Gators and Haints

This is the latest post in a series about a road trip to New Orleans that starts here.

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As I wrote in the last post, I had been to New Orleans before and toured a plantation, something my traveling companions didn’t want to do this time. Another thing we didn’t do but which I would highly recommend is an alligator boat tour.

If we had alligators in Minnesota, and if we had alligator boat tours, you would be required to sign a legal waiver, watch a 15-minute safety video before the boat left the dock, and wear alligator-proof helmets and vests.

Not so in Louisiana. About 40 of us tourists, many of whom were very obese, crowded onto a pontoon boat and headed into the swamp with our Cajun guide. He joked about how you should never wear white if you went canoeing in the bayou, because an alligator’s favorite food is egrets, and egrets are white. Half of us were wearing white.

To demonstrate the “alligators like white” principle, he pulled out a bag of giant marshmallows and scattered them onto the surface of the water. We were quickly surrounded by alligators, some of which were nine or 10 feet long. Then the Cajun pulled out a bucket of chicken parts. He extended a rickety plank out over the water, then knelt and held a chicken leg over the water. It was kind of like feeding a goat in a kiddie zoo, except here you could get your arm ripped off. Each time a gator launched itself out of the water and grabbed a hunk of chicken, the Cajun would yell, “Whoa! Whoo daddy! Whoo mama!” and jump back, causing the boat to rock precipitously. This went on for a couple hours.

Now, some people would get bored with this but I found plenty to keep me interested. The other tourists, the Spanish moss, a little abandoned cemetery in the middle of nowhere, and what looked like a hunting shack. The highlight was when we got to pass around a baby alligator.

No one wanted to go this time around in New Orleans. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the part about the boat rocking.

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Each morning we would amble over toward the French Quarter via the wonderfully-named streets of the Marigney: Burgundy, Esplanade, Elysian Fields, Spain, Dauphine, Chartes, Mandeville, St. Roch, and of course, Music Street.

Here’s a suggested philosophy for life. “Dream Big as Fuck!”–on garbage can?

I could walk around New Orleans all day and just look at houses.

Some of the porch ceilings are painted light blue, which I took to represent the sky. However I later learned from the New Orleans Gambit newspaper that this color is called “haint blue” and it’s meant to keep out “haints,” or evil spirits.

“It was believed that haints could not cross over water and painting these entrances to resemble water was a way to trick them. This folklore can be attributed to the Gullah, a group of African-Americans, originally from rice-growing regions of West Africa.”

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I like to take the Hop On Hop Off Bus in a new city if it’s available. It’s a good way to get oriented, and especially if the weather is clear and there’s a space on the top deck, it’s a nice respite from walking and crowds. Then, as the name implies, you can hop on and off to see various sights.

We hopped off in the Garden District to take a walking tour. The bus stopped at a gas station that had The Filthiest Bathroom I’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Nonetheless, I always feel obliged to buy something when I use a gas station bathroom, so I grabbed a bottle of water and stood in the non-line of people waiting to pay. An impeccably-dressed man was next to me, and when I said “Have a nice day,” to the cashier he looked at me for the longest time, trying to figure out what I’d said. Then he said something to me in such a southern drawl that I couldn’t understand him. We laughed and smiled—the universal language—even when you’re supposedly speaking the same language.

Creole, Cajun, Casserole

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This continues a series of posts about a road trip to New Orleans that starts here.

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We had the same conversation every morning:

“What do you want to do today?”

“I dunno. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t care. I’m up for anything.”

“Okay then, let’s go!”

I had been to the city before. One of the most memorable things I had done was a tour of a Creole plantation called Laura. It was about what you’d expect: a wide lawn, big house, antiques, and vignettes of how people lived 150 years ago. The house was a different style from Tara, the plantation you might recall from Gone with the Wind:

This is actually a photo of Oak Alley, another plantation near New Orleans on which Tara was based. I think. Don’t quote me on that. Anyway, it’s built in the English style, symmetrical and staid. Built to impress.

By contrast, here is Laura:

Very French, don’t you think? Because that’s partly what Creoles are—a people of French or Spanish descent, sometimes with Afro-Caribbean or Native American mixed in. They speak Creole, cook Creole, and make Creole music.

