by John
We had a good wind at our back today and did less than 60 miles, but we gradually climbed all day and the pavement was medium-rough, so it wasn't an easy day. After the Judge Bean center we stocked up on groceries at a tiny store in Langtry and I ate a BBQ sandwich at 10 am for my mid-morning snack. We had another lovely, dry day of riding in the canyon country, so no iPods were necessary.
We stopped at a rest stop, just picnic tables and a shade canopy for lunch, and met Sam, a character that Dwayne had warned us about. A young man from Austin, TX, he is riding and Xtracle (extra long cargo bike) with another large trailer tacked on behind, filled with 2 weeks of food, seven gallons of water, eight cameras, a solar panel, a generator, etc. He says he covers about 30 miles day with all this gear. He's on his way to Big Bend state park to take photos. When we met him he was eating a whole pot of mac and cheese ("for the mac and cheese rush) he said and he told us he was also using substances that are not allowed on the Tour De France.
Among many strange anecdotes he shared during our lunch break he revealed that he once almost lost his leg after breaking it in a recumbent crash and having infection set in. Hallucinogens seem to have taken their toll on this man's brain but he seems like a happy guy. Did mention that he has "Jesus is Lord" scrawled on his trailer and told us that God is his "hell insurance." He reminded me of the bumper sticker that says, "Keep Austin weird." He's certainly doing his part.
Tonight we're staying at an RV park in Sanderson, a relative metropolis of about 800 people, but there was still only one bar open, El Patio. When we arrived everyone was speaking Spanish, so I introduced us as touring bicyclists and said that Liz speaks pretty good Espanol. I believe just one of the guys there, an electrician who works for the border patrol, didn't speak English, but the rest of them humored me by tolerating several minutes of conversation with me in my broken Spanish. While I generally wouldn't try this in Chicago, being so close to the border it seemed to make more sense to act as if I was in another country, and I think people were more amused than offended.
After the electrician left the conversation reveted to English. Oscar, who served in the army in the Philippines, arrived and held court in the bar, which was soon occupied by him, me, Liz, and the kindly bartender Norma. Conversation switched to Mexican-American political issues in Sanderson and the nation. Among other things, Oscar told us why he finds the term "Latino" offensive (he prefers to identify specifically as "Chicano," i.e. Mexican-American, and why the story of the Alamo has traditionally been told from a racist perspective. Although he was often critical of the white establishment, his tone was always friendly and talking with him and the barmaid was an eye-opener. Mostly we tried to just listen.
After we returned to our RV camp I cooked up a hearty dinner of bean and cheese burritos and did laundry. Now it's time for bed.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Buzzard's Roost & Judge Roy Bean
When I was in Chile, people often said that Patagonia was a desert. Here in west Texas, I'm beginning to understand what they meant—there are lots of similarities. Dry barren land, useless for growing or grazing anything, empty rolling hills that go on for miles, scrubby brush, and strong winds. Saturday the wind was against us all the way from Uvalde to Del Rio. The constant sound of rushiing air makes talking impossible, so it was time to don the old iPods.
We came to Del Rio at the end of the day and camped five miles outside of town at the Buzzard's Roost RV Park. I was averse to camping anywhere with the name “buzzard” associated with it, but the campsite turned out to be great. Rattana, the park owner, who is originally from Thailand, couldn't have been nicer. We had a chilly night (expect 80 in the daytime and 30 at night) and she invited us in to watch TV in her office.
We opted for a drink at the Buzzard's Roost bar nextdoor instead. John liked the sign for this place, which featured a buzzard holding a beer mug. Inside, free corn soup, hot dogs, and chips were on offer. We washed down the chow with some $1.25 drafts and met Gilbert and his friend Ray, two San Antonians who come out to Del Rio now and then to deer hunt on Gilbert's property. In Texas, many hunters try to lure deer in by setting up corn feeders, and that's what Gilbert and Ray had on their agenda, in addition to putting the finishing touches on Gilbert's hunting lodge. They bought us a round and we got into an interesting conversation with Ray, who was born in Laredo, Mexico, about the drug trade. He also told us about the gang problem San Antonio used to have—he was shot by a gang member when he used to own a convenience store. It must be nice to get away to the country. As we're discovering, there's a “whole lot of nothing” past Del Rio.
