I am on the road to Atlanta, and not just any road, but the interstate. The whole way there. I have not heard the best things about Atlanta so if it's shit I want to find out sooner than later. I am meeting Kris from New Orleans at a hostel there, and I may be able to meet up with a motorcyclist acquaintance of mine. It's I-20 the whole way there, and it shouldn't take too long, but I naturally run into a traffic jam for what must be an hour. This is another time I wish I could split lanes like in California but instead I wait and inch forward with the rest of the public. Eventually, the jam dissipates, just like that, no accident to explain it, no construction, we just go. But not for long, because a mile down the road there is another jam, and I have to sit in the sun on a road I don't like being on to get to a city I hadn't planned on visiting. This jam does not last as long, and at the end of it there actually is an accident, so as much as I hope no one died, I feel like I was held up for a good reason. Over a rise in the road, the skyline of Atlanta looms up all of a sudden and I drive past the Six Flags theme park towards downtown. I miss the exit I want to be on, onto an interchange that would put me on I-75 and into downtown, so I have to turn around at the next exit, and as I am waiting to make the turn, there are little black kids in football uniforms at the stoplight, wandering through the lanes of cars like it was their neighborhood park, asking for money for their football teams. Seems sort of dangerous, especially compared to hanging around outside of grocery stores in New Hampshire looking for change for Little League teams. Different cities, different methods I suppose.
I find the hostel relatively easy, but there is a code to get in the door, and when someone lets me in, there is no one at the desk. This hostel seems to have only certain hours when one can check in which is entirely new to me but whatever. I bring my bags inside and park my bike out back and get some food across the street and then take out a book and wait. Kris shows up before the office personnel does, and tells me how miserable the World of Coca-cola is, and I can't say I am surprised after I learn that it's an entire museum devoted to the soft drink. I bring my stuff up to her room and jump in the shower. I always feel dirty after riding. Tonight there is a massive Dave Matthews concert in a park just a few blocks from the hostel that she is going to. I don't particularly like their music, nor feel like finding a scalper to give a hundred bucks too, so I just walk down there with her and witness the rivers of people pouring into the park before I turn back and take a quick stroll through part of downtown Atlanta, past some very beautiful hotels and the Fox Theatre. I get dinner at the same place I got lunch at, a Cuban sandwich shop across from the hostel which is superb. The sandwiches are so good I even like the mustard on them, and I think that is the first time I have ever eaten mustard and not threw a hissy fit about it. At the hostel, I meet a guy named Eric who is working towards becoming a commercial pilot, is already working for an airline, and just flies around to places when he isn't working. He just came from Tel Aviv, where he spent about an hour in the airport before flying back, just because he had nothing else to do. We shoot the shit for awhile in between reading our respective books. When Kris gets back from the concert, only slightly more impressed by it than the Coke museum due to the overwhelmingly large crowd, long distance away from the stage, and high amount of guys pissing everywhere and people being generally wasted, we organize a somewhat entertaining game of Scrabble which I dominate, followed by a few rounds of Scattergories which turn out to be a lot more exciting.
After buying some breakfast food at the nearby Publix, plus some fried chicken for a homeless guy that claimed to have not eaten in two days, we find the guy who was telling Kris about the Braves game scheduled for today. Terry is a Canadian who is living in Mexico and came up just for the Dave Matthews concert, so he and Kris, being an Australian which is like the Southern Hemisphere's version of Canadians, have something in common as she came to Atlanta just for the concert as well. The game is at one PM and we walk down to the subway station and ride the few stops to pick up the shuttle to Turner Field. We even get a ride on a little golf cart thing through this mall place packed with souvenir stands that regular suckers have to walk through to get to the shuttle. Out front of the ticket booth, a young couple offers us two tickets for free, so we buy a third one between us in the same section and head on in. The seats are next to the couple who couldn't find anyone to go with them, and Terry buys them some beers at their suggestion, but they aren't the kind they like, so we drink them, and the two take off before we can finish them and go get some more. We are right down on the first base line, just past the infield, and it has been awhile since I have been to a baseball game. The Braves get off to a quick start, getting a few runs on the board, but over the course of the game, the Nationals slowly come back and then go ahead. Terry is way into the chop even though he wants the Nationals to win. I figure the Braves would win in the end but they don't. We get to see about four home runs and soak up some sun and drink some beers and spend a Sunday in a generally American sort of way, so it's fun anyway. Sitting in the sun though, for some reason, is exhausting in a way that I haven't felt after a ten hour day of hard labor in the summertime, so by the time the game is over we all are beat. At the hostel, Terry disappears and Kris takes a nap and I shower and look up movie times because we still have the evening to fill up and I want to see Shoot 'Em Up. Kris and I drive up to a classy mall for the late show and see one of the most ridiculously spectacular violence-filled movies I have ever seen. Paul Giamatti is great as a despicable hitman, and what any movie with The Ace of Spades on the soundtrack is good by me.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
I Wish I Knew That Bands Name
It is about time for me to change my oil, so when Carrie is at class I drive down the highway to a Honda shop to pick up a filter and some oil and supplies. Much like when I changed my oil in San Francisco, I don't bother with a filter wrench, under the logic that if I got it off with my bare hands last time, I can do it again. Back at the apartment, I drain out the oil thoroughly, and now I need to get the filter off. I reach under to try and get it off, but since I just recently was riding the bike, its pretty hot. I try again a couple minutes later, and its a little cooler but I can't get it off. I wait for my hand strength to get back up, and try again with no luck. I do this on and off for near an hour, cursing myself for not getting a filter wrench over and over again. Finally a young guy comes up and starts the conversation with "Changin' the ol' oil huh?" Trying to, I say, and I explain how I am a retard for not getting a wrench. He must've been watching me wriggle around on the ground, futilely trying to get the thing off. He offers to lend me one, for which I am very grateful, and I notice his University of Utah shirt, and we get into a conversation about school out there and I tell him about my trip, and he tells me how he has a Shadow too. He is almost certainly Mormon, and this is as good as confirmed when I hear him use "dang" as an adjective after he has come back with his tool box, young wife, and young kid. Since he is kind enough to help me out I am careful not to drop any expletives. I get the oil changed finally.