I was enjoying the tour of the plantation. Then we stepped out back to the slave quarters and it was like everything turned from brilliant color to grey. We “toured” a restored slave cabin, but only two or three of us could fit inside at a time. Meant for a family, it was about half the size of a boxcar, made of rough-hewn wood and sparsely furnished. Next we gathered outside so the guide could talk to us all at once, and that’s when I happened to turn and notice this behind me:

You don’t need to read French to know this is a bill of sale for people. My eyes welled with tears. I’m teary right now. The poor woman at the end of the list is a “lunatique.” What did that mean? Was she schizophrenic? Autistic? Rebelious maybe? Would someone have bought her because she was cheap? For what purpose? Ugh. Double ugh.

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I passed around the brochure about the tour and told Lynn, Molly, and Christine about it. No one wanted to go. Maybe I should have left out the part about the lunatique.

When I was younger I would have pressed and wheedled until I guilted everyone into going, because I thought it was an important, historically significant tour.

But I got it. Lynn and I had spent half a day in the civil rights museum learning about slavery and lynchings and Jim Crow. Molly is a head start teacher whose kids live in trailer parks and whose parents are in jail or on drugs. Christine works for Oxfam, which aids people in disasters and wars. I got it. We didn’t need to be “sensitized.” And we were on vacation!

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You may be wondering, “What’s a Cajun?” since I wrote about Creoles above. Cajuns are descendants of Acadians, who lived in eastern Canada and the Northeast U.S. When the British took over this region, the Acadians, who are French and Roman Catholic, refused to sign an oath of loyalty to the crown. They wound up in Louisiana, either voluntarily or forcefully exiled, and that was a much better fit for them. As with the Creoles, the Cajuns have their own food, music, and language.

So there’s this theme in Louisiana of cultures coming together—French, English, and Spanish; African, Caribbean, and American Indian. It seems like they mostly got along, although that may be because they stuck to their own territories. In New Orleans, for instance, Canal Street marks the boundary between the old English and French parts of town.

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Back at the B&B, we had our own little cultural casserole. The English couple avoided the Germans, who were sour faced but friendly in their serious German way to the Dutch pair. The French couple seemed anxious about everything while the Scotts and Canadians were outgoing. I had two free bus tour tickets and offered them to the group. The Germans recoiled as if I were trying to hand them a rotting fish, while the Dutch couple eagerly grabbed them.

In New Orleans

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This continues a series of posts about a road trip to New Orleans that starts here.

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And so we spent five days in New Orleans, and it was pretty much as fun and relaxing as I had expected. Different places have different vibes. You can’t explain why, they just do. New Orleans and Los Angeles feel similar to me—like “anything goes, no judging.” Within limits, of course. There’s plenty of crime in New Orleans, and my friend who lives there has a bar near his house that’s a noisy nuisance.

Did it feel relaxed because I was on vacation? No, that’s not it. I’ve vacationed in Berlin and Dubai, in Edinburgh, Scotland and Scottsdale, Arizona. I had some relaxed moments in those places, but they didn’t feel inherently relaxed.

Was it because the car had been towed and was now in a shop? Maybe. The most memorable part of that was that the tow driver’s name was Earl, and Lynn and Christine thought that was hilarious. I guess if you think about it, coming from England, no one there would name their kid Earl—you either are an Earl or you’re not—but you wouldn’t be named Earl. It would be like if I had named Vince Vice President.

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I had chosen the dates for New Orleans to coincide with French Quarter Festival. FQF is smaller than Mardi Gras and more musically encompassing than Jazz Festival. There were concerts featuring blues, rock, soul, and all sorts of jazz, all performed by Louisiana musicians.

My favorite afternoon was when we were lucky enough to get a table on one of the rickety-looking balconies overlooking Bourbon Street. Here is Molly demonstrating that we’re on a balcony:

When we ordered beers, the server asked if we wanted large, medium, or small. That was an odd question; I’d never been asked that before. I figured a medium would be the safe choice.

