Miami Nice

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For the next few days, I spent time visiting with my dad Bill and his wonderful wife Fran at their home in Coral Gables. Spending time with my dad is still a pretty recent thing for me because I spent about 20 childish and resentful years not speaking with him. A couple of years ago with the help of several really good advisors, I was finally able to reconcile with my father easily and completely. I got my dad back by giving up the past. It's an amazing thing and I recommend it highly if it's on your list of things to do.
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One thing that's made it even more interesting (and wonderful in a lot of ways) to become reacquainted with my dad is that he's lost almost all of his short term memory and has some pretty large gaps in his long term memory as well. This allows him to effortlessly accomplish the goal of many a new age guru, he lives almost exclusively in the present. This is greatly facilitated by the phenomenal attitude of his wife Fran, whose philosophy revolves around taking each moment as it comes to the point of being amused at what her life sometimes offers up. It was fascinating for me as a passionate student of cognitive science to observe firsthand the ramifications of waking up in a new world every morning. I learned a lot about how identity is formed and smithed and preserved, and I learned a lot about how cool my step mom is.

Over the course of the visit, we made a number of enjoyable field trips (including a lunch at a fabulous old-school seafood restaurant and a pleasant evening at an Xmas Pops concert at the local church). Saturday morning, knowing of my fondness for the place, Fran and Bill treated me to a visit to one of my favorite visionary art environments: Coral Castle. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coral_Castle

Like most places that light me up, Coral Castle is the curious legacy left by a person determined to express their vision and passion, with little to no regard for reason and oftentimes no formal training in their medium.

Edward Leedskalnin was an eccentric Latvian fellow who was jilted by his 16-year-old fiancée a day before their wedding. In a tizzy, he left for America and spent the next 28 years building a monument to the spurner of his affection, refusing to allow anyone to view him while he worked. He accomplished feats of engineering that are still marveled at to this day, such as the 9 ton slab of coral rock he installed as a revolving door using an old Ford axle for the spindle. It's said that the door revolved at the touch of a finger in Ed's day. And that's not even beginning to address the issue of how he GOT the 9 ton slab of stone to it's installation site.

It's a magical place and I enjoyed getting to share it with Bill and Fran, neither of which had visited previously.

I also enjoyed accompanying Bill and Fran on their daily walks. Bill and Fran are very fit and active and it was so very pleasant to walk their morning routes with them. Fran is a knowledgeable and gifted gardener and it was wonderful to have her not only show me around her extensive garden, but also to help me identify plants I'd never seen before.

I departed Sunday, just after lunch, with a ziplock bag of road snacks (mmmm-peanut butter treats-thank you Fran!) and settled in for another long drive. Florida's got the same problem as Texas when you're going from Miami to anywhere else in the U.S. - you need an 8 hour handicap to simply get out of the state. I selected Chemical Brothers and Pendulum, mesmerizing techno dance bands, to sing me gently to Jacksonville. That was as far as I could fathom proceeding this day.

Something Weeki This Way Comes

After the exhilaration of my visit to Pasaquan, I hit the road Friday morning with a renewed sense of possibility in the realm of the extraordinary and settled in for a long drive to Miami. I had mapped out a stop at a classic tourist attraction just north of Tampa to break up my day of intensive transportation and I was excited all the way from Georgia, because it was a visit I had long yearned to make.

In 1947, after plucking rusting refrigerator hulks, abandoned cars and other assorted junk from an enormous fresh water spring he had scouted out as a good location for a roadside attraction, Newton Perry built an underwater theater and launched a mermaid show at Weeki Wachee springs on the northwestern coast of Florida.

When it first opened, Weeki Wachee sat on an extremely remote stretch of highway and the mermaids helped recruit visitors by running to the road in their swimsuits when they heard a car approaching. Can you imagine driving down a lonely stretch of highway in remotest Florida in your '47 Packard and suddenly finding yourself surrounded by Betty Grable mermaids, singing their siren song, beckoning you to their lair? Fabulous!