The next morning, when temps left my contacts-in-solution frozen into tiny hockey pucks, Rattana invited us into the office to sip our instant coffee more comfortably. “I was looking for you last night,” she said, “but it looked like you were already asleep!” We wound up chatting away the morning with Rattana, in what was a surprisingly philosophical discussion, or perhaps, discourse. Rattana basically told us her life story—coming from Thailand to New York and eventually out to Texas, surviving two marriages, raising three incredibly successful children, and finally doing a few things for herself—like buying a brand-new Mercedes. Rattana is a woman who has thought about life and spirituality more than most. She has dabbled in every religion, it seems, from Judaism to Jehovah's Witness. She went over with us the five commandments or precepts of Buddhism (don't kill, don't steal, don't commit adultery, don't lie, and don't develop addictions), and, with eloquent gestures, compared humans at various levels of enlightenment to various stages of a lotus in bloom. Of course, it did not surprise us in the least to learn that Rattana has sky-dived no less than 11 times and has also been to base camp at Mount Everest. If you ever do the Southern Tier, you have to visit Buzzard's Roost and say hello.
West of the Pecos
The next day, we traveled 60 or so miles to Lanngtry, with just one stop at tiny Comstock on the way, before crossing the jaw-dropping 270-foot high bridge across the Pecos River canyon. We were warned that a dot on a map can be deceiving, and that just because a town has a name, it may not have many goods or services. Even since the printing of the Adventure Cycling maps a few years ago, some of the little towns on highway 90 just seem to be drying up. Although Langtry boasts a “restaurant, gas station, grocery store, and post office” (any of which may or may not be open), the “urban” population (excluding ranchers) is a mere 17. Neil, a resident, and son of a resident, let us in to the community center to use the only available restroom in town. His father swung by the center in a pickup moments later, warning us to leave the center exactly as we had found it, and that bathroom services were not usually part of the free camping that was provided. John and I were, of course, happy to oblige. But I couldn't help but notice that this man, like many I have met in the Texan desert, had striking and intense baby blue eyes. Maybe it was his sun-weathered skin, or the fact that he was dressed head to toe in denim, but one look at those eyes, and there was simply no arguing.
Out in the middle of nowhere, we met our second touring cyclist of the trip (excluding the non-Lycra hobo cyclist outside of Del Rio): Duane, a countertop expert and dad from Grand Rapids. John made a great vegetarian chili for dinner, and we enjoyed learning about Duane's life and trip, as the sun went down. (I hope we don't hit that snow in the Rockies!).
The next day, the three of us visited the Judge Roy Bean Center up the road. John and I had never heard of Roy Bean, but apparently his brand of homespun justice, dispensed from the front porch of the Jersey Lilly Saloon, defined law west of the Pecos, where there wasn't any law to begin with. As one Langry resident put it later that morning, “Hell, there still ain't!”
We came to Del Rio at the end of the day and camped five miles outside of town at the Buzzard's Roost RV Park. I was averse to camping anywhere with the name “buzzard” associated with it, but the campsite turned out to be great. Rattana, the park owner, who is originally from Thailand, couldn't have been nicer. We had a chilly night (expect 80 in the daytime and 30 at night) and she invited us in to watch TV in her office.
We opted for a drink at the Buzzard's Roost bar nextdoor instead. John liked the sign for this place, which featured a buzzard holding a beer mug. Inside, free corn soup, hot dogs, and chips were on offer. We washed down the chow with some $1.25 drafts and met Gilbert and his friend Ray, two San Antonians who come out to Del Rio now and then to deer hunt on Gilbert's property. In Texas, many hunters try to lure deer in by setting up corn feeders, and that's what Gilbert and Ray had on their agenda, in addition to putting the finishing touches on Gilbert's hunting lodge. They bought us a round and we got into an interesting conversation with Ray, who was born in Laredo, Mexico, about the drug trade. He also told us about the gang problem San Antonio used to have—he was shot by a gang member when he used to own a convenience store. It must be nice to get away to the country. As we're discovering, there's a “whole lot of nothing” past Del Rio.
