"I could see the hope in the faces of the African Americans. And I could also see the fear." A journalist speaks on a tiny TV screen located inside the NPS-run Intpretive Center. "And you could see the fear on the faces of the white protestors; the fear of unknowable change."
I look over to Charlotte "History is doomed to repeat itself". She sighs heavily and throws her arm around my shoulder.
Established 1823. Welcome to this Holy Place.
The Catholic Cemetery is the last resting place of the bodies of the faithful departed awaiting reunion with their souls at the resurrection on the last day.
PRO: When you and your travel companion suffer from "hangriness", it can be some rough mornings until you can find food. We ride north on the trolley towards City Park. When we reach the end of the line, we hop right back on in the other direction in search of food. We settle on the the Flying Burrito. I'm sure the food was nice, but the cocktails were even nicer.
After two (three?) drinks we shuffle back to City Park. As we wander, we talk about pedestrians and transportation laws. We reminisce about our college years while we walk under ageing oak trees draped in Spanish moss. After the buzz starts to wear off, we depart in search of more alcohol. After another Jack and Coke (maybe two?) we head back downtown. We see the shinning lights of Canal street, and the once overwhelming busyness of the city begins to seem much calmer and a lot more beautiful.
CON: After a day of drinking whiskey, beer, and what was called "Purple Drink" you stumble around historic Nouvelle-Orléans- a once dignified home of French dignitaries, fur trappers, and high-profile pirates- and fall straight into a trash can.
Under crystal chandeliers while drinking fancy cocktails, we take pictures of our feet while talking about hair that get stuck in your butt crack.
We drive down the highway of the blues, surrounded by white. Charlotte drives the vast, endless, and painfully flat road while I play tourist and take photos of cotton bails from the car. I insisted on wearing my overalls. It's not hard to feel the infectious curiosity and joy that Charlotte feels down the in the South. She had never seen a cotton plant in real life before, and now it's showered on the highway in front of us, the edge of the road covered in pure, fluffy white.
I can't say that there isn't a hint of doubt in the air. Only two nights previously, I was about 3/4 the way through an entire bottle of wine while Trump led in the electoral votes. I receive a text from my future travel companion: "I can't go to the Deep South if Trump wins. It's too soon." I shrug off her hesitation and take another drink. He can't win, there's no possible way...Right? Charlotte will have to suck it up. It'll be fine... Right?
Unfortunately, the night ended in tears. Tears of uncertainty in the fear of the unknown.
Yet, here we are, nursing a two day hangover. We pull into a visitor's center in Tunica. We're greeted with a hearty "Welcome to the delta" from two ladies as we enter while blues music blared from the stereo outside. I browse as Charlotte strikes up a conversation. I hear roaring laughter and briefly come into the conversation. I'm not sure of the details, but it has something to do with a cotton field and a shotgun.
The ladies offer up a selfie and a drink invitation before we depart. If we weren't in a rush to get to Clarksdale, we might've spent our entire trip there. We leave more elated than we came, and maybe the darkness of the unknown isn't so bad after all.
The Shack Up Inn is right off Highway 61. Even if it were 50 miles off of 61, you could probably still see it. A village of small, dilapidating buildings, all huddled together into one boutique hotel plopped into the insipid lands of the delta. We're greeted into the Calremont shack; graffiti of past residents litter the walls while a crooked air conditioner hums in the background. The sun is fading fast with light bouncing off rusted tin and abandoned trailers. There is a sprinkling of Southern charm in the air and I can't help but feel like this is a place that can only exist in Mississippi.
It's a chilly night, but I sit outside before the music starts. Red's is a small club, set among a sleepy street downtown. A man clad in a black fedora and crocodile-skin boots greets me. "Hello," I respond. "Where are you from, missy?" "Nashville." A side smile flashes on his face. "Ahh, Nashville. Music City. Well, welcome." He holds open the door for an older gentlemen who quickly glances in my direction. "Hello there sweetie, welcome to Clarksdale."