Now, I don’t allow my photo be taken in potentially-compromising situations. But there are plenty of people who do, so here is a photo I found on the Internet of the “medium” beer, along with the “large,” which I think you’ll agree is an understatement.

We had all afternoon to sip our beers semi-responsibly, and we were lucky enough to be perched above a Dixieland jazz band which had attracted some energetic dancers of the Charleston. Here’s what the Charleston looks like. It’s athletic, exuberant, and just makes you feel happy.

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We started each day slowly, which is how it should be when you’re on vacation. I was always the first up; I can’t help myself. Still, the freshly-made breakfast would already be waiting for me in dining room. It was different every day, and a labor of love. There would be a frittata, muffins or some sort of fruit bread, veggie or meat sausage, homemade marmalade, and of course, coffee. You could make toast or bagels, or instant grits or oatmeal. The fridge was stocked with milk and orange juice and yogurt.

I sat on the front porch and savored the morning quiet with my breakfast and a couple cups of coffee. There were the usual morning sights, like the trash men collecting the trash, parents walking their kids to school, cats skulking by the fence, and people commuting to work on bikes.

Back inside, my crew and the other guests slowly filtered out of their rooms. There were two women there from Vancouver, one of whom got up early to run despite how late they stayed out every night. She and I stretched together on the living room carpet a couple times and chatted. There are six guest rooms at the Ould Sweet Olive, so counting our suite which slept four, its capacity was 14. The rest of the guests were couples from England, Scotland, the Netherlands, and Germany.

Molly, Lynn, Christine, and I would sit in the front room for hours, chatting and drinking coffee, before we got our day underway. We talked about places we’d been, places we wanted to go, kids, pets, and—in hushed tones, politics—because our hostess had numerous photos of herself with Donald Trump on the walls.

Lake Eerie

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This continues a series of posts about a road trip to New Orleans that starts here.

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We crossed the state line from Mississippi into Louisiana just as night fell. I had hoped and planned not to do any night driving, especially in the south, but it hadn’t worked out that way.

The car started making a subtle chunk-a-chunk-a-clunk-a noise so I got out my secret weapon—Abba. Yes, Abba. I have a friend who loves to compile CDs, and she volunteered to make a set for the road trip. Who was I to say no? She went above and beyond, and created a boxed set of seven, each with a play list, and two bonus CDs of classical and new age music.

I appointed Lynn the DJ of the car and away we sailed, singing along to Knowing Me, Knowing You.

I could no longer hear the noise—problem solved!

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If you’re unfamiliar with New Orleans, here’s the lay of the land. The city is bordered on the south by the Mississippi River and on the north by Lake Ponchartrain (pronounced ponch’-a-train), which is the 11^th largest lake in North America. If you don’t count the Great Lakes, which are outliers, it’s the 6^th largest.

To get to New Orleans (pronounced nu or’-luns, by the way) from the north, you have to cross the world’s longest causeway, which is a bridge over a body of water. The Lake Ponchartrain Causeway is 24 miles long.

Ponchartrain is a salt lake. Supposedly there are sharks in it but I didn’t want to think about that. I also didn’t want to think about my mom’s friends who had crashed in the lake at night in their small plane and drowned because they’d lost their bearings. In the dark, you can’t see the horizon. There are no landmarks, no trees or lights to tell you how far you are from land or how far you’ve got to go. It was pure darkness on either side of the road, except for the one oil rig we saw off in the distance.

“Is that New Orleans?” I asked excitedly.

Lynn, as always, had the US map in her lap. “No, I think it could be Baton Rouge.”

We drove on and eventually it became apparent that the “city” was an oil refinery. We’ve got one south of St. Paul that everyone calls The Emerald City.

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After a half hour of feeling like we were hurtling through outer space, we cleared the causeway and entered the crazy spaghetti-like New Orleans freeway system. Once again, I was flanked by semi trucks on both sides going 85 miles per hour.

“This is when the engine light turns red!” I joked—sort of.

“No! We’re so close!” Lynn said encouragingly.

And then we were there. New Orleans! I pulled up in front of the B&B and killed the engine. I would have her towed away tomorrow, but right then I just wanted a beer. Maybe three.

