[The Far Edge]

Miami Beach

After checking out, I wandered across the street and onto the crest of the dune which marked the beginning of the beach. Even though it was only just after 9 am, the white lounge chairs were filling with sun worshipers. Back on the street side of the dune, people were taking breakfast at the cafes, bistros and restaurants. Joggers lumbered along and small groups of roller-bladers glided effortlessly by. Both the car and people traffic was extremely low compared to last night. I wandered down the beach for a while and then back via the street. The large Art Deco temperature gauge was being used heavily by tourists as a prop for photos. It already read ninety-one degrees. The humidity was rising as well. It had certainly been far more pleasant on the beach, where a slight breeze fanned you.

The streets were quite all over Miami Beach. There was just so much Art Deco, and all of it was so well maintained. It gave me an inkling of what the rest of the world was trying to achieve during the 1920s. In most other cases, what is left of that period has been watered down to a dull set of architectural white-elephants. Here they still have an exciting energy, paying homage to an optimistic age where mankind felt he could achieve anything.

Road-side Deco

I stayed on the A1A as it wound its way out of Miami, and up the beaches. For the most part, they were speckled by very few people. Then I arrived in Fort Lauderdale. An orgy of hot, sweaty flesh dramatically started opposite the first street cafe. Every one was sucking it in and thrusting it out, checking out each other and showing off as much as they dared. It was the Bay Watch myth, in real life and on steroids. I had grown to believe that such scenes really didn’t exist. I was wrong. Ten minutes later I was sitting in a bar, supping my Coors Light and watching the corporeal carnival. The police were busy checking what people were drinking. (Being caught drinking alcohol in a public place results in stiff penalties.) Naval Officers would intermittently pass by. And twice, car drivers, so intent on looking at the beach, drove straight into the rear of the car in front of them.

This next bit may sound odd to some people, but after an hour of viewing, I grew restless. So, I moved on up the road again.

The next area of any note was the Palm Beach area. I was already impressed by the opulence of the homes lining the beaches and Intracoastal Waterways. But Palm Beach took the proverbial biscuit. How can there possibly be enough wealth in the world to have financed these miles, upon miles of mansions? Palm Beach even has a shopping center that is a near clone of Rodeo Drive, in Beverly Hills. The stench of money was almost too much.

Fort Lauderdale

The road had been a slow one, so I arrived at Michele’s home, in Melbourne, later than I had expected. Michele is a friend, that I know from San Francisco, who moved back here just over a month ago. The Melbourne area was recently a haven for alternative music, but most of that has died down now. After a Mexican dinner, I found myself sipping brews again, looking out over the Atlantic, the moon’s brilliant, full disk reflecting off the waves, as they broke on the beach. It feels more humid tonight. The sound of crickets and bull-frogs come up from the river, and through the door, on a sweet smelling breeze.

Stats:
Route:
> Miami: South Beach - A1A - Melbourne

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 5
> Birds 2
> Cats 1

Key West - Down Town

Key West marked the farthest point South in the USA, and the farthest point away from San Francisco. But I was not considering my outward bound trip complete until I reached Miami. When I awoke, I had to fight back the desire to jump straight in to the car and drive back up Route 1 to Miami, and to the turning point in my trip. A mental, calm and rational voice chipped in and first suggested, and then reiterated, that this may be the only time that I would ever be in Key West. Eventually,the rumbling in my stomach won over all else, and drove me to the nearest breakfast emporium. Thankfully this was next-door to my lodgings. As I filled in my diary, I momentarily reflected on the four-thousand plus miles that I had covered to date, and the twists of fate that had made the trip possible. I HAD to look around this key.

My mind made up, I slouched back in my chair and troweled the hash, eggs, sausage and OJ down my throat. I had twelve minutes before the next tour tram left.

As I signed my chit, across the street the propane-propelled tram pulled in. I stood, strode out across the street and on to the tram. The only seat available was next to a lone elderly lady. She stayed completely mute for the rest of my time on-board. We left the stop and headed to the end of the block, where conch (pronounced “conck” by Key dwellers), shells and souvenirs were on sale, our guide pointed out a plaque. I had been staying in the Southern most motel in the USA! The guide talked about the plants, the houses and Key West’s history. Much of this I eventually tuned-out to. It was nothing new. It was cool to see all these places as a spectator, and not have to drive and map-read at the same time. I eventually disembarked in the old warehouse district. Here I joined some other tourists on a narrated visit to the Historium - the tallest remaining wooden structure on the keys. The narrators dressed in period costume, and stayed in character, as they drew-out an abridged history of the area. Inside we were treated to a video, which covered the same, in greater detail, and exhibits of treasures retrieved from reef wrecks.