By the 1950s, Weeki Wachee had become one of the most popular tourist destinations in America, attracting the likes of Elvis and Don Knotts to watch gals in one piece swimsuits drink Grapette underwater. Mark and I have a set of Viewmaster reels from that time that we absolutely treasure. Sadly, the popularity of the underwater theater has abated over the years, and Weeki Wachee is now one of the last surviving mermaid shows in America.
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Since I feel certain that mermaid shows have constituted an important part of my personality (I still have cherished crayon drawings from my visit to Aquarena Springs in the early 60s), it was important for me to make a pilgrimage to the source. I was the first guest in the theater, eager to witness the spectacle that was about to unfold. The auditorium gradually filled with a modest sized group, including a wide-eyed little girl who sat near me proclaiming that it was her second viewing that afternoon. I'm guessing it was a pretty clear sign that the girl haled from from my home planet.

Finally, the aging vinyl curtain began to rise on the watery proscenium and to my delight, the first sight that greeted me was a mermaid passing directly in front of me. I had naturally taken a seat on the front row and had my nose glued to the glass. Wow. These weren't my Kennedy era mermaids, no sirree! These gals were slim, sophisticated and brandished gleaming Vegas smiles as they lip synced (through the miracle of invisible headsets) the words to the blaring soundtrack - not a single Grapette in sight. After much cavorting about, the mergirls made a giant watery ferris wheel as a grand finale, much to the obvious delight of the audience.

I emerged from the theater revitalized and happy but reminded that our world and our experience of it are ever dynamic. Nostalgia often beckons us but it is through being in the present, without expectation, that the greatest enjoyment can be experienced. That is precisely why I took a moment to lounge upon a giant pink clam shell and have my portrait made by a bemused park attendant before resuming the push toward Miami.

I am reminded here of a wonderful expression that Mark has coined, "It's the irritant that makes the pearl!"

The remainder of the day's journey was somewhat bland and uninteresting since I had chosen to follow the interstate, but the end of my drive became magical as I turned off onto a two lane blacktop that cuts directly through the Everglades west of Miami. It had long ago darkened, but a luscious full moon in a cloudless sky shepherded me through the swampy stretch. I was intrigued by a series of roadside signs noting that the area was a panther crossing and wondered aloud as I passed two signs in quick secession: panther crossing and campground. I had to ask myself, "How popular is the campground at the panther crossing?" I myself have a healthy respect for panthers that makes such a thing wondrous in my mind.

I finally arrived at my father's home in Coral Gables late in the evening and quickly settled down for the night, weary from my long drive. I didn't even have sufficient energy to envision Betty Page dressed as a mermaid, singing me to sleep, much less drinking a Grapette in the cool clear waters of Weeki Wachee Springs.

How Does This Keep Happening?

How does this keep happening to me??!? How can I have so many days in my life that are out of the ballpark, they're so good? Sorry - it seems like I'm getting more than my fair share. If it makes you feel any better, I feel fortunate beyond any measure of reason or belief that this is how my life has turned out.

I woke before sunrise this morning, cocooned by the same sound of light drizzle pattering on a metal roof that had lulled me to sleep the night before. I burrowed deeper into in my soft luxury sheets under a fuzzy blanket (damn that was a good bed) and had just started to fall back asleep when I became vaguely conscious of the fact that the wind had begun to rise rapidly and the rain had thickened to a downpour. It was soon literally blowing a gale (with me safe in my nest!), the air making that wonderful forlorn whistle and roar. The cool front that had dusted Austin and other unlikely cities with snow in the past few days had finally arrived in Georgia and was making its presence ostentatiously known. I felt like the heroine in a Hammer Horror Dracula movie - huddled up in a mahogany four poster bed in a large Victorian bed chamber, the wind howling outside, the windows peppered by driving rain. Unfortunately, the thunder/lightning effect guy was out sick, so I had to do without, but the speed of the wind made up for it. I intermittently hopped out from under the covers and ran over to the window to see if I could spot any funnel clouds dropping down from the darkened horizon and was rewarded on one of these missions by the cinematic sight of a pert beige umbrella rolling slowly down the street like a tumbleweed.

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I had asked Walker (the congenial proprietor of the Sign of the Dove) to serve me breakfast at 8:30, so I eventually forced myself out of bed, dressed hurriedly/efficiently and floated in a lady-like manner down the grand staircase to the lovely dining area, all the while pretending I was Edith Wharton. Yeah...that's it...now I was an Edwardian heiress, visiting relatives at their country estate in Byoona-Vis-ta. That's how y'all say it over heah - BYOONA Vista. I guess I can't make fun of them since I say San Jacinta.
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Walker had prepared a delicious breakfast and kept my cup filled with good hot coffee as the wind gusted steadily outside. He poured himself a cup and sat down to chat and the two of us whiled away what I'd guess was a good hour, just talking about all sorts of things like the demise of hitchhiking and the complex nature of racism in the South. Walker is a convivial and interesting fellow and I really enjoyed talking with him.

