Lost Anywhere in the USA

So Andrew and I divvied up the driving from New Orleans to Hot Springs, and the 9-hour haul, honestly, did not seem so bad, though it was, indeed, the longest of the trip. We were well on our way to be at the Springs by midnight-ish when all of a sudden, we saw those menacing blue lights in the mirrors...for the first time this trip, too! I pulled over and got my manners ready as the cop began to walk to my window. After collecting my license and registration, he said to us the standard “You know I pulled you over, right?” …Following our, “No, sir,” he responded somewhat sternly, “Your license plate light is out. You need to get that fixed.” As he walked back to his car to issue us what turned out to be just a warning, we exchanged a big “What the fuck!?” followed by a “That’s what you get for driving through small-town Arkansas.” Disgruntled, with warning in hand, we proceeded for a few miles, only to be tailed by another cop car, the Sherriff’s in fact, until we left the town. The heat was insane, but at least, we didn’t get pulled over again.

We finally reached the falls after midnight and surveyed the park a bit. We set up the tent and started a nice fire only but found the car to be a more comfortable option and ended up crashing there.

In the morning, we hiked a small trail in the forest near the campground; I got to boulder (climb) a medium-sized free rock-face there and Mia got to barrel through the woods without reservation. A weird aspect of this park was that the campground was not connected to and was actually a drive away from the national park, itself….poor planning on their part.

Anyway, afterward, we took a scenic drive uphill to the park’s enormous mountain tower. Standing 216 feet high, the tower afforded us a great view of Hot Springs and the Ouachita Mountains; one can supposedly see a 140 miles worth of scenery from there.
In the town of Hot Springs, which was apparently a very popular, trendy tourist getaway of the 20’s, we visited a famous bathhouse (not in use anymore…currently a museum). Just like the many other baths in town, the Fordyce Bath House was fueled by the hot springs that flow through the area. In the heyday of Hot Springs, people would flock from all over the U.S. to vacation here and relax in these establishments. The idea behind the craze was that the natural, hot spring water had therapeutic qualities, so the town built a mini-empire on what they had – with lavish hotels, bars, and spas/baths. Complete with an old-school gymnasium, a roof-top garden, men and women’s separate quarters, massage rooms, and the latest electric hydrotherapy equipment, the Fordyce was truly a display of the extravagance and luxury ever-present during the 20’s.

A couple things that I found comical about the place were the presence of Indian clubs in the old gym and the use of mercury soaks in the tub room to help with syphilis (oops!). Also, as Andrew Allen pointed out to me, if you ever want to have a quickie in Hot Springs, there are hundreds of changing rooms in the Fordyce Bath House, with adequate space, left unattended….did I mention Hot Springs was the boyhood home of Bill Clinton?

After the baths, we made our way across the street to Arkansas’ oldest bar, The Ohio Club (supposedly the home to Arkansas’ best cheeseburger). Established in 1905, this place was a hangout for Al Capone, as well as other notable gangsters and celebrities of the time, like Lucky Luciano, Babe Ruth, Mae West, Bugsy Segal, and Sammy Davis Jr. I have to say the burgers here were awesome, the onion rings sweet and juicy, the drinks strong, and the service personable. And the bar, itself, was gorgeous, with a huge carved wooden backing to it. Everything was going great here until Andrew and I got a little too buzzed/loose and asked the bartender if she knew where we could get some, uhh, additional relaxation. She said no and didn’t really bother to talk to us much after that, so we left empty-handed and made our way to Memphis.

Once in town, we found ourselves a hotel (an EconoLodge) in the city, not too far from Beale Street, the city’s main drag. The first place to which we made our way was a bar across the street, which seemed like a good choice for a first stop because the EconoLodge gave us half off our first drinks there. As we walked down the long staircase to reach it, our ears began to fill with sounds of good, old music. Enthused, we hurried in the opening to the big ballroom and then instantly noticed we were pretty much the only white (sort of) people in the place. Everyone kind of stared at us, seemingly thinking, “Oh, they must have gotten sucked in by those EconoLodge half-off drink coupons”…but only for a second before things resumed and we made our way to the bar. With our hands gripping our usual Whiskey Sour and Tom Collins, we sat down with a few folks, and before long, we had plenty of new friends. Andrew was going on with a guy about pilot’s licenses, and I spoke German to this professor we met, Dr. Robert Kelz, for what seemed like an hour. Meanwhile, brave members of the crowd singing karaoke hits provided a nice backdrop to the friendly and comfortable atmosphere there.

