Upon arrival, I didn’t really know what to expect from the city of Atlanta. I knew that there had been a lot of urban renewal over the last few decades, and that the city was attempting to be as tourist friendly as possible, but I was somewhat at a loss when I arrived downtown in the early evening. From what I have read, Atlanta is a city that has been in a constant state of revival since post-Civil War reconstruction, but has never been able to ascend to the level desired by its residents and business. I knew that the Jimmy Carter Institute and Library and the Martin Luther King Jr. history center, birthplace, and tomb were all in the area, but beyond those few major points of interest I wasn’t sure what else would be worth the time and money to see.

The primary purpose of staying in Atlanta was to pick up Jesse at the airport and begin the Tennessee, Music Row, leg of the trip. I ended up staying pretty low key at the hostel just outside of downtown, eager to get some writing and resting in before our assault on Nashville. I quickly realized that this was not necessarily going to be easily achieved. The hostel, although occupying a very nice Victorian house, was situated in a fairly sketchy, and noisy, part of town. Due to this fact, a few hostellers made the room I was staying in, and the adjacent balcony, their unofficial hangout and party center instead of venturing out and finding nearby bars to carouse in. Consequently, I met, and hung out with, two guys from Liverpool, England. One of the two was being recruited by the Georgia Tech soccer team and was checking out the school for the first time. The other, a much more articulate bloke, was trying to break into acting… Who knows why he ended up in Atlanta? These two mates were absolutely hilarious, but also boarderline crazy, slightly intimidating, self-destructive, rambunctious, and for some reason beyond my explanation , exceedingly nice and talkative to me. As the evening progressed, and they put some beers into the system, their speech became nearly incomprehensible. One of the two, the non-actor, had an accent that made him sound as if he was talking with a handful of marbles in his mouth. It was quite an experience to hangout with guys who considered themselves hooligans, although they didn’t refer to themselves by that name, and freely joked about “beating the jolly fuck” out of rival fans in street and stadium fights. Although we were safely upstairs in the hostel, I felt slightly uncomfortable with the two of them yelling at people passing by, and getting rough with one another on the balcony, paying no heed to the fact that we were in an entirely black part of town and that they were two very, very white foreigners. Well, nothing significant happened, but they were certifiably loony.

The day Jesse flew into Atlanta we ate lunch at The “World Famous” Varsity and visited the MLK Jr. Memorial and Museum. The Varsity is a huge drive-in hamburger and hotdog restaurant where, for some reason at the time we were there, all the employees were black and all the patrons were white. The best thing, by far, was the Varsity Frosted Orange, which is essentially a cream sickle in milkshake form. Delicious, but a much more hearty drink than one would expect. The chili-cheese hotdogs and hamburgers were fine, nothing special, but it was the throwback style of the place that made it a fun place to stop.

Martin Luther King’s museum and neighborhood were a very interesting educational and historical experience, even though we were rushed through the museum due to a five o’ clock closing time. Within a distance of a few hundred yards, you can see MLK Jr.’s childhood home, the church where his father preached, and tomb and freedom walk that make up his final resting place. It was like being in an outdoor museum; a neighborhood filled with history that you could walk on, touch, and feel as if nothing had changed over seventy years. While standing on the opposite side of the street from King’s home, I had this feeling of wonderment wash over me. I was deeply enthused because the places I was seeing, and the ground that I was standing on, was the foundation for a sequence of events that changed history, as well as life, in this country for entire generations of people.

The decision not to stay another night in Atlanta was a question of: To Whiskey, Or Not To Whiskey? Jesse and I decided to whiskey, and I’m damn glad we did. You see, Lynchburg, the home of the one and only Jack Daniels Distillery, is not exactly on the way from Atlanta to Nashville. In fact, it is somewhat out of the way. If we had decided to stay in Atlanta for the night, a stop in Lynchburg would have been logistically impossible.