When Carrie gets back, I am almost done cleaning up from my oil changing debacle, and we get ready to go bouldering with one of her friends. I guess there is a good area to climb at nearby. It turns out that the area is awesome. It's about fifteen minutes away by car and another five on foot. The rocks are enormous, and have every sort of climb, from caves to slabs to highballs and all sorts of good stuff. It has been over two weeks since I climbed, from back in Tucson at the gym I found, but I do all right, even despite the fact that my hands were worn out from trying to get my oil filter off earlier in the day.
It is Wednesday night at an Irish bar near the UAB campus. I am here listening to a band with Carrie and two of her friends. The band is fantastic. I don't know their name but they have these great funky bass lines with fast blues guitars on top. Eventually a full brass section comes in and the horns and sax really make it even better. Over at the pool table, I am watching the girls play pool having a beer, and I am thoroughly entertained to see guys constantly trying lame pick up methods an routines. Usually I am not out with three beautiful girls and it is very interesting to see things from a different point of view. A couple of guys keep coming over and try to talk to them by starting off with advice on shots and angles and what balls they should try and put in. The girls don't ask any advice, or look around like they want any, but I guess these guys feel it is their obligation to help out these girls whom they assume are clearly in need of some help. It's pretty sad, especially when the guys are in general overtly ignored. God, I hope that I don't ever look like those clowns.
Carrie skips class so we can go for a ride, and I don't really know the area of course, but it looks like there is a lake about an hour away that might make a good ride, so we head out toward that. After getting through a couple outlaying towns of Birmingham, the roads are mostly clear and fun to ride on. It's a nice day, even though once or twice we get a few drops of rain that blow over from a cloud somewhere. The roads are tree-shaded and occasionally dip and curve, and after a while we finally get to the long and narrow lake, and cross it on a long concrete bridge. I am looking for some roads that go down to the water where we can find some beaches or stores or anything, but after the bridge the road just keeps going on past the lake. Eventually we just turn around and head for a sign that pointed towards a marina and restaurant. I turn onto the spotty paved road which soon turns to a spotty dirt road and goes down a steep hill to what turns out to be a quaint family owned restaurant and boat gas station. I am not sure if it is even open, and the dalmatian lying in the dirt doesn't seem to want to help us out, so we just walk in and there are a couple women and a little girl just sitting around waiting for someone to come in, it seems. We get some drinks and order some food and walk around the area while they are cooking it. The dalmatian is gone now but there is a black dog in its place. The little girl, who was shy at first, comes out and leads us around the restaurant, which is evidently a house as well, in search of the other dog. Instead we find a hideous looking spider the size of a hockey puck chilling in its web, with yellow stripes on its belly that scream to me, "Stay the hell away." Staying away works for me, and now our food is ready so we head inside and I eat a BLT. We have a chat with one of the women who works there, one of the family that owns it I presume, before heading out for one more look at the quiet lake that stretches by and the long dock that follows it down the shore for a ways. Back on the bike, we go up the hill and head back towards Birmingham on the same peaceful and gentle roads.
It's my last night in Birmingham, and fortunately for me come tomorrow morning, we don't do anything wild, just see a movie. 3:10 to Yuma is the choice, and seems like a good choice, as I enjoy Westerns and really like Christian Bale. I despise Rusell Crowe so much that I am not even aware if I can spell his name right, but he plays the bad buy so I can enjoy hating him. The movie turns out to be great, and surprisingly, I really end up liking Rusell Crowe's character, so even if he is a dirtbag in real life, or even if I have an unfounded dislike of him, I must admit he is a good actor.
When Carrie gets back, I am almost done cleaning up from my oil changing debacle, and we get ready to go bouldering with one of her friends. I guess there is a good area to climb at nearby. It turns out that the area is awesome. It's about fifteen minutes away by car and another five on foot. The rocks are enormous, and have every sort of climb, from caves to slabs to highballs and all sorts of good stuff. It has been over two weeks since I climbed, from back in Tucson at the gym I found, but I do all right, even despite the fact that my hands were worn out from trying to get my oil filter off earlier in the day.
It is Wednesday night at an Irish bar near the UAB campus. I am here listening to a band with Carrie and two of her friends. The band is fantastic. I don't know their name but they have these great funky bass lines with fast blues guitars on top. Eventually a full brass section comes in and the horns and sax really make it even better. Over at the pool table, I am watching the girls play pool having a beer, and I am thoroughly entertained to see guys constantly trying lame pick up methods an routines. Usually I am not out with three beautiful girls and it is very interesting to see things from a different point of view. A couple of guys keep coming over and try to talk to them by starting off with advice on shots and angles and what balls they should try and put in. The girls don't ask any advice, or look around like they want any, but I guess these guys feel it is their obligation to help out these girls whom they assume are clearly in need of some help. It's pretty sad, especially when the guys are in general overtly ignored. God, I hope that I don't ever look like those clowns.