After some time, we left that spot (I still don’t know the name) for another mostly-black club, Club 152, located on Beale Street. This place was playing mostly rap and hip-hop; the energy was high, and we both jumped into things in a couple different ways. Andrew got out there and started breaking it down with the big beauties on the dance floor; I kind of just chilled out and posted up like a mailbox on the wall with some other guys. We each certainly had our fair share of fulfillment and went back home satisfied with our night out in Memphis…though a little bummed we didn’t see any BLUES!!!

Arriving back at the hotel room, we were shocked in our drunken stupor that Mia was nowhere to be found in the room. We went downstairs to the front office, and unnecessarily aggressively, I asked the lady, “Where’s my dog!?” Before I even got done asking, though, Mia came running down the hallway behind the desk and jumped on top of and over their 5-foot counter to reach us. At that point, I couldn’t help but smile and (apologetically) thank them for taking care of her while we were gone (she was scared, barking in the room).

The next morning, before heading out to Nashville, we had to stuff our faces with the food Memphis for which Memphis is renowned: BBQ, BBQ, BBQ!! So we made our way to a quaint little establishment a little bit outside the center of town, Jim Neely’s Interstate BBQ. The restaurant, one of a few run by the Neely family, was housed in an unpretentious wooden shack-like building, which seeped with irresistible BBQ aromas from its every crack. Famished, we decided to order one of the biggest and most comprehensive items on the menu, Sampler Platter…along with a few additional sides (yes, we were that hungry/hungover). When the order finally arrived, our eyes bulged out of our heads and our mouths watered excessively as the waitress put our BBQ feast on the table in front of us. For the next thirty to forty minutes, we removed ourselves from reality and soared through BBQ heaven as we sank our teeth into delicious pork ribs, beef ribs, pulled pork shoulder, beef brisket, beef hot links, BBQ spaghetti (that’s right), cole slaw, potato salad, French fries, bread, and baked beans. Wheww….that’s really all I can say. That and we thanked our waitress wayyy too many times from bringing us that meal which left us speechless.

Stuffed and in bliss for a bit longer, we drove to Graceland because I’m an Elvis fan (Andrew is not). I wanted to check out how Elvis was living, but deterred by the high admission price, we decided to just do the free stuff. So we walked the grounds a bit, saw the house from afar, visited the gift shop, and checked out his planes. We were able to get on board his smaller plane, the Hound Dog II, a blaring display of 70s style, complete with bright green, orange, and blue interior.

After our fill of the King’s fun, we hopped the fence outta there and got on the way across I-40 to Nashville. Once in town, we met up with a buddy from Oxford College, Max Wheeler Perkins, who’s from there and lives there now. He was such a generous host to us, letting us stay there with Mia and showing us around town as he did. But Max does love Nashville, so I think he kind of liked it.

The first night, we went with his roommate, John, a chef at Burger-Up (supposedly a candidate for Nashville’s best burger joint), to get a cheaper burger experience at the Nashville staple, Brown’s Diner. The place looked pretty plain inside and out, but I thought this simplicity and small-town feel to be what made Brown’s so popular. Our waitress there, probably a fox back in her heyday, was friendly and a little quirky, joking around with us each time she came around. I had a couple of the cheeseburgers along with some beers and would have to say it was a good, solid meal…nothing crazy special…just a good backyard-style burger at a reasonable price in a homey environment. And there was live music; what more could we ask for?

That night, we went to the Villager Tavern, a local dive bar with a love for darts and a laid back attitude. The walls here are covered with photos of their patrons raging, many times drinking out of a dog bowl. We were curious as to this dog bowl’s origins, so Max explained to us that when the owners bought the building that now houses the bar, it came with an old, dirty dog bowl in it. So when the tavern was eventually/finally finished, they washed (bleached a million times) the bowl and kept it aboard as a sort of novelty bar item. On big occasions, like 21st birthdays and such, the staff will fill the bowl up for the VIP, and he/she has to drink out of it for the night…AWESOME! Unfortunately, we didn’t have anything more than life itself to celebrate, so we didn’t get to test it out. Nonetheless, we did get our fill of fun on the dart boards. Neither Andrew nor I had really thrown before, but Max was a regular there on the dart boards. So we started playing and eventually got into it. By the end of our time there, we were throwing pretty well, playing games of cricket with a couple of the older regulars, Mike and Dave.