Ironically, The Jack Daniels Distillery is located in one of Tennessee’s “dry” counties— meaning that the stores, bars, and restaurants cannot sell alcohol. The only place alcohol can be purchased in the entire county is at the distillery, but honestly that’s not the real reason to go there. The main reason is the tour of the "holler," called such, because the Distillery is in a valley and you can holler from one side to the other, and its buildings, and the tour guides themselves. Our tour guide made every inch of the drive out to Lynchburg worthwhile, and he didn’t even provide us with a single drop of whiskey. He was a round, heavily bearded, overall clad man, with a deep, raspy, and hurried speaking style. He knew just about every tidbit of information any outsider could want to gain from an hour-long tour, and he made everyone laugh, and breathe deeply, along the way.

Tennessee is one rocking state. Who knew? I mean, I knew, but I didn’t expect it to rock to such a lofty magnitude. I’m not really sure how Tennessee, of all states, managed to put together both Memphis and Nashville, but somehow they did, and they are both really great places to visit for the musically fervent.

Nashville’s music scene is all day & night, live-band, country karaoke. The bands that play in the packed, smoke-filled bars on Broadway make sure to play everyone’s favorite country, rock, and southern rock favorites with particular attention to Lynyrd Skynyrd, Hank Jr., and Johnny Cash. There must be some unwritten law that states that all bands are required to know at least five Skynyrd songs just to be allowed to go up on stage, because they are inescapable. Also, the bands play for free, so they encourage both cash and alcohol tips with their crowd friendly play list and antics. Everyone’s a hollering and swallering, a whistelin’ and a yellin’. There is no shortage of girls with teased up hair and guys in cowboy hats, but the Broadway strip is also filled with tourists just trying to taste a piece of the Nashville scene. It’s a pretty addicting atmosphere, but it could definitely get old after a couple weekends. Due to the Louisville v. Middle Tennessee State football game, people were pouring out into the Nashville streets as if someone had opened up the hick hose onto Broadway. There were packs of red-clad Louisville faithful in all cracks and crevasses of the thoroughfares and bars, and they seemed to have no problem with dominating a Tennessee city. However, the game was only one contributor to the congested streets and bars of Nashville. Orange County Choppers, the custom motorbike shop of Discovery Channel fame, had set up camp on the Nashville riverside across from the football stadium, to tease bikers with their newest two-axel outputs, and provide the credibility for a few bands that badly needed support. The tickets to get into the OCC, riverside fiasco were thirty dollars, which seemed extremely steep considering the quality of music one can see in the bars a few yards down Broadway for free.

One performance that Jesse and I only caught a glimpse of, but wished we had witnessed in its entirety, was a Jerry Lee Lewis style piano player and his band. What we did see from the doorway of the bar they were playing in, was a vicious hammering of a defenseless keyboard with both hand and foot, and a display of energy and enthusiasm that had captivated every person in the jam-packed, narrow bar. It was a momentary, but strangely gratifying, look back at the fanatical live rockabilly shows that Jerry Lee Lewis was known for. Strangely gratifying because we almost missed the entire show, but just knowing that someone in Nashville is performing like Jerry Lee Lewis night after night is amusing and comforting to me.

You would really have to hate country music to not have an amazing time in Nashville for at least a weekend, but if you just can’t tolerate “Family Tradition” or “I Love This Bar” one more time, I’d recommend heading to Monell’s for the best southern cooking and hospitality money can buy.