I come back inside and Charlotte leans to me and says, "I hope this level of patriotism never fades away." And it's true. We talk about politics and pot brownies and beer with a slew of people from all backgrounds from all over the country. We learn each other's stories through conversation and old blues tunes. Red himself yells for me to talk about music. "Hey Nashville!" he calls from across the bar. "You ever hear of so-and-so? I think he's outta Tennessee..."
Tonight, we transcend race, gender, generation, and religion. And while the small, dingy music club was a corner of the country I hadn't yet explored, it is quintessentially American. The man in the crocodile-skin boots takes ahold of our hands and we dance and spin among the hazy red glow. The weight of the election is -at least temporarily- lifted .The smile on my face numbs my cheeks and as we clap away the blues, I can't imagine being anywhere else.
It's Veteran's Day. I let Charlotte play with Snapchat while we drive further south to Vicksburg. I tell her it's the quickest route to New Orleans, but it's a cover because the only reason I'm heading to Vicksburg is to see Doug.
I had gone to a writing workshop a couple of weeks prior. It focused on travel writing, although it had little to do with writing. There's not a lot to mention about it except for my little rage rant on the definition of wanderlust. "Any cursory search for that word and all you see is some dumb Tolkien quote written on a picture of people scuba diving in Thailand. Why is that word synonymous with that image? Why can't my wanderlust be defined by visiting a grave of a confederate camel?!"
I can't recall how I came across the story of Old Douglas, but basically here's the gist: Secretary of War, Jefferson Davis, decided it was a good idea to import a bunch of camels from the Middle East, thinking they would fare better in the expansion into Texas and Arizona than horses. Well, as it turns out, the men didn't really like the camels and they were uncomfortable to ride, so the only thing to do was to set them all free. No one knows how Douglas got to Mississippi, but he stuck around and the men grew to love him.
Douglas fought in the Civil War, as part of Company A of the Forty-third Mississippi Infantry. Unfortunately, during the Siege of Vicksburg, Douglas was shot and killed by a Union soldier. And what's worse, they ate him too. Enraged by the camel's death, Col. Bevier sent out 6 of his best snipers to find the Union bastard who killed Douglas. The camel was soon avenged and he was given a proper solider's burial in Cedar Hill Cemetery.
So here's to Doug, and the many idiosyncratic stories that this country has to offer.
Here's to the dreamers.
To those who have ever felt lost and lonely and had nothing else to turn to. To those who have loved. To those who have sat in their rooms alone, heartbroken. To those who put on headphones in the middle of the night and danced. To those who always hold out for hope.
To those who travel, where time and space don't exist. To those who have driven endless miles or have sat in an airport crying on their way to a place they thought was home. To those who embrace the journey.
To those who throw caution to the wind and jump wildly while bony knees graze the barrier. To those who aren't worried about how they look or sound, but only care to let out every ounce of energy, every ounce of sadness, or every ounce of happiness. To those who throw their arms in the air and sing their hearts out.
To those who are near and far, and to those who have yet to be met. To those who wait for hours in the searing sun, the freezing December temperatures, or the rough streets of Montmarte. To those who sit in mini-vans during a tornado watch and to those who share bottles of Jack Daniels while sitting on the ground and endlessly talk as though they have always known each other.
Here's for the singers, the crazy ones, the screamers, the shakers, the misfits. Here's to the fans. Here's to the music. Here's to the real thing.
And here's to the next adventure.
It's easy to synonymize Salt Lake with its rich history with the Mormon Church, but I was pleasantly surprised to find a much different place. While learning about the Mormons is utterly fascinating to me, I was (semi) amazed to see how, for the lack of a better word, cool the city is. There is colorful street art that line the alleyways and hip restaurants abound, all encompassed by an immense mountain scenery. We passed a crazy amount of tattoo shops (where badges of 'I'm-out-of-the-Mormon-Church-now' can be acquired) and sipped on artisan hot chocolates and teas. I'll try not to speak too highly of it because in case a sudden case of the "Oh, I have to move" now comes up and I'll need to keep it my little secret.