Monthly Archives: June 2011

Note to self: never board a plane without a toothbrush in my carry-on. And a comb. 

It wasn’t bad enough to spend all that time  checking my bag and getting through security in Raleigh. Then, of course, I had to sit and wait for the plane. And wait. Then they posted a gate change for the plane. It wasn’t announced, just posted. 

Up. Walk. Find new gate. It was past boarding time before they changed the departure time on the sign. Again, no announcement.

We eventually boarded about 45 minutes past the original boarding time, and I began to be nervous about connecting with my flight in Atlanta. 

The ride was beautiful! Huge cumulous clouds stacked higher than the 30,000 flight path. They looked thick land chunky, the kind you could surely jump into and have fun bouncing around in.

There was one huge wall of dark cloud. It must have been 600-700 feet tall, standing above the fluffy cumulous clouds. It looked like a movie set, not at all real.

About the time we passed the huge dark cloud, the pilot announced that there was a major storm in Atlanta and that landing would be delayed. This actually reassured me a bit because I figured my departing flight would also be delayed. However, we then had to sit on the tarmac for another 20 or 30 minutes.

Deplaning moved very slowly, but as soon as I was able, I zipped by the other passengers. I found that my connecting flight was at gate E 37. I was at B 9. It didn’t look hopeful.

Although I dashed through the terminal, rode the little train, and did some more dashing, the door to my plane was closed when I arrived at E 37. The woman told me it had already left, but it wasn’t gone. It was still at the gate. No matter how I begged, she made no attempt to notify the pilot that I (and now others) was there.

I was sent on a half-mile hike to a service desk where there were three agents working: one for the first class people (all three of them), one for the international people (two of them), and one harried woman for the thirty or more of us who were lowly general passengers. 

There was a phone bank with signs proclaiming they we help phones, but everyone who stood and spoke on the phone ended up in the long line of angry passengers awaiting service.

After about 45 minutes waiting, it was finally my turn. Since it was a weather-related problem, Delta wouldn’t put me on any other airline, so I had to spend the night in Atlanta. The agent told me the costs of the different motels (with the special Delta discount), and I just asked for the cheapest motel – Motel 6. $42 plus tax with the discount.

By the time I got to the motel shuttle and then to the motel, it was 9:15. There I found out the price I’d been quoted was wrong, by $13. I complained and decided to call Delta to get a room down the street at a $49 motel. Motel 6, it turned out, had no Internet and no breakfast, even at the higher price.

When I called the Delta help desk, a robot voice told me there would be about a 30 minute wait. I gave up and checked in at Motel 6.

Although I was exhausted, I was so wired I couldn’t sleep well. Lots of tossing and turning. And fuzzy teeth.

In the morning, I had my choice of McDonalds, a waffle place, or a 24 hour diner. I opted for the diner and had a passable meal. Then it was off to the airport. SO many people, but security was efficient, friendly, helpful, and entertaining. I didn’t even have to go through the body scanner! 

In all, the highlight of the whole trip was the Atlanta security and the cheerful, funny security guard that waved people through the metal detector. Amazing.

Kitty Hawk, with family. 

One of the first things the kids asked was if I would make Mexican food, so it was off to Food Lion for tortillas, queso, chicken, chicken broth, beans, and lots of spices and salsa. Soon the enchiladas were in the oven. A little while after that, the dining area was filled with satisfied diners. Lots of leftover chicken, so tomorrow we’ll pick up some BBQ sauce and have pulled chicken!

I’m so glad I know how to make Mexican food – the real way. I don’t do it much anymore, partly because it’s a lot of work and partly because it’s a lot of calories. Not good for a woman trying to lose weight.

But we had our Mexican meal, and today I went out with my sister and one of my nieces, and where did we end up? Why, a Mexican restaurant, of course.

My sister and I decided to split a quesadilla. It was crab, queso, and pico de gallo (fresh, uncooked salsa). It was outrageously good, and I wondered why I’d never done it before. I will now, for sure.