Carrie skips class so we can go for a ride, and I don't really know the area of course, but it looks like there is a lake about an hour away that might make a good ride, so we head out toward that. After getting through a couple outlaying towns of Birmingham, the roads are mostly clear and fun to ride on. It's a nice day, even though once or twice we get a few drops of rain that blow over from a cloud somewhere. The roads are tree-shaded and occasionally dip and curve, and after a while we finally get to the long and narrow lake, and cross it on a long concrete bridge. I am looking for some roads that go down to the water where we can find some beaches or stores or anything, but after the bridge the road just keeps going on past the lake. Eventually we just turn around and head for a sign that pointed towards a marina and restaurant. I turn onto the spotty paved road which soon turns to a spotty dirt road and goes down a steep hill to what turns out to be a quaint family owned restaurant and boat gas station. I am not sure if it is even open, and the dalmatian lying in the dirt doesn't seem to want to help us out, so we just walk in and there are a couple women and a little girl just sitting around waiting for someone to come in, it seems. We get some drinks and order some food and walk around the area while they are cooking it. The dalmatian is gone now but there is a black dog in its place. The little girl, who was shy at first, comes out and leads us around the restaurant, which is evidently a house as well, in search of the other dog. Instead we find a hideous looking spider the size of a hockey puck chilling in its web, with yellow stripes on its belly that scream to me, "Stay the hell away." Staying away works for me, and now our food is ready so we head inside and I eat a BLT. We have a chat with one of the women who works there, one of the family that owns it I presume, before heading out for one more look at the quiet lake that stretches by and the long dock that follows it down the shore for a ways. Back on the bike, we go up the hill and head back towards Birmingham on the same peaceful and gentle roads.
It's my last night in Birmingham, and fortunately for me come tomorrow morning, we don't do anything wild, just see a movie. 3:10 to Yuma is the choice, and seems like a good choice, as I enjoy Westerns and really like Christian Bale. I despise Rusell Crowe so much that I am not even aware if I can spell his name right, but he plays the bad buy so I can enjoy hating him. The movie turns out to be great, and surprisingly, I really end up liking Rusell Crowe's character, so even if he is a dirtbag in real life, or even if I have an unfounded dislike of him, I must admit he is a good actor.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Why the Rain
It's just past noon when I leave New Orleans for Birmingham. I take I-10 out and go past the Superdome and over Lake Pontchartrain and into Mississippi where the clouds begin to look gray and ominous. I hope they look dark because of my sunglasses but that is not the case when I check. As I am coming up on one of the first exits in Mississippi, which has signs for a welcome center, I consider the weather, and whether or not I should stop and see if they have maps there or just continue on. I decide to continue on. As punishment for my choice, the skies open up just as I get beyond the exit and I am getting soaked with rain with no place to pull over. I am told that the first five minutes that rain falls on a road are the most dangerous, as the initial rain fall leeches the oils and whatnot out of the road, making it its most slippery before the oils and dilute and wash away. This is not a reassuring thought to have when you are caught on a freeway in a torrential rain at sixty miles per hour. I pull off into a rest stop, but there is no shelter, so I change into my rain suit as I am getting soaked out in the open. I pull over under some trees but that is not much help and after getting rained on for awhile I decide to just go and see what happens. Eventually the rain tapers off, and it looks as if the sun is going to come out again. I get of the interstate and stop to get some lunch at a Subway. I park my bike underneath the roof sheltering the gas pumps where I can see it from the window. The rain follows me, and it is really dumping as I eat my hot sub. A chicken bacon ranch sub, to be specific. Really good but not as good as dry sunny weather. I get directions from Carrie in Birmingham, and tell her I don't know how long this rain will keep me out. After the worst of it, when the rain is lighter, I decide to take off again. I feel that the first time I got caught in the rain I was able to ride ahead of the storm, which is when I stopped, and that the sooner I got back on the road, the sooner I would be able to ride ahead of it again. The road is bad at first, but at least interstates are in a straight line so there isn't much risk of sliding out on a curve. I am eventually able to get ahead of the storm and into the sunshine, and I am determined to stay there. I am considering taking I-65 all the way into Birmingham from Mobile, instead of taking the time to do it on smaller roads. After all, I am wet, miserable, and already behind on schedule thanks to the rain and a late start on the day. I get to Mobile, and just like when I left West Baton Rouge for New Orleans, I instinctively get on 43 going north, a much smaller road. I am beginning to dry off and I take off my rain suit and let the wind blow through my jeans and jacket to dry them out. 43 seems to go forever in a mostly straight line. There isn't anything to exciting about the road, but it is quiet, except for one accident scene that confuses me. There is a car in the middle of the road, and an old woman sitting in the driver seat looking very spaced out. Neighbors are slowing cars down and there are a few vehicles on the side of the road. At first it looks like she just broke down in the middle of the road but as I pass I see some debris from the front of her car. I can't figure out what happened and no one seems to be hurt and there are a lot of people there already so I just keep going, and soon pass an ambulance zooming by me on the way there, and then a police car. I get off 43 and onto 5, an even smaller road that is much more beautiful as evening is falling. There are more dips and curves on 5 and it is a nicer ride, but the sun is setting and I am ready to get to Birmingham and quit riding for the day. I finally get to I-459 which will bring me to I-65, and to Carrie's place, but when I get off I-65 I am driving down what looks like the middle of nowhere. I am still south of the city and I wonder if I am way off. A quick phone call sets me straight and confirms that she does in fact live in an apartment complex in the middle of nowhere, which I soon find and I am very grateful to arrive.