The next morning, when temps left my contacts-in-solution frozen into tiny hockey pucks, Rattana invited us into the office to sip our instant coffee more comfortably. “I was looking for you last night,” she said, “but it looked like you were already asleep!” We wound up chatting away the morning with Rattana, in what was a surprisingly philosophical discussion, or perhaps, discourse. Rattana basically told us her life story—coming from Thailand to New York and eventually out to Texas, surviving two marriages, raising three incredibly successful children, and finally doing a few things for herself—like buying a brand-new Mercedes. Rattana is a woman who has thought about life and spirituality more than most. She has dabbled in every religion, it seems, from Judaism to Jehovah's Witness. She went over with us the five commandments or precepts of Buddhism (don't kill, don't steal, don't commit adultery, don't lie, and don't develop addictions), and, with eloquent gestures, compared humans at various levels of enlightenment to various stages of a lotus in bloom. Of course, it did not surprise us in the least to learn that Rattana has sky-dived no less than 11 times and has also been to base camp at Mount Everest. If you ever do the Southern Tier, you have to visit Buzzard's Roost and say hello.
West of the Pecos
The next day, we traveled 60 or so miles to Lanngtry, with just one stop at tiny Comstock on the way, before crossing the jaw-dropping 270-foot high bridge across the Pecos River canyon. We were warned that a dot on a map can be deceiving, and that just because a town has a name, it may not have many goods or services. Even since the printing of the Adventure Cycling maps a few years ago, some of the little towns on highway 90 just seem to be drying up. Although Langtry boasts a “restaurant, gas station, grocery store, and post office” (any of which may or may not be open), the “urban” population (excluding ranchers) is a mere 17. Neil, a resident, and son of a resident, let us in to the community center to use the only available restroom in town. His father swung by the center in a pickup moments later, warning us to leave the center exactly as we had found it, and that bathroom services were not usually part of the free camping that was provided. John and I were, of course, happy to oblige. But I couldn't help but notice that this man, like many I have met in the Texan desert, had striking and intense baby blue eyes. Maybe it was his sun-weathered skin, or the fact that he was dressed head to toe in denim, but one look at those eyes, and there was simply no arguing.
Out in the middle of nowhere, we met our second touring cyclist of the trip (excluding the non-Lycra hobo cyclist outside of Del Rio): Duane, a countertop expert and dad from Grand Rapids. John made a great vegetarian chili for dinner, and we enjoyed learning about Duane's life and trip, as the sun went down. (I hope we don't hit that snow in the Rockies!).
The next day, the three of us visited the Judge Roy Bean Center up the road. John and I had never heard of Roy Bean, but apparently his brand of homespun justice, dispensed from the front porch of the Jersey Lilly Saloon, defined law west of the Pecos, where there wasn't any law to begin with. As one Langry resident put it later that morning, “Hell, there still ain't!”
Friday, February 20, 2009
Members Only
It was another hot afternoon on asphalt, and by the time we arrived in Uvalde, John and I decided to head to the town square for a beer. (Those crazy masses of squawking birds I encountered in Louisiana had found their way here and were roosting in the trees.) We circled around for some time without any luck and decided to pop into a local steakhouse for a brief cocktail hour instead. As we were about to enter, we noticed a plain wooden door to the side. "Private Club," it read. Intrigued, we went inside and learned from the bartender that Uvalde--which is incidentally the birthplace of Matthew McConaughey--is a semi-dry town. That is, alcohol can be served, but only in so-called private clubs. Having found the only watering hole in town, we decided to spring for the standard three-dollar membership, which lasts three days. We took note of a warning on the wall that "Walked tabs may result in loss of membership."
Austin, San Antonio and onward to Del Rio
After our delicious pancake breakfast at Brad's we made our way into Austin, the capital, home of the U. of Texas, great music and Lance Armstrong. On the way in along Highway 71 near Bastrop we stopped at Wildfire Cafe to use the bathroom and maybe get some coffee but the food looked good so we stayed for lunch. My curried chicked salad and macaroni and cheese was very tasty, as was Liz's salad with Mandarin oranges and chow mein noodles. Best of all, after they found out we were cross-country cyclists, Mari and Teri, the owners, insisted on making the meal complimentary - more of the amazing Southern hospitality we've been experiencing.
In Austin, after visiting several really sleazy flophouses in search of a place to stay we met up with Nathan Calhoun and his wife Frances. I've known Nathan since at least junior high when he played in the garage band the Weathermen, which once played a party at my house. In recent years he's been playing bass with legendary punk rocker Gibby Haines and I've seen him in Chicago a couple times when Nathan's played there.