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Our friend Christine and my cousin Molly had already arrived and they came out to greet us. “Welcome to New Orleans!” we all exclaimed, hugging and laughing and already feeling the relaxed vibe of the place.

My friend and former neighbor who lives in New Orleans had recommended the B&B, which was called the Ould Sweet Olive. It was lovely:

As is the case with old buildings that have been rehabbed for new purposes, the layout was a little weird. I had reserved the suite, and the entrance was through the bathroom. The shower had a glass door and the bathtub was in the middle of the room. There was no real door between the bathroom and the sleeping area, just these:

But hey, who cared? It was charming. We had arrived! The Ould Sweet Olive was in the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood, which was quiet but just a few blocks from Frenchmen Street and the French Quarter where all the action was. There was a patio outside our suite with a fountain and a giant kumquat tree. There was beer and wine in a mini fridge for $1 a glass. Best of all, the weather was 70F and clear, compared with 30F and snowy in Minnesota.

Me, Mom

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Before I continue to the exciting conclusion of the road trip, I am sharing this post from Vince’s blog he wrote for Mother’s Day.

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Mom, I know I’ve let you down. Over, and over again I’ve made a mess of my life and brought both of us shame. There were years where you were unable to explain my whereabouts to family and friends, and times where you yourself didn’t know where I was. I’ve put you through more pain and distress than I care to recall. I’ve not been a son to you for many years, and I have lost your trust far too many times.

But for some reason, you still love me. It’s an unconditional love that I’ve felt nowhere else. Even recently when we didn’t see eye to eye when we lived together, there was never any doubt that you loved me. I wish I could promise that I will never be lead astray again by the temptation and allure of alcohol and the world of drugs, but I cannot because it’s the nature of the disease that I am always at risk of going back. Tomorrow, when we go out on our secret trip to an unknown location for Mother’s Day lunch, I will be repairing some of the damage I have caused. I will be repairing the bond that had been broken for so long as a result of my actions. I have nobody to blame but myself, which leaves only me to clean up the mess. And so far, I think it’s working.

It’s hard work, searching inside myself to figure out what’s been broken for so long. But through writing this blog, attending A.A., and working with a sponsor, I’m starting to change my life. I no longer do these things to avoid going back to prison, I do them because I want to be out here living life and being with my family as much as I can.

Although you had help from some family members raising me for a small portion of my childhood, I know that you were solely responsible for bringing me up and I know that you not only did the best you could without a father present, you truly were an amazing Mother, I just didn’t see it until later in life.

You imparted upon me how to be a good, loving person, and it took me about 20 years longer than it should have to recognize that. The things you showed me are the things I strive to emulate now because I know that they are righteous, moral, and honorable.

It doesn’t get any more honest than that. You were instrumental in keeping me sane throughout my prison term. You wrote to me, sent me money, and answered my calls. Not everybody is as lucky, or has a person that loves them no matter what. You moved just to accommodate me living with you when I got out, and I am so grateful for that. I may not have acted like it when I lived there, but that was because I was ashamed of myself, and I shut myself in my room, and my own little world where I felt comfortable. I’m breaking out of that shell slowly, and I won’t forget that it’s because of you that I’m even out here in the first place and had a warm safe place to sleep. Sometimes it takes a while to realize what I have to be grateful for, but eventually it comes.

Tomorrow is your day, and I’m excited that I have the ability to take you out for the day, and the means to make it happen. I think this will be the best Mother’s Day we’ve ever spent together, and I look forward to many more.

Mom, I know I’ve let you down. But I’m going to make it up by becoming a good son, and making up for all the hurt I’ve caused. I love you, Mom.

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I told Vince, over the sushi feast he had planned, that I appreciated the post. I also told him that by changing his life, he is making amends to me and he never has to apologize for his past actions again.

Then and Now

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This continues a series of posts about a road trip to New Orleans that starts here.

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We pulled out of Memphis and began our third 400-mile drive.

This was the most scenic part of the trip. The rolling hills continued, one long ascent followed by a long descent, followed by another and another and another. There were woods on both sides punctuated by blooming Magnolias and occasionally something that appeared to be bougainvillea blanketing a full-grown tree. That was spectacular. Most of the drive was through Mississippi, which does not have a motto. It does have a coat of arms which includes the phrase Virtute et Armis (by valor and arms).