New Orleans
In the morning, as I am getting on the freeway, I am thinking I will just take I-10 straight to New Orleans and not mess around with any of the smaller roads and risk getting soaked in the middle of nowhere again. This plan does not hold out and as soon as I reach an exit leading to 1 South, I pull off and check my map. I can take this road for awhile, then jump briefly on 70, which will bring me to 3127, which hooks up with I-310, which in turn hooks up with I-10 and brings me right to where I am staying at a hostel in New Orleans. It's not a spectacular ride on 1 through some small towns, but it beats the interstate any day, and so far the rain is holding off. I get to 70 and take a left at the intersection and drive a ways until I get the feeling I am headed in the wrong direction. I look at the map and see that I am right, so I turn around, cross 1 where I just turned off, and continue on 70 the other way. After fifteen or twenty minutes I have the feeling that this is not quite right either, I should have hooked up with 3127 immediately, and so I stop at a gas station and ask a young couple in line where exactly I am. P'yair Pahht is the response from some greasy kid with a wife beater on and a tattoo of praying hands on his chest. I ask if he can show me where it is on the map I am holding in front of him. He says I probably won't find it on the map, but I do, and I realize we are in Pierre Part after translating his thick accent. I backtrack my path on the map and see that 1 and 70 cross in two places and I did not turn where I thought I had, and in fact, when I went left and got the wrong feeling about the direction, I was in fact right. So I turn around and drive back, passing houseboats on thin rivers, and people pulling off to the shoulder to fish in the natural culverts that run alongside the road. They all have coolers and I suppose that these roadside fishing holes that look half like swamps with the tree stumps sticking out here and there are where all the catfish that I see advertised on homemade signs posted outside of shacks along the road come from. I pass some farmland and recross 1 and go in the direction I was initially heading and make it to 3127, just beyond where I first turned around. This is a good road. It is long and straight, and I see only a handful of cars for the forty or forty-five miles that I drive it. This is the sort of road that you can let your mind wander on, and that is one of the best parts about riding a motorcycle on small roads: thinking about whatever your natural thought patterns bring into your mind while the air goes by and you look at the trees on the side of the road.
Where this road joins to I-310 the relaxation comes to an end and I am back on multi-lane madness. The interstates here seem to be raised up and built on columns rising out of the swamps, and along the sides there are just trees below me and the other cars. Pretty interesting views as far as interstates go. When I get into New Orleans, my route to the hostel brings me past many of the beautiful above-ground cemeteries that this city is known for, and I drive down Canal Street and find the hostel without much problem. This is only the second hostel I have stayed in in America. I found the first, when I initially moved to Salt Lake, nothing like other international hostels I have stayed in and was disappointed that it was just locals looking for a cheap place to live. The India House here in New Orleans is much better though. There are actually international kids staying here and there is an energetic, fun atmosphere to the place. I park my bike along side the porch, as out of sight as I can get it. It is Saturday night and everyone seems to be hanging out on the front porch. There are a group of three girls who are all nannies in DC. Two are from Germany and one is Swedish, and I learn that there is a previously unknown to me culture of international nannies that come to the states and work for rich people after college in Europe. These three are all part of the same program and just on vacation, and they entertain me with various complaints about the kids or families they work for, although overall they seem really happy with what they are doing. We catch one of the streetcars that stops right on Canal and ride it to the French Quarter and walk down Bourbon Street. It is nothing like Bourbon Street from earlier in the afternoon, when I strolled around just to check the place out. Now there are people crowding every inch of the thin street, and it seems that every bar is pumping music out of their windows and doors to compete for who is loudest. People are walking by with a thousand kind of drinks and everything is closed off to cars. We find a bar that we were supposed to meet some other kids from the hostel at, but they are not there and it is actually pretty empty, so we walk two doors down and go into a large, out of control looking place where people are signing karaoke. After a couple of hurricanes, which seem to the the house drink here, and are just huge glasses of sweet slush and alcohol, it seems like a good idea to sing We Didn't Start the Fire. Of course it really is a bad idea, and the words don't come up fast enough on the screen to match the music and I am awful at singing in the first place. Oh well, I don't think anyone actually notices. Two of the nannies go home early. One was not feeling good, and in fact she was underage but with a fake Swedish ID, the bouncers just looked confused and let her in as I figured they would. We met up with some other people from the hostel randomly though and we all watch karaoke until early in the morning. On the way out, I lose everyone in the crowds and end up walking something like twenty-five minutes back, north up Canal Street, under a dark freeway and through places I probably should not have been walking. I am alive and unbothered back at the hostel though, and climb into my bunk and sleep.
It's late when I get up and I don't feel like doing much except laying around and eating and taking a nap. Eventually I get the energy to drive around on my motorcycle and I walk through the French markets and see a bunch of touristy crap. On a boardwalk along the Mississippi, some black shoe shiner comes up to me and is such a smooth talker that before I know it my boots are clean and he has ten dollars from me. I don't even know what he said really, it was like a whirlwind, but it was entertaining so I don't really mind. Back on Canal Street, it is easy to see that the city is not recovered very much from Katrina. Many of the houses are boarded up, and those that aren't are in need of repairs. The massive trees that line the street and drip with moss have a deep dark green to them, probably from the humidity, and add to the sense that nature is taking back this part of town. Grasses are overgrown and sidewalks are cracked and phone booths are ruined, and there is a pervasive empty feel to the place, like not nearly enough people have come back to make it feel alive. Very strange.
That evening I meet an Australian girl named Kris. I see her after she comes in from a cab and apparently she and the driver had just heard gun shots and seen a guy running towards them as she got out of the cab to come into the hostel. What a great neighborhood. The hostel has a safe feeling though, because it is closed off from neighboring houses, and there are so many people that work and stay there that friendly people are always around. After a hard night of drinking last night, I am content to stay in, so Kris and I pick up some Southern Comfort to sip at the hostel and we take it easy. We get along great, and it's always nice when you meet someone traveling that you fit well with, temporary though it may be.