Dinner at Monell’s is a family style feast that consists of two salads, five vegetables, three meats, hot biscuits and cornbread, and saucy bread pudding to finish it off. Its exciting just writing about it. The restaurant should have a disclaimer on the door that warns people to set aside ample time afterward, because a food coma will surely follow your meal. It is a very unique dining style. Everyone waits outside on the patio or in the garden for your name to be called and table to be assigned. Once inside, each of the four large dining tables has a host that introduces the beverages & dishes, makes certain that all your needs are promptly taken care of, and strikes up table conversation throughout the meal. Once everyone is seated, the food begins to come in waves. Salads & breads. Vegetable & meats. And each time an item is polished off, the host promptly replaces it with a full bowl or basket fresh from the stove or oven. My personal favorites were the corn pudding, pulled pork, and the biscuits. The experience is more than just your typical dinner out, because it is designed to be a taste of southern culture and hospitality that becomes an afternoon activity. Between courses Jesse and I had a chance to meet the other people at our table. There was a family from a nearby city, which I forget the name of, and two girls who were down from Chicago for the weekend. The family, who also had never been to Monell’s, were stuffing their faces along with us, and sparking discussion about favorite dishes, just how many times one could refill their plate in a single sitting, and how they’d like a Monell’s to move to their city ASAP. I agreed. All cities need a Monell’s, because at the end of the dinner, filled to the gills, it only costs you sixteen dollars, and your ability to move for the rest of the evening. The girls from Chicago looked a little over-whelmed, and although pleasant, I don’t think that they ate their money's worth. I have to admit, I was in pain for the next two hours following Monell’s, but it wasn’t the kind of pain that you get from eating at a cheap Chinese buffet. It was that satisfying pain, similar to that of post-Thanksgiving glory, when all you want to do is sit, stretch and think to yourself, “I have eaten lots, and it was glorious!”

What can I say about the Country Music Hall of Fame? I was a huge fan, until I got to the end of the thing and realized that the bronze plaques commemorating the artists were, for the most part, horrible artistic depictions. The plaque makers should be shot, or at least severely beaten, for the injustice they have done to some of the country music legends. The brutal attempt to capture Elvis’ likeness fell drastically short of acceptable. Johnny Cash looked like The Thing, with a hair piece, from The Fantastic Four. This made me appreciate the elegant simplicity of the glowing signatures in The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame that much more. The exhibits, music, and collection of memorabilia were quite impressive. They had a really cool Ray Charles special exhibit dedicated to his contributions to country music. They had listening stations all over the building, and rare video footage that I easily could watch more of. It was amusing and interesting, but outdated in comparison to the other music oriented museums I have been to lately.

The song “Jackson” which is featured in the Johnny Cash movie “Walk The Line” will forever confuse me. You see my brother and I went to Jackson, which is about halfway between Nashville and Memphis and attempted to go to the Rockabilly Hall of Fame. Not only was the Hall of Fame closed, but also there literally was not a person out on the downtown streets. Eerie, like a ghost town, not like a place you’d want to go party in.

Blues is to Memphis, as county is to Nashville. If you love live music, bar be qued ribs, Elvis, and music museums, then you will be able to find something to do while in Memphis. Memphis, however, is not the prettiest, nor safest, Southern city. Ever since Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis the city has been struggling with poverty, violence, and a suffering economy. It seems as if the music industry has kept the city afloat, because despite some seriously large ghettos, the Memphis music landmarks have become well maintained, run, and visited centerpieces.

Graceland, the most famous of Memphis’ landmarks, is quite the scene. People travel from all over the world to see Elvis’ fuzzy, round bed, gold & platinum record collection, jumpsuits, and the grounds he called home. Graceland is surprisingly modest in comparison to the gargantuan, gaudy, and pompous houses of the modern rock star. Elvis had a good set-up, don’t get me wrong, with a racquetball court, horse pasture, and special themed rooms, but it wasn’t over the top. Elvis’ parents lived with him in a bedroom downstairs. He loved horses and driving around in golf carts. After seeing his childhood home in Tupelo, Mississippi I got the feeling that Elvis never lost touch with his humble roots, and although Graceland was light years away from the simplicity of his Tupelo home, it still has the feeling of a country home, even in the middle of a big city.

Unfortunately, Jess and I hit Memphis on Sunday and Monday, which made for a very lethargic Beale Street scene. There were a few bands playing in the almost-always-open clubs and bars, but only a handful of people on the street. The neon was still a glowing, but the reality was that we had done a hot and heavy Nashville two nights in a row, and now it was time to digress a little on a Monday.