Nathan and Frances took us out for pizza on the hip, slick strip of Congress Ave. south of the Colorado River, then for karaoke at a bar called Ego's, hidden in a parking garage. Liz did "The Gambler"; I sang "I Can't Go For That." The next day we took care of a few errands. I got my long-suffering rear wheel tuned up at Lance's bike shop, Mellow Johnny's, a very fun shop geared towards commuters with all kinds of cool gear and clothing, a cafe, showers and lockers and many other services.
That afternoon we met up with my old Slink Moss bandmate Russell Mast, who now does computer work at Whole Foods' main HQ, and met his wife Emerald and their three-year-old son Jago, who accidentally knocked over the massive collection of Pez dispensers in Russ' office. We checked out the capital and the frat bars on 6th Street, which also had a large number of street kids and homeless folks hanging out.
That night I checked out Dale Watkins and his Lone Star Band at the Continental Club, a cozy club that dates back many decades. As Dale had more and more Lone Star Beers his stage patter got increasingly goofy but the band and the audience's dancing was terrific.
Following the Adventure Cycling route out of Austin, we spent the next night at a state park in the small town of Blanco. The next morning an old man told us "You Haven't seen Texas until you've seen San Antone." Inexplicably, the AC maps bypass San Antonio, so we decided to blaze our own trail there. We had a fabulous time, strolling and taking a river taxi ride along the city's River Walk which is chock full of pleasantly touristy bars and restaurants; touring the Alamo and a couple of the old Spanish missions south of downtown. I'd never been to the city before and would be glad to come back since we just scratched the surface of all the fun stuff there is to do there.
We headed west the next afternoon towards Del Rio to meet up with the Adventure Cycling route, spending the night at a nice city RV park in Castroville. It's been hot during the days but there was frost on our tent in the morning, due to the desert-like climate. Now we're in a small library in the tiny town of Sabinal, where the kindly librarian has told us all about here adventures traveling the continent via Amtrak. Tonight we plan to crash 22 miles down the road in Uvalde, reaching Del Rio tomorrow night.
In Austin, after visiting several really sleazy flophouses in search of a place to stay we met up with Nathan Calhoun and his wife Frances. I've known Nathan since at least junior high when he played in the garage band the Weathermen, which once played a party at my house. In recent years he's been playing bass with legendary punk rocker Gibby Haines and I've seen him in Chicago a couple times when Nathan's played there.
Nathan and Frances took us out for pizza on the hip, slick strip of Congress Ave. south of the Colorado River, then for karaoke at a bar called Ego's, hidden in a parking garage. Liz did "The Gambler"; I sang "I Can't Go For That." The next day we took care of a few errands. I got my long-suffering rear wheel tuned up at Lance's bike shop, Mellow Johnny's, a very fun shop geared towards commuters with all kinds of cool gear and clothing, a cafe, showers and lockers and many other services.
That afternoon we met up with my old Slink Moss bandmate Russell Mast, who now does computer work at Whole Foods' main HQ, and met his wife Emerald and their three-year-old son Jago, who accidentally knocked over the massive collection of Pez dispensers in Russ' office. We checked out the capital and the frat bars on 6th Street, which also had a large number of street kids and homeless folks hanging out.
That night I checked out Dale Watkins and his Lone Star Band at the Continental Club, a cozy club that dates back many decades. As Dale had more and more Lone Star Beers his stage patter got increasingly goofy but the band and the audience's dancing was terrific.
Following the Adventure Cycling route out of Austin, we spent the next night at a state park in the small town of Blanco. The next morning an old man told us "You Haven't seen Texas until you've seen San Antone." Inexplicably, the AC maps bypass San Antonio, so we decided to blaze our own trail there. We had a fabulous time, strolling and taking a river taxi ride along the city's River Walk which is chock full of pleasantly touristy bars and restaurants; touring the Alamo and a couple of the old Spanish missions south of downtown. I'd never been to the city before and would be glad to come back since we just scratched the surface of all the fun stuff there is to do there.
