Well, my transplant was a success. Short-term, at least, the outlook is good. Of course, I must avoid rejection. Having finally sold my moms house, tied up some loose ends with her estate, and cleared up my personal affairs, I found myself with no compelling reason to be in New Jersey. So I loaded up the PT Cruiser and, a week before Thanksgiving, bid the Garden State adieu. I drove that first day all the way to Savannah, where my sister Kathie and her family live. I made one detour on the way, to revisit the Bridge of Death II, where I nearly met a watery demise on my ill-fated bicycle trek to the Outer Banks some years back. (The Bridge of Death I is a small span over the Rancocas Creek in Mt. Laurel, where I cracked up my bike and was almost run over by a school bus, maybe 15 years ago.) The detour took me many miles from I-95 to the Rappahonnack River on what is called the Northern Neck of Virginia. One look at this impossibly narrow bridge, two miles long with no shoulder and a guardrail maybe a foot and a half high, reminded me how lucky I had been to survive that attempted crossing--in the dark, no less--back in 2006 or whenever it was. The less than direct route I took made it more than 800 miles to Kathies house, and I didnt arrive until the wee hours. But I was able to spend the whole next day with her, my niece Milissa, and Milissas little boy. I was given the grand tour of Savannah, which is a lovely town, very atmospheric, and one I had been wanting to visit ever since I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil years ago. We saw all the squares, the Mercer House (which, interestingly enough, though it was built by Johnny Mercers father, no Mercer ever lived in and which was the scene of the murder that inspired the book), and the house where Flannery OConnor was born. We also visited the cemetery outside of town that figured so prominently in both the book and movie. At dusk, with all the moss hanging from the live oaks, with the alabaster tombs and statues, boy was that place spooky. Next day I drove to New Orleans, via Atlanta, Montgomery, and Meridian. In Atlanta I visited Ebenezer Baptist Church and the Martin Luther King National Historical Site. It was an incredibly moving experience. Later that day, in the evening, I actually drove over the Edmund Pettis Bridge into Selma, Alabama. American history was changed forever on that bridge. It was very late when I got to New Orleans, but I found a really cool place to stay. It was a former boys orphanage that some years before had been converted into a guest house/hostel. I got a private room with bath for $59, and this is almost in the Garden District! Dan Manning tells me the place is seriously haunted, but I didnt see any ghosts. I had already decided to spend the next day, Sunday, in NOLA. I struck out mid-morning for the Quarter, to see the main tourist sights. Jackson Square and the cathedral were nice. I was going to get a beignet and a café au lait at that famous place in the French Market, but the line to get in was about two blocks long. I wasnt that keen, anyway, on having a glorified doughnut, so I passed. I still wanted a muffuletta, however, so I walked across the street to the Central Grocery, where that sandwich had been invented, which wasnt that crowded. Have to say I was disappointed. Place was kind of dirty, and there are much better Italian specialty groceries on Ninth Street in Philly. The sandwich was ok, but Id rather have a good hoagie. I saw the house on St. Peter Street where Tennessee Williams wrote Streetcar. According to Williams himself, while working on the manuscript in his attic room, he would hear that rattle trap little streetcar named Desire running along Royal and the one named Cemeteries running along Canal, and it seemed the perfect metaphor for the human condition. By afternoon I was in a joint on Bourbon Street watching the Eagles game. All the bars had multiple TVs, each showing a different game, as they catered of course to tourists who were there from all over the country. I saw people sporting the jerseys of just about every team in the league (but very little New Orleans Saints garb). Aside from the muffuletta, the one thing I had my heart set on eating that day was a po boy. According to a guidebook I had, the best one in the city was to be found at a little place far away from the tourist-infested precincts but fairly near to where I was staying. I had resolved to go there for dinner. But I kept hearing people talk about this Po Boy Festival going on clear on the other side of town, out by Tulane University. So I changed my plan, hopped on the St. Charles Avenue streetcar, and took it almost to the end of the line. Big mistake. The couple of blocks where the festival was being held were way too crowded, the various stands serving up po boys and other local fare were just throwing the shit together, and they were out of half the stuff on the menu. I dont even remember what I had to eat. Then when I went to leave, I couldnt get a streetcar; they were all full. I ended up walking the whole way back to my rooming house--75 blocks! It took me hours, and did me in. My intention had been to go back to the French Quarter at night and catch some jazz at Preservation Hall. I had to nix that idea. Monday I headed west--through the bayou country of Acadiana and then the piney woods of East Texas, to Houston and finally San Antonio. Houston was horrible, all ugly sprawl and 10-lane freeways where traffic barely moved. San Antonio I liked. Tuesday morning, after spending the night in a motel off the interstate, I drove downtown, parked the car, and took a brief walking tour. I went through the Alamo, which is really cool, and meaningful too if you think about what happened there. That River Walk that everyone talks about was pretty neat also. I hadnt realized that it is actually below street level. You descend from a rather bland and deserted streetscape to a picturesque nether-world where all the shops and restaurants are, and the activity. I had really wanted as well to visit Austin, which is a few hours north of San Antonio. But I was running out of time. I had a commitment to be in San Diego by Wednesday night, and now had less than two days to make it. There was no choice but to step on it and forget about any further sight-seeing. It was nearly 600 miles to El Paso, if I remember. That drive, first through the hill country, then scrubland and range, and finally outright desert, seemed endless. But as the speed limit in that part of Texas is 80 mph, I actually made great time. I kept going all the way through New Mexico and didnt stop for the night until I was a good ways into Arizona. I was left with a very manageable drive to finish the trip on Wednesday. Theres not much to say about those last two days of just driving across the Southwest. The only time I stopped, except for gas and food, was when I got pulled over in Arizona for going 89; but I got out of the ticket. I was contrite and the trooper must have been in a generous mood because of the holiday. I gave thanks, to be sure. Occasionally some interesting scenery would whiz by outside the window. In extreme southeastern California theres an area called the Imperial San Dunes. It was like the Sahara, nothing but undulating sands as far as the eye could see. Farther west there is a small mountain range that looked like a lunar landscape. Again, no vegetation of any kind. Just millions of boulders, of every size, piled on top of each other. As though Zeus or some other god in heaven had emptied out an enormous sack of marbles onto this part of the earth. I got to my sister Brendas house in Chula Vista, just outside San Diego, in time for dinner on the 26th. She seemed glad to see me. One of her bulldogs greeted me by spitting in my face. The next day we had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at the home of some friends of hers. She has been a very gracious host since, and I am getting along better with all the animals.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Dec 2014 05:47:53 +0000