn't really interest me – I wanted something smaller, maybe more local.

It was an ad for Great Big Sea that caught my eye, along with the words "Celtic pop sing-alongs" and an announcement that the band was playing the next day at a venue up the street, advance tickets $10. Excellent! My kind of music, my price range, and close by. I bought a ticket before going in to see "the Dreamers." I'd never heard of the band, but all the better. I'd get introduced to something new. If I liked them, I'd buy a CD, and if I was lucky, like I'd been in Nashville, I might get them to sign it after the show.

I arrived at The Orange Peel a little early, before the crowds, so I could scout it out and become comfortable. I really hate going to places alone, but I knew I might be able to talk to someone if I just hung out at the bar. Well, bug surprise – I ended up talking to one of the bartenders, Gavra, who is a local singer/songwriter when she isn't pouring pints. We talked about New Orleans (she's stayed at Marquette House in the past) and I told her about my road trip and about my time in Nashville. She gave me the names of cool clubs to go to in Raleigh, when I am there next weekend. I also talked to a cute blonde girl who came up to get a couple of beers. She asked me how many people I thought would show up. "I heard the guy on the door say they'd sold 250 advance tickets," I told her. And she told me this band usually plays larger places, and she gets stuck 40 rows back. I saw her establish herself at the very front of the stage and figured this would be a different sort of show for her.

(Geeky aside here: I'd noticed all the bar taps had bar codes, and that the 'tenders would scan these as they poured with palm-sized "guns" they wore at their waists. I asked Gavra about it. All the merchandise – beers, wines, soft drinks, even the hats, tees, and guitar picks they sold across the room – is coded. Each item is scanned as it is delivered. When the order is complete, the bartenders/cashiers scan a code on the cash register, transferring information about the items ordered and up comes the total. Much cooler and easier than the touch screens and magnetic cards most places use these days. Even cooler, you can exchange an I.D. and credit card for an Orange Peel Card. This card is scanned each time you order something – a high-tech tab. Exchange back and pay up at the end of the night. The Orange Peel doesn't serve any food, and I'm not sure how this system would work at a place that does, but I was very impressed. I even started a tab, just so I could use the little card. OK, geeky aside over now!)

I was very impressed with the opening band, The Push Stars, who are from Boston. If I'd had more cash, I would have bought their CD at the show; I'll have to look for it or order it instead. I could easily hear their music on KFOG. Catchy, but not insipid. Cool arrangements, thoughtful lyrics. Well, I'm no musical reviewer. Too ignorant. But I liked them. (And the very next day, I heard one of their tunes on the radio. That's the second time that's happened on this trip; the first time was with Joe Firstman. Is it a sign of some sort? Or just increased awareness, like when you buy a new car and suddenly see the same model everywhere you look? I could've heard their songs many times and not been aware.)

At the break, I wandered over to the merchandise table and talked with the guy selling stuff for the headliners. He was nice (and kind of cute), letting me look at the back of a few of the CD's, and didn't seem too put out when I didn't buy anything. "I'll come back after the show," I said, "so I don't have to carry it around."

I'd watched the Push Stars from near the bar, but was on the other side of the room when Great Big Sea took the stage. This put me right in front of the bhodran and fiddle players (bhodran player, Sean, also plays guitar and tin whistle, and the fiddle player, Bob, also plays the accordion, whistles and flutes and reminds me of someone. Jan Nordmo, I think.)

These guys came out high energy and didn't really stop. They have a different sound, different influences than Amadan, the most recent Celtic-inspired band I've come to love. But it is still a sound I can't stand still to, driving rhythms that get the blood up, and fiddle and whistle to get the feet tapping. I didn't know a single song, but couldn't keep from clapping and jumping and shouting and dancing. Looking around, I saw most of the crowd was even more into the show than I was – they knew the words, knew where the songs would go next, knew what the shout when the singer asked them to.

The moment that really grabbed me, though, was when Sean sang tot he opening line to "General Taylor." Holy cow, this guy has got a voice. Clear, powerful and gorgeous. Loved it. I actually stopped clapping, stopped jumping around, so I could concentrate on it. And the next moment, the rest of the band joined in, and I was back to screaming and dancing.

Great Big Sea played for about 90 minutes, then came back for the obligatory 2 encores. The crowd would have been happy for them to play all night, I think. I loved the fact that the singer was kind of punchy. They were near the end of their tour, and I think it showed in their attitudes, all to the good. It always makes a show better when the band is having a good time.