This place even had real Mexican Coka Cola! Mexican Coke is still made with sugar, not corn syrup, so it tastes like the Coke I drank as a child. Except I drank Pepsi, my mother’s preference. 

Whichever it is you drank fifty years ago, the Mexican Coke tastes just like it. There is no sugar content difference between sugar and corn syrup, but my taste buds know the difference.

A few years ago I read The Omnivore’s Dilemma, by Michael Pollan. I had no idea that cattle have been “reprogramed” to eat corn products. Cows are grass eaters. But feedlots here give the poor animals corn products. It’s cheap and keeps the corn farmers in business. People around this world are starving, but we turn corn into cattle feed so we here can have beef.

Pollan’s book is pretty amazing – and pretty scary. I highly recommend it.

Beef today doesn’t taste like the beef of our childhood. Sort of like Coke doesn’t. Both are now made with corn, and that alters the taste.

I rarely buy meat anymore. But when I do, I spend the money and buy the good stuff – range fed. There are a few cattlemen in Cochise County who still graze their cattle. It costs more because they actually have to keep their pasture free of mesquite, they have to plant grasses, they have to water the grasses, and they havemto either raise or buy alfalfa. But their cattle live well, and when they turn into steak, they taste great.

Here on the coast, though, it’s all about fish. Of course there are steak places, but mostly it’s fish and more fish. And I am not complaining!

In addition to fish, right now this area of the coast is all about smoke. Smoke from a few fires. Nearby, southeast of Nags Head, there is a fire in a bog. It’s burning five or six feet underground and there’s no way to put it out. It will burn and burn until here is a good rain, and the people here are hoping for rain just like Arizonans are.

The difference, of course, is that there will likely be a good rain here far before there’s one in Arizona.

North Carolina is in drought. People here are shocked and horrified that they actually have to put some water on their gardens. Fireworks shows are being cancelled, and fires on the beach aren’t allowed. 

But drought is so relative. Grass, unwatered, is still green. Rivers and creeks are running. The folks here have no idea what drought means in Arizona.

Our yards are parched and yellow. The San Pedro runs about a foot wide and less than a foot deep. Creeks don’t remember what water is. There hasn’t been a quarter inch of rain in our area since September. 

An update. There was a little rain last night. Mostly there was thunder, and wonderful lightning over the ocean. What a delight! And this morning, it is cool; the ground it wet. The weather report says humidity should hang out around 80% today. The weather report in my part of the world says the humidity has shot up now to about 35%. There are clouds! Could it be we will have rain soon?

I leave in a few hours for Raleigh and the airport.

Still haven’t see a dolphin.

I took off from Belhaven and headed to the ferry at Swan Quarter. I had to wait about half an hour before boarding began.

The ferry ride to Ocracoke Island takes about two and a half hours.  It wasn’t long before all I could see in any direction was water. 

This was serious water. 

Long ago, when I was maybe  nine or ten, I was swimming in Lake Michigan and got caught in seaweed. Although I wasn’t caught for long, it was terrifying. I couldn’t get my head above water and I couldn’t get my feet on the lake’s floor. I thought I was going to die, there in the lake in about three feet of water.

I finally broke through that seaweed, but to this day I am uncomfortable in either a lake or an ocean. If I can’t clearly see through the water to my feet, I have a bit of a panic.

This discomfort has grown over the years, and now I don’t like to be on a boat. I don’t even like to fly over a large body of water. I’ve even thought that if I ever go to Europe I may have to travel to Alaska and get to Eureope through China in an attempt to cross as little water as possible.

In the last several years, I’ve gone out on boats a few times. I made it all the way to Catalina Island and back about ten years ago, but I had to be drugged (lightly). I’ve taken two boat trips to Alcatraz Island when I was in Bahia Kino. But this! I was so far out on the water I couldn’t see land in any direction.

It was not comfortable.