After the bar, we headed to the house of the hospitable Lucas Hofmeister for a party of Vanderbilt Grad Students, which can only be properly described as an utter shitshow. Everyone was already pretty hammered when we got there, so we remember observing quite a few shenanigans, including a drunk girl bouncing off the trampoline, another running around scantily clothed, another punching me in the gooch (yeehaw!), yet another (Lucas’ lil sis) fighting a different Andrew, and a hammered dude falling out of his chair all over the deck. All in all, it was definitely a lot of fun; we met some awesome people, saw some funny shit, and did our part in raging.

The next day, I was supposed to leave for Charlotte and Andrew for Atlanta, but Max convinced us to stay one more night. It really didn’t take too much convincing; we were hungover and staying certainly sounded much easier than going. In the morning, I let Mia explore the huge yard at their house and chase a rabbit around for a while…she almost had it too!

Anyway, by afternoon, we were lazing the day away at Bongo Java, a fair-trade, organic coffee spot with a hip, mellow vibe going on. If going here, I would highly recommend the big bad hashbrowns and the French toast. Like most everything else on the menu, they are fairly priced and delicious; the portions aren’t that big, though, so get two if hungry. Additionally, my favorite aspect of this place, congruent with their chill feel, is that they’re dog-friendly…so Mia could kick it with us on the deck.

For dinner that Saturday, we went to International Market and Restaurant, an Asian market/restaurant combo that has some quick, tasty food. A favorite of Max and his family (funny enough, we saw his dad eating there), the place has been open since 1985 and has a pretty large selection. Looking for a challenge, Andrew and I ordered our dishes authentically “very hot,” and this was one of those rare times when we indeed got what we asked for….extremely spicy but excellent.

That night, we pregamed for a bit at a friend of Max’s, Drew’s, house, where we met up with the folks from the night before and recounted all that went down. Then, we made our way to Mashville at the Mercy Lounge, a show featuring Nashville rap duo, the Billy Goats; the Streetlight Allstars, a Murfreesboro hip-hop/reggae group; and DJ Kidsmeal, a Nashville youth sensation. All three acts provided high-energy, unique performances. The Billy Goats spit hard rhymes with a variety of style and flow, and the Streetlight Allstars offered a crowd-engaging mulit-genre performance (they even gave the crowd free beer!) And their song, “Sweet Cheeba” to the “Sweet Home Alabama” melody was definitely a huge hit (http://www.myspace.com/streetlightallstars/music). But my personal favorite act of the night was DJ Kidsmeal on the 1’s and 2’s, mixing some sick dubstep beats that had us all dancing like crazy. All in all, the show was extremely tight, and we got to see some smaller, local acts, of whom we might not have heard otherwise.

After some late night pizza, we slept it out, and the next day, Andrew and I actually did leave; he got on Greyhound, and I headed out Charlotte-bound. For my first time in Nashville, I have to say I had a truly awesome time. All the people I met and places I visited were extremely cool, and I’m definitely looking forward to my next trip to town. From Max’s roommates, John, Mike, and Matt, to the Vandy dudes, Lucas, Spence, Gamble, Drew, and a few others whose names I can’t remember (sorry), everyone was hospitable, open, and down to earth. Moreover, the part of town in which we spent the bulk of our time, the Hillsboro-Belmont area, was particularly intriguing to me due to the large presence of local businesses thriving there. It creates and fuels a sort of hometown-pride culture that is great to experience as an out-of-towner.

Comprised by a bunch of neighborhoods, Nashville, itself, is geographically not that big compared to its activity and reputation. So with eight or more colleges and a music empire in its modest boundaries, Nashville packs a big-town punch into a small town's parameters.

Also, the hipster AND country scenes are pretty big, and there are many beautiful women. That is all.

“Road trippin’ with my two favorite allies
Fully loaded, we got snacks and supplies
It’s time to leave this town
It’s time to steal away
Let’s go get lost
Anywhere in the U.S.A.” – Red Hot Chili Peppers

Once in Mobile, I was struck, right away, by the similar appearance it had to other coastal Southern cities, like Savannah and New Orleans, with Victorian and Colonial Revival architectural styles. Because we were just passing through the city, we really only had one goal there: TO EAT! And the place we chose was an unbelievably astounding selection: Wintzell’s Oyster House. Established in 1938, this regional favorite possessed a modest, humble character…no waiters with ties, no fancy tablecloths…just good food, friendly service, and walls covered in signs bearing little truisms on them, like, “The difference between vanity and pride is achievement,” and “The second marriage: a triumph of hope over experience.” As for the food itself, our extensive seafood feast consisted of fried gator tails, all types of oysters on the half shell, blackened tilapia, crab claws, and skewers of shrimp, and every bite of this spread was absolutely delectable. I kept eating past being full just to savor every last morsel on our tray. And to top it all off, Wintzell’s produced their very own hot sauce, which is one of the better ones I’ve ever had, so needless to say, we bought a couple of bottles of that to take with us.