When the lights came up, I went to the bar for a bottle of water and to settle my tab. I ran into the cute blonde girl I'd talked to before the show. "So was it different seeing them in this kind of venue?" She was flushed and sweaty from dancing and had obviously had a terrific time. Another woman joined her at the bar and we introduced ourselves. Cassie (the blonde) and Liz are sisters-in-law, and in Asheville specifically to see the band. We chatted for a while, then decided to go together to the Irish pub up the road where I'd hung out the day before. But not before telling a roadie and the merchandise guy where we were going. You know, just in case they or the band were looking for a place to have a few pints and wind down after the show.

Which they were, as it turned out.

**Great Big Sea is touring the West Coast in May. They are playing the Fillmore in San Francisco on May 15th and at Aladdin Theatre in Portland on May 21st. Check out the website, then go to the show. You'll have a great time.

Perpetually Behind

Apologies. I seem to be perpetually about a week behind on this journal. Events and weather conspire to keep me from writing as soon as I would want to, and spotty Internet access keeps me from updating even when I have written something worth posting.

I am in Raleigh, NC just now, having left Kitty Hawk this morning, Wilmington on Easter Sunday and Asheville last Friday. See, there's a lot to catch up on!

The good part about being in Raliegh - aside from seeing some cool authors at the North Carolina Literary Festival - is that I am in a proper hotel, not a hostel, which means I have reliable internet access through Monday morning. And also, my friends the Dodges, who are moving from California to Raliegh while I'm away, are in town house hunting. I'm glad I'll be able to see them before they move.

I have some entries from the past week ready to go, and a couple more that I need to write still. I promise they will all be worth the wait!

Asheville, NC

Asheville is a curious place. My first impression was that it has a Pacific Northwest soul. Everywhere I looked were hippies, street kids with dreads, packs, and dogs. Yoga centers, veggie restaurants, craft shops, a food co-op. I'd stumbled into the first town of the trip so far where I felt as though I hadn't left the West Coast.

The trees were different, and the mountains. There aren't any oaks here, just bare deciduous trees whose names I don't know. And more dogwoods. Dogwoods are very pretty, bright and lacy. I never realized.

I stayed at the Log Cabin Motor Lodge, a throwback to the 1930's. Actually, a relic from the 1930's, and a location for the movie 1958 Robert Mitchum movie "Thunder Road." My cabin was spacious enough, and the small kitchen was nice for saving a little money. I could have done without the cricket in the toilet the day I arrived, or the fuzzy spider that took up residence behind the toilet paper dispenser. He never came out from behind there, though, so I left him alone. I liked the free wireless Internet access, though it was spotty and slow. Overall, a good home base for my stay, especially since it is located on a road that leads directly downtown.

And with a kitchen I could do some grocery shopping and maybe improve my diet a little, get in some fruits and vegetables. I managed to find a Whole Foods-type store, full of organics and fresh bread. Yum! I stocked up.

The next day, I picked up a brochure on the Downtown Asheville Urban Walk to guide me around downtown. I really wasn't that interested in the little history tidbits, but I was determined not to get lost again. Walking around downtown seemed the best way to orient myself, and it worked. I didn't get lost once!

Asheville has a very compact downtown, with a lot of old and interesting buildings. The most Art Deco-era buildings aside from Miami Beach, according to Lonely Planet. Apparently, the city chose not to undertake any new projects until it had paid off debts from the stock market crash of 1929. A good move, as they escaped the fatal move made by so many towns of tearing down historic buildings in favor of post modern monstrosities.

I wandered around for quite a while, found the venue for the show I'd decided to attend the next night (which requires its own entry), found a movie I wanted to see, and found an Irish bar in which to rest my feet. I knew I liked this town!

But I sure do pick 'em, don't I? I had hardly settled at the bar when a scruffy-looking man came in from the back to complain about the pool table. He was back a few minutes later, complaining the cue ball hadn't appeared. But the third thime he appeared, it was the manager complaining. Apparenlty, this guy had puked under the pool table. He vehemently denied it was his puke, though no one else had been in the back room, at least not since I'd sat down. Heather, the manager, gave him the option of cleaning it up or leaving the bar. When he again complained "it's not my goddamn puke!" she threw him out. He left by the back door, pool cue in hand! Idiot. The cops were called, of course. I don't know if they found him or not, but apparently he left the pool cue behind.

