“Part of being a modern American involves attempting to live out the road-trip mythos of the nation.” – Old Sean
Take Me Home Away
The last fine days of Texas weather, a silver two weeks of cool sun and light breezes were vanishing as I left for my trip. Floral scents wafted on the air, the first of the morning birds chirped their goodbyes while eyeing the cats in the backyard warily. Overhead, light, grey clouds where splintered by spears of sunlight.
And now I embark on my third and final, disconcertingly expansive trip through the US, this time trekking East towards the Atlantic and weaving my way up the coast.
Borrowing a tent from a friend, bundling up a trifold mattress, a plush pile of camping blankets and sleeping bags from my last road trip, I was able to make it to the DFW airport rental center, where I picked up a supremely tiny Chevy Spark for a trip of harrowing distances.
I wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice, either. Something has shifted in the American mood and car rentals are vanishing into service at a fantastic rate. Numerous places were unable to provide vehicles at all and prices ratcheting up swiftly.
However, I managed to gather my hardy little vehicle and place a marigold on the dashboard for luck. Afterwards, I shot east to enjoy breakfast at the Garland Café. From there, my journey started in earnest.
Winging East
I lounged while driving, settling back into dozens of old podcasts, audiobooks, the same three-hundred downloaded songs on repeat and long stretches of silence when the chatter became too much.
This was a solo trip and my own company was welcome.
Naturally, my first stage of the trip took me past Shreveport, which is always a mild tragedy. Cluttered, traffic-heavy, run-down and not terribly interesting, I did my best to swerve past this area and began angling south, towards New Orleans.
I wasn’t terribly direct about my route, however.
Instead, I veered slightly to the south towards Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge. Out here, I found an early dinner in the form of a crawfish bread and gator skewer. Bumbling my tiny, unprepared vehicle into the bumpy gravel roads of the wildlife refuge, I kicked up a true storm of gravel and dirt as I followed a spray-painted train into the woods, passing flocks of vultures crouched over armadillos and tiny gators lounging peacefully in narrow, Cyprus-choked channels. The green in the sunlight was an unreal hue, nearly radiation-neon, only to dip into a dull brown where water pooled sullenly during the dry season.
Atchafalaya is well inhabited by people as well, roosting in small-stilt houses overlooking thin docks.
Water heaters that look exactly like gigantic fragmentation grenades nestle in odd corners. The hoards of bugs that assailed me while hiking forced me to wear cloth wrapped around my face and neck in two layers, barely thick enough to resist the probes of ambitious mosquitos.
Everything smelled of earthy life, and even the driest points of the refuge sucked at the bottom of my shoes, making my detour hike a slurping amble.
To New Orleans
Once I left, I returned to the road, willing to drive a few hours into the night to get close to New Orleans. As I drove further into America’s truest swamplands and marshes, the roadkill that marked the side of the roads changed markedly, dead deer vanishing in favor of huge ropes of crocodiles meeting a tragic end.
Dinner became a seafood, at a roadside dinner which provided me an unholy amount of gumbo poured atop a shrimp po’boy.
I didn’t quite make it into the city that evening, instead settling for a small campsite outside of Baton Rouge where I set up for free, seeing as I was leaving again in a mere six hours. I desperately wanted to miss rush hour in the morning, and New Orleans is one of my favorite cities in the United States.
When I finally rolled into town, I made my first stop at Coffee Science, a homey blue building with a balcony of pastries and a bearded man in a top knot enthusiastically supply beverages to customers walking by.
I drank a flat white coffee and munched on a strawberry pastry as I walked around, admiring the deep south’s fantastic sprawled trees, extra alive with parasitic ferns which cover the branches and trunks with dense, dewy, saw-tooth leaves.
A Morning in the French Quarter
After this, I wove further into town, parking for the day on Esplanade Avenue, which has a few free parking spots in a relatively safe section of the neighborhood, allowing easy access to the French Quarter.
I walked through a series of cloistered, plant-decorated roads, peered up at the egrets implausibly roosting in broad-leaf trees and gazed wistfully at French-styled second story balconies with graceful iron swirls often surrounded by entire jungles of vine-draping flowers.
The issue that I have upon every visit to New Orleans is consistent and predictable. Too little time, too much food. I was still full from my pastry breakfast before testing my stomach capacity at Croissant D’Or Patisserie. The tiny, open-air plaza in the back of the restaurant trickles with fountains and is frequented by opportunistic sparrows while I munched away on a fruit tart and second coffee.
