The past month and a half since we got back to Massachusetts have been busy, festive, and delightfully filled with friends and family. My mother's brother John came from Melbourne for Christmas, flying in the day after we arrived back home. He was lucky enough to arrive just ahead of one of the most beautiful snowstorms of the season. Actually, given the beautiful snowstorm, he was lucky to have made it through Chicago in the first place. I woke him up early the next morning to see the lovely snow. While he did seem genuinely appreciative of the view from inside the house, he was strangely reluctant to accept my offer to teach him how to shovel the driveway.
Concord is a delightfully Norman Rockwellian place to spend Christmas. The town decorates the 50 foot pine tree in the center of the town green, and every year about 300 people show up to sing carols on Christmas Eve. This year I was especially happy that Erika's mother Lilli and sister Lisa could come up for Christmas Eve, which we spent at my mother's best friend’s house with the usual crowd. Mum made a gingerbread house, I decorated it, and the several toddlers present a Christmas Eve joyfully decimated it with a hammer at the end of evening.
After a lovely Christmas morning at my parents’, characterized by gifts of interesting books, delicious food, and the collecting of commemorative quarters, we said a temporary farewell to Lilli and Lisa. Mum, dad, Erika, me, and John all piled into the car and drove north. Four hours later we arrived in my father's hometown of Lancaster New Hampshire, to celebrate Christmas with my state-side extended family. They're wonderful. Aunt Sylvia made oyster stew. Cousins Chris and Lorna teased us about being flat-landers and Democrats, cousins Peter and Dennis continued my education in the key New Hampshire industries of hunting and skiing, and we all ate a bit too much.
Taking the very very scenic route home via my parents’ new summer place on the coast of Maine, we were surprised to come upon an Elk farm. I love Maine. And I love elk. My uncle John was delighted by them.
We got a chance to visit twice this holiday season with Erika's older brother Reed and his wife Sue. As they wound their way from North Carolina to northern Maine, we met up at their uncle's house in Connecticut for great food, visiting, and carol singing. We were lucky enough to corner them again on their way back down for New Years at Lilli's house. We played with our new Christmas toys (webcams! bwa ha ha, you’ve been warned), learned a new card game, and ate ALL of the delicious food in pretty boxes that mysteriously proliferates around the holidays. Despite valiant efforts—no, really, we didn’t even try—none of us stayed up until midnight. We’re officially old.
Since then we've been continually preparing for overseas moves: first helping Lisa get ready for a four-month teaching engagement in Siena, Italy (where she is now), and then preparing for our own move to Australia. More news on that front soon!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
the french quarter
We’ve realized we didn’t actually tell you about the French Quarter, the only part of New Orleans most of you have ever seen. It is the oldest part of town, originally settled by the eponymous French settlers, though it was later held briefly by the Spanish before becoming nominally American. It is hands-down the most European neighborhood I’ve ever seen on this continent, with truly glorious architecture, and has a history more rich and dramatic than its measly (by Continental standards) 400-some-odd years of permanently settled existence.
It’s disgusting, though. Rivulets of piss, vomit, spilled alcohol-swill, and god-knows what else trickle down the old worn gutters. The lights and music and crowds at night cast a forced revelrous aura, but in the day the reality is unavoidable. Tacky plastic signs (tacked irreverently to gorgeous facades) advertise tacky plastic merchandise and tacky plastic women for sale. It’s all much, much too much. It smells terrible, and is at this point so entirely self-aware that there is no joy left, just commerce.
I would strongly recommend to anyone visiting New Orleans: go to the French Quarter once, during the day; explore its nooks and crannies, but don’t look too close; pay a boatload of money to eat at one of the gazillion fine eating establishments that have been there since Napoleon, and don’t ask what the delicious thing you’re eating actually is; hold your breath the whole time; and then leave. The rest of the city is actually wonderful, not trying to be.
(P.S. Petra liked it better than me. I think that’s ‘cause she doesn’t have a very good sense of smell. Or self-preservation. :) She, of course, would disagree.)
It’s disgusting, though. Rivulets of piss, vomit, spilled alcohol-swill, and god-knows what else trickle down the old worn gutters. The lights and music and crowds at night cast a forced revelrous aura, but in the day the reality is unavoidable. Tacky plastic signs (tacked irreverently to gorgeous facades) advertise tacky plastic merchandise and tacky plastic women for sale. It’s all much, much too much. It smells terrible, and is at this point so entirely self-aware that there is no joy left, just commerce.