It is Sunday and Kris has heard about a place that William Faulkner had lived in in the French Quarter, which is now a bookshop. I have only read a couple of his books but I am aware of his reputation, and it sounds good. I think back to the Henry Miller library in Big Sur and wonder if it will be anything like that. It turns out to be nothing like it, a small couple of rooms jammed with books down an unnoticeable side alley Pirate's Alley. They have old and rare books there, and it was apparently the place where he wrote his first novel. We spend the day visiting cemeteries and grocery stores and sushi restaurants and at the hostel in the evening Reid, an older guy that works and stays there and sometimes busks, tells me about the history of the India House, a one-time brothel and bar, and the history of the music that New Orleans is so well known for, and we listen to him play my little travel guitar by the pool. It's nice to hear it played well for a change.
Where this road joins to I-310 the relaxation comes to an end and I am back on multi-lane madness. The interstates here seem to be raised up and built on columns rising out of the swamps, and along the sides there are just trees below me and the other cars. Pretty interesting views as far as interstates go. When I get into New Orleans, my route to the hostel brings me past many of the beautiful above-ground cemeteries that this city is known for, and I drive down Canal Street and find the hostel without much problem. This is only the second hostel I have stayed in in America. I found the first, when I initially moved to Salt Lake, nothing like other international hostels I have stayed in and was disappointed that it was just locals looking for a cheap place to live. The India House here in New Orleans is much better though. There are actually international kids staying here and there is an energetic, fun atmosphere to the place. I park my bike along side the porch, as out of sight as I can get it. It is Saturday night and everyone seems to be hanging out on the front porch. There are a group of three girls who are all nannies in DC. Two are from Germany and one is Swedish, and I learn that there is a previously unknown to me culture of international nannies that come to the states and work for rich people after college in Europe. These three are all part of the same program and just on vacation, and they entertain me with various complaints about the kids or families they work for, although overall they seem really happy with what they are doing. We catch one of the streetcars that stops right on Canal and ride it to the French Quarter and walk down Bourbon Street. It is nothing like Bourbon Street from earlier in the afternoon, when I strolled around just to check the place out. Now there are people crowding every inch of the thin street, and it seems that every bar is pumping music out of their windows and doors to compete for who is loudest. People are walking by with a thousand kind of drinks and everything is closed off to cars. We find a bar that we were supposed to meet some other kids from the hostel at, but they are not there and it is actually pretty empty, so we walk two doors down and go into a large, out of control looking place where people are signing karaoke. After a couple of hurricanes, which seem to the the house drink here, and are just huge glasses of sweet slush and alcohol, it seems like a good idea to sing We Didn't Start the Fire. Of course it really is a bad idea, and the words don't come up fast enough on the screen to match the music and I am awful at singing in the first place. Oh well, I don't think anyone actually notices. Two of the nannies go home early. One was not feeling good, and in fact she was underage but with a fake Swedish ID, the bouncers just looked confused and let her in as I figured they would. We met up with some other people from the hostel randomly though and we all watch karaoke until early in the morning. On the way out, I lose everyone in the crowds and end up walking something like twenty-five minutes back, north up Canal Street, under a dark freeway and through places I probably should not have been walking. I am alive and unbothered back at the hostel though, and climb into my bunk and sleep.
It's late when I get up and I don't feel like doing much except laying around and eating and taking a nap. Eventually I get the energy to drive around on my motorcycle and I walk through the French markets and see a bunch of touristy crap. On a boardwalk along the Mississippi, some black shoe shiner comes up to me and is such a smooth talker that before I know it my boots are clean and he has ten dollars from me. I don't even know what he said really, it was like a whirlwind, but it was entertaining so I don't really mind. Back on Canal Street, it is easy to see that the city is not recovered very much from Katrina. Many of the houses are boarded up, and those that aren't are in need of repairs. The massive trees that line the street and drip with moss have a deep dark green to them, probably from the humidity, and add to the sense that nature is taking back this part of town. Grasses are overgrown and sidewalks are cracked and phone booths are ruined, and there is a pervasive empty feel to the place, like not nearly enough people have come back to make it feel alive. Very strange.
That evening I meet an Australian girl named Kris. I see her after she comes in from a cab and apparently she and the driver had just heard gun shots and seen a guy running towards them as she got out of the cab to come into the hostel. What a great neighborhood. The hostel has a safe feeling though, because it is closed off from neighboring houses, and there are so many people that work and stay there that friendly people are always around. After a hard night of drinking last night, I am content to stay in, so Kris and I pick up some Southern Comfort to sip at the hostel and we take it easy. We get along great, and it's always nice when you meet someone traveling that you fit well with, temporary though it may be.