We headed west the next afternoon towards Del Rio to meet up with the Adventure Cycling route, spending the night at a nice city RV park in Castroville. It's been hot during the days but there was frost on our tent in the morning, due to the desert-like climate. Now we're in a small library in the tiny town of Sabinal, where the kindly librarian has told us all about here adventures traveling the continent via Amtrak. Tonight we plan to crash 22 miles down the road in Uvalde, reaching Del Rio tomorrow night.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Texas Cycling Country: Steve, John, & Brad
We've been meeting so many great people on this trip, but surprisingly, not all that many who are cyclists. That changed one short day between Houston and Austin, when we came across three.
We first saw Steve, a geologist for an independent oil producer, running from his cottage to the road to greet us in a tiny town (more of an old railway crossing) called Gay Hill. Steve invited us in for a cup of freshly brewed coffee and told us that he's gotten to know dozens of cyclists, as the route passes right by his weekend home. He said he loves to hear their stories, and even joined up to meet one in the New Mexico dessert. We also learned about the MS 150, the biggest ride in Texas with some 13,000 riders cycling from Houston to Austin to benefit multiple sclerosis. We had a great chat, and would have liked to stay longer, but had to hit the road and head up to La Grange.
On the way to La Grange, we met John, a fit 50+ cyclist in a wool randonuering jersey. He was training with his eye on qualifying for the brutal Paris-Brest-Paris ride. He kindly slowed to our mellow pace and recommended we stop for lunch at the Pig and Whistle in Burton. We wound up stopping there—and although it was closed—we had a nice picnic there and said hello to the owner. We also stopped in a little town called Round Top, population 77. From the map, I guessed there wasn't much there, but I was wrong—art galleries, a wine shop and pub (the first we've seen in a long time), a world-class music conservatory, and one of the biggest oak trees in Texas. It's pretty interesting country around here.
We were pulling into the La Grange RV Park just before sunset when a big black pickup truck pulled up behind us. Brad called out to us and invited us to stay in his empty rental house on Main Street. We noticed a yellow cycling jersey hanging from a hook in the backseat, and decided to go for it. Brad turned out to be an amazing guy. We unrolled our sleeping bags in the charming empty bungalow and offered him the wine we picked up in Round Top as a thank-you. Instead of accepting the wine, Brad came back to the house a little later with two wine glasses for us. “Ya'll celebrate,” he said, “It's Valentine's Day.” The next morning, Brad invited us over to his gorgeous 1960s home for whole-wheat pancakes with him and his girlfriend. Brad had opened up the back of the house and designed a beautiful two-story floor to ceiling window—it was the last thing we'd expect in quaint La Grange, which incidentally was where The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas was set. As if a stay in a cozy home and a delicious breakfast wasn't enough, Brad also gave us each a little Baggie of homemade chocolate cookies—his mother's recipe. This is Texas Cycling Country, and people down here just couldn't be nicer.
We first saw Steve, a geologist for an independent oil producer, running from his cottage to the road to greet us in a tiny town (more of an old railway crossing) called Gay Hill. Steve invited us in for a cup of freshly brewed coffee and told us that he's gotten to know dozens of cyclists, as the route passes right by his weekend home. He said he loves to hear their stories, and even joined up to meet one in the New Mexico dessert. We also learned about the MS 150, the biggest ride in Texas with some 13,000 riders cycling from Houston to Austin to benefit multiple sclerosis. We had a great chat, and would have liked to stay longer, but had to hit the road and head up to La Grange.
On the way to La Grange, we met John, a fit 50+ cyclist in a wool randonuering jersey. He was training with his eye on qualifying for the brutal Paris-Brest-Paris ride. He kindly slowed to our mellow pace and recommended we stop for lunch at the Pig and Whistle in Burton. We wound up stopping there—and although it was closed—we had a nice picnic there and said hello to the owner. We also stopped in a little town called Round Top, population 77. From the map, I guessed there wasn't much there, but I was wrong—art galleries, a wine shop and pub (the first we've seen in a long time), a world-class music conservatory, and one of the biggest oak trees in Texas. It's pretty interesting country around here.