Around 10ish (so civilized, the ish hours) Dr. John Rogers, the intrepid gentleman that would be taking me on a tour of Pasaquan (http://www.pasaquan.com/) arrived to fetch me, just as a few breaks in the clouds began to open up and let through an occasional beam of radiant sunlight.

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After a short drive out into the country (including a detour we were forced to take because of downed power lines) we pulled up to the gate and I could feel the knot of awe and joy beginning to throb in the middle of my chest. I had looked at pictures of Pasaquan for years, sensing that it was something very special and amazing, but had not able to glean exactly what that was from the images I'd seen. And now, finally, I know why. Pasaquan is quite simply a place that has to be experienced to be understood. Small pieces of the gestalt captured through a camera lens do little good in helping to understand the immensity of beauty and passion of the place. It abounds in humor, spirituality, cleverness and order. It exudes respect and affection. It's so many things, and as you can probably see, I'm completely in love with the place.

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Part of my ardor, I'm sure, came from the absolutely extraordinary tour that my guide John provided. John Rogers leads a board or preservationists that have been working diligently to fund the restoration and insure the survival of Pasaquan. John was born and raised in Buena Vista and served for many years as a rare specimen of a dying breed: what he called a "horse and buggy" doctor - a doctor that could pull a toenail, deliver a baby or do an appendectomy, and drive to your farm to do it. John practiced for what I believe he told me was 42 years and just recently retired. Now he's generously giving his time to Pasaquan, securing grants, stringing bead curtains and toting pink-haired tourists around.

There is much written about Pasaquan and it's wacky, wonderful creator, St. EOM (Roadside American has good thumbnail description: http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/2981) so I won't try and reinvent the weirdo wheel here. The salient details are that a fellow named Eddie Owens Martin (EOM) produced this hauntingly beautiful compound of buildings and walls on a rural Georgia farmstead over a period of almost 30 years, and left not only an extraordinary monument, but more interestingly in a way, a legend even larger than the four acre compound his castle sits on. Eddie was a fortune teller, a drag queen, a confidant of the aliens and a damn snappy dresser. He loved a hex, grew his own marijuana and could charge $20 a pop to tell fortunes in Greenwich Village in the 50s with a line around the block. My tour guide John was in high school when he first met St. EOM and regaled me with all sorts of marvelous and entertaining tales about Eddie as we sauntered about the house and grounds. One picture he put in my mind that I particularly liked was the thought of Eddie all decked out in one of his outrageous pre-Funkadelic Funkadelic costumes walking the downtown Saturday streets of Buena Vista and moving easily and happily amidst the throngs of sharecroppers that had come to town to do their trading. If that's not larger than life, I don't know what is.

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That's John above, showing me around the fabulous cosmic wheel building. If you stand in front of the cosmic wheels and let your focus go, they pop out of the wall all 3-D on you! The colors and intricacy of the wheels are just delicious. John led me on a thorough tour of the entire property and all it's attendant rooms and buildings, patiently explaining and showing and pointing things out. When we were done, he set me loose to take some pictures and I have to say I'm pretty disappointed with the results. Fortunately, much better photographers have documented the place far more compellingly and in a freshly painted state. And now I know that Eddie, who was so fond of hexes, must surely have cast a spell to veil the true majesty of the place in images and this dire curse was not, alas, destined to be broken by the likes of me. At least not this trip. I'll upload a much larger set of images to my gallery if you're interested in seeing more.

A few notable items: if you look closely at this image, you'll see that the snake on the left only has half a head and several of the medallions below are missing. John told me that at first they thought a vandal had been at work, but soon discovered that lightning had hit the tree above and connected with the wall, exploding the head off the snake and the medallions off the wall. Eddie has such a strong presence about the place that things like this seem nothing less than intentional and certainly not out of the norm.

I feel confident that Eddie and I would have gotten along like a house afire because how could I help but love a man that made a housing for his propane tank that looked like this!