I'd been trying to see a movie since New Orleans, so after the pub, I went across the street to the Fine Art theater and watched Bernardo Berteoucci's "The Dreamers." I didn't know anything about it except the promotional material put up by the theater. I've come to realize I prefer seeing movies that way –just enough information to know that I want to see it, not enough to create too grand of expectations. I liked this movie. I liked the mix of sexual situations and confusions. I liked the parts about old movies. I could deal with the politics in context with the story.

One nice thing about this film is that it is one of the rare movies to show as much – maybe more - male full frontal nudity as female. It is so rare to see a penis in a film in America. I wouldn't have been surprised, though, if I'd realized this is the same director who brought us John Malkovich's penis in "The Sheltering Sky" a decade or more ago. Great book, good film. He also made one of my favorite sleeper films, "Stealing Beauty" with Liv Tyler and Sinead Cusak. I really have to buy that on DVD one of these days.

I'd heard a lot about the Jack of the Woods pub and decided to go to their Old Time Jam. Unfortunately, it was so unplugged, I had a hard time hearing the music over the hum of conversation. 4 guitars, a banjo, 2 fiddles, a washboard (much different that the zydeco washboard, though). A few people got up – one at a time – to clog. I left after one pint and went to another bar up the street, which had a loud rock band and a much different crowd – less hippies, more good-ole-boys. I didn't stay long.

Thursday, I'd planned to go to Castle Rock park. I'd made the decision after seeing some spectacular photos. But then I found out it is a private park and costs $11 to get in. I didn't really want to pay that much money to go hiking, even if the resulting view was gorgeous. I didn't want to spend money seeing the Biltmore Estate, either, but I spent some time driving around that part of town before heading back to downtown Asheville and Malaprop's bookstore.

On my last road trip, I tended to judge the little towns by their bookstores. This time around, I hadn't actually been to a bookstore at all. It was great to browse around, see what was selling well in this town, and look for any books that I have on my mental "buy" list. I didn't find any of those, but I did end up buying a book, of course, " Walking to Canterbury : A Modern Journey Through Chaucer's Medieval England". In the chapter I scanned, he intersperses verses from "The Canterbury Tales" with observations of his walk. It looked interesting and the writing was good, so.

And then, a massage. I'd been planning this from the moment I left home, a chance to work out the kinks from the long drive. And it was great. I think I actually fell asleep for a minute or two, something I rarely do.

Luckily, I wasn't too sleepy to go to the show on Thursday night. It ended up being a night worthy of it's own entry, and in ways I didn't even realize at the time.

Somehow, in all that time walking around Asheville, I ended up only taking one photo. Hmm.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park

I guess I'm spoiled in ways I don't even realize. That is the only reason I can find for not better appreciating the beauty of the Great Smoky Mountains.

You see, as I child, vacation meant only one thing – a Columbus Day trip to Yosemite National Park to camp and hike with Mom and Dad and my sisters. We would climb to the top – or as close as we could – to one of the falls. Vernal Falls was our favorite, and we usually camped near its base.

We would drive or take the shuttle bus around the valley to where we could see the climbers on El Capitan. Not that we could spot them right away, not with our naked eyes. That monolith was too large for that, and we relied on the word of spotters with telescopes and binoculars who were already watching.

There was the Indian Village, and the little science museum, the rock where we always had our picture taken with a ranger, the stable where I always begged Mom and Dad to let me ride. We'd been going there forever and it became my yardstick.

Entering Great Smoky Mountain National Park was hardly like entering a park at all. The entrance is no distance at all from Gatlinburg, a touristy mountain town. And there was no gate, no ranger to check you in and take your fee. I found out later that is because there is no fee to enter the park. An agreement made when the park was declared makes it the only national park to be completely free.

One of the prettiest things about the park are the waterfalls. There are several along the main road that joins the two Tennessee entrances. In the grassy areas next to the road, geese dug for worms or grubs. Fisherman trolled the river, and families picnicked.

The other surprise to me was how little of the park is accessible by car. There are only two or three major roads directly accessible from the Tennessee side. The rest of the park is only accessible by foot. With my bad knee, that meant I didn't get to explore as much of it as I'd wanted.