After this I walked briefly around the area, before heading back to the tour pick-up point. After I boarded the tram, it took me, and my fellow passengers, around the rest of the island.

On this final leg of the trip, something struck me (the hyper-critical one). To me, guided tours should be the equivalent of wafting a tantalizing morsel of the most exquisite banquet in front of some one’s nose, while explaining to them, in a sultry tone, what they could experience if they hung around and waited for the main course. However, most of the USA’s guided tours, that I have experienced, are more like melting-down the entire subject, skimming the unsightly and non-uniform elements off the surface and then casting a large nail, which is placed against the guest’s fore-head and driven home with a lump-hammer.

I can only assume that this is a highly popular and cost effective means of getting the facts across to your audience.

Key West - Historium

All this is certainly not to say that the tour was a waist of time. Only that it’s content could have been a little differently presented. It was worth every cent, just to see such a comprehensive cross section of the island and its architecture. And I did learn one very important fact, one of the reasons why Key West can survive solely on tourism dollars, is because its climate remains extremely stable for most of the year. A fact that I am sure will pop into my mind the next time I have to scrape ice off my windscreen, before I can drive anywhere.

I think that last night, I had blindly ended up in my favorite area of the island. It was a little less tourist infested, and like the Castro area of San Francisco, it’s gay community had effectively merged a number of different cultural and architectural influences, with a dash of camp, archiveing stunning effect. I had not caught-on to the fact that there was at touch of Castro in the air, even with tell-tail signs such as last night’s benefit, the fact that I had breakfast at “Diner Shores” and the “Queen’s Chambers” were across the street. I had to be able to compare it to the rest of the island before I could see the obvious.

My oh-so-brief liaison with Key West left me with quite mixed feelings about the area. As with so many places, I wish that I could just take a trans-dimensional tube train to the past and see it in its previous incarnations; Back when the gulf-stream and coral reefs produced innumerable wrecks and it’s close proximity to Havana made it the port of entry for innumerable tobacco products. Today, Key West’s laws governing development, have enabled it to become cute, whilst remaining true to much of it’s heritage. And - while I would go crazy if I had to stay for any prolonged period of time - I would love to return to this tropical island for a couple of weekends, so that I could scuba-dive along the reef and see for myself, the wrecks that made it the wealthiest city in the US for nearly a century.

Satisfied that I had see as much as I could for one day, I got back on a the end of Route 1, and drove out the way I had come in.

I hit Miami during peak commute-hour and, after tooling around the city for about an hour, decided that I wanted to see what the beaches had to offer.

Miami - South Beach

I crossed to Miami Beach, via the Mac Arthur Causeway bridge, and headed for the Art Deco district, South Beach. The exit from the main route was a little disconcerting. Yes, I was surrounded by Art Deco … but most of it was rubble, with huge demolition cranes looming over their prey. Had they destroyed it all?! Fortunately, the answer is no. And whilst I have no explanation for the destruction, the majority of the beach front area was still there in all its neon and brightly painted splendor. I ate at the Colony (fitting, huh) while I people-watched. As I chatted with my waiter, a well - if scantily - dressed crowd milled by. He was a little depressed that Miami’s tourist season had ended so soon. I had not really thought about it, but summer is Miami’s off season. In a month or so the temperature here could be as high as one hundred and ten degrees centigrade, with an accompanying ninety percent humidity. And then there is the rain. Too hot to handle.

Stats:
Route:
> Key West - 1 - 41 - 41a - Miami: South Beach

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 7
> Birds 3

The Everglades

Towards the end of yesterday’s drive, two weeks of almost continual driving started to take their toll on me. I pulled a muscle that made my shoulder and neck feel like a hot steel bar was being driven through them. The only time that I have ever experienced such intense pain was when I came off a bike and dislocated my shoulder. This may go some way to explaining why I was not so enthusiastic about the miles of countryside I had covered.

Today I awoke after a largely sleepless night. But thankfully, some of the fire had been extinguished in my left shoulder. I clambered in to the car, took a deep breath and set off.

I had arrived in Bradenton when it was almost dark and as a result had not seen the local vegetation. Now that I did, I realised that the area had a far more tropical look to it than the costline at my entry point to the state. There were palms, fig trees and banana plants. As I neared Port Charlotte I started getting a little frustrated at the Sunday Drivers. Gradually I noticed that the worst of them were actually quite senior in their years … And then I started to recall all the Retirement Resorts and Homes For The Elderly that I had driven by, between Panama City and this point. How come it did not strike me as unusual yesterday? There must be literally hundreds of them! Is this the Florida equivalent of the Elephant’s Graveyard?