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There's a recurring motif that pops up all around Pasaquan of figures sporting curious criss-crossed jumpsuits (set off by their tall pointy hair). St. EOM was told that these suits allowed the wearers to levitate, using an intricate system of pressure point activation. Apparently, Eddie worked to fashion his own suit, and when asked if it allowed him to levitate, he answered with a smile something on the order of, "No, but I sure do feel lighter!" This is a painting Eddie did of a Pasaquanian modeling his suit. Be sure not to miss this fella's groovy pointy top helmet.

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You would think that would be enough for one wonderful day, wouldn't you? I should be able to just check that off my list. Well there were still many more wonderful surprises in store, so why don't we just get right to it?

John drove me back to the B & B and we parted after a round of fond farewells. In my absence, Walker (that's Walker, pictured at left) had thoughtfully prepared a map for me showing how to head toward my next destination through Plains, Georgia, the home of Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter. Walker was a navigator in the U.S. service, so you can image what a wonderful map it was! He pointed out all the things to look for and told me if I were hungry to stop at a little place called Mom's Cafe for some delicious soul food. THAT made my radar go off, let me tell you! I bid Walker adieu and regained the Georgia blacktop headed south.

It was a beautiful afternoon for a drive, stormy, dramatic. The light was lovely. It didn't take me long to get to Plains, nor did it take long for me to locate Mom's (right after, I SWEAR, I saw a tractor pulling a trailer heaped high with peanuts right through the center of town!). As soon as I walked in, I knew I had found road trip diner nirvana.

After an excruciating bout of deciding what to pick, Brenda served me up a plate of fried chicken, turnip greens, mashed potatoes and gravy, and what I found out (after having to ask, somewhat ashamed) was "flat cornbread." The beverage choice was less ambiguous: sweet tea, of course. I snagged a bottle of sport pepper sauce on my way to the table to douse the greens with and selected a table directly adjacent to the signed portraits of Jimmy and Rosalynn. As you might have guessed by now, my meal was sublime. Turnip greens are my favorites and these were cooked just perfectly. The mashed potatoes and gravy were so creamy they tasted like they had cream cheese mixed in and the cornbread was really tasty. The chicken was out of this world.

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Because my mother does not regularly access the internet, I can say here that Mom's Kitchen's fried chicken was the best I've ever had - it was perfection. I asked the gentleman puttering around the dining room if the person that fried the chicken was still there (it was pretty late for lunch) and he told me he'd go and check. He returned with a charming and modest young girl named Kim who shyly took credit for frying up the chicken. I asked her if I could give her a hug because that was the best damn chicken I ever ate. She laughed and agreed to let me show my appreciation, even though I'm sure she thought it a bit strange. Hats off to Kim! I just know I'll dream about that chicken for many years to come. Mmmmmm.

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I lovingly finished off my meal, blew kisses to the girls in the kitchen on my way out and hopped back in the car with a tiny food-begotten tear in my eye and proceeded to high tail it south to a little town called Thomasville, not very far north of the border with Florida. It was there that I would find the home of what I consider to be one of the best cheeses I've ever put in my mouth: Sweet Grass Dairy's Green Hill (http://sweetgrassdairy.com/detail?number=23). I first stopped by the dairy, and upon the advice of the ultrafriendly Clay Wehner who I stumbled upon, I stopped to pet the goats on the way back out to go to the cheese store next door. And what fabulous goats! They looked and acted like pet show goats! They were immaculately clean and well mannered. I tendered two small strawberries that I had found neglected in the car, thinking they would delight in the flavor of the delicious berries, but when I stuck my hand through the fence, it was my ball chain bracelets that started a feeding frenzy!

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They nibbled delicately at the shiny beads and it tickled my wrist and made me laugh. I thanked the goats for their admirable contributions to the halls of superior cheesedom and then hurried next door to enjoy the exquisite pleasure of tasting all the other cheeses that Sweet Grass produces, and boy were they ever delicious. I really love Sweet Grass's business and really hope they meet with continued and protracted success. I picked four different cheeses to take with me and left carrying a large brown bag filled with assorted gourmet delights (they even had Limonata!). I had finally gotten a foodie fix and it caused a warm cheesy glow to radiate from inside me. Just the thing to carry me until I arrived some hours later in Jacksonville, Florida where I decided to spend the night.

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Whew! What a day! I undoubtedly have the life of Riley. I went to sleep, dreaming of mermaids.