My first day, I drove into Cades Cove, a five or six mile long valley that was inhabited until the formation of the park. There are three churches dating back to the 1840's and several small houses, barns and a mill. It was a pretty drive, but congested with other cars, and I couldn't do any faster than 10 miles an hour most of the way.

At one end of Cades Cove lie the remnants of a small settlement – a couple of houses, a couple of barns, some smaller structures, and a grist mill. There weren't any signs at the structures – a brochure explained what the things were. And at the grist mill, a docent (or ranger?) was grinding corn into meal, and had bags of corn meal and wheat flour for sale.

People milled about (a saying that comes from the days of grist mills, according to signs) looking in windows and playing in the little creek. I enjoyed wandering around here myself, and found a spot far enough away that the shouts of children were a gentle roar barely louder than the babbling of the brook. I sat for a while, breathing deep of the spring scent and just…being. And I learned how to use the self-timer on my new camera.

Something that struck me as funny was a sign at one of the stops along the road, an exhibit of an old log cabin explaining how the method of construction helped make it a snug structure in the mountain climate. The sign revealed that the exhibit was sponsored by Aurora Foods, the makers of Log Cabin syrup.

I drove into the park again a couple of days later, on my way into North Carolina. I drove Newfound Gap Road over the spine of the mountains. The temperature had dropped a few degrees and water that had been dripping from the rocks hung frozen, suspended. There was snow in clumps at the parking lot at the top, at the state line, where I walked a few hundred feet along a stretch of the Appalachian Trail.

From there, I could see a vaster expanse of the tallest mountains on the East Coast. They stretched in rows, getting lighter as they folded away to the horizon. Now I understood a bit better what the fuss was all about. Still, these mountains are no Sierra Nevadas, no Rockies. There are no "fourteeners" here, no rocky crags reaching for the stars. These are old and tired mountains, soft and subtle.

Hospitality

Big thanks go out to my nephews' dad and his girlfriend. John and Rita live just 60 miles from Great Smoky Mountain National Park and graciously allowed me to use their home as my base while I explored Eastern Tennessee.

My first day there was spent playing with my nephews and Rita's son, who is between my nephews in age. The three boys were very cute together, though not always harmonious. All three were happy to have an "auntie" in the house, and constantly brought me toys to show off or wanted to tell me things (Jake just wanted "uppie").

The hospitality was most appreciated the day two glasses of wine did what a week of partying in New Orleans could not and I woke up extremely hung-over. I would have been miserable in a hotel, and even though all I did all day was sleep, it was nice to be in someone's home.

They fed me, let me get my car serviced and my clothes clean, and even let me play with their puppy ;-) Thank you, John and Rita.

Lost? Or found?

It seems to be the curse of this trip that I get lost at least once a day. Never real bad lost, just turned around, a wrong turn taken, or a right turn missed.

It started in San Diego, when I turned one street to soon to my sister's new place. I knew where I was, though, and managed to follow that road to exactly where I thought it would take me.

In Tucson, I drove past the turn to the motel. In San Antonio, I ended up on the wrong highway, going south instead of east, due to a missed left-hand exit or split. In New Orleans, it wasn't exactly my fault, since they'd closed the highway that my directions told me to use. That was a fun one, and I managed to get to where I wanted to go without too much trouble.

I swear they don't believe too much in street signs in the South, though, and especially not in New Orleans. Street signs face the wrong direction on one-way streets, or don't exist at all. Directional signs take you the long way around. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were deliberately confusing the tourist. Oh, heck, they probably are. And coming back from my two trips out of town, I managed to find my way "home" without really knowing where I was coming from. My directional instincts seemed to be working fine then. They had deserted me completely by the time I reached Tennessee.

The loss of faculties started in Mississippi, in Tupelo, where I ended up going in a six-mile circle without realizing it, until the next morning. Then I got to Nashville. Nashville was the worst, but I blame it on my hotel being next to the only roundabout in town, and on one of the few diagonal streets. I was constantly lost in Nashville, and learned to check my map every two blocks to double check where I was against where I wanted to be.

Knoxville wasn't any better. Staying left when I should have stayed right put me an hour behind schedule getting to the mechanic (just a service, folks, no car trouble). The next day, I stayed on a highway I should have turned off, though that was easily rectified when the highway came to a dead end half a mile later.