The first thing I did was check for lifeboats and lifejackets. Then I relaxed a bit. I roamed around on deck, eventually sitting on  one of the wooden benches. After awhile, my butt got sore so I sat in the car. The slight rocking motion of the ferry was relaxing, and I actually fell asleep!

Asleep. Me. On a body of water. A big body of water.

I feel this is a major breakthrough for water and me. I am still not sure I want to swim where I can’t see to my feet, but fly over the Atlantic? That’s a maybe!

On to Belhaven

I began Saturday sleeping on a wooden bench in the Charlotte NC railroad station. Six hour layover. I did some good napping on the ride to Raleigh, I’ll say.

I love Raleigh! There is a free bus that makes a loop in the downtown area, and it shuttled me from the Amtrak station to the downtown transit center. There I caught a $2 bus for the twenty-five minute ride to the airport. I finally shuttled to Dollar and picked up my Ford Focus. Plain white. Gr-r-r.

Other than getting lost in the city for about half an hour, the trip was uneventful. Under three hours, and though the first part was interstate, the road became smaller as I moved east and eventually became two lanes.

It is so flat here! And covered with trees, tall ones. Makes it difficult to see anything. So different from home where I can see for twenty or thirty miles from almost everywhere. 

I think that’s part of why I like the ocean – the vista seems endless. I know that on a clear day in Kino I can see the spine of the mountain range that runs down through the Baja. That has to be sixty miles or more.

So, as beautiful as it is here, I doubt I could live here. Feels too closed in to me.

I reached Belharbor a little after four and got checked in at the B&B. Bizzie Lizzie’s. I liked Liz. Locally she’s known more for her plants. She has a thriving greenhouse and a gift shop. Her home sits on five lush acres, with the fenced back yard holding a few gardens and a few dozen chickens, ducks and geese.

All the female ducks but one have disappeared. They have gone into the woods to lay their eggs and never returned. Lots of hungry wildlife in these parts. So, the poor remaining female wanders the yard all day in an attempt to escape the males. A never ending duck parade. Liz is going to have to make a little fenced area for the female so she can get some rest!

The stay was lovely and affordable. I encourage everyone to take an extended trip to these parts – and to stay with Liz. She made me so at home and fed me so well! I do hope to come back for a longer visit.

There are numerous rivers in the area and many wildlife trails and observation points. Within thirty or so miles of Belharbor, there are a dozen wildlife preserves. Much, much to see and do.

One word of warning. If you want to spend the night at Liz’s B&B, have a meal before you arrive. She’s about nine miles from town and the nearest restaurants and grocery stores. I didn’t know that ahead of time and had to make the drive back for dinner.

Dinner was fabulous. I mean, how can you go wrong when it’s a little cafe you have to enter through a wine shop? The wine shop, Wine and Words, sucked me in. Wine and books! What a combo. And tucked inside this place is the Back Bay Cafe. 

I splurged (been doing WAY too much of that). Their dinner menu isn’t large, but there’s something for everyone. I had the surf and turf. Utter perfection. The steak was lightly seasoned, and I could cut it with my fork. It may have been the most tender piece of meat I’ve ever had.

The steak was accompanied by a nice sized fish filet, broiled, two ravioli stuffed with lobster, and a crab cake. Veggies on the side. The only thing that would have made it better was a salad to accompany the meal, but there was none.

The man operating the wine part of the place came over with a wine list and could have told me about each one in detail. He knew which wines would best accompany each menu item and he helped me choose well.

Totally stuffed and full, too, of great conversation, I returned to the B&B where Liz offered me some cheesecake. I couldn’t be rude now, could I?

After a great night’s sleep and some time wandering the greenhouse, I had breakfast of crepes with strawberries and a scrambled egg on the side.

Soon I was off to Swan Quarter NC to catch the ferry to Ocracoke Island, near the south end of the string of islands on the Outer Banks.