And here I must correct what I wrote about Minnesota. “Land of 10,000 Lakes” is what’s on our license plates, but our official motto is L’étoile du Nord (Star of the North, or in Latin, “I long to see what is beyond.”)

That could explain a lot about me.

Once again, Lynn and I postulated about what could be wrong with the car.

“Maybe it’s overheated,” she said.

“But why?” I asked. “We’ve only driven 50 miles.”

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I had driven many cars that were in much more alarming shape than this one. When Vince was a baby I had a Buick LeSabre that was so old it didn’t have seat belts. I would stick Vince in a banana box and put him on the back seat.

There was the 1964 Chrysler Imperial with push button gears on the dashboard. Now it’s a very cool collector’s car, but in 1978 it was just a “winter beater,” as we called cars that were expected to just barely get us through the winter.

There was the car whose driver’s side door had to be held shut by…my arm. There was one that never ran. Never even started. I bought it from a neighbor for $125. He pushed it down the alley into my backyard after assuring me that all it needed was a carburetor.

I went to a junkyard and bought a carburetor out of wrecked car for $50. My brother and his friend Hans came over to install it. The result was Hans running down the alley with his hair on fire, waving his arms trying to put it out. My brother tackled him and rolled him in the dirt before any serious harm was done beyond a temporary bald spot. I had to pay $75 to have the car towed to the same junkyard where I’d bought the carburetor.

So why was I so worried now?

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But then a second, bigger engine light came on with a loud DING DING. I pulled off in the nearest town, Canton, Mississippi, and parked in front of a liquor store, where I called AAA while Lynn read the manual. I had forgotten there was a manual.

The AAA representative had such a heavy southern accent I was forced to admit, “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand what you’re saying.” She repeated herself slowly. “We can come and tow your car, and you’ll have to find a motel in Canton for the night.”

Just then a monster truck roared into the parking lot. An enormous black man got out and came storming toward us—Lynn literally leaned away from him as he loomed into her window, while I fumbled to lock the doors.

“Ya’ll okay?” he asked. “Ah didn’t mean ta scare ya! Ah seen yur car and it don’t look ya’ll from ‘round here and ah thought ya might need help.”

Lynn and I laughed with relief and assured him we were fine. When he was out of earshot, we analyzed our reaction and agreed we’d been scared because he was a huge, aggressive man and we were in a strange town, not because he was black.

Lynn read from the manual, “If the engine light is red, you should pull over immediately and call for help. If it’s orange, you may continue driving but have the car looked at your earliest opportunity.”

The lights were orange. Surely, another 200 miles couldn’t do any harm. On to New Orleans!

Jim Crow, Old and New

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This is the latest in a series of posts about a road trip from St. Paul to New Orleans that starts here.

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If you don’t learn something about yourself when you travel … well, that’s okay—I’m not going to sermonize—but I was pleased to learn something important about myself in Memphis.

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In the morning, Lynn and I took a walk along the riverfront, which is beautiful:

We walked back to Beale Street, found a restaurant, and ordered breakfast. We were excited to try southern foods like grits and biscuits. We waited, and waited. You could say this restaurant put the “wait” in waitress. She kept coming by and giving us a dose of another southern treat—calling us “honey”, “sweetie”, and “darlin’” as in: “Your food’ll be up in just a minute, darlins’”

It seemed like half the morning passed away before we got our meals, then we wolfed them down and headed over to the National Civil Rights Museum.

It was difficult to find—there was no signage—but then we turned a corner and there it was, the former Lorraine Motel where the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. I recognized it immediately, having seen it a hundred times in iconic photos.

And this was the beginning of learning something about myself, because I got so choked up I had to turn away so no one would see me in tears.

I have been to Holocaust museums in Washington, DC; Jerusalem, Berlin, Prague, Chicago, and elsewhere, and they’ve been tear-filled experiences too. But then, I’m Jewish. Were my tears only because the story was about my people? That fear—that I only felt empathy for my own kind—was laid to rest in Memphis.