I managed not to get lost yesterday, coming into Asheville. Partly because I'd chosen my accommodation ahead of time, and had good directions. And partly, I hope, because my directional instincts have been restored.

But even if they hadn't, well, getting lost sometimes gets you to the most interesting places. And since I rarely have any appointments to keep, aside from those in my own head, I have nothing to lose by sticking with the wrong road.

Dollywood

Oh. My. God. Dollywood is the ultimate ego trip, Ms. Parton's personal hall-of-fame, a place of worship for the fans of the country singer and her Appalachian Mountain upbringing.

First, to get to this place, you have to pass through Pigeon Forge. It's only a little dot on the state map, but I don't think anything could have prepared me for what greeted me when I first drove into town. What was once most likely a quaint, charming, perhaps even backwards hill community is now the ultimate in conspicuous consumerism. It is the worst, in my opinion, of the over-indulgent American culture. There are 3 outlet malls, 4 mini-golf courses, 3 mini-car racetracks, a couple of carnival-type areas and 20-30 motels. And that's just on the main drag!

And let us not forget the Louise Mandrel Theater, Alan Jackson's café, a theater for a troop of Chinese Acrobats, a place where you can "see moonshine stills for free!" and the live bear emporium. I could go on, but I think you get the picture.

Turning into Dollywood Lane, you get away from that a bit as you pass a golf course and some condos. But my first shock at pulling into the lot was having to pay for parking. I don't remember having to pay for parking at Great America. Do you pay to park at Disneyland? I've only been there once, in a tour bus, so I don't know.

My second shock was the admission price - $42.20, including tax. But the first delight was to get my change after I handed the woman $45 – two "Dolly Dollars", colorful mock dollar bills with the woman herself where the dead president usually goes. Legal tender within the park, though I saved one for a souvenir.

A lot of places within the park are lifted from Dolly's childhood, like the hamburger joint Red's Diner, the name of a real place in Sevierville where she had her first hamburger. There is a replica of the two-room cabin where her parents' dozen kids were raised. Everything is cleaned and sanitized for public consumption, though, and I saw little mention of how hard a life it must actually have been.

The best part of the park – to me – are the areas set aside for the preservation of local crafts – leather toolers, blacksmiths, woodcarvers, even lye soap makers. My favorite was the glassblower. I saw the artist create a decorative fish in less than 10 minutes. That's amazing to me.

I ate a lunch of barbeque chicken and sides (coleslaw, potato salad, green beans, roasted apples, biscuit) while a woman with a banjo sang a song about chickens and made the men sing "cock-a-doodle-do." There was a steam train, and a grist mill, and a "candy shoppe." For almost everything I saw, I've seen the real thing in the not-too-distant past and liked it better.

The people were all nice, though, especially the craftsmen, who mostly looked as if they'd just been pulled from their home workshops. The leather worker from whom I bought a braided leather bracelet chatted with me about Great Smoky Mountain National Park, and a trip he took years ago to San Francisco. Another let me warm my hands (it was windy and only 50 degrees) at his portable heater.

I remember reading or hearing somewhere that Dolly built this park to bring some money into her economically depressed home county. If so, I'd say she's done an admirable job. The park also participates in conservation programs. They house some non-rehabitable bald eagles. They have an educational display and donation box to help restore the chestnut forests, which were decimated by an imported blight (fungus) in the early half of the 20th century. And the "Festival of Nations" was going on while I was there, with performances by musicians and dancers from Ireland, Scotland, China, Ecuador, and the Caribbean, among others.

Oh, yeah, they have roller coasters, too. I only rode one – the Tennessee Tornado, with three loop-di-loops. I didn't ride the new wooden coaster, and a lot of the other rides were water rides, so I avoided those.

It wasn't a bad day, although I found myself often wishing there were someone there with me. Those snide comments just don't sound the same when said to myself.

Music City

I didn't have any particular plans for Nashville, aside from seeing if I could get my camera fixed and hopefully see some good live music. Once again, I got lucky on both counts.

It seems that I chose a good week to come into town – the Tin Pan South songwriter's festival was happening. Combine that with the Virgin College Megatour buses in the parking lot of my hotel, and I knew I'd find some good music.

But not the first night. The first night I just got settled into the hotel, had some dinner at a sports bar across the way, and went to sleep. I'd left New Orleans with a little bit of a cold, and couldn't seem to shake the tired feeling.