We were pulling into the La Grange RV Park just before sunset when a big black pickup truck pulled up behind us. Brad called out to us and invited us to stay in his empty rental house on Main Street. We noticed a yellow cycling jersey hanging from a hook in the backseat, and decided to go for it. Brad turned out to be an amazing guy. We unrolled our sleeping bags in the charming empty bungalow and offered him the wine we picked up in Round Top as a thank-you. Instead of accepting the wine, Brad came back to the house a little later with two wine glasses for us. “Ya'll celebrate,” he said, “It's Valentine's Day.” The next morning, Brad invited us over to his gorgeous 1960s home for whole-wheat pancakes with him and his girlfriend. Brad had opened up the back of the house and designed a beautiful two-story floor to ceiling window—it was the last thing we'd expect in quaint La Grange, which incidentally was where The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas was set. As if a stay in a cozy home and a delicious breakfast wasn't enough, Brad also gave us each a little Baggie of homemade chocolate cookies—his mother's recipe. This is Texas Cycling Country, and people down here just couldn't be nicer.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Indian motels and Cambodian doughnut shops
Its common for different immigrant groups to find particular niches when they come to the States. For example, my Grandpa George, got into the garment business in New York after his family moved here from Hungary, a common career path for European Jews in the early 20th Century. The Greek diner, Italian deli, Chinese laundry, Irish police officer, etc. have become archetypes.
In our recent travels, a couple of relatively new business models have been very evident. Logistics or inclement weather have caused us to stay at several cheap, old-fashioned motels along the way and every single one has been owned by recent immigrants from India. This has almost always been the case on my other bike trips in the Upper Midwest. I've read on the web that most of these folks come from the state of Gujarat in western India.
These kind of motels are never fancy but they're usually serviceable and clean and never cost more than $49 a night. I'm typing this from the Vanguard Motel in Navasota, TX, about 100 miles northwest of Houston, taking advantage of the free internet.
We get very excited to find doughnut shops along the way where we can can warm up and talk with locals. The two we've been to so far, in Kirbyville and Coldspring, TX, were both owned by immigrants from Cambodia. I guessed this because both shops, the Donut Palace and A Plus Donuts, both displayed paintings of the famous Angor Wat temple.
At the second shop I asked the owners, a very young couple whose small daughter had just completed a tantrum in the back of the store, if they were in fact from Cambodia, and they said they were. The husband, a very friendly guy who seemed to be fresh out of high school and spoke much more English than his wife, told me have had lived a few different places in the US working at donut shops and had recently moved to Coldspring to open this shop.
I told them about the band Dengue Fever from California, which plays songs inspired by '60s Cambodian rock and roll, sung in Cambodian and asked how business was. The husband said sales were brisk. "Well, I guess nobody ever went broke in the doughnut business," I said. "People really like to eat doughnuts."
In our recent travels, a couple of relatively new business models have been very evident. Logistics or inclement weather have caused us to stay at several cheap, old-fashioned motels along the way and every single one has been owned by recent immigrants from India. This has almost always been the case on my other bike trips in the Upper Midwest. I've read on the web that most of these folks come from the state of Gujarat in western India.
These kind of motels are never fancy but they're usually serviceable and clean and never cost more than $49 a night. I'm typing this from the Vanguard Motel in Navasota, TX, about 100 miles northwest of Houston, taking advantage of the free internet.
We get very excited to find doughnut shops along the way where we can can warm up and talk with locals. The two we've been to so far, in Kirbyville and Coldspring, TX, were both owned by immigrants from Cambodia. I guessed this because both shops, the Donut Palace and A Plus Donuts, both displayed paintings of the famous Angor Wat temple.
At the second shop I asked the owners, a very young couple whose small daughter had just completed a tantrum in the back of the store, if they were in fact from Cambodia, and they said they were. The husband, a very friendly guy who seemed to be fresh out of high school and spoke much more English than his wife, told me have had lived a few different places in the US working at donut shops and had recently moved to Coldspring to open this shop.
I told them about the band Dengue Fever from California, which plays songs inspired by '60s Cambodian rock and roll, sung in Cambodian and asked how business was. The husband said sales were brisk. "Well, I guess nobody ever went broke in the doughnut business," I said. "People really like to eat doughnuts."
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Louisiana
More than any other state I've visited, Lousiana has felt like a foreign country—complete with its own cuisine, culture, and way of talking. Maybe the state's uniqueness is just more obvious because it's Mardi Gras season, with purple, gold, and green king cakes at every gas station (You insert the nonedible baby yourself—whoever gets that piece hosts the next party. Got it?), but John and I have loved learning about all the differences that set Louisiana apart from the rest of the country. And the people down here couldn't be beat. It's a little European, but it's still the south, so you're always made to feel right at home.
