Sometime early in the morning of Thursday 4 May I said something to the effect of, “I’ve never been south of Birmingham before! I feel like a world traveler.” I say this with a smile on my face, like I’m five years old and just discovered the tooth fairy actually visits in the night. “Well,” Taylor says. “I don’t know if traveling beyond Birmingham makes you a world traveler, but you’ve certainly seen the worst of the United States!"
Y’all, driving from Charlottesville, Virginia to New Orleans, Louisiana (approx. 14 hrs.), I know seems like a “whoa lord” kinda trip, but I actually enjoyed it … until we hit Alabama and I grew so bored by their scenery. “Alabama the Beautiful,” my behind. I’ve seen trees before, but betwixt ‘Bama (and Miss’ippi) I’ve seen some of the straightest, drabbest roadways lined by tree after tree that for one fleeting minute I could tell why people are so gung-ho to tear trees down and put up some parkin’ lots.
Ridin’ through Alabama gave me the acute feeling of traveling back in time. I mean we pass "Burningham," as it was called back in the Freedom Summer times, and I marvel at the reality that is race in America today, because I recognize what once was and what is today, and I feel thankful. But it’s 8 in the morning and we pass a sign for towns that Taylor notes is bad for both black people and white: Cottondale and Coaling.
Seeing fields and hearing the word cotton makes me shiver not unlike those hyenas at the sound of Mufasa’s name … ‘cept I ain’t laughing.
We stop at a rest stop and the beginning of what will turn out to be pretty consistent “they’re-an-odd-pair” stares starts as an elderly gentleman smiles warmly at Taylor and then Dick Cheney smiles me. I guess he didn’t expect me to be following behind her so closely … not that I was in her back pocket, but still. Suddenly I’m aware that there are a lot of white-haired people strolling around, and one stiff-haired lady looks at us from afar, with an expression that said nothing short of, “What in tarnation?”
I wonder where the water fountains are, and then entering the Welcome Center I see a brochure about civil rights and suddenly I rethink that, imagining that 40 years prior it was not likely that I’d even be able to hop out the car at a rest stop. Idn’t that somethin’?
We’re back on the road and a bright yella Nissan 350Z sidles by and I see more white hair. Y’all Perry Mason was driving his convertible, top down now, at 8-something a.m. Whatever Mike Ditka, Pat Riley or Tammy Wynette used to hold their strands in place, he had some, too, and he just knew he was cool. Taylor and I tsk-ed him. I couldn’t help but think it was a colossal waste of engine, him puttin’ along at 55 mph and all, but the wind had his mustache ticklin’ so I guess that was enough for his late-in-life crisis experience.
We ate breakfast at the Cracker Barrel, which I guess fits right in with us being in Alabama and all. I stuck to my guns, relishing my first taste of sawmill gravy in a hot minute, along with some hashbrown casserole, bacon and scrambled eggs. Taylor, though. She got this nasty-behind “French” toast. We both had high hopes for it, and then it arrived as sourdough toast that was practically cloaked in whipped cream and drenched in what looked like appetizing strawberries. About three bites in though, her hopes of enjoying her breakfast drowned – probably in the multitude of imitation butter they’d dipped that bread in. And those strawberries? Since we were in Alabama and only yay far from what was for me a great time at Huntsville’s space camp, I felt comfortable comparing those to astronaut strawberries with water added. Nasty. And our waitress, some heavily-hairsprayed woman from northern CA tries to tell Taylor, of all Floridians, how great their freshly squeezed OJ is. I try to recall whether or not the menu said those strawberries were fresh. I think not. Taylor sticks to her water, and notes that if the woman wanted to talk wine, fine, but OJ couldn’t possibly be her forte. I, meanwhile, had some coffee that was burnt. It actually tasted like burnt Sanka, which is just uncalled for.
Taylor and I look like quite an odd pair indeed, but we are some funny people, and that makes any time and any place pretty fun. Somewhere we pass a sign: T&D Furniture and Taylor says, “Look. We’ve got a furniture store.”
“Sweet.”
I begin to discuss what we must sell in our furniture store. We agree upon beds, Lay-Z Boys, couches, etc., but not loveseats – because what do we know about love seats?
This question, among other notable funnies, recurred a lot over the weekend, because I mean, really, it is a funny thing to think about. (It also helps if you say, “What do we know about love seats?” as if you were on the Little Rascals, all high pitched and quizzical.) Loveseats. Who thought of this as an attractive piece of furniture? It’s the bane of our singleton existence, the loveseat. It’s really only big enough for one, because for those of us who aren’t all touchy-touchy, we’re not liable to sit there with anyone else. You can’t sleep on it, and I’m short, I’ve tried it, and frankly, it just didn’t work out (like other things I guess, huh?) … but I digress from the fun of the roadways.
