Days 3.5 - 5 - Crimson Tide, jazz in the streets, and sleepless in Louisiana

Current location: Arlington, TX
Time / distance traveled since last post: About 20 hours hours,  1450 miles
Total time / distance traveled: About 25 hours, 1800 miles

Noteworthy music: The Jazz of New Orleans and every CD I freaking own.

To all of my followers, please accept my apologies for the delay in updating my progress for two days. I beg your forgiveness, as this is literally the first time I have had to write and hopefully upload since the gay cybercafe in Atlanta, and wow do I ever have updates to report...

I write to you today from Sonny Bryan's Smokehouse in Dallas, Texas (like I said, I have a LOT to report since last I wrote) where I am currently chowing-down on a feast of the best in Texas barbequed meats: beef brisket, pulled pork and ribs, accompanied by veggies, slaw, jalapenos, onions, pickles, homemade barbeque sauce (served hot out of the pot in an emptied Corona bottle) and three dinner rolls, all with a Shiner Bock (which you can get anywhere) to wash it down. As I am my mother's child, please excuse me as I romanticize this dining experience for you, as it will bring my story out of order for you, but the food is too good to ignore.

After parking in Dallas it was pretty easy to find a good strip of restaurants, as Dallas has the most restaurants per capita of any city in the United States. I found a nice cobblestone road with metered parking and was able to get a good spot on my first pass (which I probably shouldn't consider an accomplishment at 3:30pm on a Sunday, but don't knock me off my high). A quick once-over of the strip made Sonny Bryan's a first choice, as their colorful window lettering had the perfect balance of “Come-on in and just grab a seat at the counter!” and “But seriously, this is top-notch carcass we're cookin' for you. Recognize.” Upon entry I'm greeted by a Hispanic bartender who loves my shirt (Ghoul – As Your Casket Closes) and tells me all about a bay-area thrash compilation that introduced him to American culture in the early 2000s. I love this guy. I ask him to bring me a local beer and a ½ pound plate of whatever the best 3 cuts of meat may be. With a smile and a nod he walks away, and comes back no more than 90 seconds later with the feast pictured below.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at the expedience, since when barbecue is supposed to be cooked for hours on end, all you have to do is plate it and sauce it, but good service is good service. I haven't had brisket since I dated a Jewish girl back in high school, and have to say that the term had always been off-putting to me (since "brisket" was a term for crock-pot beef cooked in unseasoned broth and vegetables), but this experience made me realize why people actually ORDER this stuff! The meat almost melted in your mouth, and was served in very thin slices topped in a smokey, just sweet enough barbecue sauce. The ribs actually came in contrast to any ribs which I had eaten before, as the meat was not "fall-off-the-bone," but rather purposefully maintained a firmness that gave you much more satisfaction into which to bite and also carried more substantial pork flavor. The pulled pork was the only meat NOT topped with barbecue, which had originally thrown me off since such meat is always carries the connotation of being slathered in sauce back east, but one bite explained to me just why: the meat is so juicy, tender and delicious on its own that it doesn't need sauce. Even as a guy who tries not to eat pigs (they're smarter than dogs and the closest thing to human of any of our food sources... plus piggies are really cute) I had to concede to this meal. Well done, Texas. I guess I won't mess with you.

NOW... How on Earth did I get to Texas in two and a half days?!?!?

When last we saw our hero he was departing a Caribou Coffee in Atlanta, GA, headed west to chase the falling sun...

Actually it was only 1:00pm or so, thus I was actually encouraged to explore the city a bit more before departure. Georgia Tech's campus and "college town" portion of the city reminds me of a cross between Georgetown and Drexel, dancing the line between old-city affluence and modern metropolitan convenience. From there I headed south to find Turner Field, home of the Atlanta Braves (who as I had previously mentioned hold a special place in my heart; plus I really like stadiums for some reason). Realizing that the neighborhood of the ballpark was not quite as charming as GA Tech's, I found myself driving around the park with my iPhone taking some "pic-and-run" snapshots.

It looked like a nice place though! I would have stuck around to catch a game had it not been sold out (opening night).