Rainy night in Georgia

The rain that sung me gently to sleep the previous night was lingering still when I woke this morning. It would, in fact, keep me company all the day long. I can hear it even now, pattering gently on the metal awning over the veranda outside my opened door as I sit and type in my beautiful room at the Sign of the Dove B & B in Buena Vista, Georgia.

I began my day today by making my way to the 1700 acre Hyundai plant outside of Montgomery, Alabama, to go on a tour of their state-of-the-art assembly line (completed in 2005). Nate and I had visited the GM assembly line in Janeway, WI, a while back and I had been immensely moved at the sight of an army of welding robots cavorting in a dance of milimeter thick precision, so when I read that Hyundai's plant was considered to be the most highly automated plant in the world, I wasted no time in reserving a spot on the tour.

Shortly after I arrived, my group was chauffered all over the million square foot facility in a two car golf tram by a public relations czarina who sported a huge rhinestone belt buckle with her baby pink Hyundai "Teamwear (TM)"golf shirt. While she was perfectly nice and perfectly capable, she reminded me of one of the main reasons I'm glad I'm no longer working for The Man. I think it was the PowerPoint slide presentation complete with laser pointer that did it.

Still, the brief bland dose of propaganda did little to diminish my excitement at being there to witness the extraordinary ballet of 2,000 people making 1,000 cars a day. A car typically rolls off the line every 50 seconds, each car requiring about 16 hours of labor including the painting process. Every one of the cars that rolls off the line is test driven on a long test track at the back of the plant. Think of it for a moment, because it helps put a scale on what they do here every day: imagine you had to organize and automate starting up and driving 1000 cars a day. Think of the immensity of that single task alone. And that's just one tiny step in the whole process of starting with giant rolls of dime thin steel and turning out a brand new car, ready to ship to the dealership.

There is no way my words can convey to you how amazing it all is. I'm a bit hamstrung here, because there are absolutely NO photos allowed at the plant. Apparently, the state of industrial espionage is such that little old pink hair ladies cannot be trusted not to start competing automated assembly plants, leveraging all the secret robot programming that can be gleaned from photos hurriedly snapped on a point and shoot camera from a moving tram. Or something like that. I've taken the liberty of including some images I found on the web so I won't be completely without visual aids here.

The feeling I was most present to this time around was how amazingly modern it all is. I remember watching The Jetsons when I was a kid and and wanting nothing more than one of those machines like Jane had to prepare her for her day. Step in the box, push a button and presto! You look like a million bucks. All performed by little gizmos and robots.

But to actually watch a robot the size of a small dinosaur move with the subtlety and grace of a zen master is an awe inspiring sight. One of the particularly striking examples for me is a robot that picks up an entire dashboard unit from a robotic trolley, delicately threads it through the openings on the body frame, and then plugs it very precisely into perfect position.

Alright, I'd imagine about 3/4 of the audience is snoring at this point, so I'll conclude my ode to the automotons. All in the world more I need to say is I clapped for the dashboard dude. He deserved a round of applause and I gave him one.

After leaving the Hyundai plant with a giant grin and some souvenir safety glasses, I purposefully aimed for tiny little backroads to take me north and east to Georgia. I had reserved a room in Buena Vista and decided to meander a bit on my way there. Turns out remote Alabama and Georgia are very remote. Most towns I passed through on my drive either had no businesses whatsoever, or sometimes a single gas/convenience store/chicken liver and gizzard combo basket serving store. I stopped at one such store and hit double pay dirt: two of the best fried chicken wings I've had in a long long while and a bag of, get ready for this, deep fried peanuts in the shell. Is the South great, or what? Who knew you could deep fry a peanut in the shell? And I'm quoting here, "...so good you can eat 'em shell and all!" You know me. I just had to try them.

My review? High in fiber! Not bad, really - I bet Mark will absolutely love them since he likes to eat sticks and rocks, but the peanuts themselves are extra tasty. They're tiny and dark brown with a rich roasted flavor.

Between the rain and industrial interdiction today, I didn't get a chance to take many photos. I did, however, run across this splendid set of hand crafted street lights marking the twin driveway entrances to a home in rural Alabama.

My drive through the post autumnal country roads of Alabama today was really lovely, even with a steady drizzle making it a bit more tricky. Not long after dark, however, I became a bit weary of the heightened attention required by the waterlogged blacktops and was eager to reach Buena Vista and my lodging for the evening.