As we rolled into Biloxi, or the “Las Vegas of the South” as it is wishfully called, our eyes did grow a little bigger as we passed the couple of brightly-lit, “higher-end” casinos on the main drag. So once we got situated at our actually-very-nice, modernly decorated Motel 6 on the beach, we cabbed it back into town to the “high-rolling” (according to our cab driver) casino, Beau Rivage. The establishment was nice, but the tables somewhat crowded, and once we did get on Roulette, we kept losing our money. In addition, the free drinks were few and far between, and when I asked the drink girl for two at once, she tilted her to me and curtly said, “Just one, sir, just one.” Ughh, didn’t she know that this wasn’t Vegas? There’s no need to act like you’re that official…and if it was Vegas, she would have certainly come around twice as much and with stronger drinks. Anyway, enough bitching…I’m just a sore loser. After counting our losses at Roulette, we hit the slots, where I was met with the same luck yet again but where Andrew managed to win a good bit back…that motherfucker. Walking away while ahead (a lesson we unfortunately did not heed again), we made it to the ever-commercial Hard Rock Casino next door. Roulette was, once again, the name of the game, and our dealer was this older guy named Brad. With him, I was pretty far up but then, like a dumbass, managed to get down to almost nothing. Brad acted like he felt for me and was really sorry about my losses, but was he really? Obviously not…I mean don’t get me wrong; he was a nice guy and all and probably felt a little bad that I lost some cash, but we’re not friends, and his ultimate goal is to keep that table moving. Anyway, once I was down, they switched dealers, and the new face across the table belonged to a middle-ager, chubby woman named Cynthia. Our buddy Brad, who we told about our Mardi Gras plans, told Cynthia I needed to win some chips back for New Orleans, to which she responded, “Ok. How much?” I told her, and we got rolling…I mean really rolling. She and I were in a groove, 9 turns in a row right. I was almost back at what I needed…ALMOST! And then…well, I’m sure y’all can guess; I lost it all. That’s really all I want to say about that.

The next morning in Biloxi, we made a short visit to Jefferson Davis’ last residence, the Beauvoir, which faced the bare, undeveloped beach of Biloxi. Before anyway gets mad about this, let me just say, “The Civil War happened; it’s a big part of American history. He was an important leader at the time and, purportedly, a really good guy.” So I wanted to see how he lived. Though we didn’t take the tour, we saw the grounds of the old Southern home and visited the gift shop, where we chatted it up with a few kind, old Mississippi (so fun to spell) housewives. The place seemed a very tranquil, end-of-life getaway for the former CSA president. After that, it was on the road again, headed to the Big Easy.

Cruising down the long stretch of bridge heading into New Orleans brought back fond memories of past Mardi Gras and the shitshow times we had there. I expected nothing less from this one, but first, we had to find somewhere to stay. The guy I was hoping to stay with wasn’t answering his phone, so I started scrounging through my contact list. In the meantime, we boarded Mia and made our way to a day parade to get loose and get some beads. Finally, I was lucky enough to get in touch with my boy Chris Callender’s little bro, Mike, who was more than happy to take us in and let us crash on his newly-vacant couches. On the way there, we drove down Canal Street right before the night parades, and it was packed. So sitting in traffic with a bunch of beads on us, Andrew and I cranked the music and started throwing beads to, umm, deserving members of the crowd….sure beat just sitting there bored in traffic. Well, we made it to Mike’s, and I have to say, it was pretty tight chilling with the younger sibling of one of my best friends and seeing all the little similarities in appearance and mannerisms…and there were many. Anyway, we got down to raging with Mike and his boys and made our way out to the parades. We got a crazy amount of beads, completed a number of Jim Beam circle chugs, and saw quite a few pairs of tits. Only at Mardi Gras is acceptable to see a pretty girl and then proceed to lead the crowd in chanting, “SHOW YOUR TITS…SHOW YOUR TITS.” If only real life was so awesome.