I wiped my tears away but they welled up continually inside the museum, which was one long, sad horror show that traced the abuse of African Americans from slave days up through the assassination in 1968.

There was a large group of school children, mostly African American, going through with docents. I wondered what they felt seeing Africans in chains, the police dogs, the fire hoses? If it was my kid I would want to be on the tour to put my arm around him. There was the usual laughing and fooling around that any group of kids will exhibit, but I wondered if they would have trouble sleeping that night.

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I commented to Lynn, “A coworker of mine at Oxfam used to find every opportunity to mention, ‘the UK never had slavery’ in a superior tone.”

“We may not have had slaves in the country, but we certainly benefited and participated in the system,” Lynn replied as we read a display about how global the slave trade was.

And of course it didn’t end with the abolition of slavery. “Jim Crow” was the system in the southern United States from reconstruction up through the civil rights era in the 60s that kept “negros” in their place. Here are a few of the ridiculous laws from that time:

Really? Checkers!? Who knew checkers could subvert the social order?

Then we marched slowly through exhibits about bus boycotts, lunch counter protests, and strikes. Then there were the cross burnings, lynchings, and bombings by white racists; somewhat counterbalanced by the support of white and other allies (including Jews).

I watched a video about James Meredith, the first black student to be accepted to the University of Mississippi, in Oxford Mississippi. Of course he hadn’t mentioned his race in his application, and when he showed up to enroll all hell broke loose. After weeks of rioting by whites, which resulted in two deaths, he was reluctantly let in, and as Lynn read later, he did graduate and lived a normal life afterwards.

The museum was really well done. There was a second building that explored African American activism post 1968, but after three or four hours in the first building we had to leave.

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Last week Vince and I talked to a group about mass incarceration. One of the audience members referred to it as the New Jim Crow. I agree, although in my opinion it’s about poverty, addiction, mental health, and class as much as racism.

Viva, Viagra!

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This is the latest in a series of posts about a road trip from St. Paul to New Orleans that starts here.

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After recharging with burritos and bucket-sized ice teas, Lynn and I hit the road for the last leg of the drive from Chicago to Memphis.

We wanted to drive through Paducah, Kentucky. We liked the name. It would have been our homage to David, our innkeeper in Chicago, and we could have added a fifth state to our route that day. But even with a GPS and a map we couldn’t figure out how to get to it. For what seemed like hours—because it was hours—it looked like we were on the verge of crossing the state line into Tennessee and that Memphis would be right on the other side.

“There’s the sign!” said Lynn. “Tennessee—The Volunteer State?” Whatever does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Something to do with the Civil War?”

I tried to find out later why Tennessee is called the Volunteer State lost interest after 3,000 words about the conflicting stories about which war originated it. Suffice it to say it was some war with England or Mexico or the northern United States.

All 50 states have mottos. We had passed through five states so far. The slogans of Minnesota and Illinois are straightforward: Land of 10,000 Lakes and Land of Lincoln (Abe Lincoln was born in Illinois). Arkansas’, through which we had passed briefly, was Regnat Populus, which means “The People Rule.”

Missouri’s slogan is the strangest—it’s The Show Me State. The official explanation is that in 1899 a Missouri Congressman said:

“I come from a state that raises corn and cotton and cockleburs and Democrats, and frothy eloquence neither convinces nor satisfies me. I am from Missouri. You have got to show me.”

I liked it better when I thought it might have something to do with voyeurism.

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We checked in to the Holiday Inn in downtown Memphis, which I had chosen because it was two blocks from Beale Street and had $22 overnight parking. I checked the odometer—we’d driven 995 miles since leaving St. Paul.

Within 15 minutes we were out on Beale Street, which is supposedly where rock and roll was created. Or the blues, I can’t remember. Because Chicago also calls itself the Home of the Blues, and of course New Orleans’ claim to fame is jazz … so it’s hard to keep it all straight. If you’ve ever been to Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis or Division Street in Chicago on a Saturday night, that’s what Beale Street is like. Neon signs. Bars and more bars, with music pouring out of them and tipsy people wandering from one to the next, laughing.