When I arrived, my host Walker Williams was gracious and solicitous. He showed me to my lovely room and fetched a nice chair and card table so I could use my laptop. And here I sit, crafting words into pale representations of my experiences with an ear to the crack in the door that lets in the lullaby of rain savored from the comfort of a dry nest. Hear my sigh of roadtrip contentment.

Now UCM, Now you don't

Oh what a lovely day full of vague decay! When I rose this morning and ventured back out into the world, I was delighted to find that ominous clouds glowered overhead, and as I made my way east along the interstate, I encountered continual bands of precipitation ranging from a fine billowing mist to a torrential downpour so dense you couldn't see more than five feet in front of you. It was curious to me how each intensity level lasted no more than 90 seconds at a time before giving way to the whims of its neighboring weather. The occasional emergence of the sun from lacunae in the cloud deck made for spectacular displays of light and shadow, including a large arc of rainbow lasting only a few moments on the outskirts of Biloxi.
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My first destination of the day was the UCM Museum in the tiny town of Abita Springs, Louisiana, just northeast of Covington (http://ucmmuseum.com/). Say it aloud: U-C-M. You see 'em! You SEE 'em! Get it??? I belabor the point only to give you a taste of the tongue-in-cheek, mirthful spirit of the place.

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Artist John Preble has spent many years covering a vintage gas station complex with a wonderment of found objects, curiosities and treasures. John not only boasts one of the world's largest collections of paint-by-numbers masterpieces, but he's also created a number of elaborate animated folk art dioramas that are amazing and fascinating to watch. Here's a crude video of my favorite, the tornado scene:

I had the extreme fortune and pleasure of having the place to myself as I wandered about, accompanied only by the sounds of a light drizzle pattering on the roof and the thrilling strains of "Don't Fence Me In" followed by "Deep in the Heart of Texas". Once again, I found myself to be the only one clapping, but it didn't dampen my spirits one iota!

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One of the recurring themes in the museum complex is animal freaks of nature (what must the hot glue and expandable foam bill run at the UCM?) and in the misty Louisiana afternoon, the Allisapien resting in his empty pond was a powerful reminder that I wasn't in Kansas anymore, Toto. The deep South is a vast, undiscovered territory for me and I was delighted by this eerie welcome.

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I spent a good bit of time talking with John after my tour and it turns out that not only is he an imaginative and prolific artist, but he makes his real living managing and producing music. In a fascinating conversation, he excitedly described to me a powerful renaissance that's underway in the New Orleans music scene and described several "trad Jazz" groups that were making notable music and better than decent salaries by passing the hat at street performances all over the world (see the Loose Marbles on YouTube to get a flavor: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUeI4Q9ePEg).

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As the screen door slammed behind me on my way out (it did not hit me) I experienced the distinct reluctance in leaving that comes at the end of a visit with a host who has been particularly gracious. Goodbye, John and thank you!

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To ameliorate the poignancy of parting, I proceeded directly to the Abita Brew Pub down the street to drown my sorrows in locally brewed artisan beer. It didn't occur to me (for some dumb reason) until I was almost in Abita Springs where I'd heard the name before - beer! Of course! I ordered an amber colored seasonal brew that turned out to be absolutely delicious - Pecan Harvest. I also ordered a bowl of chicken and sausage gumbo, expertly served with saltines for pushing the last dregs unabashedly into the spoon. This particular bowl of heaven boasted a nutty brown golden roux, but was delicious and robust even so. It was the perfect fare for a rainy afternoon of spicy mystery.

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I selected a small two lane blacktop for my exodus from Abita Springs, and truly savored the colors and sights and sounds of a remote Louisiana road on a stormy afternoon. I passed a place that made me laugh and laugh when I had time to consider it: a debris strewn lot with a complex of trailers patched together to make a domicile with a sign out front that read: "This Is It CPR Training". From what I could tell, the owners ran a CPR training business called This Is It! I wish now I'd stopped to snap a picture. Priceless!