The next day (Fat Tuesday), we were all thoroughly hungover and decided to take it easy. Plus, we kind of had to because most bars were supposed to close at midnight (Ash Wednesday) so as to remind that there is some obscure, twisted religious undertone to this whole celebration. Anyway, after a nice power hour and some N64 antics with the crew, we called it a night, for we had a long drive ahead of us the next day.

Before we left NOLA, we had to eat some good food. We had led a few misadventures to Willie Mae’s chicken joint and Parkway Bakery earlier but with no success. They were closed each time, so we ended up eating a lot of Popeye’s (I know…really commercial but ohhh so good). Anyway, on Wednesday, before we left, we vowed to do what we initially set out to, and after finding Willie Mae’s closed yet again, we went to Parkway for “the best po’boys in town.” The line for the self-service window was out the door, but we managed to get the last table in the full-service section of the joint. It was packed in there, but given that this was the oldest and seemingly most popular po’boy spot in town, we were definitely straight with it. I ordered the alligator sausage/turkey, which came in a dark gumbo, and the surf and turf po’boy, which was overflowing with beef and fried shrimp, and was so very satisfied. The bread, the meat, the broth…all of it was top-notch…yet another great success on the good-food tour.

On way out of New Orleans to Arkansas, we boogied up Interstate 55 through the swampland. It was so interesting that this ride, basically one big bridge for a while was laid down in the middle of swamp. Driving, my mind began to wander as the lyrics to Creedence’s “Born on the Bayou” accompanied shots from Swamp People in my head. I thought about the unique character of Louisiana with all of its French influence (in the middle of the American South, no less) and also of New Orleans and its citizens’ sense of jubilance, solidarity, and hometown pride.
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Right now, I’m leaving Nashville but still not caught up on chronicling my adventures to date. I gotta get to Charlotte tonight with some nighttime mountain navigating, and then I should get this shit on track tomorrow.
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“Wish I was back on the bayou rollin’ with some Cajun
Queen.
Wishin’ I were a freight train, oh, just-a-chooglin on down
to New Orleans.
Born on the Bayou” – Creedence Clearwater Revival

Well, I’ve been on the move nearly non-stop since the last blog, but now, cruising westward through Arkansas with my buddy Andrew Allen driving, I have some time to let my fingers hit keys.

So, being in Miami was sick; I had never been there (or even that far south) before, and my buddy Andres was a most generous host. Now, I have to say, off the bat, that my time there was not a wild, drunken trip to South Beach clubs. In fact, we didn’t even stumble upon that mischief I had previously anticipated. What I did experience, though, was a solid, accurate, typical portrayal of everyday life in Miami. First, I met Andres at his family’s beautiful apartment in the Deering Bay Yacht Club; there, I let Mia play with his short-hair terrier-mix, Foby, for a little bit before I made the tough decision to board her for the rest of my time there (we realized she could escape from his terrace). Although it was sad leaving her in a kennel and seeing her innocent little face watch me leave, it was definitely the best move to make because I couldn’t leave her anywhere else (Andres’ mom is allergic to longer-haired dogs, so we couldn’t leave her inside).

After the rough separation, we set out on a quest to show me the city. From the very beginning, I observed the heavy Hispanic influence ever-present in South Florida. Andres and his family are, themselves, Venezuelan, and the first place where we ate, Ruben’s Cuban Restaurant, was, as the name suggests, Cuban. Somewhat a hole-in-the-wall, Ruben’s boasted a homey diner environment, complete with counter-service, barstools, and just about everything you can think of to eat. Interacting some in English and some in Spanish, I ordered the “milanesa de pollo,” a fried chicken dish, while Andres got me a mamey drink to go with it. The portions, here, were enormous, and I had to take some milanesa home…but I finished every bit of the drink, a naturally sweet, orange smoothie, made with the tropical mamey fruit.

After the meal and some afternoon FIFA battles, Andres and I made our way to the University of Miami to play pick-up soccer with some of his friends on a practice field. I hadn’t played in quite some time, so I was a bit rusty…but the setting in which we were playing was pretty relaxed, so I had room for error and time to get the kinks out. Towards the end, I was playing pretty decent, and all in all, I had a great time running around with those guys.