Then, just as my mood was lifting, I drove through Solana and felt that tell-tail grating vibration from the rear driver’s side wheel. A flat! And in the one tire that had not been replaced in Needles! As always, when disaster strikes fortune shines on other things. In this case it was that I was right next to a gas station. So I pulled in, removed the tire and marveled at how a four-inch steel pin, had gone straight in to the tire near the wall and then exited on the inside rim when it buried itself into the wheel. I lugged out the spare. It is one of those “skinny” spares, that is about half the width of the real thing, and can only be used to get to the nearest new tire. The guy at the gas station put it on for me. I threw the flat in the passenger seat. (It would not fit in the trunk because it is full of bags.) Another fortunate thing is that this tire had a “Hazards Waver Warranty” associated with it. This meant that if I could find a Firestone dealership in the next city, they would replace the dead tire for the price of the amount of wear I had put on it. Fort Myers was only down the road ,and there was a Firestone center on the 41. So, again, luck was now with me. Fortunate as all this was, it still meant that I lost upwards of three hours driving time.

While the terribly nice guys at the tire center did their stuff, I wandered up and down the 41. This area was South of Fort Myers proper. It is one of those satellite shopping areas designed to be accessed by car. To get from one side of the 41 to the other you have to cross three lanes that run in each direction, and even if you stay on the same side of the street, you have to be very careful that no one is turning into the parking lot that you are crossing. This is made even more dangerous because there are no side-walks or pedestrian crossings.

Sunset over Key West

I was glad to get the car back with a clean bill of health, the area was a little short of “points of interest”.

After looking at my guide books and map, I decided that the road between Fort Myers and Key West held little that I wanted to stop for. Sure, it would have been nice to take a trip through the Everglades - on one one of those boats with the big fans on the back … But I had already had my fill of ‘gators in Louisiana.

So, I topped up the gas tank and floored it. I felt a strange glee as the result of committing to this goal.

At Napels, the terrain suddenly changed from tropical beaches to swamp. The road became flanked by palms in reed beds that stretched out for as far as the eye could see. This was Collier, just one section of the Everglades. It is the sort of area that just can not be captured adequately on film or in words. Even Panovision falls short of the real thing. Driving though this immenseness, makes you feel very small. I was like a small black ant running for its life across the picnic blanket. Overhead hawks of some sort drew parallel with me before plunging into the greenery after some meaty morsel.

Roughly three hours later I was at the first of the keys, Key Largo. But I did not stop. Route one chased the sun over the crimson horizon, and I followed … all the way though these incredible tropical islands. The air was still warm and full of floral scents. And this is just spring. Summer must be unbearably hot. Eventually the sign read Route 1 End. I had made it.

Key West looks like it is still in party mode. There was a solid stream of cars leaving The Keys. But the historic downtown area was throbbing with music and people. The motel that I found lodging in is a perfect example of deco decadence - as are many of its neighbors. Next door the Aids Benefit is just winding down and the last straddlers are wobbling off on their heels, wigs under arms or slung over shoulders. Those not in drag simply trying to maintain composure for long enough to flag a cab.

The sea is at the end of the building, where the road just melds with white sandy beach and gradually slopes off below the lapping waters.

Stats:
Route:
> Bradenton - 41 - Florida City Turnpike - 1 - Key West

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 9
> Birds 3
> Cats 2
> Bears 1
> Fish 7

Bradenton Beach

Landing in Bradenton marks the end of a rather long, rather uneventful, day of driving. It started on Panama City Beach - miles of white sand beaches, framing the Gulf of Mexico. It ended on Bradenton Beach - miles of white sand beaches, framing the Gulf of Mexico. Okay, there are more rolling dunes here and this area is a little busier. But the only real difference is that it is nearly twelve hours drive further down the road.

Before I left the Panama City area, I dropped by a Wal*Mart (US supermarket franchise) to pick up some toiletries. I found my dental floss, turned right at the bottom of the isle and stopped stock still, as my mouth fell open. Panama City’s Wal*Mart has one side of one isle dedicated to sun lotion (aka tanning cream, sun cream, etc.)!!!! I rallied, and attempted to look like I had just recognised some one I knew on the opposite side of the isle. Unfortunately my tortured mind was then confronted with the dietary aids isle. It was much smaller, but I was unaware that there were so many different chemically enhanced ways of burning fat. Slim Fast to bikinis is evidently the equivalent of honey to bees. A swarm or stylishly anorexic beach-babes devoured the shelf-stock. Wal*Mart evidently not only fills all your desires but you inadequacies too.