Atlanta

Sitting in the railroad station. The train is; I’m just on the train. I had wanted to dash in and try to connect to the Internet while we were stopped, but the conductress warned me that we’d be stopped only a few minutes. That was about twenty-five minutes ago. Guess I’ll arrive late to Charlotte.

Took a few minutes to call home, and the news is all bad.The Huachucas are burning down, and now a new fire has begun on the fort.

I cannot even begin to say how I feel. I wrote “Gutpunched” a few weeks ago when I saw the fire up in the Chiricahuas. Debbie had that gutpunch reaction when she saw it after arriving home from New Orleans. I can’t even begin to imagine what my reaction will be.

The Chiricahua fire was emotional, personal. And this one is so much more. It is twenty miles from my home. I know the roads, the canyons, the trails. I have spent time admiring the coatamundi. I’ve stolen a piñon pine.

I look out at these mountains each morning and each evening. When I’m fortunate enough to be home during the day, I gaze at them off and on. I sit on my patio in the evening with a glass of wine, watching the sun set over these mountains. And now they are burning up.

Friends of mine live- make that lived – in these mountains. They have lost their homes. At this time, over twelve thousand people have been evacuated. Twelve thousand! That’s over fifteen percent of the area. 

The fire has jumped fire lines and highways. It will not be tamed. If all goes completely terribly, it could roar through Rio Vista and burn up our uninsured house. It could then scream over the mountain and take out Old Bisbee.

This is not likely. But it strikes fear into my heart. 

I remember the fire in Old Biz a few years ago. How the fire started on one side of the mountain, crossed over the top, and tried to head back over again. It was terrifying, and in comparison to the inferno in the Huachucas, it was nothing. 

I want to be home. I do Reiki. I want to learn CPR and some basic first aid. I do this because I want to help when there is an emergency situation. 

And now there is an emergency situation. It is almost on my doorstep and I am not there. I am on the east coast. On a pleaure excursion. While Cochise County burns down.

The question now becomes this: When I reach Raleigh, do I go on with my plans, or do I go home? At this point I am split. What good can I possibly do? Likely, not much. I could Reiki like crazy, but I can do that from here. I could do some flyovers with Steve and take photos and do some writing. So what. I could maybe help people move their stuff out, but I am not sure I’m really needed for that. 

But if I stay here, I will feel so helpless. So. Very. Helpless. Would it feel better for me to feel helpless at home?

I LOVE trains! That mournful whistle. And the way you can peek out the window when rounding a curve and see the engine. Gliding over a lake or river and being able to look straight down into the water

I love the scenery, the mystery, the adventure. When I drive, my eyes are on the road so I miss most of the scenery. And not much mystery, other than that of my bladder making it to the next rest stop. Adventure? Sometimes. I’ve found unexpected little towns and diners, met interesting people.And there’s always the dubious adventure of roadside coffee.

But the train! 

Scenery:  When we left New Orleans we crossed Lake Ponchatrain and I enjoyed the waves and birds and could see clouds actually forming as I watched. The lake is large enough, I’m sure, to create its own weather. Then on through rural Louisiana and Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia, skimming past small towns, dirt road crossings, and seemingly endless stretches of trackside forest.

Mystery: Will the train depart on time? (it did) Will it arrive on time? (it did) Will I be able to sleep? (not much) Will there be an upper level with an observation car? (yes from Benson to New Orleans, but not from New Orleans to Charlotte) And the biggest mystery, will I end up with a seat mate, and if so, will I be able to tolerate him or her? (turned out to be quite a good match – hi Ben!)

Adventure: Standing in the wrong line for 20 minutes because the man announcing departure had such a heavy accent and mumbled so terribly that I couldn’t understand a word.  A man across from me dropping his drawers to tuck in his shirt. A woman in front of me incessantly yapping on her cell phone. A child’s blaring video. Seat hopping to escape the noise and dubious views.