Lynn and I got some drinks and sat on an outdoor patio, listening to the house band. This was the first of many moments when I would feel like I had been dropped into a giant, never-ending Viagra commercial. I said this—or shouted it—to Lynn and she gave me the blank look of someone who has never seen a prescription drug commercial. Because there are no prescription drug commercials in the UK. So to Lynn, and other readers who have a National Health Service instead of a Medical Industrial Complex, that link’s for you. Imagine seeing adverts like that 5-6 times during your favorite TV program.

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We’re everywhere, we post-WWII western baby boomers. Now that we’re beginning to retire in mass numbers you will see us at every festival, concert, and tourist attraction. Boomer men, in particular, have a thing about guitars, and being cool, and fancying themselves as musicians. Their standard gear is jeans and a white T-shirt with a plaid shirt over it, and either cowboy boots or sneakers. Fedoras are required at jazz venues.

I don’t mean to be critical. I’m a boomer myself, although at the tail end, so I’ve seen “my generation” surge along through the pipeline of history all my life. We get blamed for ruining the economy and we are said to be blazing a trail for “vital aging” for younger generations. Thank god there was no Viagra in 1946.

The Other Country

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I woke at 5am. My plan was to go to Walgreens—conveniently located at the end of the block—which opened at 7am. I would buy all the auto fluids they had and pour them into the car in hopes it would make it to New Orleans.

I dressed and slunk out the door to the nearby coffee shop. When I returned, David our innkeeper greeted me and started recounting his early days in Chicago. I had time to kill, so I sat back and enjoyed my coffee and David’s stories.

He had come to Chicago from Kentucky to attend college in 1977. So David and I were the same age. He seemed older, like he’d weathered some pretty tough times.

Anyway, his arrival coincided with the Tutankhamen exhibit at the Field Museum of Natural History. I remembered “Tut Mania” well. My mother had driven to Chicago with some friends to see the exhibit and came back with T-shirts with images of scarabs and Egyptian cats and—of course—King Tut.

David was taking a class from a professor who was a world expert on Tut, and who was leading the logistics for the exhibit.

“The train from Egypt was escorted by armed guards with shoot-to-kill orders,” he said. “They packed everything in Styrofoam so if the ship sank, all those priceless antiquities would bob back up to the top.” He explained that Tut had been a very minor king who was only famous because his tomb “wasn’t very ornate,” and thus hadn’t attract the attention of tomb robbers.

Talking about King Tut and his college days, David grew animated and could have passed for an archaeology professor himself.

—

Have you ever heard of magical thinking? That was me as I started the car up after a 36-hour rest. Somehow, the engine light wouldn’t come on, right? Wrong.

But there was no going back—we were gonna make New Orleans by Wednesday! Back at the inn Lynn was enjoying breakfast and another of David’s soliloquies. He was talking about Kentucky again. “Most people think it’s like Deliverance,” he said. I gave Lynn a blank look that said, “He’s right.”

—

Travel does not equal adventure, or vice versa. Adventures can be delightful but more often, at least for me, they involve dealing with something strange, stressful, or slightly scary.

Once again, the car was fine above 75 miles per hour but shook if I slowed down.

“I wonder if I got a bad tank of gas at the Cranberry Discovery Center.” This would be the first of many hair-brained theories about the car.

“Maybe it’s the spark plugs,” Lynn suggested. Then, sheepishly, “Does it have spark plugs?”

“I don’t know!” The Mini’s engine was sealed inside a sleek black box. It was just like BMW to make something stylish that prevented access or even viewing.

“Maybe when I get a new tank of gas it’ll fix itself. I’ll stick to gas stations near the freeway that sell a lot of gas, to make sure I get a fresh tank.” More magical thinking.

The landscape slowly changed, from flat and sere to lush, green, and hilly. The car struggled up the hills. But maybe if I just kept driving… we drove from 9 to 3:30 with two five-minute pit stops.