Back on the road, it was only a short time before I entered a forested area. This remained with me for the rest of the trip, broken only intermittently by marsh, scrub and what were labeled as glades (though I am pretty sure this has little to do with air freshener). Yes, the grass was green, the trees tall, the sky blue … but after the first five hours, it started wearing thin. This route is imaginatively named something like, “The Natural Wonder Route”. I would have been a little more enthusiastic, if I was walking through this area and had time to commune with Mother Nature. But I was not. Even the way that derelict road-side buildings had been consumed by the surrounding forest, only momentarily entertained me.

If I am lucky, one more day of this will get me to Key West.

Stats:
Route:
> Panama City Beach (FL) - 98 - 19 - 41 - Bradenton

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 3
> Birds 1

Panama City Beach

Today was a laundry day. This would not have warranted a mention, if it was not for the fact that, as my machine went into its spin cycle, the car’s alarm went off. This happens a lot. It goes off if you just lean on the trunk. But people were gathered by the window, looking out at the parking lot and shaking their heads. So, I got worried. When I got outside I saw that some guy in a cream van with wood-effect paneling had reversed into my car! A moment later a squad car arrived. The officer had been across the street when he saw it happen. My car’s driver side wing was a mangled mess. The van was unscathed. In many ways I was lucky because some how he had missed the wheel, the door and the lights. So, the car still works. I was also lucky that the police were there to control the situation, take information from us and fill out an official report. After a short time the original squad car was called away and another arrived to finish up the work. The man made some feeble attempt at pointing the blame at me but shut up when he saw the look on both the officer’s and my own faces. After the forms were filled out, the man and the squad car left, I put my washing in the dryer and started calling around to get the insurance claim on the way. Everyone was incredibly helpful. The other customers made reassuring comments and offered help. Even so it took a few hours before I could leave.

I felt like a nervous basket case and just wanted to get the hell away from Biloxi.

As I crossed into Alabama, the beautiful homes stopped and the surrounding land was made up mainly of white sandy ground with pine or spruce trees. This continued until I was well into Florida and past Fort Walton beach. Now I could see the Gulf of Mexico through the line of beach houses. This entire area looks like a carbon copy of much of the Costa Del Sol. In both cases, beautiful, wooded beaches are being cleared and made into desirable beach front properties. Here, the architecture is only very slightly American Colonial. But it is so washed out and genericised, that it could be anywhere. One beach community - Seaside - was so putridly cute, with its pastel whiter shades of pail, that I felt ill. Naturally everyone was in four wheel drive vehicles and wearing Timberland.

I continued on to Panama City Beach, home of MTV’s Spring Break ‘97. It is Friday night, so I should really check it out. But I will attempt to get online and update these pages before I head out. Let us hope my luck is better in this area.

Stats:
Route:
> Biloxi (MS) - 90 - 10 - 98 - Panama City Beach (FL)

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 7
> Birds 1
> Raccoons 3
> Armadillos 1

I10 over Swamp

The dark static of my mind flinched to the pulsing of the alarm clock. I sat bolt upright at the sound of the aforementioned clock hitting the opposite wall. Something deep in the sub levels of my mind must have been pretty desperate to keep the higher ones in the dark. Half an hour later, I was swilling down copious amounts of coffee in a feeble attempt to clear the fuzz from my head and the fur from my tongue.

A glance at the clock told me it was time to check out of The Prince Conti. Well, we can add New Orleans to my short list of places to visit again. One day was barely enough to scratch and sniff.

Destrehan Plantation Home

Another half hour past and I was lost in a concrete maze of roads trying to find the Route 48. A cunning plan surfaced through the mental-haze, and after only another twenty minutes I had rapidly eliminated two of my road maps as inaccurate and found the 48. When will the publishers of tourism maps stop printing these esthetically pleasing maps, which have no bearing on reality?!

The road was following the Mississippi levy wall. My destination was the first of two antebellum Plantation Houses, Destrehan. When these plantations were founded, boats were the main mode of transport, thus most of the plantation homes were built along the Mississippi for access. Many of those which remain today have featured in numerous movies and TV shows.

Destrehan has a particularly interesting past, which sees it passing through many peoples hands and being structurally altered every decade or so. Eventually it was almost lost when the oil company, which owned it, just let it fall into ruin. Eventually the same company donated it to a society that is dedicated to its restoration. And now it is back in near original order.