I got down to breakfast late the next morning, and noticed a couple of guys from the tour. One of them was having a hard morning – spilling his cereal and milk, his fly unzipped. I found out later he was still drunk. I wanted to find out what was up with the tour buses, so I started talking to him, and we ended up sitting at the same table. Pat is the Day Stage Manager for this tour, which stops at various colleges around the country. They were between gigs and they'd chosen Nashville as the place to take their days off. Plus, a couple of the artists on the tour had a gig that night. He told me where it was and I decided to make plans to go. At least I'd know someone there, which would make it easier to go to a club by myself.

I found a likely camera shop from the phone book, a shop that caters to professionals and was less than a mile from my hotel. The people at Dury's were very nice, and checked out my cards not only in their card readers but also in a demo camera. They agreed with me that my two-year-old Toshiba needed to go to the shop. Which meant I needed to buy a new camera. I wasn't looking forward to the expense, but there was no way I was going to travel for another two months sans camera.

I ended up with a Canon PowerShot A70. it has similar specs to my old camera, and seemed easy to use. Tony uses a Canon, and I liked the quality of his pictures. Plus, it was smaller than my old camera. Unfortunately, it uses a different media, so I had to buy a larger card. The man who was helping me threw in batteries for free when he heard my travel plans. Like I said, a very friendly and knowledgable place. I'd definitely recommend it to anyone in the area who needs camera assistance.

The new camera is taking a little getting used to, as it focuses differently from my Toshiba. But I'm getting the hang of it, and I took it out with me that night to the clubs.

At lunch, my waitress had recommended one of the songwriter gigs to me. She told me the names of the guys, but I didn't have a clue who they were. It was only once I was at the show and heard them play and talk that I realized they have written hits for such country acts as Rascal Flatts ("I Melt") and Kenny Chesney ("There Goes My Life"). They are (l-r) Wendell Mobley, Neil Thrasher, and Jason Sellers. Actually, I think it was Mobley and Thrasher who wrote those two songs; they are up for an Academy of Country Music songwriting award, as well. I stood in the back, drank a couple of beers and ate some pizza. And at one point, the bass player from Rascal Flatts came on stage and joined them for a song. It was nice to hear the songs in such a simple setting, just guitars and voices, and from the men who created them rather than a produced group.

That was an early show – 7:00 p.m. I managed to make my way to the later gig with only one wrong turn, and arrived just as the opening act started up. I found my breakfast companion – who happened to be sitting with the opening act's father – and sat with him for the rest of the night, when I wasn't heading up to the stage to take photos. Unfortunately, most of the pictures turned out blurry. I'm guessing it was the dark atmosphere and resulting long shutter times. Some of the blurry photos were cool, though I'm not posting any.

The main act was a singer/songwriter/pianist named Joe Firstman. I thought he was very cool, although Pat was less than impressed. Joe was also very dramatic, so we had fun making fun of him, and the guitar player whom Pat said had "bad rock face."

I ended up getting signed CD's from both of the artists, and the next day actually heard one of Joe Firstman's songs on the radio. A pretty cool time in Music City, even if I only did stay one day.

Natchez Trace

After a week of muggy sunshine in New Orleans, I woke up in Natchez, Mississippi to a thunderstorm. I'd gotten into town after dark the night before so hadn't realized that my room looked over the Mississippi River cliffs and a bridge. Now I was even more pissed off that my camera was broken – this would have been a good picture.

I took my time getting ready, as I seem to do when I'm in a hotel room, with a hot shower and a TV. Then I drove across the road to the Natchez Visitor Center. It's huge, for such a small town. I suppose, sitting at the end of the Mississippi Bridge as it does, that it serves more than just the town of Natchez. Apparently, I'd arrived in town during something called Spring Pilgrimage. I still haven't figured out exactly what this is, other than a time when people flock to town to look at all the historic houses and see people dressed in pre-Civil War garb.

Just a few miles out of town is the start of the Natchez Trace, a National Parkway with a reduced speed limit and no commercial traffic. No commercial traffic, no gas stations, no McDonald's. This is the road I would take from Natchez to Nashville.