It is Sunday and Kris has heard about a place that William Faulkner had lived in in the French Quarter, which is now a bookshop. I have only read a couple of his books but I am aware of his reputation, and it sounds good. I think back to the Henry Miller library in Big Sur and wonder if it will be anything like that. It turns out to be nothing like it, a small couple of rooms jammed with books down an unnoticeable side alley Pirate's Alley. They have old and rare books there, and it was apparently the place where he wrote his first novel. We spend the day visiting cemeteries and grocery stores and sushi restaurants and at the hostel in the evening Reid, an older guy that works and stays there and sometimes busks, tells me about the history of the India House, a one-time brothel and bar, and the history of the music that New Orleans is so well known for, and we listen to him play my little travel guitar by the pool. It's nice to hear it played well for a change.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A Full Day
It is not entirely dry in the morning, but the sun is out at least. I eat breakfast and pack up my stuff and drop Caroline's key off in the mail slot, since she left early in the morning. I have to take I-10 for awhile to get out of the urban sprawl, so I make my way there and ride it towards the edge of Texas, whereat I jump on 73 which brings me down to 82, a road that runs right along the Gulf of Mexico in Texas and Louisiana. Driving down the road, the scenery is interesting and unique at this point: refinery towers and plants across every part of the horizon, massive rusty tanks, and dirty rock and trash littered beaches. It's really not the most beautiful area, but I begin to see residential houses here and there, residential houses that are pretty nice, pretty big, and up to 20 feet off the ground on stilts. They seem like vacation homes, and I don't know why anyone would want to wake up to the sight of a gas refinery on vacation, while risking flooding and tropical storms, but that is their business I suppose, not mine. I am running low on gas and I start to keep my eyes open for any small town or settlement that would have a gas station. It seems like I am just on a stretch of road that has little besides refineries, which I'm sure have plenty of gas but don't seem open to the public, random stilted mansions and occasional RV communities along the shore. It's difficult to be alert for a gas station with all the bugs I am getting pelted with too. This road has the heaviest blasts of bugs I have yet experienced. They seem to come in swarms, appearing to hang in the distance of my vision for just a second before they dip and spiral and zoom at me at a million miles an hour. I am reminded of that old Windows screensaver where it looks like you are in space and stars are just streaming past. I think it is called "lightspeed" or something. These bugs splat all over my helmet and my jeans and my jacket, and a lot of the time, those that hit my helmet don't just leave their guts, but stick there, so I have to turn my head to one side or the other so that the wind will push the wings or torso or whatever is left of these things out of my line of vision. Once in awhile I get a dragonfly, which are about four times the size of these multitudinous black bugs, and they surprise me because instead of simply splatting against me, dragonflies make a serious cracking sound when they hit my helmet, or an almost painful thud when they hit my chest. The black bugs are non-stop though. If I am not riding through a cyclone of them, then they come at me one by one until I reach another swarm. By the time I run out of gas just as this side of 82 dead ends into a ferry that brings me to the other side, I am absolutely painted with bugs. The ferry operator waits as I scoot my bike onto the ferry and closes the ramp behind me. She tells me that there is gas on the other side, which is a great relief because I don't feel like walking around to find a gas station, and carrying back a tiny bit of gas in a bottle of fuel additive that I emptied and sloppily filled at the pump just to get my bike far enough up the road to fill it completely like I did just before I got to San Francisco in Petaluma.
I push my bike off the ferry and there is a refinery type place just to the right, but they don't sell gas, I am told by the operator on this side. The place just up the road may though, she tells me. Looking at the next place, it's not very far, but it feels a lot farther when I am pushing my bike the one-fifth of the mile it takes to get there. I turn down the dirt driveway and and try like an idiot to operate the intercom to ask to get in to get some gas. You don't have to hold the button, a voice from the speaker tells me, you can just talk. I fill my tank and have a chat with a jolly round young man with a thick Louisiana accent. Love bugs, he says these black things that I am dressed in are called. Man-made bugs, he says, by some scientist somewhere. I can only assume he means genetically engineered. This place is one of the only refineries that sells gas he also tells me, so I feel like I really lucked out. I pay, happy at not having to hike around to fill my tank, and get on my way again. Not long out, I stop to take a photo of the road and contemplate the darkening clouds in the sky. I decide not to put on my rain suit which turns out to be a horrible decision in about five minutes when the rain starts dumping. I stop and get my suit on over my wet jeans and jacket and slowly continue down the road. I am trying to get to a state park that has a campground and is just outside of St. Martinville. The rain is always off and on, and a couple times I get conned into taking off my rain suit just to have to put it back on again. I make my way among a bunch of smaller roads towards St. Martinsville once I get off 82, and just before I hit town the rain really starts pouring and I spot a strip mall that has a covered walkway along the front I can get some shelter under. As I am waiting to make the left turn, an oncoming truck splashes a chestful of water that weighs about 50 pounds onto, which is just fantastic. I sit under the shelter, in front of a empty store space for over an hour and watch the rain fall.
The rain finally lightens up enough for me to get back on my bike and continue on. In no time I am in downtown St. Martinsville and I start following signs to the state park I have been planning on camping at. I know that there will be a stretch of gravel road for about eight miles before I get there, and as I am driving out of town to find it, I consider whether or not I really want to set up a wet camp on wet ground and spend a wet night that will turn into a wet morning.
I turn around and head north out of town towards I-10 where I know I can find a cheap motel. I get up to Breaux Bridge and can't find anything that I deem cheap enough, so in the recently recommenced rain, I get on the freeway and head east. I get off at the next exit and the Holiday Inn Express is even more expensive than at the last exit, so I continue on. Eventually the rain lightens up and I can pay attention to some of my surroundings. I drive past a crazy sprawling swamp where the water looks thick and brown and there are random tree stumps sticking out in almost a grid pattern, and just beyond that the forest begins to take on the deep thick green look that the south is known for. There is moss dragging the branches down so that there is almost a wall blocking the inner forest. Where I can see through though, it is surprising how light and open it is inside for how dark green and heavy the outer edge looks. At one point as I glance over I can see a few deer nibbling on leaves, and I am glad that they are doing that instead of jumping into the road and killing me. I get to West Baton Rouge and check into a Motel 6, consistently the cheapest motel you can find. I lay out all of my wet things as best as I can, and I enjoy a hot shower and then head out for a delicious meal at McDonald's. A major drawback of traveling is that it is difficult to eat well, and as such, I find myself eating shit like McDonald's. Although their vanilla shakes are just incredible.