At Destrehan, and later at Houmas, I took part in a guided tour of these magnificent homes. Indeed, in both cases, entry is forbidden unless accompanied by the guide. They were very informative too. At first I had to smirk at the period costumes worn by the guides. But once the tours commenced, they seamed to fit and it was hard to imagine them looking any different. In both cases, when the crowd wandered off ahead, I half expected to blink and be back in those early days of Louisiana’s colonisation.

Houmas Plantation Home

For the majority of the rest of my trip into the Mississippi, the interstate was built on huge stilts that plunged down into the swamp and marsh. It was almost like being on a scenic roller-coaster. I guess that it is technically one long bridge.

Once across the state line, I got onto Route 90, and headed for the coast. One minute I was in swamp land, and the next I turned a dramatic bend and was by the Gulf of Mexico again. This time I was following a long white sand beach, lined with gorgeous, ornate old homes. I recall reading that this beach is man-made. But I can not find any references to corroborate this tidbit.

About midway along the Mississippi state coast line I stopped at Biloxi. Starting at Gulfport there have been casinos at one or two mile intervals and the intervening space is filled with , motels, hotels, T-Shirt shops and Souvenir shops. It was getting late. Then I saw it, a huge artificial pirate ship, built out of concrete, complete with masts and sails, moored next to an equally artificial castle. All its dimensions are warped, like it was squashed by its own weight. On the opposite side of the road is a totally sane sixties motel with a flashing vacancy sign and an insanely low room rate. So I check in and head over to The Treasure Bay Casino Resort. It is like a mini Reno (i.e. a mini, mini Las Vegas) with the feel of a UK coastal holiday resort. I change some notes into quarters and feed the machines, while I watch people excitedly slot coin after coin into other machines. What pros! Surely they should get sponsored and a peak-hour slot on ESPN.

One case epitomises the entire affair. In front of a poster, an old lady is helped from her walking-frame to a five cent slot machine. The poster depicts an attractive, young couple, dressed for dinner and having a ball at a slot machine. Its legend say, “Slackest Slots”. (I just love that phrase!) The old woman then proceeds to use three slot machines at once. As time passes, the plastic cartons of coins grow empty and she trembles as she grumbles at a near miss or snortes in triumph at a win. Eventually her supplies give out. She is helped back to her walking aid and guided to the nearest cashier. Her help nodds as she hoarsely states, “Y’all know t’was about to start payin’!” I pondered what she would have done - if this statement was correct and she had played on - with the jack-pot prize of a Jet-ski.

Tonight’s supper was in a near by diner. The only reason for choosing this place was that it sold grits and, until today, I had not tried any. I am glad to report that I have not been missing much. It tastes like watery cream of wheat (aka porridge), but I think it must be made using some other grain crop. I tried to interrogate my serving person, but the best I got out of her was, “Grits IS grits.” I think I was hitting that accent wall again.

Stats:
Route:
> New Orleans (LA) - 61 - 310 - 48 - 310 - 10 - 44 - 10 - 12 - 10 - 90 - Biloxi (MS)

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 7
> Birds 3
> Raccoons 2
> Armadillos 2
> Shoes 1

Paddle Steamer

I was excited. An entire day of no driving and exploring New Orleans. I dressed so fast that Batman and Robin would have been put to shame, and then was about to bypass The Prince Conti’s Continental Breakfast, but the aroma of a fresh brew dragged me into the breakfast area. A pain au chocolate, three coffees and an OJ (sem Simpson) later and I was zig-zagging my way through the French Quarter streets on my way to Jackson Square and the Mississippi. It was magnificent. Other tourists wandered about, but I was pleasantly surprised at the number of people who appeared to live and work in the area. Most of the far right third of The Quarter is mainly residential and there were offices, shops and children playing in school yards. There was also live music on the streets and in the cafes. However, the main streets for night happenings were mainly shut and being hosed down in preparation for the coming evening.

At the Tolouse Street Wharf I watched real paddle steamers come and go with their burden of tourists. The riverfront Street Car trundled by and I decided that I was having fun. I tried desperately to pretend that I had not seen the Planet Hollywood and Hard Rock Cafe eateries, built into the Jackson Brewery building. But I failed. What is the point of being able to show people T-shirts proving that you have eaten the same burger all over the world?

I attempted to take a slightly different route back, and in doing so ran across John, who had manned the front desk when I checked in last night. He acknowledged me and continued giving his voodoo walking tour. I eaves dropped for a few minutes before heading on.