I would strongly recommend to anyone visiting New Orleans: go to the French Quarter once, during the day; explore its nooks and crannies, but don’t look too close; pay a boatload of money to eat at one of the gazillion fine eating establishments that have been there since Napoleon, and don’t ask what the delicious thing you’re eating actually is; hold your breath the whole time; and then leave. The rest of the city is actually wonderful, not trying to be.
(P.S. Petra liked it better than me. I think that’s ‘cause she doesn’t have a very good sense of smell. Or self-preservation. :) She, of course, would disagree.)
it's the off season for a reason
My sister Lisa had stopped into my uncle’s house the Tuesday evening of our drive home on her way home from her own mid-American road trip, which was a fun coincidence. Six people in a very small two-bedroom apartment was a squeeze, but my family was very accommodating—my uncle slept under the kitchen table, and one of my cousins curled up on the loveseat. We all slept surprisingly well, perhaps because our bellies were happily full of my uncle’s hearty stew.
We left at the same time as Lisa Wednesday morning—she on a 14-hour leg to Boston, and we on an ill-fated northerly diversion to Niagara Falls. It started out well: we stopped in Erie, Pennsylvania on the shores of Lake Erie so that I could appreciate this great lake up close for the first time. I’ve never been to any of the Great Lakes before, and the lack of sea smell and salt taste in the face of so much water disturbed me. I had to taste the water myself before my body would believe its freshness. It tasted like melted freezer burn or old ice cubes. I don’t recommend it.
In Ohio we had already realized that we didn’t possess the correct attire for the ever-more-northern climes toward which we were advancing, but we were undeterred. We’re New Englanders, after all. A little cold wind and snow wasn’t going to hinder us. We layered up and drove on. To Niagara Falls. Where it was really, really, really cold. Right.
Why is it that we continue to think it’s a good idea to visit popular tourist destinations in the off season? There’s usually a reason the season is off. Especially in [expletive deleted] Niagara Falls. Despite newly-purchased hats, gloves, and scarves, our hearty selves only lasted about 45 minutes outside in our first walk down by the falls, and that only through the awe of the fall’s splendorous plume (you could see the flame-like spray from 10 miles away) and sheer determination overshadowing our bodies’ pain (PAIN!). It was probably around 10 degrees out, combined with a strong wet wind, and felt like something around -20 or colder. So we cut our losses and went back to the hostel, where it turned out our radiator was broken such that our room was approximately 130 degrees all night, even with the window wide open and snow blowing in on my pillow.
We “woke up” the next morning (having never really fallen asleep) ready to face an exciting new day. We treated ourselves to a tasty breakfast at the delightfully-named and Jetsons-décored “Why Diner”. Part way through breakfast, it started picturesquely snowing.
Before leaving town we swung by the Canadian side of the falls. The strength of the biting wind driving ice shards toward our faces unfortunately made it so we couldn’t even look in the general direction of the falls. Even when we bravely peered through our fingers toward where we thought they might be, we couldn’t see twenty feet past our noses. So much for the view—though it really did seem much better than the view from the American side. I’d recommend Canada to anyone visiting Niagara. We could feel the rumble of the falls beneath our feet, and its pummeling roar permeated the air. Quite the impressive force of nature. SO MUCH WATER.
By the time we got on the road (having almost been not allowed back into the US by the extremely ornery American customs official), the picturesque snow had turned into a proper blizzard that mucked up the roads very efficiently and followed us all day long. Driving 30-45 mph across most of upstate New York in horrible horizontal snow for eight hours gave me a new appreciation for a number of things: windshield wipers, snowplows (our modern angels), the well-designed drainage ditch system of the New York department of transportation, the surprising persistence and proliferation of the Seneca tribe, and books on tape.
By 6 pm we still had 100 miles to go to our intended night’s destination, Albany; Petra, my fearless driving wife, was exhausted; and the roads were getting even worse. We gave up in Westmoreland, and happily ensconced ourselves at the wood-paneled and quilt-covered Carriage House Motor Inn, where we took approximately 37 hot showers before sleeping like hibernating bears.