The first day, I made only a few stops. Emerald Mound is a giant Indian mound, just off the Trace, eight acres in size, with smaller mounds at two ends. Is it sacrilegious that one of my thoughts, as I stood up there alone, was that it would make a perfect soccer pitch? If it had been dry rather than misting, I would have sat in silence for a while. As it was, I stayed 'till I started to get chilled. There are a few places where you can walk along actual portions of the historic trace. Most of these sections were sunken from years of foot traffic, and are far enough off the road that you get a good idea of what it must have been like, 150-200 years ago, to travel along this path.

My mind was still in New Orleans when I got ready to leave Natchez, and I dressed in shorts and sandals. But the day never warmed up or cleared up, and the further north I got, the more clothes I had to put on. First, I changed my thin rain jacket for a sweatshirt. Then I changed the sandals for hiking boots, and finally, about 4:00, I changed my shorts for jeans. I haven't worn shorts since.

The amazing thing about the Trace, to me, was the sense of isolation. It felt as if I were a million miles from any settlements, far far away from the world of McDonald's and Motel 6 and semi-trucks. Until I spotted a Wal-Mart Super Center through the trees and realized just how close those things really were.

I stayed the night in Tupelo, MS – the birthplace of Elvis Presley. Everything in town is named the Elvis Presley Birthplace something-or-other. The Elvis Presley Birthplace Lake. The Elvis Presley Birthplace Campground. The Elvis Presley Birthplace Wal-Mart. OK, just kidding on the last one. I didn't see anything in Tupelo except the hotel, a restaurant, and the Walgreen's, where I tried to read my camera's SmartMedia cards. One of them could be read, one couldn't, but still neither worked in my camera. I decided to buy a disposable camera, unwilling to travel another day through the gorgeous scenery without the ability to take photos. It was difficult to switch from a digital to a disposable, and I don’t think the photos came out very well, but at least I tried.

My second day on the Trace, the weather was a little better, still chilly but not as wet. I stopped at another site with Indian Mounds – there are six or seven along the Trace – and had a picnic lunch. I stopped at a few of the walking trails – none more than 10 minutes long – and communed with nature.

I saw wild turkeys in a few places, although none of the photos turned out well. In one place, there were three or four of them, all fanning their tails right next to the road. It's a good thing this road is fairly deserted, since I kept stopping in the roadway to take pictures! I also saw these giant water birds, I think they are crested cranes. I tried to take photos of them as well. sigh

I managed to make it into Nashville before dark, just barely. It ended up being dark by the time I decided on a hotel, though I think I chose well – how can you go wrong in Music City by finding a hotel with tour buses in the parking lot?

Here's something that really ticks me off. The Trace is a beautiful road, immersed in nature, with well-placed turn-outs and parking areas and educational sites, each of which had at least one garbage can. Yet, while walking along one short trail, I found two cigarette butts. How hard is it to take your damn trash two minutes up the trail? I am a big proponent of the maxim, "Take only pictures, leave only footprints." So I picked up those butts and threw them away. And I fished out the red plastic cup I found in a creek and threw it away. It reminded me of finding the dirty diaper on the trail in Bandolier National Park a couple of years ago. I just don't understand this attitude.

Church

Well, I went to church last Sunday
So I could sing and pray
But something quite unusual
Happened on that day
Well, church, it started right on time
Just like it does without a doubt
And everything was all just fine except
When it came time to let us out.

About six people from the hostel went to First Emanuel Baptist Church (in its 118th year), about four blocks away, for Sunday services. I don't think any of us were interested in the actual message of the church. We wanted to hear the choir and watch the spectacle. Spectators at church may be a little heretical, but we were prepared to be on our best behavior.

Following the program handed out when we entered, things looked to be on a good schedule. The choir was strong, the congregation friendly and welcoming (except for the sole white woman there; go figure), the kids cute. The preacher had a strong voice and a good message, especially for those of us who are liberal.

"My goal is to get 150,000 people registered to vote in the city of New Orleans," he said. To get the president Bush-whacked. According to him, there are 300,000-350,000 people in New Orleans who are eligible to vote but aren't registered. That shocked me. I liked the sense of community, and of community activism.

He talked quite a bit also about the mayor, whom he does not like, and some issues about the types of jobs available to the members of his congregation. And about the media misquoting him, and how he isn't afraid to speak his mind. All this was good, and I found myself nodding my head. I was beginning to understand the power and political activism of black preachers.

I wasn't as impressed, however, with his statements and assertions that the Bible is literal and true. Or that the word of God, as heard by any believer, should be believed and adhered to. Believed as if it were the gospel truth, which is, I suppose, why they call it a Gospel church.