Back at the hotel I joined my own tour, The Fun Day tour, which was to give me a brief driven tour around the main sections of the city and a boat trip through the swamp. The many districts of the city all have their own flavor but are generally made up of quite large old homes. Our guide answered many of the questions that had been bugging me:

* The city was initially founded by the French, over two hundred years ago.
* The French Quarter was the original city.
* This explained my feeling that I was in an old European city.
* Only half of the French Quarter was built on land that did not need reclaiming from swamp.
* Every other part of the New Orleans area was reclaimed from swamp and bog lands.
* Though these areas are more than sixteen feet below the level of the Mississippi it is kept dry by a series of drainage ditches, bayous, levies and pumping stations.
* This all means that the water table is between two and four feet below the surface. So plants and crops always have water but burial is only possible above ground.

The bayou was only about eight miles away from down town New Orleans. The parking lot next to the dock was also the site for a shrimp market. People from all walks of life wandered around , dickering for the best prices and checking quality.

Our flat bottomed boat was piloted by our swamp guide - and older round faced gentleman. He had a very Louisiana accent and would repeat everything he said, at least twice. This natural reinforcement meant that I actually remember quite a bit of what he said. (”O’er yonder is a turtle. (A turtle). On that log. (Log) … The log is floating on that bog. (Bog) Now your bog is not the same as yer swamp …”

Our trip took us through out of the bayou and in to the swamp proper. It was green and beautiful and every couple of minutes some one would point out a turtle, alligator, bird or snake. Mid way through this we stopped at Miss Mary’s house for a cajun lunch. Her single story, indigo house is near one of the pumping stations and surrounded by swamp. The only way in, is via Bayou Segnette. Her garden has chickens, peacocks, banana plants and herbs. After we ate I talked with her about her father - who had been a mink trapper - and how her siblings and children had lived in the area. It reminded me of the stories that my Father, and my aunts and uncles, tell of their childhood on the island of Madeira. Both involved large Roman Catholic families and co-operatives farming.

Once back in the city, I scrubbed up and headed out for a coffee at a nearby courtyard cafe. Then I walked around with the list of cajun restaurants which I had gathered. I had hoped to find some small hole-in-the-wall type place amongst my list. But it contained only either highly priced restaurants, that filled their windows with their awards, or tourist traps, that were decked out with fluorescent lighting and plastic plants.

Preservation Hall Jazz

As the night drew in, the crowds on Bourbon grew. Eventually the blocks were closed to traffic. I gave up my hunt and went into the Pat O’Neil. This place had an interesting history, was in the lower price range and fell into the fluorescent lighting category. My Crawfish Etouffee was surprisingly good, if not as spicy as I expected. After eating I walked the length of Bourbon and back and tried every place that had live music. The Preservation Hall, on St. Peter and Bourbon, had no real competition. It is a purposely no frills environment, where the majority of the audience have to stand to experience the veteran jazz musicians work through set, after set of classic jazz. The other music also scored quite highly. About the only places that I did not bother with, were the strip clubs. Sure, they add to the colour of the place, but were not what I was in this city for. Anyway, I can always go to the ones around my home in North Beach.

By the small hours of the morning, I felt that I had given the Bourbon scene a good try and was getting pretty tired of the mobs of adolescents moving up and down the street and having fun at everyone else’s expense. If it was not for the handful of excellent music venues, I would have completely lost interest in that area of the French Quarter.

Some one once used the words “eclectic” and “mess” to describe this place. I can see some of what they were getting at. But I was also acutely aware that I had just seen that small part of the area, that was manufactured for the tourists. Surrounding and under pinning this is a network of establishments that cater to the locals and are not on this one famous street. Eventually I wandered off, down a side street, and found a bar that served Guiness and who’s clientele was obviously made up of the staff from other establishments. I played the fly on the wall as a local love triangle unraveled itself, in a slightly inebriated soap-opera kind of a way. Then it was time for bed. I started to try and figure out how many drinks I had imbibed and gave up when I realised that it would be a better idea, if I used that energy to help me focus on the exit door, which was stubbornly refusing to stop oscillating in time to the background noise.

Stats:
Route:
> None

Road Kill:
> None

Rayne home

It is a miracle. Today, I was on the road before 10 am! At the Northern tip of Galveston Island, I caught the free ferry to Port Bolivar. Despite the cloud cover, the air was warm. Hundreds of black-headed gulls skillfully swooped and dived over the stern as three young children threw balls of bread into the air. I stood on the public observation deck and watched this while Galveston shrank into the distance.