From there I headed west, crossing into Alabama for the first time in my life.

The interstates of Alabama offer very little variety, enveloping you with trees on either side that obstruct any other sights which the landscape may have to offer. On occasion you may be graced by a short bridge, which might offer a view of a creek or small lake, occasionally finding houses on the banks and canoes in the water. I have developed substantial driving endurance over the past few years, and so a little bit of boring landscape won't kill me, but I was pretty excited to break-up the monotony by rolling into the Birmingham area.

As a black card member of Planet Fitness, I have access to any of their fitness clubs in the nation, and so I have scoped-out many locations along my projected path of travel so serve as waypoints at which I can get some out-of-car exercise and a hot shower, regardless of my accommodations for the evening. One such location was in a suburb just south of Birmingham called Meadowbrook, that seems to Birmingham what Arlington, VA seems to Washington, DC, or what Columbia, MD is to Baltimore. The roads are pristine, leading into numerous new housing developments and every chain restaurant imaginable (and local restaurant presented as though to look like a chain) looks at you from either side of the street. For the first time since the capital beltway I am actually stuck in a little bit of traffic.

I get to the gym (which is apparently celebrating its grand opening) and walk-in to find peers smiling and ready to sign me in. Their accents are minimal, with just the perfect amount of melody to convey “south” while not leading you to question their intellectual capabilities in any way (these guys would freakin' clean-up with the girls up north). These guys were the first of many Alabamians that day/night to be fascinated with my story, and I steered them towards the blog (hey maybe some of you are reading!). After a triple workout (hey, I'm in no rush) I get a nice shower and get dressed for going out, because tonight I'm invading college town USA!

About another hour past Birmingham is Tuscaloosa, Alabama, home of the University of Alabama. I arrive into town shortly before sundown, and drive around until I find a modern American shopping center (Barnes and Noble, Best Buy, Coldwater Creek... come on, there's got to be a Chipotle here... There it is!). Chipotle is just as good down south as it is up north, though it seems the locals don't understand what a treasure they have... yet. After chowing-down I played around on the old iPhone until the sun went down (lots of time to kill before the town was likely to get hoppin') and then hopped in the car again to go find trouble.

Trouble was actually a lot more difficult to find in this college town than I had thought. Following my atlas (oh yeah, by the way, I am only using paper maps to guide me so far this entire trip) I THINK I'm approaching campus, but apparently I just drive-off into the country. Just as well, because it was gorgeous out there, and I at one point pulled-over to admire the stars in the pristine, unpolluted sky (the shapes of the big dipper and Orion had never been so clear... I could even see Draco! Yeah! It actually looks kind of like something evidently!).

Finally I back-tracked and found the actual campus. Like Virginia Tech, this place looked just like the university you see in all the films, complete with frat houses, unnecessary white pillars and grassy courtyards that could fit half of Towson's campus a piece. As soon as I passed the campus the bar scene started developing on either side. I found some street-side parking on the main strip and walked down to find the bar that seemed the most amenable to a lone Yankee at 8pm. A nice little wings joint sufficed, and I walked in, taking a seat at the counter. I looked around to see numerous other attractive young 20 somethings, but it was still dinner time and not yet party time, so I ordered a Sierra Nevada Kellerweiss (their most decent beer) and watched the last few innings of the Braves game (being played at none other than the field I had so recently beheld). The Braves beat the Phillies (with which I have no real problem) and Chipper got his 2,500^th hit, about which a young guy next to me and I started conversing.

Sam, as he introduced his self, was a skinny, goofy looking kid with a thicker-than-most accent (from his childhood in South Carolina, he explains) who is pounding beers and 40oz margaritas like you would not believe. He claims to have tried out for Atlanta's farm team as a pitcher, but didn't make it because he wasn't a great hitter to compliment it (judging by the lack of meat on this kid's bones it seems highly unlikely that he could accelerate a baseball any faster than I could, but then again Tim Lincecum can do it... must be the power of hair). Nevertheless the guy is super friendly and promises to show me the bar where all the action is on a Friday night. I decide to tag along since I figure even a dorky kid like him knows where the party's at, even if he's not the type of guy I would picture getting invited. Either which way, he talked big and who knows, maybe he'll let me crash on his floor later?