We still drivin’ in Alabama noticing that they have things like woods and water parks where you can see bears … or maybe it’s just Bear Bryant. Roll Tide! Anyway, we were driving and there was a sign for Alabama Adventure: Amusement and Waterpark (right off the Visionland Parkway). But it being Alabama and all I s'pose they were fine with trying to get by with callin' the church sign company. Being from the Bible Belt, I know church signs when I see 'em, so we decided that - and here's the thing, it was just the sign amidst a world of trees, no signs of any kind of fun park ... because you know how if you pass a 6 Flags how you can see like the tippy top of a roller coaster? Well here there was a clearing, the sign and trees. So we decided that it was just a front. Like you'll drive up there and it'll just be a church - an adventure to save your soul (which you'll be ready for having just received your "vision" courtesy of the Visionland Parkway). And baptisms are in store for all those seeking admission to the water park (how's that for holy water, eh?); plus there's a slide because that'll make things more fun. We're both going to hell, but as Taylor said, "At least we can take turns driving!"
Other tidbits to consider for roadtrips:
Ipod shuffle and some I-Trip. Quality. Where else can Gladys Knight & The Pips be joined by The Who followed by CCR, Merle Haggard, Ray Charles, John Mayer and Murphy Lee? Live Aid? I think not.
Brushups. Have y'all seen these things? It's a toothbrush without need of water or the brush actually. You just slide the brushup sleeve on your finger, get busy and then toss it. I was fresh as a daisy in, like, 60 degree sunny weather, as opposed to the wilting feeling my breath was experiencing moments before. These work great when you're pedal pushers like we are. We don't like makin' all kinds of stops. We are strivers, perseverers (I don't know if that's a word, but guess what? I'm the decider and so I decide that it is.).
Also, chewing on Twizzlers virtually guarantees a killer John Fogerty impersonation. Try it. On Run Through the Jungle, if it pleases you.
Oh, I know in SC we have Big Lots. Now I love me some Big Lots. You go to Big Lots when Wal-Mart's "always low prices" ain't so low - you know when they get a bit uppity in their prices on things like soap, or you need gag gifts or camp clothes that you know the washing machine is going to eat (or that the dryer may singe), or if you're brave - the food items (but all I'm saying is canned goods and botulism. You think about it.). Also, they have a great toy section. Anyway, we have Big Lots - we used to have Roses, but that was long ago. Round here in Philly (and in NYC), they have Conway ... in Miss'ippi and LA, they've got Dirt Cheap.
That's right. Dirt Cheap. I mean, you don't even need to advertise for that.
And then in Slidell, LA I shook my head even harder when I saw, Scuttlebutt.
A "gentleman's" club. If that ain't just plain naisty, I don't know what is. You have GOT to be kidding me. But they were serious. Can you even imagine who's in there and who goes in there? Gross.
I've already told you about our struts, but did you know there's also a "spreading the peanut butter" dance? It involves the hips, and you just imagine that you're spreadin' peanut butter. Like Shakira, your hips won't lie. That's not really an endorsement either. It's just that that song along with My Humps is so overplayed ... I just wanted to say that. There'll be more on the actual musical fest elements later.
I didn't actually keep count, but Taylor and I made it a point to say two lines as much as possible. Hers was, "As long as I get a snowball I'll do anything you want," and mine was, "I'm just happy to be here." And I was. But after one snowball, I, too, was practically a fiend. When in doubt, just go on and get the larger size. Don't ever order a small. You will just hate yourself and want more. They make 'em extree good just so you'll come back.
Lastly for now, I shall leave you with a menu of sorts (and then I'll return tomorrow with a more serious post, but rambling all the same).
Did I tell you that you should go to eat? I mean that can be your sole reason and you'd have yourself one helluva trip.
- Po'boys. Authentic ones. I tried the fried catfish and the cochon du lait (which is just another opportunity for me to brush up on my pig!). But hab murcy, that cochon du lait (roast pig) might be my favorite sammich ever. I can't even tell you what they did to that pig, but they sauced her up something special and a seeeeeeeew wee. - Homemade gumbo, red beans 'n rice and jambalaya. You gotta get you some good hosts when you visit. Not my hosts. Getcha own! But this is key, because these folks love their cookware and it doesn't just show, it tastes ... good. Some kinda wonderful goes into making dishes like these. I passed the Zatarain's section in the grocery store just the other day and damn near spat on those boxes. Ain't nothin' worse than some perpetrators. - Beignets & cafe au lait at the Cafe Du Monde. Krispy who? Dunkin' what? - Crawfish, any dern way you can get it you should eat it. Don't THINK about what it looks like or what you imagine it looks like. Just sniff it and getcha grub on: crawfish etouffe, crawfish bread (hallelujah) and crawfish monica. Shood. I even ate some crawtator chips! Fanger lickin' good they were, too. - Snowballs, especially strawberry and cream! - Boudin (sausage, seasonin's and rice in the sausage casing) - Ribs, cole slaw and more red beans 'n rice at Jazzfest. That sauce lingers on my tastebuds in such a (strange) way that I instantly hear Marvin Gaye cooing "Distant Lover" in my head. I pine for that sauce. Long for it. I need a job as a professional eater. Not so I can comment on it, because I can't do good food any other justice than just to eat it.
You really should just go to eat.