Last night its attractive mix of Victorian and Art Deco buildings - and the over priced souvenir shops and restaurants that they housed - where largely closed, waiting for the end of the month. Then the place is meant to become a world of crazy youth. From the few pictures I saw of previous seasons, I am thankful that I missed that craziness.

It was a very short trip, and on the other side I set off along Route 87. Today I was determined to follow the same strategy as on Monday; I would keep off the main Interstates as much as I could. I had purchased a more detailed atlas to help me in this quest. Most of the trip along the Bolivar Peninsula was through sandy wild life reserves and small, quite resort towns. I had brunch in Bridge City. Gary’s Family Diner was surrounded by pickup trucks and I drew some unusual looks as I walked through its clientele of “Good Old Boys”, on my way to an empty table. I was the only one not wearing a base-ball cap. My waitress had these incredibly long fake pink nails too. The chicken fried stake was pretty good though.

The swamp lands

I joined the Interstate 10 only long enough to cross into Louisiana. It was interesting to note that the flowers which had lined my route through Texas, stopped just shy of the state line.

I dropped onto Route 90. The story with Route 90 is similar to the one with Route 20. Only in this case, the towns still look well maintained; Children play around the houses and people enter and leave local stores; Buildings have a fresh lick of paint and gardens are maintained.

For the majority of my trip, the road cut its way through swamp land. Occasionally it would traverse bayous and Intracoastal Waterways. Homes and fields would be cut into the solid wall of green forestation.

Louisiana wins, hands down, for the most visually appealing state visited on this trip. Or is that most visually unusual? As the 90 swung into Houma it ran parallel with a navigable waterway. Here men and boys were fishing and willow trees bowed down low into the water. The image was exactly Huckleberry-Finn. The air was heavy with the sent of damp plant matter and my brow was damp with humidity.

This land is so green and fertile that it is bursting at its seams with wild-life. A large number of which was lying dead by the roadside.

I had hoped to stay the night in Lafayette. Cajun central. But I reached it at peak rush-hour. Lafayette is supposably home for over 100,000 people. Every one of which were on the road and getting tense. The down town business district had just been re-painted. And I had arrived on the day before all the street signs went back up. It was confusing. But I also did not feel too drawn by it all. As I stared intently at my map for some inspiring morsel of as yet unnoticed Lafayette information, the number “129″ jumped out of the page at me. It was the distance, in miles, to New Orleans from Lafayette. After another couple of blocks of blank signs and blank enthusiasm I headed back to the car and drove the 129 miles.

I fumbled straight into the French Quarter. It was already quite late, but the narrow streets were still full of people wandering from petit store to petit store. I felt like I had been transported to Lisbon or some other European city.

What a place!

Will it look as appealing in the day light?

Stats:
Route:
> Galveston(TX) - 87 - 10 - 90 - 182 - 90 - New Orleans(LA)

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN - 30
> Dogs 1
> Cats 2
> Raccoons 8
> Skunks 7
> Birds 8
> Tortoises 1
> Sofas 2
> Fish 1

The USS Lexington

Today started out with an emergency dash to a pharmacist. I awoke with a bad case of gumbo-tum (the gumbo version of curry-tum - where the heat of the spices can be felt more potently on their way out than on their way in). I decided that it would be prudent to seek a cure prior to attempting any driving. I initially passed through the down-town area of Corpus Christi, but came up empty handed. I then tried the Cross City Freeway. This proved to be a success. It also explained the run-down state of the down-town area. This major thoroughfare is lined by every American chain and franchise. So it is likely that this area ceased much of the traditional down-town trade.

After getting the necessary tablets for my stomach, I headed back to the USS Lexington. It took me a good two hours, or so, to take the self guided tour. This air craft carrier came into service during the Second World War and was remained one of the US Navie’s heavy-weight work-horses until late into the 1980s. It survived suicide air raids, torpedo strikes and the longest sustained air bombardment. The elevators that take the aircraft from the hanger to the surface could comfortably accommodate the average home. I am quite sure that it is the largest ocean going vessel that I have been aboard.

Across from the Lexington’s position is the a recreation of the Columbus Fleet. They are supposed to be very accurate and have been seen sailing in a number of films and TV shows.

By the time that I had completed my explorations, the sun had burned back the early morning cloud-cover and the early afternoon temperature was rapidly rising.

Somewhere between Corpus Christi and the turn for Refugio, the roadside habitat turned from sand-dunes to wetlands. The further North-East that I traveled the swampier this land looked. The historical markers, placed along the side of the road, started to tell of land farmed and maintained by slave labor. Tree branches hung low with their burden of spanish moss, that hang like threads from their hosts. People’s accents were changing too, growing gradually more lilted and sing-songy.