We go down the street to a place called Rounders, who is charging a $5 cover for the evening because apparently the band I had accidentally seen back in Baltimore a few weeks earlier, Almost Kings, was playing a show there that night. Small world! Grabbing my go-to bourbon and sugar-free Red Bull, I am invited by Sam to play a couple rounds of pool, though we have to knock-off the current players to earn our keep. As luck would have it, the kid could actually play, and I was spot-on that evening so we made quick work of the players before being instantly challenged by a couple more fellas.

Now, these guys weren't college students. One was in his 40s, married with kids, the other was my age (possibly one of his kids) and seemed to have to process thoughts very thoroughly to be able to speak with any shred of coherence. They had a small harem of women with them at an adjacent table, and for the life of me I could not tell who was a mother, daughter, love-interest or just friend of these guys, as their affectionate gestures to one another seemed to have implied all of the above, but I digress... These guys were rednecks. They were entertaining and friendly rednecks though (basically lower-class Baltimorons with accents, who seem to be my band's primary fan base back home, so I know how to get-on well with these people).

We won two very close games against these guys, who were no slouches (seemed to be decent players who were just having off-days, or in the very least were out of practice), before I did something on the third game which I had never before accomplished; sinking the 8 ball on the break. Now I don't fancy myself an accomplished pool player in the least, but I can fake it pretty well. Sinking the 8 ball on the break (which is the equivalent of a hole-in-one in golf) is a VERY good way to fake knowing what you're doing. Needless to say, congratulations were given across the board and we played a few more rounds.

Between shots I caught myself in the occasional eye-contact with an adjacent group of eligible coeds, and after the last game Sam (apparently my wingman for the night, as all of his friends went home that weekend for the first days of turkey hunting season) and I struck up conversations with them before going to the upstairs which had a DJ dance party vibe to it. I was very fortunate to have picked / been picked by the most attractive of the group, who was conveniently the only single girl of the group (this did not, however, dissuade Sam in any way from getting his swerve on). The girl, who asked not to be named or pictured and will henceforth be referred to by the alias “Ella” (get it, Ella?), actually recognized me as a Maryland boy by my Towson shirt (as did a couple more people that night, to my surprise) and we conversed and danced throughout the evening (and bonded in laughter over the audacity of Sam and other assorted glowstick-toting gentlemen that evening). One thing I will say about Alabama bars that was a culture shock is that smoking is still allowed indoors. Crazy how quickly I forgot what it was like to leave a bar enveloped in the smell of smoke.

Bella and friends encouraged my to come back to her apartment up the street to crash for the night as opposed to sleeping in the Focus, about which I could not have physically been happier or more appreciative. Though it had been my hope to find a situation like this, I had no idea that such a situation would actually materialize, let alone with such awesome people! Ella and I (along with her awesome chihuahua-poodle mix who loved me) stayed up chatting until about 3:30am local time (at which time I realized that I had actually crossed into central time at some point in the day, meaning I had been awake for over 20 hours) before I passed-out on her very comfy futon. Overall I had spent $25 in drinks, covers and tips the prior evening, which for an awesome night out with a place to stay cannot be beat.

I slept like paleolithic rock, before being stirred at about 11am by a puppy's greetings (next to a woman's greetings, the best way to wake up). Ella's southern hospitality continued to astonish me as she cooked-up eggs and bacon, and invited me to play a few rounds of Call of Duty with her (I swear... if only this woman could be in Baltimore...). Taking the dog out, I felt the hot air of a beautiful southern morning and saw the top of the 110,000 person capacity stadium peaking-out from the trees. 

It was truly difficult to bring myself to leave Alabama, Ella and the puppy, and I still consider this day the highlight of the trip so far, but I had promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep... and miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping at the Planet Fitness in Tuscaloosa for some benching and a shower (though of course Ella offered me use of hers, sweetheart as she is), I got back on the road heading towards none other than New Orleans!