From here, I began to really wander, waiting for things to open up. The French Quarter is notorious for it’s wild nightlife and activity, but it’s the bustle of mornings I find best.
As I walked, the Shops of the Colonnade French Market began to open, selling the general array of knick-knacks and vividly colored sarongs. Brass jazz musicians began emerging from their slumbers, and street performances began to echo throughout the district.
I followed the waterfront, evading the shoe-shiners who try their scams daily, passed Steamboat Natchez and meandered into Woldenberg Park finishing my coffee.
Pleased when the clock finally struck eight, I turned back around to Jackson Square, ready to visit Café Du Monde which serves the most iconic beignets in the city. As the pastry shop is a cash-only establishment, I clutched some few dollars while another jazz band opened up brazenly on the street corner, and munched on my treat while continuing my walk around.
Sight Shopping
I purchased a couple of books of jazz poems as a mother’s day gift for my Grandmother, found some creole-spiced candy nuts for a friend of mine I was due to visit in the Carolinas and poked my head into art studios, furniture galleries, vintage shops, outlandish toy stores and more, sticking close to the shade as the sun climbed higher.
I could hear piano bars getting their day started as lunch approached and watched women in dark, witch-like clothes stride the streets on their way to work. Writers and computer-workers flooded tiny cafes and groups of already-drunk tourists hailed me with outstretched hands and strong-smelling drinks.
My favorite stops on this little jaunt were Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo and New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum. As expected, the occult paraphernalia is displayed in a stunning array and the guests that grace these establishments are almost as interesting as the store itself.
I spoke to a man who had grown up as an Army brat only become a sculptor by converting musical instruments into furniture. I also chatted with a woman who doubled as a candy-maker had her primary income source as a gator-baiter. There were also two men who worked as musicians looking to voodoo prayers for inspiration for their own lyrics. I also spotted a man dressed as Darth Vader singing Knocking on Heaven’s Door with extreme gusto and interruptions with Vader’s iconic respirator breaths.
Flung East
However, I didn’t stay much longer. New Orleans, at least for this visit, was just a checkpoint on my journey.
I had already overstayed by visit by several hours by the time I returned, bulging with extra meals. I clambered into my tiny car and darted back to the main road.
Driving this direction is always entertaining, since the large majority of the route is on sweeping elevated causeways spanning islands, marshes, bays and peninsulas.
I eventually wove into Mobile, Alabama for my next (somewhat unneeded) pit stop. The United States Sports Academy is an interesting building complete with statues of athletes made creatively from vehicle parts, turning clunky metal into elegant and dynamic robotic motions.
Even further south, I stopped at the truly magical Fairhope Castle. This building is a tiny fantasy realm created by the very people living within. Doors are bright red circles with dragon etchings on the side with green roofs, trickling ponds and bona fides spires with white trimming.
A cat lords over most of the premise and I met one of the owners and constructors, who told me about his journeys to Colombia, South America in the 1980’s and the construction process for his home.
Last Road Hours
Fairhope itself is a wonderful little town as well. The arts center has some very interesting pieces and the city itself has the highest ratio of writers to population in the United States. Fairhope Pier faces West, jutting into Mobile Bay, provided daunting sunsets with great streaks of orange.
My true target for this leg of the trip was the Everglades, but my various detours costed me nearly the entire day.
I started peering around for a place to sleep, but the first motel I checked was in a sketchy neighborhood loaded with all sorts of outlandish warning signs. “We don’t rent to locals. No grilling inside or outside the room. Do not cover cameras. Resting on stairs is prohibited. No parking motorcycles in water.” Mildly concerned by the state of town, I opted to push on, just a bit further.
However, instead of pushing through the entire night, I finally made it to Apalachicola National Forest, where I pitched my tent for the second night in a row and began to snooze.
Tomorrow I’ll make it past the Florida panhandle and into the main portion of the most crazily-news-oriented state in the US.
Until then,
Best regards and excellent trails,
Old Sean
Written May 6th 2021
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The GoPro Hero Black is my go to Action camera. I’m not comfortable bringing my cell phone to many wet and rugged locations, so the GoPro does most of my photographic heavy-lifting. The only things I bring in my GoPro kit are the camera, a spare battery and the forehead mount. I upgrade my GoPro once every two years. It was particularly excellent to have during my aquatic tour of Belize.