Galveston Beach Homes

Route 35 was gradually growing into a more major route . So, when I reached the junction with the 288 I took it South to Freeport. I was hoping to pick up signs along some farm routes to Galveston. I was worried for a little while as large chemical plants loomed up around me, but sure enough signs for Galveston appeared and lead me off along the coast. For the rest of my route, the road was flanked by water and beautiful wooden homes, on stilts. A few were even surrounded by water. Most looked expensive and many were being painted in preparation for the start of the Summer Season, in May.

After a pay-toll booth at the end of a low bridge, the homes gave way to motels and hotels and the road followed even closer to the beach.

The fact that I had explored my morning away and followed a single lane route meant that it was now already after 7pm. Time to stop for the night.

Galveston - Day’s End

I am now typing as I watch the last golden edge of the sun disappear over the horizon. I hope that my stomach will allow me to try some of the local delights later.

Stats:
Route:
> Corpus Christi - 35 - 288 - Freeport - Galveston

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 7
> Dogs 1
> Shoes 2
> Birds 5

The Alamo’s Chapel

Today was perhaps the easiest so far. My motel was already on the South-bound I35. I was fairly happy to leave this place. The pastel shades of pink made me feel like I had spent the night in a sensory deprivation chamber.

For the first time since my trip started, I was joined on the road by large numbers of other vehicles. Even though this meant that there was much jostling for position, the traffic still flowed at a very reasonable pace.

The blanket of yellow and purple flowers were still with me, only now they were joined by patches of crimson and the grass was fresh spring-green.

The weather has changed from clear blue skies with temperatures in the nineties, to overcast and perhaps sixty degrees. This is a bit of a relief.

I got off the Interstate in San Antonio, at Commerce, and headed straight for the Alamo. If it was not for the fact that a Mexican band were playing in the center of Alamo Plaza, I would have gone straight by. I found parking and then walked back. For some reason, I had thought that more of the original mission still stood. Instead, only the Long Barracks and Chapel survive with a number of original walls. What was once the drill area, is now the plaza area with souvenir and apartment stores. The Chapel and Long Barracks are beautifully preserved and house exhibits describing the development of the Alamo from early 1700s Spanish mission, to destruction during battle. I, like many of the other visitors, walked around in semi-silence. My mind was full of the stories I had heard about the heroic figures that gave their lives here for Texas. I was also rewarded with a display of David Crockett’s rifle. The legends surrounding the Alamo are as great as those of Greek and Roman times. But in this case we still have artifacts that can be proven to have belonged to the real people that became these myths.

It is a shame that the cloudy sky had resulted in such flat light. My memories will almost certainly be more vivid than my photographs.

Busking by the Alamo

San Antonio was also my lunch stop. I wandered into a small Tex-Mex joint in the Market Plaza and no sooner than I had sat down, than the stereotypical British Tourists walked in. It is fairly easy to spot this sort of Brits. abroad. This is largely due to the fact that they do not appear to use any sun block. Thus this group of four were all extremely red. I found it funny, but it must have hurt terribly. I can only put this British lack of respect for our skin, down to the complete lack of any sun back home. I clearly remember that as soon as there was any good weather, everyone would get as naked as they dared, and lay in it. And the validity of any holiday in continental Europe was measured by the vibrancy of your sub-burn when you returned. I, like many grew out of this after several painful adolescent experiences, where it was impossible to lay down and the touch of my cloths was a nightmare experience. Some seam to never learn. But, on their return home, these people would obviously be known by all to have had a very successful holiday in the US. The next thing that really made the cliche complete was that they complained that their bear was too cold! They were even laughing at how the condensation was forming on the outside of the bottles. “Can’t be good for ya, this cold.” I hope they have a vat of after-sun back at their hotel.

There was literally nothing of note on the I37 between San Antonio and Corpus Christi. As the I37 swings in on its final approach to the city, the traveler is treat to a beautiful vista of what look like refineries. But once past this you find yourself in an the sleepy seas side resort city. It reminds me a lot off Portsmouth, in England, probably because it does not have streets that follow a definite grid pattern, and the Aircraft Carrier Lexington is in permanent moorings and open to the public. Tomorrow I will explore this monstrous old piece of naval hardware. For now, I am heading out for a taste of some more Tex-Mex.

Stats:
Route:
> Austin - 35 - 37 - Corpus Christi

Road Kill:
> UNKNOWN 5
> Lambs 1
> Gulls 11