Driving through 4 hours of Mississippi deserves exactly one sentence.

Crossing into Louisiana, I felt a rush. After a scenic four to five mile bridge over the mouth to Lake Pontchartrain, countless Mardi Gras warehouses (similar in spirit to fireworks outlets, but selling presumably much sillier stuff) assaulted my vision from either side of the street, but my eyes were focused on the skyline ahead.

When I got within city limits, I followed signs to the legendary French Quarter, which steered me past a couple of the “cities of the dead” (above-ground cemeteries with elaborate mausoleum stacked on mausoleum, all surrounded by white concrete walls). Something the movies (Live and Let Die, Double Jeopardy, etc.) don't tell you is that these cemeteries are in the middle of the city, just as though a dog park would be surrounded by townhouses on all sides.

I was astounded by how the French Quarter (the part of New Orleans you think about in association with Mardi Gras as opposed to the Saints or Katrina) seemed to take-up literally a quarter of the city. This was not a tourist trap of negligible size in comparison to its notoriety (like the “main streets” of many noteworthy cities) but an actual 20 x 20 block town in and of itself. I think that I expected that the pictures you might see of the French Quarter on post cards were taken from the one and only perfect angle in the city that make it seem as though the streets went-on indefinitely with restaurants, bars and shoppes all of the same architecture and spirit of old New Orleans. Well, in the French Quarter, the streets really do go on and on this way!

I felt enveloped by the spirit of the city as I drove south down one of the main streets, finding that every single building is exactly three stories high with iron-railed balconies running the entire lengths up the upper two floors. The streets were as narrow as any inner-city residential neighborhood, like Canton or South Philly, which combined with the height of the buildings obscured any vision of the sky from a street view facing any direction but straight up.

As I came within 3 blocks of Bourbon Street I could hear the hustle and bustle of the ensuing Saturday night party in the streets. Crossing-over Bourbon itself I took a quick look to either side to see the streets teeming with sightseers and street performers, nearly everyone holding a drink IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. I was fortunate enough to find a parking spot just one block later, and I walked back towards the frenzy. Looking up I could now see all walks of life lining the balconies of the many hotels and bars, beckoning the crowd below with link after link of beads, with the street crowd beckoning the same to the balcony. I looked around and saw signs signifying that I had come to town during “French Quarter Festival,” which I guess is New Orleans' attempt (a successful one at that) to extend the Mardi Gras season for tourists. I weaved up and down the many streets for hours, occasionally stopping to get a beer which I toted gleefully through the city streets.

Within a few feet a grifter walked up beside me and said “Hey man, I like yo flip-flops. I can tell ya exactly where you gottem at. I can tell you the city, the place, the time, everything!” I have to sincerely thank my old boss, Brenda, for sharing the story of how her husband had be tricked by this exact line in none other than New Orleans years ago. I chuckled and said “I know this trick, but it's a good one and I wish you lots of luck with it.” The man replied with a look of utter surprise and a delayed “Well, there ya go, there ya go.”

For those of you who don't know this trick, he is supposed to bet you $10 that he can tell you exactly where you got your shoes. When you agree, he says “You got yo shoes on yo feet, today, right now in the streets of New Orleans. Now pay up!”

I went into a few different bars to get a feel for the local flavor, and found that there were different bars for shitty dance music, rock, country, etc., each of which seemed like more like any bar you might find back home that throws some court jester imagery on the walls and calls itself a New Orleans themed establishment. Disappointed, I returned to the street to find solace in the authentic jazz flavor of one particular street band (of whom I shall link a video when I get to a more solid WIFI connection to carry that kind of upload) with a soul-filled robust black woman fronting the group as vocalist (and one of the best clarinetists I have ever seen in my life) and an 8 year old girl keeping the beat on drums, just to name a couple of the highlights. A local steered me up the street to the one jazz bar left in the Quarter.

NOW THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!

On the way I encountered an awesome human statue, who looked as though he had paused mid-stride while walking across the street with a dog on a leash. This guy could have made a British palace guard look feeble, as he held the same position, eyes wide open, entirely motionless for over ten minutes before breaking pose to scare a group of passers-by. I gave the guy a buck for his entertainment (and also snapped a video which I will soon upload as well).