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I headed back south a bit so I could turn onto Highway 90 which runs directly along the shore of the northern Gulf of Mexico for quite a distance. I started my trek in Gulfport, Mississippi and as many times as I've seen it, it still gave me a feeling of gladness to see the waves of the dull brown Gulf rolling ashore. I was especially interested in driving this route because I'd heard reports that this stretch had been particularly hard hit by Hurricane Katrina and I wanted to see if the damage was still evident. Surprisingly, to me at least, not only was it evident, but I would go so far as to described parts of it as downright desolate! As I drove mile after mile of what appeared to have been a highly populated waterfront area, there was not much left but naked foundations and glossy new high rise condominiums, obviously built hastily in the still evident rubble of architectural ancestors. Typical of what I saw would be on a block of 6 homesteads, one might have remained standing or been rebuilt, while the others were mere weed strewn concrete pads, most of them with For Sale signs beckoning forlornly. The thing that really surprised me, though, was in looking closely at the remaining buildings and the foundations of what was left, these houses in general were zillion dollar homes, mansions, castles! I really hadn't conceived of this area as a glamorous retreat of the superwealthy, but that seems to have been who was hardest hit.

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As I rounded a swoop in the coastline just as I reached Biloxi, a bright silver gleam caught my eye, activating my magpie gene. I hurriedly pulled over to investigate the spaceship like seedling which was sprouting up right next to a highly interesting building that had obviously been devastated by Katrina but was being repaired with the most interesting truss system I'd seen in a long time. It turned out that what I was seeing were the Frank Gehry buildings being constructed for the Ohr-O'Keefe Museum of Arts. What a delight! How often do you get to see a Gehry building disrobed? The contrast of the desolation, the gleaming silver pods and the stormy coastline were sublime.

I resumed my drive along the coast and the sun began setting in earnest just as I turned off of 90 and rejoined the blandness of the predictable interstate north toward Montgomery, Alabama. By the time I settled into my hotel room in Greenville, AL (with a bag of Krystal burgers as my dinner - THANKS ALOT, Brooke!) the rain had intensified into a steady downpour and I happily tucked myself in for a cozy evening with the laptop.

On the road again

Yeeeeee-HAW! I'm back on the open road! And boy howdy does it feel good.

For this journey, I'm planning to first head pretty much due east, towards Miami, and then after spending a few days there visiting my dad and stepmom, make a turn to the north and head up to Virginia where I'll get to while away some enjoyable hours with Brooke and Aaron. Mark is planning to fly to Roanoke on the 19th and join me, allowing him to ride along on the trip back to Texas with me. I've found a long list of marvels (several of which I've been dying to see for a while now) to stop and gander at, and will certainly keep my devoted blog readers up to date on what I find.

Today, after a somewhat exhausting and action-packed morning spent rounding up last minute items (dang-which fire extinguisher should I take???) and tucking them into the car, it took me most of the rest of the day to get out of Texas. People that aren't from Texas probably don't realize it, but it takes the best part of a day to drive out of Texas from the center where I live, no matter which direction you head. It's a huge honkin' state.

Today was mostly about getting underway and getting some miles under me, so as I barrelled east along I-10, I discovered only two sights worth mentioning. First, some sort of outdoor statuary business near Sealy, Texas, had an immense team of golden unicorns drawing (whom I assume to be) Apollo along behind them. Just on the side of the I-10 feeder road, like they were in a used car lot! It took a few miles for what I had fleetingly glanced out of the corner of my eye to sink in. Finally, I turned around and headed back to search for the curious sight, not knowing when the next opportunity for me to stop and gawk at an enormous golden team of steeds pulling a Greco-Roman commuter would be.

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The other beautiful moment came just after I had crossed the border from Texas into Louisiana. The sun had set and it was pretty dark on that remote stretch of the interstate. In the distance I could see the twinkling sodium vapour fairy lights of an oil refinery up ahead and as I got closer I realized there was an enormous flare burning near the interstate. What made it perfect as a moment was the Rammstein (German heavy metal techno) song playing on the stereo just as I passed by. It was a scene right out of the Terminator. Awesome.

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That's it for day one. Stay tuned - I'll do my best not to disappoint.

Fall Color, Texas style

Today as I worked happily away at cleaning and organizing my back yard metal shop, I savored the colors I found splashed in great drifts and clusters all around me: the beautiful orange oxides that have crept over the surface of my patio from endless welding, grinding and drilling; the dazzling yellow of the early onslaught of falling elm leaves; the green and gold decay of vegetation in autumnal transition. The morning air was fresh and crisp, the light harboring a gold tinge that is absent in the dry white heat of the summer.

Oh joy! It's coming!