The next day was a long and thankfully boring drive across the remainder of upstate NY and all of Massachusetts (the long way) to finally safely arrive at Petra’s parents’ house in Concord. We were very, very glad to be home.
We left at the same time as Lisa Wednesday morning—she on a 14-hour leg to Boston, and we on an ill-fated northerly diversion to Niagara Falls. It started out well: we stopped in Erie, Pennsylvania on the shores of Lake Erie so that I could appreciate this great lake up close for the first time. I’ve never been to any of the Great Lakes before, and the lack of sea smell and salt taste in the face of so much water disturbed me. I had to taste the water myself before my body would believe its freshness. It tasted like melted freezer burn or old ice cubes. I don’t recommend it.
In Ohio we had already realized that we didn’t possess the correct attire for the ever-more-northern climes toward which we were advancing, but we were undeterred. We’re New Englanders, after all. A little cold wind and snow wasn’t going to hinder us. We layered up and drove on. To Niagara Falls. Where it was really, really, really cold. Right.
Why is it that we continue to think it’s a good idea to visit popular tourist destinations in the off season? There’s usually a reason the season is off. Especially in [expletive deleted] Niagara Falls. Despite newly-purchased hats, gloves, and scarves, our hearty selves only lasted about 45 minutes outside in our first walk down by the falls, and that only through the awe of the fall’s splendorous plume (you could see the flame-like spray from 10 miles away) and sheer determination overshadowing our bodies’ pain (PAIN!). It was probably around 10 degrees out, combined with a strong wet wind, and felt like something around -20 or colder. So we cut our losses and went back to the hostel, where it turned out our radiator was broken such that our room was approximately 130 degrees all night, even with the window wide open and snow blowing in on my pillow.
We “woke up” the next morning (having never really fallen asleep) ready to face an exciting new day. We treated ourselves to a tasty breakfast at the delightfully-named and Jetsons-décored “Why Diner”. Part way through breakfast, it started picturesquely snowing.
Before leaving town we swung by the Canadian side of the falls. The strength of the biting wind driving ice shards toward our faces unfortunately made it so we couldn’t even look in the general direction of the falls. Even when we bravely peered through our fingers toward where we thought they might be, we couldn’t see twenty feet past our noses. So much for the view—though it really did seem much better than the view from the American side. I’d recommend Canada to anyone visiting Niagara. We could feel the rumble of the falls beneath our feet, and its pummeling roar permeated the air. Quite the impressive force of nature. SO MUCH WATER.
By the time we got on the road (having almost been not allowed back into the US by the extremely ornery American customs official), the picturesque snow had turned into a proper blizzard that mucked up the roads very efficiently and followed us all day long. Driving 30-45 mph across most of upstate New York in horrible horizontal snow for eight hours gave me a new appreciation for a number of things: windshield wipers, snowplows (our modern angels), the well-designed drainage ditch system of the New York department of transportation, the surprising persistence and proliferation of the Seneca tribe, and books on tape.
By 6 pm we still had 100 miles to go to our intended night’s destination, Albany; Petra, my fearless driving wife, was exhausted; and the roads were getting even worse. We gave up in Westmoreland, and happily ensconced ourselves at the wood-paneled and quilt-covered Carriage House Motor Inn, where we took approximately 37 hot showers before sleeping like hibernating bears.
The next day was a long and thankfully boring drive across the remainder of upstate NY and all of Massachusetts (the long way) to finally safely arrive at Petra’s parents’ house in Concord. We were very, very glad to be home.
basketball court update
For those of you who astutely noticed that the basketball court that I built didn’t have backboards and hoops in the pictures you saw: indeed, we had to go back a second day to complete that rather astoundingly-difficult task. You’d think sticking some backboards on some poles wouldn’t be hard, wouldn’t you? It took six people all day to do it, and it was hard work. At least we got more delicious fried chicken and sausage po-boys out of it. And at the end of the day, the kids came and shot some hoops, and all was well with the world.
I’d encourage you to read the thank-you notes written by some of the students at the school to all the Hands On New Orleans staff. They’re absolutely wonderful. The text of the letters are here.
I’d encourage you to read the thank-you notes written by some of the students at the school to all the Hands On New Orleans staff. They’re absolutely wonderful. The text of the letters are here.
katsup
No, no, not the condiment. We're just going to start writing posts about all of our favorite things from our trip to New Orleans that we haven't told you about yet. So be prepared! Blog-o-rific deluge of catch-up coming!