- Just east of the Mississippi, in East and West Feliciana Parishes, lies Louisiana's plantation country. We camped across the street from Oakely Plantation, where John James Audubon came to paint birds and tutor a young debutante. Although the tutoring arrangement didn't last, this woman later became the mother-in-law to one of the second generation at nearby Rosedown, an enormous plantation John and I toured later that day. The house was from 1835, and most of the furnishings inside were original, thanks to four spinster sisters who sealed up each room like a time capsule as the last of their family died off.
- We crossed the chocolate-milk brown Mississippi at St. Francisville and then took another little ferry across the Atchafalaya at Melville—I couldn't believe these two tiny towns still ran boats.
- We came across a jar of pickled pigs lips at a gas station, which the attendant discouraged us from buying. “Do a pig have lips?"she asked as if it were a riddle. "Think about it.” Her Cajun dialect wasn't as thick as some of the others we came across, including a blonde guy in a bandanna that had John asking “Habla Espanol?” (We learned later that Creole has bits of French and Spanish in it.) I felt like I could have used a translator. They probably felt the same way.
- In Washington, Lousiana, we stayed in a cozy little cottage that was part of the Country House Bed and Breakfast. Owner June was a charming hostess, who told us fascinating stories from her life on a plantation, and later in the French Quarter. She is also a painter who wrote and illustrated the book I Ain't Got Nobody (T' Go Crawdaddin' Wit). John and I loved just sitting on the little porch of our cabin at the end of a day. It seems like every house in the South has a front porch. I like that.
- After crossing the rivers, the landscape became strikingly flat as we rode through floodplain. The conditions are good for growing rice—and catching crawdads. We saw plenty of both kind of fields. A kid at a hamburger stand explained to us that the fields are flooded with water and the crawdads actually “sleep in the mud” before finding there way into one of many triangular traps. Something odd happened as I was riding through these wet landscapes—I rode through a storm of tiny black birds. The sound was deafening, and above me was a river of flapping wings. Luckily a semi was bearing down the road from the other direction, which caused the sky to part for a second. I guess I stepped in on their migration. By the time John came up, they were gone.
- Begnets and cafe au lait at Cafe du Monde, boudin and pork cracklin' for John, shrimp and catfish po' boys for me, spicy crawdads...the food down here is great!
- As if Lousiana culture wasn't enough to take in, there's one more subculture to consider—Mardi Gras. Krewes, balls, masks, beads, and beggars. And in rural Louisiana, where we were riding, the festivities may be even zanier than New Orleans. There's a special country parade, usually on horseback, where people go around to gather up chickens and other ingredients for gumbo. One woman told us that people throw chickens of the roof, and everyone runs around to catch as much meat as they can, which is all put into the same big pot at the end of the night. Everyone is usually “waxed,” as one man put it. It's too bad we're missing Mardi Gras. We've had such a great time in Lousiana—I really don't want to leave!
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Crawfish Etouffee
by John
As Liz and I bike across the South I am trying to eat as many regional specialties as possible. This has been especially fun near and in Louisiana where there is all kinds of great Creole and Cajun food: beignets and cafe au lait; jambalaya; pralines; snowballs; shrimp and oyster po' boys; gumbo; boudin (a soft, rice-based Cajun sausage); Zapp's potato chips and more.
Lately when I shop for meals I've been trying to buy local-style stuff as well, even if it's just a can of gumbo to heat up on the camp stove. We bought some cheap fresh shrimp at a great fish store in Pensacola and I sauteed them with garlic at camp and served them over Zatarain's dirty rice.
Tonight, near Jackson, LA, I bought a block of frozen crawfish tails (the only ones available were imported from China), cooked them in Zatarain's etouffee (a thick, creamy, spicy sauce) mix and served them over rice. We enjoyed this with a sixpack of locally made Abita Amber beer. This was probably the best camp meal I've ever made. Even with a pound of seafood the ingredients cost much less than a cheap dinner out.
If you want to cook something you haven't eaten for a while, try the Zatarain's mixes or better yet look up one of these recipes on the internet. In Chicago, the Local Option at Webster and Sheffield is a bar that happens to serve great New Orleans-style food. Bon appetit.
As Liz and I bike across the South I am trying to eat as many regional specialties as possible. This has been especially fun near and in Louisiana where there is all kinds of great Creole and Cajun food: beignets and cafe au lait; jambalaya; pralines; snowballs; shrimp and oyster po' boys; gumbo; boudin (a soft, rice-based Cajun sausage); Zapp's potato chips and more.