Finished with balling, thoroughly exhausted, and in desperate need of some serious grub, Andres and I headed to yet another hidden gem of Miami, Keg South. With a simple entrance off of a back alley, this neighborhood joint appeared to me to be quite unassuming, but upon entry, I was immersed in its cozy, local feel. The bar was crowded with Heat fans packing the seats and pictures of guys with fish and chicks with tits out covering the walls. I was already enchanted by the atmosphere here, and I hadn’t even eaten yet. Not being able to decide between their famous burgers and popular spicy wings, Andres and I ordered one of each and split them. And.....OH BABBYYY, that food was good. The burger, soaked in BBQ sauce, was succulent and bursting with flavor, while the wings, powdered with seasoning, were just the right amount of spicy. Topped off with a couple of pitchers, this meal definitely hit the spot.

Adequately stuffed and smitten to have just experienced our fill of culinary heaven, we made our way back to Andres’ and took a necessary cat-nap to escape the food coma that was quickly setting in. Once rested, we made our way to Andres’ friend Stephen’s house for a small birthday gathering. We chilled out for a little, talked with some folks, and then decided to call it an early night…definitely a calmer conclusion to my night out in Miami than I expected…but fun and enjoyable nonetheless.

The next day, we rescued Mia from the kennel, and before I left, Andres showed me around Coconut Grove a bit. We walked around The Grove, observing the variety of people walking along its shop-lined streets as well as the diversity of cuisine available to eat there. Finally, we made our way to the park, fondly referred to by locals as A.C. Icee’s Park, where a laid-back, hippy-ish guy with long, white and grey hair has served frozen lemonade out of his truck for over 30 years!! Needless to say, we grabbed a couple before heading to the park’s dog-park section, where Mia got to run around and shake off the kennel blues. Then, after catching a nice view of the ocean from the back of the park, it was time to say goodbye and make my way to Tampa.

The drive along 75 toward Tampa took me through the Everglades, a somewhat-boring but, nevertheless, beautiful cruise. Watching the sun set above the wetlands was a stunning sight to observe.

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Well, I couldn’t get everything written up to date on the trans-Arkansas drive, so now I’m in Nashville playing catch up. So here goes…
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In Tampa, I stayed with a couple of girls, Katie and Ashley, whom I had met through Couchsurfing(.com). They had crashed on our couches at Luckie Lane in Atlanta last fall, so now, I was hitting them up for a similar favor. Upon pulling down their unpaved dirt driveway, I was instantly fascinated by the style and location of the place. The house was an all-wood cabin with a very rustic, barefoot feel to it, and it, along with another cabin and a monstrous tree house home (I know…every kid’s dream, right?), was tucked away in a tranquil forest setting, which Mia loved exploring. Even though the property was right off the main road, one could hardly guess that when submerged in its depths. The lot, itself, belongs to Tampa painter Lynn Ash, who resides in the second cabin on the property. Lynn used to paint animals for Bush Gardens and also did a mural for the Tampa Municipal Office Building; his creative and imaginative spirit is most certainly reflected throughout this wooded hideaway, from the address signs to the outdoor laundry room decor. I felt like this relaxed environment perfectly matched the gracious hosts with whom I stayed. From the get-go, Katie and Ashley, along with their boyfriends, Pat and Justin, and friends, Erik and Adam, were extremely warm and welcoming. I had a great time chatting it up with all of them, just talking about whatever – from Creedence to the Basement Tapes to the Suicide Girls to the elusive artist Banksy (the latter two, of which I had never heard of before). I also got to watch Katie give Erik a tattoo with Indian ink (hope that worked out okay). All in all, it was a jovial night and a fantastic Tampa experience. The next morning, Pat and Katie helped me continue on my good-food odyssey by taking me to Trang Viet Cuisine, a Vietnamese restaurant nearby. As Saigon Café in Atlanta is my home away from home and Pho Ga is indeed my soul food (surefire hangover cure), going to Trang Viet provided me with a bit of nostalgic comfort as I dug into their Pho Ga and seasonal roll platter. After the meal, with a smiling face and satisfied stomach, I said my goodbyes and boarded the great white for a six and a half hour trek to Panama City.

Spring Break had just begun for Emory, and a handful of my boys were coincidentally going to be in Panama City when I was. They were all staying at my buddy Rick’s house, so I hit him up and headed that way. I ended up getting there somewhat late (100 speed traps and twice as many cops later), and everyone, being in Spring Break mode, was already pretty hammered. After a restful nap, though, people starting coming back with a second wind. Mia got to play with a couple of labs, Turk and Henry while we raged a bit. I was even fortunate enough to down some beers with the housekeeper’s grandsons, who were in high school but, nonetheless, down with their vices (we were all that age at some point). What happened next was not a whole lotta fun, so to cut a long story short, we did some bad shit, and I was tweaking out. We did, however, manage to build an unnecessarily big fire in the fireplace, so at least, we were warm  Because there were so many people all staying at this one house, sleeping arrangements were less than ideal, and I got a half-night’s sleep, confined to the floor. The next morning, feeling really out of it, we played a couple games of pong, and then my old roommate, Andrew Allen, and I got the fuck outta there, Biloxi-bound, via Mobile.

“Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the Southland
I miss Alabamy once again
And I think its a sin, yes” –Lynyrd Skynyrd

So, the road trip is officially underway. I head out kind of late from my parent's house on Monday, giving my mama a big kiss goodbye and assuring her I would stay safe and call often. The path to Savannah was familiar but, nonetheless, somewhat difficult as a white-out rainstorm compromised my visibility while both darkness and the monotony of I-16 provided me with adequate temptation to sleep. All the same, I reached Savannah just after 10PM, welcomed by recognizable street names, like Abercorn and Henry, and trees draped in Spanish moss. I was staying with a good friend, the very creative and talented (and tatted) Emily Mclaughlin, the older sister of Elizabeth Mclaughlin, with whom I went to college.

Upon arriving at her place, I was, at first, surprised that it was in the middle of the Savannah hood....but whatever...the place was nice and some of the neighbors friendly...and her French bulldog Maddy proved to be the perfect playmate for little Mia while we, along with her friend Jessica, hit the bars for the night. As it was Monday night, many of the bars closed early, but we found a couple that were open late. First was Churchill's, an English-style bar/pub with a pretty big weird/older/business crowd. It's always interesting to see guys in suits pounding beers, fathers/husbands white-boy dancing, and drunk professionally-clad women falling and eating shit. Aside from the environment, the food there was delicious. And after a tasty order of fish and chips (had to get it) and a few drinks, we were ready to move on and head to The Rail, a bar for locals off of the City Market. Greeted with a "Welcome to America" at the door upon presenting my American passport (didn't have my license), I figured the vibes here would probably be a little different (quainter). I was immediately impressed by the bar's drink deals...double your drink's alcohol content for only one dollar more...hmmm. So with whiskey sour in hand, I was kicking it with the two girls when this drunkass, frumpy fellow came over and is really into Emily and her tattoos. He’s asking where to get em while touching her sleeve and just being overall a little creepy….but it turns out he was tatted up too and just too drunk to not come off as awkward. Anyway, we finished up there and headed home...only to all be woken up the next morning by the two dogs going insane playing/fighting with each other all over the apartment.

Despite my best efforts to keep sleeping, I ended up getting up and making my way to my favorite place on Earth…the DMV (DDS). As much as I hated spending my downtime in the Department of Driver’s Services office, I could not continue my road trip without a license on my person, and mine was uhh lost (you’re welcome Alfie). So an hour or so later, with a temporary license in my pocket, I made my way into the city and ate at the Sentient Bean, a hippy-ish, fair-trade, organic, vegetarian coffee house/restaurant (Savannah’s only one). The vibes there were really mellow, the walls colorful, and the crowd eclectic. We sat outside to eat, and there, as I observed the people and places nearby, I noted the sort of bi-cultural character that Savannah is known for…that is, the city contains both Southern and artsy/creative/liberal/progressive elements. Southern due to its geography and history and artsy/creative/liberal/progressive due to the presence of SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design) at its center, Savannah can boast organic grocery stores and vegetarian/vegan eateries while still embracing Southern cooking at its best and being the proud home of Mrs. Paula Deen….After lunch, it was about time to keep on moving. So we visited Emily’s store, Fabrika, run by her friend Ashley and her (both SCAD grads), watched a little Crack Fox and Old Greg, and then I was headed for Orlando…or at least I thought I was.