Friday, December 14, 2007
home sweet home
After some adventures with snow and more snow, we're home in Concord safe and sound. Tales of our last two days will have to wait until we've had some sleep.
4,558 miles since we were last home.
If you're in the southern New England area, we'd love to see y'all--we'll have some free time between now and Christmas, so give us a call.
4,558 miles since we were last home.
If you're in the southern New England area, we'd love to see y'all--we'll have some free time between now and Christmas, so give us a call.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
oh, me oh my-oh, look at miss ohio
We're staying at my uncle's place outside of Canton. Ohio is rather an unfortunate waste of space, but I love seeing my family. They're awesome. And it's great to have a day off the road.
Mulates and Zydeco
For our second to last night in New Orleans – the last free night, the last night where we didn't have to be doing things like packing and going to bed early – our friend Rose treated us to a wonderful night on the town. We started with dinner at Mulate's, where we savored what we knew would be some of our last Cajun and Creole food (for the time being) while listening to the five piece Cajun band set up on the far side of the dance floor. It's been really neat to identify elements in Cajun music that are familiar from other music I enjoy, like bluegrass and Québecois fiddle music. My grilled shrimp were delicious, Rose’s red beans and rice were exceptional, and we had fun trying different things on the Cajun appetizer sampler. Erika disliked the fried oysters, I thought they were OK, and Rose prefers to avoid oysters however they are prepared. We all liked the fog's legs, though they were almost too rich for me, and none of us liked the alligator. Seriously gross. Like chicken but greasier and with a slight hint of soap. Erika says it recalls burnt motor oil.
After dinner we made our way to a New Orleans landmark known as the Rock n' Bowl. It does indeed have a bowling alley, but we didn't make it past the dance floor. The zydeco band we come to see was in full swing when we arrived, and couples filled the area in front of the stage. Less than 20 seconds after I walked in the door, this goofy Cajun dance teacher swept me out into the crowd. Thank goodness he was a good leader -- I'd never danced zydeco before, and he had me twirling all over the place! The crowd was energetic, enthusiastic, and mostly unpretentious. It was also intergenerational (though 21 and up, because of the bar), and quite mixed in terms of race and ethnicity. The two things that everybody had in common were that they liked the music, and they liked to dance. And let me tell you, most people there could really dance!
For those of you who have never heard zydeco music, picture a spectrum with bluegrass on one end and New Orleans Jazz on the other. Zydeco would be somewhere in the middle. If you've never seen zydeco dancing, think Texas Two-step and swing, but Cajun, sort of. The beat is very specific. Anyway, the music and the dance are both great, and we had so much fun! It was definitely our best night out of the entire trip.
After dinner we made our way to a New Orleans landmark known as the Rock n' Bowl. It does indeed have a bowling alley, but we didn't make it past the dance floor. The zydeco band we come to see was in full swing when we arrived, and couples filled the area in front of the stage. Less than 20 seconds after I walked in the door, this goofy Cajun dance teacher swept me out into the crowd. Thank goodness he was a good leader -- I'd never danced zydeco before, and he had me twirling all over the place! The crowd was energetic, enthusiastic, and mostly unpretentious. It was also intergenerational (though 21 and up, because of the bar), and quite mixed in terms of race and ethnicity. The two things that everybody had in common were that they liked the music, and they liked to dance. And let me tell you, most people there could really dance!
For those of you who have never heard zydeco music, picture a spectrum with bluegrass on one end and New Orleans Jazz on the other. Zydeco would be somewhere in the middle. If you've never seen zydeco dancing, think Texas Two-step and swing, but Cajun, sort of. The beat is very specific. Anyway, the music and the dance are both great, and we had so much fun! It was definitely our best night out of the entire trip.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Missouri loves company
It was 80° and humid as we drove out of Memphis. I was dismayed to see that, in places, Memphis appeared to be in as much disrepair as central city in New Orleans. We saw rubble piles, houses abandoned and boarded up, smashed windows, and burned cars. I understand why New Orleans looks like this, at least a little bit, but it's quite affecting to think that Memphis could come to this state by poverty alone.