Lately when I shop for meals I've been trying to buy local-style stuff as well, even if it's just a can of gumbo to heat up on the camp stove. We bought some cheap fresh shrimp at a great fish store in Pensacola and I sauteed them with garlic at camp and served them over Zatarain's dirty rice.
Tonight, near Jackson, LA, I bought a block of frozen crawfish tails (the only ones available were imported from China), cooked them in Zatarain's etouffee (a thick, creamy, spicy sauce) mix and served them over rice. We enjoyed this with a sixpack of locally made Abita Amber beer. This was probably the best camp meal I've ever made. Even with a pound of seafood the ingredients cost much less than a cheap dinner out.
If you want to cook something you haven't eaten for a while, try the Zatarain's mixes or better yet look up one of these recipes on the internet. In Chicago, the Local Option at Webster and Sheffield is a bar that happens to serve great New Orleans-style food. Bon appetit.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Hello from Mississippi!
Between my 5:30 a.m. cup of instant coffee and tucking into the Gulfport Best Western this evening , I've finally had a minute to put a little update about our journey online. Nothing fancy (and the editor in me must apologize for some layout problems), but there's a map of our route below and some photos underneath that.
The trip so far has been great, and I'll try to backtrack and fill in some information on the map as I go, but here is a brief, brief history for now. Florida was a great state for us--highlights included historic St. Augustine, a state park on the Suwanee River dedicated to Stephen Foster, the capital in Tallahassee, the backwoods Panhandle, and gorgeous sugar-white beaches on the Gulf. I loved riding highway 399, part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore, which is still closed to motor traffic from Hurricane Ivan damage from four years ago.
We came into Alabama on the Gulf Coast and took a ferry across Mobile Bay from Fort Morgan to Dauphin Island. The Dauphin Island Sea Lab is major marine research institution, and they operate a small museum--the "Estruarium"--where we got to take a close look at some horseshoe crabs. (Their bodies, which look like something out of the movie "Alien," have changed little over millions of years, we're told.)
Alabama passed in a blink of an eye, and today was our first day in Mississippi. We had a great po' boy lunch at Biloxi's Schooner and rode the coastal highway down here to Gulfport. The beach was neatly raked and pretty, but noticeably sparse. Later this afternoon, a bike mechanic gave us a firsthand report on what everyone just seems to call "the storm." Details brought his story home. Frozen chicken from a Tyson storehouse was apparently rotting all over the beach amidst the destruction, and people made temporary homes in churches not just for weeks--but for years.
It's way past my 8:30 bedtime at this point, so I must sign off before I get carried away again. The miles definitely knock me out by the end of the day (and we just cracked 700!), but I'm having a blast.
The trip so far has been great, and I'll try to backtrack and fill in some information on the map as I go, but here is a brief, brief history for now. Florida was a great state for us--highlights included historic St. Augustine, a state park on the Suwanee River dedicated to Stephen Foster, the capital in Tallahassee, the backwoods Panhandle, and gorgeous sugar-white beaches on the Gulf. I loved riding highway 399, part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore, which is still closed to motor traffic from Hurricane Ivan damage from four years ago.
We came into Alabama on the Gulf Coast and took a ferry across Mobile Bay from Fort Morgan to Dauphin Island. The Dauphin Island Sea Lab is major marine research institution, and they operate a small museum--the "Estruarium"--where we got to take a close look at some horseshoe crabs. (Their bodies, which look like something out of the movie "Alien," have changed little over millions of years, we're told.)
Alabama passed in a blink of an eye, and today was our first day in Mississippi. We had a great po' boy lunch at Biloxi's Schooner and rode the coastal highway down here to Gulfport. The beach was neatly raked and pretty, but noticeably sparse. Later this afternoon, a bike mechanic gave us a firsthand report on what everyone just seems to call "the storm." Details brought his story home. Frozen chicken from a Tyson storehouse was apparently rotting all over the beach amidst the destruction, and people made temporary homes in churches not just for weeks--but for years.
It's way past my 8:30 bedtime at this point, so I must sign off before I get carried away again. The miles definitely knock me out by the end of the day (and we just cracked 700!), but I'm having a blast.
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