Amtrak is overly air conditioned. Debbie and I found that out the hard way. In a vain attempt to sleep those two nights on the way to New Orleans, we heaped clothing on top of ourselves. On the day we took the trolley rides, we made time to search for and buy some blankets – no easy chore in a city beset with record breaking heat. However, we persevered and found some soft fuzzy blankets. I had to pull mine out shortly after I boarded for Charlotte.

In early afternoon we passed through Tuscaloosa. Outside the window was the twisted remains of the April 27 tornado. Debris ran for miles. The remains of houses and businesses were still strewn across empty lots. Trees were twisted on their trunks or ripped in half. Cleanup crews were still out in force. My stomach twisted like one of the trees.

Kudzu is taking over the south. Originally from Japan, it was brought to the US for erosion control. Now it climbs up tree trunks and hangs from the branches. Entire hillsides are a beautiful carpet of kudzu vine. It strangles the life out of everything it covers.

Supposedly, kudzu is edible for humans when it’s young. Kudzu can be used as forage for livestock, and the bonus is that if it’s eaten for four to five years, the plant will eventually be killed. 

Also, kudzu contains isoflavones, one of which is daidzein, and daidzein is a cancer preventive. It can also help with hypertension and diabetes II.

It can be used in soaps and lotions and can even be made into a tea. Its fiber is durable and can be used for rope or clothing.

All I can say is Southerners had better get busy using it, or kudzu will be the only thing left growing south of the Mason Dixon line.

The cab dropped Debbie at Amtrak and me at Enterprise. I took my little red Hyundai and headed east. In a few short hours I was in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. I drove straight down Washington Street, parked, and dashed across the sand to put my feet in the Gulf.

Three weeks ago I’d had my feet in the cool, stingray-filled waters at Bahia Kino, and today I stood in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I love them both.

When I could pull myself out of the water, I called my friend and asked instructions to his house. Easy. All I had to do was take the main road east out of downtown and turn right after crossing the second bayou.

I love instructions like that! Cross the second bayou and turn right. I repeated that little mantra to myself as I drove the eight or ten minutes out of town.

I kept my eyes peeled for a decent gas station. The first one I saw was Exxon (as in Valdiz), and the second one was a BP station. The BP station was packed. I was irate. Have people no memories? It was just a year ago that the death of the Gulf was weighing heavily on every mind. 

I crossed that second bayou and hung a right. My friend and I took a little outing so I could see his boat, the one he calls his project boat. This is the one he picked up for a few hundred dollars, and it needs lots of “beautification.”

Then we stopped by the marinas in both Biloxi and Ocean Springs trying to find some fresh shrimp for dinner but ended up having to buy some from a vendor along side the highway. Six dollars for two pounds of fresh shrimp, heads intact. Better prices than Kino.

We boiled it all up, made some cole slaw, sliced up some fresh tomatoes and broiled some fresh trout. I gorged.

After dinner we rowed out on the bayou and watched the golden full moon rise over the pines. 

Sudden splashing. Small fish glowing silver in the moonlight lept from the water, dozens and dozens at once. Then the real shocker: they weren’t fish; they were shrimp!

When I shined a light on the water the jumping frenzy increased. Turned the light off and it subsided. My friend said that in his years on the bayou he’d never seen anything like it.

Was it the golden moon? Was it the lunar eclipse not visible in North America but that maybe shrimp could feel? Was it the low tide? Or had the shrimp merely gone mad?

A small stretch of woods sits just east of Ocean Springs. It’s a designated wildlife preserve, and amazingly, the wildlife being preserved is the sandhilll crane. There are around one hundred nesting pairs of the birds, and they live there year round. Why is it the cranes in the Sulfur Springs Valley are only wintertime visitors? Our cranes head northwest as far as Russia for the summer. But the cranes in Ocean Springs are permanent residents.

Then again, the cranes in Mississippi number only a few hundred, and the Valley wouldn’t likely be able to support a year round flock of 30,000 cranes.

A short visit to Mississippi and a chance to get updated on each other’s lives, then back to New Orleans with the rental car.