We were surprised to find the whole of Arkansas and Missouri swaddled in immovable fog. I associate fog with the ocean, but evidently the Mississippi can muster up a decent fog itself. It almost felt like we were driving through the river -- that the water hadn't stopped at the shore, but spread up into the air and out over the land. The colors of the crops and dirt in the fields beneath the fog were vivid and rich compared to that flat white.
(Erika says: We've been living alongside the Mississippi this whole trip -- our bunk house was nestled in the corner of the river, so we'd find it if we went south, east, or west. We've walked, sat, eaten, and napped on its banks in New Orleans, Steamboated up and down its final port, leaned against its levees, learned about its usefulness, history, power, and fetters, followed its route on our maps, but it still seemed like a distant entity. Yesterday, surrounded by the dense muffling fog in Caruthersville, Missouri where my mother's parents grew up, watching the roiling silvery waters silently buffet a fishing boat and slide under the branches of an elm, I felt the undeniable presence of the river for the first time. All rivers are forces more than objects, this one more than any other I've known.)
Petra again: The levees that bordered the public fishing and boat launch where we stopped in Caruthersville looked quite similar to the ones that run along the lower 9th Ward. I’d heard, of course, that the federal levee system runs all the way along the Mississippi from New Orleans to St. Louis, but to actually see the truth of that was quite something else.
We found the City Museum of St. Louis was unexpected and eerie east. We didn’t even have to pay for parking. Those of you who haven't heard me rhapsodize about this institution might be surprised to hear that my desire to bring Erika to the City Museum was an extremely significant factor in our decision to drive North and then East rather than straight northeast from New Orleans. I was secretly convinced that by the time we actually got there, something would've gone wrong: it would have gone out of business, become entangled in a dramatic lawsuit, or be otherwise closed unexpectedly. For her part, Erika was sure that there was no way it could possibly live up to my elaborate descriptions, nor be worth going approximate the 600 miles out of our way or the steep cost of admission. In fact, it was open and she instantly fell so in love with the place that she put away her camera to free up her hands for climbing only two minutes into our visit. For her to enjoy something more than taking pictures is extremely rare. They had to kick us out at closing. Erika now wants to move to St. Louis -- specifically, to the twig nest above the white whale in between the first and second floors.
Perhaps further explanation is warranted at this point. The City Museum of St. Louis is not so much a museum as a beautifully mosaiced, lovingly constructed, fantastically designed, and unbelievably elaborate five-story building cum sculpture. While you could walk upright through most of the building, why would you, when you can instead climb through a spiral of shiny metal into a suspended tunnel decorated with tree branches, hurdle down the steep three-story slide covered by an arch of spinning colorful paint rollers, and wriggle your way down 2 1/2 stories of dark tunnels and caverns to find St. George’s Dragon? It's a sculpted 3-D maze large enough for adults to get lost in, and every detail is perfectly crafted. Most of the materials are scavenged, like the paint rollers: we took a break on a bench next to a pillar that someone had decorated with a realistic and detailed mosaic of the gecko made entirely out of old watchband's. It's gorgeous and whimsical and filled with stuff straight out of the myth, or out of your favorite dream. Incredibly, nothing is caricatured, cheesy, or childish. Although it may sound like a place for kids, adult enjoyed it just as much and crawl through the tunnels with just as much glee.
After the City Museum, we went to see our friend Soda, a temporary St. Louisian, who lived in the same dorm as me at Smith. These days, it seems we only get two see her for twelve hour periods every three years, which is very sad. Accordingly, we made the most of our time together before finally sending her back to her homework. We fell promptly asleep.
We were surprised to find the whole of Arkansas and Missouri swaddled in immovable fog. I associate fog with the ocean, but evidently the Mississippi can muster up a decent fog itself. It almost felt like we were driving through the river -- that the water hadn't stopped at the shore, but spread up into the air and out over the land. The colors of the crops and dirt in the fields beneath the fog were vivid and rich compared to that flat white.
(Erika says: We've been living alongside the Mississippi this whole trip -- our bunk house was nestled in the corner of the river, so we'd find it if we went south, east, or west. We've walked, sat, eaten, and napped on its banks in New Orleans, Steamboated up and down its final port, leaned against its levees, learned about its usefulness, history, power, and fetters, followed its route on our maps, but it still seemed like a distant entity. Yesterday, surrounded by the dense muffling fog in Caruthersville, Missouri where my mother's parents grew up, watching the roiling silvery waters silently buffet a fishing boat and slide under the branches of an elm, I felt the undeniable presence of the river for the first time. All rivers are forces more than objects, this one more than any other I've known.)