I push my bike off the ferry and there is a refinery type place just to the right, but they don't sell gas, I am told by the operator on this side. The place just up the road may though, she tells me. Looking at the next place, it's not very far, but it feels a lot farther when I am pushing my bike the one-fifth of the mile it takes to get there. I turn down the dirt driveway and and try like an idiot to operate the intercom to ask to get in to get some gas. You don't have to hold the button, a voice from the speaker tells me, you can just talk. I fill my tank and have a chat with a jolly round young man with a thick Louisiana accent. Love bugs, he says these black things that I am dressed in are called. Man-made bugs, he says, by some scientist somewhere. I can only assume he means genetically engineered. This place is one of the only refineries that sells gas he also tells me, so I feel like I really lucked out. I pay, happy at not having to hike around to fill my tank, and get on my way again. Not long out, I stop to take a photo of the road and contemplate the darkening clouds in the sky. I decide not to put on my rain suit which turns out to be a horrible decision in about five minutes when the rain starts dumping. I stop and get my suit on over my wet jeans and jacket and slowly continue down the road. I am trying to get to a state park that has a campground and is just outside of St. Martinville. The rain is always off and on, and a couple times I get conned into taking off my rain suit just to have to put it back on again. I make my way among a bunch of smaller roads towards St. Martinsville once I get off 82, and just before I hit town the rain really starts pouring and I spot a strip mall that has a covered walkway along the front I can get some shelter under. As I am waiting to make the left turn, an oncoming truck splashes a chestful of water that weighs about 50 pounds onto, which is just fantastic. I sit under the shelter, in front of a empty store space for over an hour and watch the rain fall.
The rain finally lightens up enough for me to get back on my bike and continue on. In no time I am in downtown St. Martinsville and I start following signs to the state park I have been planning on camping at. I know that there will be a stretch of gravel road for about eight miles before I get there, and as I am driving out of town to find it, I consider whether or not I really want to set up a wet camp on wet ground and spend a wet night that will turn into a wet morning.
I turn around and head north out of town towards I-10 where I know I can find a cheap motel. I get up to Breaux Bridge and can't find anything that I deem cheap enough, so in the recently recommenced rain, I get on the freeway and head east. I get off at the next exit and the Holiday Inn Express is even more expensive than at the last exit, so I continue on. Eventually the rain lightens up and I can pay attention to some of my surroundings. I drive past a crazy sprawling swamp where the water looks thick and brown and there are random tree stumps sticking out in almost a grid pattern, and just beyond that the forest begins to take on the deep thick green look that the south is known for. There is moss dragging the branches down so that there is almost a wall blocking the inner forest. Where I can see through though, it is surprising how light and open it is inside for how dark green and heavy the outer edge looks. At one point as I glance over I can see a few deer nibbling on leaves, and I am glad that they are doing that instead of jumping into the road and killing me. I get to West Baton Rouge and check into a Motel 6, consistently the cheapest motel you can find. I lay out all of my wet things as best as I can, and I enjoy a hot shower and then head out for a delicious meal at McDonald's. A major drawback of traveling is that it is difficult to eat well, and as such, I find myself eating shit like McDonald's. Although their vanilla shakes are just incredible.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Austin, Houston
I wake up and load up my bike. By now I have a pretty streamlined method for this. Guitar first, with the straps looped over the sissy bar, then my extra helmet on the sissy bar, then two bungee cords underneath the sissy bar and on top of the guitar. I put my tent, sleeping pad and blanket on next and secure them with the bungee cords, and then put my little backpack on those. My towel gets stuffed in and acts as a back rest. Usually I do this after snapping my saddle bags in because its awkward to put them on when my stuff on the backseat is already strapped down. Sometimes I forget though. From Hobbs I take small highways through Lamesa, and Big Springs. It is all farm country out here, and as I am passing through some tiny town, a crop dusting plane is doing its rounds right next to me and now turning around above me and flying back. It is pretty cool to see planes flying right next to you. It's not a long drive into Austin and as I come into the city on 71, I can remember most of the directions my brother gave me. I come in to the southern part of the city and successfully make my way north on a couple of the bigger highways that run through the city to my brothers apartment complex, and in fact I find his very building without a hitch. It is a Saturday evening and I get a quick tour of his suburban neighborhood and we watch Snakes on a Plane at night and I deal with his horribly behaved little dogs. Oliver has some thing with nipping at people's feet, which is amusing. I get a couch upstairs to sleep on, as there is not a whole lot in the apartment since he will be moving soon.
When we get up on Sunday we basically lounge around for awhile and head over to my aunts for a delicious homecooked dinner before we play in a hockey tournament. Andy's league apparently had extra ice time left over and they organized a four team tournament, in which I am participating. I last skated about a year ago, and that was filling in for my brother in goal while he was on his honeymoon. And before that it was about a year since I had skated. I am rusty at best, but it doesn't take me long to get my feet under me. In the first game I play my brother's team and I really hope to score on him. I get a break and I am skating down the ice on a two on one, and I pass to my teammate, but it is a terrible pass and goes right to the defender. I should have just shot it. That turns out to be the only chance I have and we lose the game four to one. The next game is only slightly less worse, a three to one loss. We win our next game, but then lose our last game to the team we just beat. In between games there is endless beer and pizza which is nice, even though I am still stuffed from eating copious amounts of steak and garlic mashed potatoes for dinner.
I spend most of my time in Austin not doing a whole lot. I bring Andy to a Thai restaurant for a belated birthday dinner and I meet up with some other friends in town. We have dinner at my aunt and uncles place three of the four nights I am in Austin. This is a very good thing because Andy's fridge is perpetually empty. When Andy is at work Wednesday I put up with his mutts around the house. I can't get them into their room when I try to leave, and I just get pissed off. Finally they go in, little bastards. It is Thursday and I have all day to myself so I drive my bike to Barton Springs. This is a massive, spring-fed pool just south of downtown in a large park. I spend three hours lying on the grass and reading and jumping in the cold water when I get hot. That evening, after dinner at my aunt uncles, it begins to rain and I don't want to drive to Andy's place on the two freeways necessary to get there, so I spend the night at my aunt and uncles and I leave early in the morning to say goodbye to my brother who went back home. I take a quick nap and pack up my things and get my bike ready to go. I clean and lubricate the chain and check the oil and fill the gas and check the tires.