I was going to stay with my buddy, Dan Crotty’s, family in Orlando that night, but when I couldn’t get in touch with him, I had to make a little detour. I was passing signs for the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, so I figured, “Why not? What the hell…” I had always wanted to go camp there; I had just never gotten around to it. So I headed westward toward Stephen C. Foster State Park, which is located within the refuge. It was dark by this time, and the drive was eerily long and uneventful. There was nothing for miles and miles, and I was starting to get a little hypnotized by the backwoods back roads when I finally made it to the park’s gate. Although the gate was open, it turned out the park’s registration office was closed, which meant I could not register for a camp spot. Completely unwilling to turn around and trek back through the nothingness but also hesitant about squatting a spot without consent, I continued driving through the park, hoping I’d figure something out. And lo and behold, the campground host’s trailer door was open, and I could see her sitting inside. I honked gently so she knew I wasn’t trouble, and when she came to my car door, I talked her up and explained my predicament. Fortunately enough, she let me grab a spot and pay in the morning…what a wonderful woman! So I set up tent at my spot, and Mia and I got in. But it ended up taking a good hour or so to get to bed because deer kept creeping around the tent, and Mia wouldn’t stop barking. Eventually, though, she got a bit desensitized to their rustling about, and we enjoyed a decent night’s sleep under a sky fullll of stars.

In the morning, we packed up and paid, and although I wanted to rent a boat and go see some gators, I, once again, had to roll out; my buddy Dan had since contacted me, so I was headed to Orlando…for real this time. But first, I had to let Mia exhaust a little energy and get some revenge for the nighttime disturbances…so I let her chase some deer for a bit, which was an awesome sight to see, even though the deer were easily a lot faster. On the road, I got a country breakfast sandwich at a small gas station/restaurant north of Lake City, where the people were really nice and interested in my trip plans. In driving, I have always noticed (this may seem pretty obvious) very little difference between South Georgia and North Florida in terms of people, landscape, and overall feel.

Once in Orlando, I was warmly greeted by Dan’s mom, Mrs. Jane Brownlee, one of the most hospitable, motherly women I have ever met. We had never met before, but she was more than happy to hook me up with a PB&J and house Mia there while I went out to rock climb. I climb at Stone Summit in Atlanta, and one of my buddies, Narjit, told me about his gym, Aiguille Rock Climbing Center, down in the Otown. Since I was there, I felt obligated to give it a visit. Although a lot smaller than the Summit, Aiguille was, in my opinion, tougher overall. Some of the routes were more technical and the pieces older and worn. Long story short, it kicked my ass, and I have mad blisters to prove it….definitely worth the trip though. Upon returning to the house, I got a much-needed shower in and then had a pot-roast dinner (mmm mmm) with Mrs. Brownlee. We shot the shit, talking about America and possible routes, people to stay with, and attractions to see (including a quilt museum in Paduka, KY, which is apparently pretty badass- I know..I laughed too…quilts + badass don’t usually go hand in hand). Anyway, after a good dinner and even better talk, I said my goodbyes and, yet again, hit the road…this time to the dirty Dade. Never before had I noticed how bullshit Florida and all of their toll-booth stops are until last night….unbelievable…where do they get off?

Anyway, after what seemed like the longest drive to date, I made my way to some pet-friendly lodging near the airport, an Extended Stay Hotel. Upon arriving, I had a little Déjà vu, for the main office of the hotel, where check-in was, was closed up for the night (WTF right?) Once again, I got really lucky and talked with/convinced the laundry lady to go in the office and check me into a room.
It felt so good sleeping in a big bed again last night, and this morning, well-rested and amped to be in Miami, I met up with my homeboy, Andres Weisz, and hopefully, we’ll get into a little mischief today and tomorrow.

“My father was a gambler down in Georgia
He wound up on the wrong end of a gun
And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus
Rolling down highway forty-one” –The Allman Brothers

Traveling extensively internationally and talking to many foreigners about America and her character really got me thinking. I had seen and done so much abroad but had not yet fully experienced the American culture, coast to coast. Sure I could write books on the Dirty South and Southern Hospitality, but I could not tell Austrians, for example, where the best restaurants in New York were...or where to shop when visiting San Francisco. Indeed, I began to realize that past the staples of freedom and fast food, American culture was very, very diverse and was, in fact, a variety of subcultures, in all of which I was honestly not so well-versed. So I decided to plan out a remedy to this unfortunate lack of cultural familiarity...I was going to follow in the footsteps of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson (or Raoul Duke) and hit the road...and not piece by piece, but all at once. So I planned the trip as a 6-month journey to all 50 states with one of my best friends, but as we all know, things will never go exactly as planned. But no matter...now, months later, I am about to embark on my 3-month MEGA-AMERICAN DREAM to 49 states (isn't Hawaii inconvenient?) with a different best friend of mine, my little puppy dog Mia. We're about to get into the newly-fixed Cherokee, currently packed to the brim, and hit the road. First stop...Savannah...wish us luck!

"In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year... Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, Ch. 1