Petra again: The levees that bordered the public fishing and boat launch where we stopped in Caruthersville looked quite similar to the ones that run along the lower 9th Ward. I’d heard, of course, that the federal levee system runs all the way along the Mississippi from New Orleans to St. Louis, but to actually see the truth of that was quite something else.
We found the City Museum of St. Louis was unexpected and eerie east. We didn’t even have to pay for parking. Those of you who haven't heard me rhapsodize about this institution might be surprised to hear that my desire to bring Erika to the City Museum was an extremely significant factor in our decision to drive North and then East rather than straight northeast from New Orleans. I was secretly convinced that by the time we actually got there, something would've gone wrong: it would have gone out of business, become entangled in a dramatic lawsuit, or be otherwise closed unexpectedly. For her part, Erika was sure that there was no way it could possibly live up to my elaborate descriptions, nor be worth going approximate the 600 miles out of our way or the steep cost of admission. In fact, it was open and she instantly fell so in love with the place that she put away her camera to free up her hands for climbing only two minutes into our visit. For her to enjoy something more than taking pictures is extremely rare. They had to kick us out at closing. Erika now wants to move to St. Louis -- specifically, to the twig nest above the white whale in between the first and second floors.
Perhaps further explanation is warranted at this point. The City Museum of St. Louis is not so much a museum as a beautifully mosaiced, lovingly constructed, fantastically designed, and unbelievably elaborate five-story building cum sculpture. While you could walk upright through most of the building, why would you, when you can instead climb through a spiral of shiny metal into a suspended tunnel decorated with tree branches, hurdle down the steep three-story slide covered by an arch of spinning colorful paint rollers, and wriggle your way down 2 1/2 stories of dark tunnels and caverns to find St. George’s Dragon? It's a sculpted 3-D maze large enough for adults to get lost in, and every detail is perfectly crafted. Most of the materials are scavenged, like the paint rollers: we took a break on a bench next to a pillar that someone had decorated with a realistic and detailed mosaic of the gecko made entirely out of old watchband's. It's gorgeous and whimsical and filled with stuff straight out of the myth, or out of your favorite dream. Incredibly, nothing is caricatured, cheesy, or childish. Although it may sound like a place for kids, adult enjoyed it just as much and crawl through the tunnels with just as much glee.
After the City Museum, we went to see our friend Soda, a temporary St. Louisian, who lived in the same dorm as me at Smith. These days, it seems we only get two see her for twelve hour periods every three years, which is very sad. Accordingly, we made the most of our time together before finally sending her back to her homework. We fell promptly asleep.
em eye ess ess eye ess ess eye pea pea eye
We’re on the road again. (La la laa la la la laaa la la – come on, you know that song.) It’s really nice to be on our own after such tight community living, but it was very hard to leave our new friends, our meaningful work, and the bunk house that has been our home.
Our route took us hundreds of miles due north from New Orleans up the long edge of Mississippi (lots and lots of Mississippi) to Memphis, Tennessee. We first skirted the surprisingly large and varied western shore of Lake Ponchartrain, which surely is actually thirteen lakes banded together in a subterfuge of identity. Unfortunately, we couldn’t verify this, since the lake(s) were almost entirely covered with stagnant impermeable fog. I was previously amazed to learn that, to this day, whole communities of Native Americans and Cajuns live undetected in these marshes
Lake Ponchartrain marshes. Having now seen their extent and density, though, I’m sure that within a mile of the Interstate dozens of people could live without anyone on the outside knowing of their existence.
After more marshes and lots of flat boring stuff, we came to the first hill we had seen since arriving in New Orleans. We hadn’t realized the lack of hills until we saw this one. We greeted it gladly—a mound of earth that was not a levee, and had no other purpose than just being a hill!
Next there was Jackson, which was only interesting in that it prompted us to sing “Jackson.” We couldn’t really remember all the words (hotter than a pepper sprout… go comb your hair… teach ‘em what they don’t know how?), and neither of us sounds like Johnny Cash, but we gave it a full faith effort.