I am taking 290 to Houston to see my cousin Caroline because it is a smaller road than using the freeways. The only downfall is that I run into stop lights once in a while but really it's not a big deal. As I am riding into the outskirts of what is the Houston freeway debacle, I am in the right hand land and I see a small SUV about fifty yards ahead of me stopped on the shoulder. It's left signal is on, naturally indicating that it is planning on rejoining traffic. As I approach I think to myself that it had better wait until I get by. A split second later, as I am even closer, it starts to move forward, and I think, OK, it is getting some speed to merge more fluidly once I get by, but a spit second after that, when I am now about twenty yards behind it, it starts pulling into my lane. I am going sixty-five miles an hour, and instantly I determine that I can't afford to take my eyes off this jackass to check my left and see if I can switch lanes and avoid him, so I edge to the left of my lane and zoom past his driver-side mirror as he pulls into my space. I am irate and lay on my horn and give him the finger, and wish I could scream in his face. These are the sort of idiots that can kill me at any second, and I maybe should have moved over when I first saw him stopped on the shoulder, but as I drive off I just hope he realized he nearly killed me through his dangerous ineptitude on the road. Once I hit 610 in Houston the traffic just piles up. At this point I wish I could split lanes like in California, but no such luck. I can't believe how much traffic there is, and I realize I really had no idea how large this city is. I am forced to inch forward slowly like everyone else. I make it to Caroline's at six and when her fiancee Mike gets there, we head right out for dinner. My stay in Houston will be short since they are leaving for DC tomorrow morning. I have a tasty salad for dinner at a "Latin Fusion" restaurant. I spend the rest of my evening planning out my drive through Louisiana for tomorrow, writing down roads and directions and distances. I wake up very early in the morning to a hard rain falling complete with lightning and booming thunder, and I can only hope that it all dries up by morning.
When we get up on Sunday we basically lounge around for awhile and head over to my aunts for a delicious homecooked dinner before we play in a hockey tournament. Andy's league apparently had extra ice time left over and they organized a four team tournament, in which I am participating. I last skated about a year ago, and that was filling in for my brother in goal while he was on his honeymoon. And before that it was about a year since I had skated. I am rusty at best, but it doesn't take me long to get my feet under me. In the first game I play my brother's team and I really hope to score on him. I get a break and I am skating down the ice on a two on one, and I pass to my teammate, but it is a terrible pass and goes right to the defender. I should have just shot it. That turns out to be the only chance I have and we lose the game four to one. The next game is only slightly less worse, a three to one loss. We win our next game, but then lose our last game to the team we just beat. In between games there is endless beer and pizza which is nice, even though I am still stuffed from eating copious amounts of steak and garlic mashed potatoes for dinner.
I spend most of my time in Austin not doing a whole lot. I bring Andy to a Thai restaurant for a belated birthday dinner and I meet up with some other friends in town. We have dinner at my aunt and uncles place three of the four nights I am in Austin. This is a very good thing because Andy's fridge is perpetually empty. When Andy is at work Wednesday I put up with his mutts around the house. I can't get them into their room when I try to leave, and I just get pissed off. Finally they go in, little bastards. It is Thursday and I have all day to myself so I drive my bike to Barton Springs. This is a massive, spring-fed pool just south of downtown in a large park. I spend three hours lying on the grass and reading and jumping in the cold water when I get hot. That evening, after dinner at my aunt uncles, it begins to rain and I don't want to drive to Andy's place on the two freeways necessary to get there, so I spend the night at my aunt and uncles and I leave early in the morning to say goodbye to my brother who went back home. I take a quick nap and pack up my things and get my bike ready to go. I clean and lubricate the chain and check the oil and fill the gas and check the tires.
I am taking 290 to Houston to see my cousin Caroline because it is a smaller road than using the freeways. The only downfall is that I run into stop lights once in a while but really it's not a big deal. As I am riding into the outskirts of what is the Houston freeway debacle, I am in the right hand land and I see a small SUV about fifty yards ahead of me stopped on the shoulder. It's left signal is on, naturally indicating that it is planning on rejoining traffic. As I approach I think to myself that it had better wait until I get by. A split second later, as I am even closer, it starts to move forward, and I think, OK, it is getting some speed to merge more fluidly once I get by, but a spit second after that, when I am now about twenty yards behind it, it starts pulling into my lane. I am going sixty-five miles an hour, and instantly I determine that I can't afford to take my eyes off this jackass to check my left and see if I can switch lanes and avoid him, so I edge to the left of my lane and zoom past his driver-side mirror as he pulls into my space. I am irate and lay on my horn and give him the finger, and wish I could scream in his face. These are the sort of idiots that can kill me at any second, and I maybe should have moved over when I first saw him stopped on the shoulder, but as I drive off I just hope he realized he nearly killed me through his dangerous ineptitude on the road. Once I hit 610 in Houston the traffic just piles up. At this point I wish I could split lanes like in California, but no such luck. I can't believe how much traffic there is, and I realize I really had no idea how large this city is. I am forced to inch forward slowly like everyone else. I make it to Caroline's at six and when her fiancee Mike gets there, we head right out for dinner. My stay in Houston will be short since they are leaving for DC tomorrow morning. I have a tasty salad for dinner at a "Latin Fusion" restaurant. I spend the rest of my evening planning out my drive through Louisiana for tomorrow, writing down roads and directions and distances. I wake up very early in the morning to a hard rain falling complete with lightning and booming thunder, and I can only hope that it all dries up by morning.
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