Finally, starving, we stopped in Charleston, Missouri. The “downtown” was deadsville. The only place open was a thrift store. I asked if there was a place to eat in town. The response I got from the woman at the register sounded like this:

“Ya’ll gawla rawla dayown aray-owna Mexican raistrawnt gonna donna lowna haw-way.” Lynn beat it out the door. I fought the urge to follow her while my brain worked to make sense of what she’d said.

A customer stepped forward and said, slowly, “She said there’s a Mexican place out by the interstate.” I thanked him and we drove out of town, pausing only to take a photo of this poor old theater.

We found Las Brisas and ordered iced teas, which were served in pitcher-sized plastic cups. Listening to the accents around us, we felt like we were in a foreign country, but it wasn’t Mexico.

Bobble Heads in Chi Town

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This post is part of a series about a road trip to New Orleans that starts here.

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I had a surprise up my sleeve for Lynn. It was a piece of Americana she couldn’t miss, I thought, so after we had our fill of Tiffany at the Cultural Center I led us northwest through the city. Did I mention it was cold, and how I was dressed for New Orleans? We stopped in the first of many Walgreens we would see on the trip and bought matching, stupid-looking but warm hats with giant pompoms that bobbed as we walked.

What is it with all the Walgreens? I like Walgreens, but do we really need one every few blocks?

We approached our destination and Lynn was none the wiser until we walked in the door of … a MacDonald’s! But this was not just any MacDonald’s. This was the rock ‘n’ roll MacDonald’s. I had visited it every time I’d been to Chicago. I don’t know why, but it was stuffed full of rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia—or at least it had been the last time I was there. I was particularly enamored of a hologram—I couldn’t remember who it was—Elvis? Hendrix? There was also a life-sized sculpture of the Beatles from the Abbey Road album, and a classic car with characters from the Archie comic books.

These are photos from online, because all of it was gone—gone!

In place of all the fabulous rock ‘n’ roll mementos was an exhibit about … MacDonald’s. There was no explanation and no indication that there had ever been any rock ‘n’ roll exhibit. I tried to paint a picture of it to Lynn but of course it was impossible.

The building is still cool and there was a lot of mid Century Modern furniture, which I love. So we looked though the exhibit which also included non-MacDonald’s-related stuff from the 50s, 60s, and 70s like hula hoops and manual dial telephones and Twister, plus references to historical events like the Vietnam War and Nixon’s resignation. We shifted to a different style of tables with each decade, and Lynn nearly fell over trying to get onto a high-concept but wobbly stool.

It was okay, but I was really disappointed. We walked across the street to the Hard Rock Café. Maybe the collection had been acquired by them? But no, there was no sign of it.

We had a cup of coffee and I asked Miquel, our server, the most scenic route to Rogers Park, where we would meet my niece and her boyfriend for dinner.

Miguel was full of suggestions. We had plenty of time, so I decided we could take the slow bus that would give us views of the lakefront. We waited half an hour for the 151 bus in the blistering wind. It crawled through traffic and just when I thought we were set for a nice scenic ride, the driver shouted, “End of the line! Everybody off!”

There are two kinds of bus drivers: friendly, helpful ones and crabby, unhelpful ones. Ours was the second type.

“Will there be another 151 that goes to the end of the route?” I asked.

“No,” was all he had to say.

“How far is it to Belmont Station?” He waved his hand dismissively and said, “Too far to walk.”

“How far is it to Rogers Park?” I asked.

He just laughed derisively, so we hopped off the bus to find ourselves in the middle of nowhere.

It’s times like this that I’m glad to be 56 instead of 26. Back in the day, this would have been a disaster, and I would have walked all the way to Rogers Park and probably gotten frost bite rather than pay for a cab. Instead, I hailed a taxi and we were there in five minutes.

Erin and Chris had picked a great Peruvian restaurant and brought a six-pack of local beer to share. It was nice to catch up with them. The food was abundant and they took home enough leftovers to last a week.

We took a taxi back to the inn. I hadn’t thought about my car all day.

Breaking Free

Living Well, Despite what Life Throws at You

Gators and Haints

Creole, Cajun, Casserole

In New Orleans

Lake Eerie

Me, Mom

Then and Now

Jim Crow, Old and New

Viva, Viagra!

The Other Country

Bobble Heads in Chi Town