Last thing as I headed west out of Biloxi, I ran across the sand to put my feet in the Gulf’s waters.

Up early, as usual. Off to find a highly recommended restaurant. I wanted Cajun! But it was never to be. We were sidetracked by a wonderful little patio place on Bourbon Street.

Bourbon Street, the street of legend, was a disappointment. Strip clubs. Music that spills onto more than the sidewalk.Bourbon Street music is SO loud you can hear it a block away. And you can hear music from six or seven clubs at the same time. It’s deafening and it’s miserable. We avoided it at all costs.

But on Tuesday morning we figured it was safe to walk Bourbon Street at 7. And it was. 

It was right on Bourbon Street that we found the patio restaurant. We dove into a crawfish omelette, frozen cafe au lait, and, of course, beignet. 

We spent much of the rest of the day playing tourist, riding the trolley cars from one end of the city to the other. 

The best ride is the one that goes down St. Charles, through the Garden District. Trees and power lines are draped with a rainbow of cheap beaded Mardi Gras necklaces since St. Charles is one of the parades routes.

St. Charles is a mixture of residential areas with a few small shopping centers and a sprinkling of restaurants. None of the restaurants I noticed were chains, which gave this part of the city an A+ rating from me. Actually, the French Quarter, downtown, and the Garden District were all filled with non-chain restaurants. This is one of the things that makes New Orleans a wonderful place to visit. 

Wonderful too because of names like Thank You God Cab Service. And wonderful because of the way the people talk. When asked how locals survive the heat/humidity combination, a woman explained, “We are tropical hothouse flowers, I’ll have you know.”

We ended the day dining on a balcony that almost, almost, gave a view of the river. Stuffed crab and jumbolaya on pasta. To die for. It was hot on that balcony but worth the sweat since it was our only balcony dining experience.

My sense, in these few days, is that New Orleans is making a comeback. First Katrina, and then last year the BP disaster. When I was here last year two short months after the BP rig blew up, the city was tense. Faces were grim.

Everywhere I went there were camera crews. The national crews had big name newscasters and full eight-to-ten man crews.  Scouts were dashing about setting appointments to talk with the mayor, the chief of disaster operations, etc. They  had caravans of big trucks and vans topped with satellite dishes to enable them to send the news “Live, from New Orleans.”

The small local crews operated closer to shoestring budgets. A crew of two or three, sometimes just one, and no satellite dishes. These newscasters didn’t lounge in a chair chatting with passersby, like me. They were out gathering all the news themselves. In contrast to the relaxed manner of the national bigwigs, these men were drawn, strained, and one was even crying as he gazed out over the Gulf.

The entire Gulf Coast was littered with newsmen last year. And yes, they were all men.

But New Orleans is coming back. This year the faces are full of smiles. The people are, overall, friendly. Greetings are warm and from the heart. Everyone is willing to tell us about a great restaurant, festival, or special event. Some are willing to do a traveller a special favor, like the bartender across from our hotel who shared the bar’s internet password so I could get online.

In some areas torn apart by Katrina, there are new homes, repaired homes, and newly planted tall trees. Fresh coats of paint and new gardens. CDs raising funds for victims are still for sale in bars and cafés.

New Orleans is a survivor. 

Our first full day in the Big Easy!

We were up early and couldn’t wait to get down to Café du Monde. A brisk seven block walk and there we were,settled at table, almost drooling, awaiting our beignet and Café au lait. We savored every drop and bite, leaving with only a small amount of powered sugar decorating our clothes.

Then it was time to walk it off. We cover four or five miles in all, I think. Lots of sweet little neighborhoods with houses painted three to five colors each. Two story fancy houses next door to worn shotguns. Houses splashed with red or orange or purple. New Orlinians know how to use color!