You know, the preacher he kept preaching
He told us, "I have one more thing to say.
Children, before you think of leaving,
You better think about the Judgment Day."

Still, I was enjoying myself. I hadn't gone intending to be converted. Attending services in a southern Black Gospel Church was something to do. The congregation sang us a song of welcome, and when it came time to put something in the collection plate, we all joined the parade and added a sheet or two of green.

Then the sermon started. Again, I liked the base message, "If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything." Find some conviction, believe in something, even if it is only yourself. Count your blessings – health, family, happiness – rather than your money.

"I have five points I want to talk about to you today," he said. And I listened, and I heard the congregation agreeing and I saw them raising their hands and some of them stood up to cheer him on. But over a half hour later, he was still on point Number One.

Now everyone got nervous because everyone was hungry too
And everyone was wondering what was the next thing he would do
And the preacher he kept preaching,
He said, "Now I remind you if I may
You all better pay attention or I might decide to preach all day."

And we were hungry, too. The service started at 10:45 a.m. and we went straight there; no breakfast. We'd expected to be out by 1:00 p.m. at the latest. It was now nearly two o'clock. Two of our hostel-mates had already bailed, and we decided to follow suit. Three of us – me, Tony, and Joe – sidled out of our row and started for the back door.

Where were encountered the wicked white woman. She'd shot us looks throughout the service, and now she stood guard over the door, shook her head at us to let us know we weren't allowed to leave. In all fairness, the program did point out certain times during the service when people wouldn't be allowed to come or go, and I thought this was one of them.

So we sat on some metal chairs at the very end of the nave. And we waited to be released. And while we waited, some people walked around, semi-surreptitiously. And a pair of armed guards came in with an empty bag and left with a partially full one. And we sat, and we waited.

And then someone from the other side of the church nodded at Tony, and we got up, and the wicked white woman let us out the door. Tony mumbled something to her about having to catch a train, but I don't think she bought it.

To the Lord, let praise us be
It's time for dinner now lets go eat.
We got some beans and some good corn bread
Now listen to what the preacher said.

We went straight to the Trolley Stop Café and had lunch. And we found out later that the service ran three-and-a-half hours.

Next time, we attend the early service.

* Lyrics from "Church" by Lyle Lovett, from the album "Joshua Judges Ruth"

Cocodrie

Tony and I decided to get out of town on Saturday and see some of the country. We went looking for swamp, actually, though we never found it.

We took a scenic route down to Cocodrie, to the end of the road, the Gulf. Not that it really looked like Gulf. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first part of the drive was easy, as it was the same route I took to the plantations earlier in the week. But after that things got tricky, especially without a good map and with road construction. We got off the right track once, and ended up taking a scenic tour of downtown Houma before picking up the right highway.

The country opened up south of Houma, less trees, more grass and more open water. We could see for a long way down another finger of land. What few trees we saw were dripping with brown skeins of Spanish Moss.

We hit the end of the road before I thought we would. The spit that Cocodrie tips doesn't stretch as far into the Gulf as those flanking it, so we had no wide expanse of water to look out on. What we did have was a "restaurant" with cold beer and funky po'boy sandwiches. Every person who entered after we sat down went straight back to the video poker machines, but there was nothing tempting us to stay.

We drove back along another scenic highway, with different scenery but the same test of my navigational skills. We drove alongside clear waterways with large boats and lots of nice houses with pretty flowers. And every once in a while, a yellow diamond "warning" sign reading CHURCH.

Dribs and Drabs

I spent a lot of my time in New Orleans just wandering around the French Quarter and the Garden District, checking out the architecture. I was surprised by the narrowness of the streets, and by how the houses and buildings came right up to the sidewalks.

All the "yards" in the old part of town are behind walls. There are many beautiful courtyards, and according to one local, people actually get upset if you don't take a picture of their courtyard through the gate! I never did that, but I did get some shots of the wrought iron work and the balconies. All right, I got them off Tony's camera, but whatever ;-)

These guys were funny and muscular and put on a pretty good show. They each had different strengths, but the one guy with dreads and no shirt – he told the crowd he was named Sugar Daddy – performed some amazing jumps. He's also the one who walked to the top of the ampitheatre steps and back down again – on his hands.

Not unsurprisingly, there were some girls coming up after the show and slipping them phone numbers.