I walked into the small jazz joint, The Maison Bourbon, right as the band was taking the stage for their third set of the evening and ordered a hot buttered rum (yeah, it was hot out, but apparently that's the specialty of this place). Until the band started playing I only heard the thump of the dance club across the street, which seemed blasphemous to the spirit of the jazz which I was about to enjoy. The group was phenomenal, playing some Broadway tunes and Louis Armstrong, each with excellent solo sections on keys, contra-bass, clarinet, drums, and ESPECIALLY trumpet, on which a little bit of playful showboating beckoned the largest responses.

After the set, I topped-off the night with a po-boy from a shoppe down the street. I don't know why I was expecting a po-boy to be something more than a hoagie served in New Orleans, but there was no distinction from the Philly sandwich on which I had be raised.

All things considered, I was so thoroughly impressed by the environment of the French Quarter that I didn't even feel bad leaving, as I definitely intend on returning with a hoard of friends and staying a couple days in one of the quaint hotels and wreaking havoc on the city some day.

I now arrived back at my car, feeling entirely fulfilled on my New Orleans experience, and drove around the rest of the safe parts of the city, finding that it holds little distinction from any other city plagued by Cheesecake Factories and Ruth's Chris' where independent restaurants once stood. A final stop was the Superdome, since I do love my stadiums!

Driving away, it had been my intention to find a motel just outside of the city for a cheap nights rest and spot from which to blog, but when I found that even the Motel 6 was charging $119 per night plus tax, I kept rolling west to Baton Rouge.

I could see the moonlit bayou on either side of the road for the hour or so long drive, and was delighted to find that Baton Rouge reeked of every facet of Louisiana culture outside of New Orleans, from the gas-station crawfish stands to the swampy waterways that separated city blocks. I navigated towards LSU's campus, thinking maybe that I could have the same success that I had the night before in the college bars, but found that a total of two bars represented the constituency of the school, and the crowd inside seemed a bit douchey for my taste.

Now a little tired, I pulled into one of the student parking lots on campus and parked. Finding academic buildings on all sides of me, and having a sleeping bad (and trusty shovel) in my car, I put the seat down and took a snooze for a couple hours. I awoke at about 3:00 am, drenched in sweat (I was, in fact, in a swamp town), and noticing a police officer patrolling the lot. Feeling astonishingly energized, I got back on the road, steering towards Dallas as my next destination (I will describe just why I chose Dallas in my next post), a 6.5 hour drive from Baton Rouge. After another two hours I felt the drowsiness coming back on, and pulled into an RV campground off of the highway to catch another couple hours of sleep. Upon waking at 8:30am or so, I was back on the road.

Every positive impression that proved contrary to the southern stereotypes by my experiences in Alabama must have been in compensation to the impressions of backwater scum that upstate Louisiana left in me. Pulling into a gas-station diner for lunch which embodied every cliché of the cinematic run-down truck stop you have in your mind from various horror films, and so after the greasiest patty melt of my life I got back in the car, vowing not to leave it again until I was out of this god-forsaken place.

I never thought that I would be so excited to arrive in Texas, but I was! Either side of the interstate was now lined with vast ranches and signs for barbecue pits and outlet malls (okay, so maybe I was just excited to be out of Louisiana), and I hauled another three hours to Dallas, which leaves us off where I had started this post.

Since beginning the writing process, I had driven to the Days Inn adjacent to the new Cowboys Stadium in Arlington (just outside of Dallas) where I got a room for just $45 for the night (in nicer accommodations than were offered in New Orleans, I might add). The good price is evidently due to the fact that there are no sports teams or other events playing in town for a few days, so I got very lucky! I passed-out at about 7:00pm, and awoke around midnight to do more blogging, before passing out again at 2:00am. I post this now from the hotel lobby having showered, eaten and checked-out of the room, ready to see what the day ahead holds for me!

It will not be nearly as long before the next post, I promise! Thanks for your patience and stay tuned!

Videos should be up by the end of the day.