Sidewalks were mainly the cement variety, but some had been bricked and others had tile that spilled off a porch and down the stairs to the street. Lots of holes, missing tiles and overgrown planter boxes made waking a bit of a challenge, and I know I missed some sights because my attention was so focused on where I was putting my feet.

Back to the hotel to relax a bit and cool off. Then, after the morning’s heat, we opted to switch our plans. No pricey bus tour. Instead, we’d do the riverboat tour with lunch. I was dreaming of cool breezes off the river. 

A woman played the calliope on the paddleboat as we waited to board. Thankfully, it went quiet and the music switched to recorded New Orleans jazz as we climbed aboard.

We scored a little table at the boat’s railing and settled in. The heat was stifling until we started to moved, and then that hoped-for river breeze cooled us down.

We left the Port of New Orleans, the world’s largest port, in mid-afternoon. The river is 214 feet deep there, its deepest point. The Natchez can hold around 1600 people, but it seemed we had less than a quarter of that. We took off down river and the tour announcements began.

We passed a Domino sugar processing plant and an oil refinery. When the paddleboat took us past the 9th Ward, all those Katrina memories came back. Soon, on the opposite side of the river, we passed Algiers which holds a Navy base. Navy? Boats galore? WHY didn’t those boats cross the river and rescue or evacuate the people of the 9th Ward? I was angered to my toes.

The levee along the Mississippi is 25 feet high. The water is so high right now that we could see only the top eight feet or so. Willow trees along the riverbank were nearly under water. The treetops stood out, branches floating on the river. Had the levee been breached during this flood,much of New Orleans would have been submerged as it’s just a few feet above sea level.

Ships and barges from around the world drifted by. Country flags I didn’t recognize. Towboats poised to tow, tugboats poised to push. A ship from Nassau glided by and we were told it carried 70,000 tons of grain.

We had our lunch on deck. Lunch was included (senior prices!). As the Natchez turned around to carry us back, I moaned, “No, no! All the way to the Gulf! ” But alas, it took us back to port.

A leisurely stroll back to the St. Peter House, a short rest in the air conditioned suite, then across the street to the 700 Club for a gin and tonic. Debbie had her tonic with vodka.

A perfect day.

Late afternoon. Across the Texas plains with an orange sun burning the western sky.  A few hours later we were in San Antonio with a two-hour layover. Off to the Riverwalk!

A nice twenty minutes stroll and we were on the river. We had a light supper of shrimp appetizers, gazed at the river, and wandered back. Time to settle in for the night.

I actually slept but awoke around four, in knots, so grabbed my pillows and cover and headed to the observation car where I snagged a pair of seats and was able to stretch out a bit. The floor was littered with large men who just didn’t fit into the seats. They had pillows wedged under their heads and were sleeping as well as the floor would allow. It was a good time to be small enough to fit into two cushioned seats.

I awoke at dawn and Debbie wandered in. A brilliant red sun hung over the swamps and cypress, their broad skirted roots under the water. I searched for alligators but found none. Soon a man’s voice down the way cut through the morning stillness, waking the last sleepers: “Someone, tell me we’re out of Texas. Please!”

But we we still west of Beaumont. Swamps rolled past. Egrets lounged on tree stumps. The blue sky began to cloud.

Breakfast on the train. Finally we were out of Texas and into Louisiana! Flat. Green. Treed. So different from the sparsely vegetated red clay of home. We settled in for the last stretch of the journey.

Skies became more gray and a little rain pattered the train. Amazingly, we arrived about an hour and a half early!  A cab whisked us to our hotel (St. Peter House, on the edge of the French Quarter) and we were so early our room wasn’t ready. 

They let us stash our bags and we moseyed on into the Quarter where we browsed the outdoor market and witnessed a wedding party being carried off in carriages. We even found a gallon of water to replenish our empty bottles. What we didn’t find was the restaurant our cabbie had recommended nor the food festival our innkeeper had told us about. We returned to our clean and ready room hungry and miserably hot. An air conditioned bus tour may be on tomorrow afternoon’s agenda.