The unscintillating prospects out the car window prompted me to examine the area map in great detail, resulting in my discovery of a tiny notation north of Jackson: “Mississippi Petrified Forest.” Needless to say, this prompted a swift change in our itinerary, and we soon stepped out of the car into a strange, quiet, humid rural valley. The path (guarded at the beginning and end by truly adorable fuzzy kittens) led through wooded “Badlands,” former agricultural lands that had eroded into untellable steep, rocky, winding gullies and banks, in the process uncovering piles of petrified tree trunks. These beautiful tree fossils lie as they fell 36 million years ago, resting amidst the detritus of the modern forest surrounding them. It was often hard to tell at first glance which were wood or stone. And, yes, we made all of the obligatory “Petra-fied” jokes.
A few hundred miles of lovely farmland later, we arrived in Memphis. After a few choruses of “Graceland” and “Walking in Memphis,” we checked into the Pilgrim House hostel. It’s very cozy and chill (and has a cute fuzzy kitten named Soup), and interestingly is run by a Congregational church. In addition to housing the church and this hostel, this building also has a bike organization, a day care center, a performance/dance space, a shelter of some sort, and probably other things too. They do churches big down here.
We treated ourselves to a dinner of delicious veggie food (vegetables! tofu! and hummus! oh my!), which …oh my goodness I am already hungry for more vegetables. I think we mentioned before that New Orleans doesn’t believe in vegetables. I LOVE VEGETABLES! My enthusiasm is unfeigned and currently knows no bounds. I will spare you my odes to the zucchini, though, and go to bed.
P.S. There were cute kittens next to the restaurant too. Piles of them. A surplus of cuteness today.
Our route took us hundreds of miles due north from New Orleans up the long edge of Mississippi (lots and lots of Mississippi) to Memphis, Tennessee. We first skirted the surprisingly large and varied western shore of Lake Ponchartrain, which surely is actually thirteen lakes banded together in a subterfuge of identity. Unfortunately, we couldn’t verify this, since the lake(s) were almost entirely covered with stagnant impermeable fog. I was previously amazed to learn that, to this day, whole communities of Native Americans and Cajuns live undetected in these marshes
Lake Ponchartrain marshes. Having now seen their extent and density, though, I’m sure that within a mile of the Interstate dozens of people could live without anyone on the outside knowing of their existence.
After more marshes and lots of flat boring stuff, we came to the first hill we had seen since arriving in New Orleans. We hadn’t realized the lack of hills until we saw this one. We greeted it gladly—a mound of earth that was not a levee, and had no other purpose than just being a hill!
Next there was Jackson, which was only interesting in that it prompted us to sing “Jackson.” We couldn’t really remember all the words (hotter than a pepper sprout… go comb your hair… teach ‘em what they don’t know how?), and neither of us sounds like Johnny Cash, but we gave it a full faith effort.
The unscintillating prospects out the car window prompted me to examine the area map in great detail, resulting in my discovery of a tiny notation north of Jackson: “Mississippi Petrified Forest.” Needless to say, this prompted a swift change in our itinerary, and we soon stepped out of the car into a strange, quiet, humid rural valley. The path (guarded at the beginning and end by truly adorable fuzzy kittens) led through wooded “Badlands,” former agricultural lands that had eroded into untellable steep, rocky, winding gullies and banks, in the process uncovering piles of petrified tree trunks. These beautiful tree fossils lie as they fell 36 million years ago, resting amidst the detritus of the modern forest surrounding them. It was often hard to tell at first glance which were wood or stone. And, yes, we made all of the obligatory “Petra-fied” jokes.
A few hundred miles of lovely farmland later, we arrived in Memphis. After a few choruses of “Graceland” and “Walking in Memphis,” we checked into the Pilgrim House hostel. It’s very cozy and chill (and has a cute fuzzy kitten named Soup), and interestingly is run by a Congregational church. In addition to housing the church and this hostel, this building also has a bike organization, a day care center, a performance/dance space, a shelter of some sort, and probably other things too. They do churches big down here.
We treated ourselves to a dinner of delicious veggie food (vegetables! tofu! and hummus! oh my!), which …oh my goodness I am already hungry for more vegetables. I think we mentioned before that New Orleans doesn’t believe in vegetables. I LOVE VEGETABLES! My enthusiasm is unfeigned and currently knows no bounds. I will spare you my odes to the zucchini, though, and go to bed.
P.S. There were cute kittens next to the restaurant too. Piles of them. A surplus of cuteness today.
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