Even with Beale Street playing it mellow at night, there is plenty of music history to experience during the day. Sun Studios, the launch pad of rock and roll and music legends such as Johnny Cash, Elvis, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, B.B. King, and many others, was an astonishingly entertaining and informative stop. The very small studio, which still records artists on a nightly basis, is only a two-room museum and gift shop, but it possesses a powerful aura. The building, although it went through some ownership changes over the years, is essentially exactly the way it was when Elvis recorded his first single, That’s All Right” in 1954. Sun Studio, coupled with STAX Records, a.k.a. “Soulsville U.S.A.,” put Memphis on the map as a music Mecca of sorts. STAX, being the home of Rufus & Carla Thomas, Otis Redding, Booker T. & The MGs, Mar-Keys, Sam & Dave, and Isaac Hayes, built a reputation as a place where Soul hits were made. Both places had that, "If only the walls could talk," feeling about them. Like Graceland, these studios were basically the homes of legends. You can walk where Johnny Cash walked when he first entered Sun, you can see the note pads that Otis Redding jotted lyrics down on during all night song writing sessions. Everything in these places is so real. It's not a movie, its not a recreation, what exists in these places is the actual history that shaped our world today. Rock and Roll. Blues. Soul. Pop culture born out of Mississippi mud.

The people of Tennessee know music, but they know food just as well. I know that I already sold you on Monell’s in Nashville, but there is a breakfast place in Memphis by the name of Blue Plate Café, that deserves similar recognition. You know right away that Blue Plate serves a serious breakfast when your server comes to your table with a large basket of biscuits before your order is even taken. When you do receive your order, after stuffing your face with biscuits doused with butter, you quickly realize what a horrible mistake you have made. The Denver omelet covers more than half the plate, while the rest of the plate is occupied with gigantic roasted potatoes that spill onto the table when the waitress sets the plate down. That impressive plate is supplemented by two plywood-thick pancakes that you would deny ordering if only you had the courage… Let me stop right there and tell you that there is no way a normal person should eat that much for breakfast. I was beginning to feel like everywhere I went people were playing some sick joke on me. Anyway, their slogan should be: Stop at the Blue Plate Café and you won’t have to eat for the rest of the day.

Nashville and Memphis are damn fine places to visit if you like food and music, if not, then maybe you'd like Birmingham & Montgomery, Alabama or San Antonio & Austin, Texas better, because that's where I'm heading next.

Savannah is a pretty special place. The historic district is built on a grid that is filled with shady piazzas, tree covered boulevards, and architectural amalgamations that do not exist anywhere else in the world. In contrast to Charleston, the houses of Savannah are often densely framed with trees, foliage, and gardens that are elegant, but at the same time look homey and untamed. It is the neighborhoods, not the downtown or waterfront, that are special in Savannah. I’m not really sure when the bulk of the downtown area was constructed, but from a city planning point of view, it doesn’t really fit in with the expansive historical district, which if I was in charge, it would.

The timing of the Savannah visit was slightly tricky because The Savannah Jazz Festival was taking place in the middle of the city, and nearly every hotel was booked solid. Lea and I were forced to stay slightly out of the city center, which ended up being fine because the drive into town was a straight shot down a prominent boulevard and provided the opportunity to see areas that would have otherwise gone undetected. Unfortunately, we missed the bulk of the Jazz Festival, but it felt justified because there is just too much to see, and spending all day at the crowded Forsyth Park would have been a waste of our limited, and precious, time. Instead, time was well spent viewing the countless historical sites, walking the shady avenues, and just taking in the southern way of life.

Savannah is definitely a walking city. However, if you’re not into walking, it is a carriage city as well, because there are things to see on every street and corner. You can get from one beautiful plaza to the next without much effort, and in some cases the historical houses of note, such as the Mercer-Williams House, a.k.a. “the house from The Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil,” and The Owens-Thomas House, are a mere stones-throw from one another. The Owens-Thomas House is one of the most accurately restored houses in the city that can be toured inside and out. It is a very worthwhile activity to tour a house, because not only do you get to see the architecture and interior design of the house, but the tour guides also provide a very thorough history of the city while leading the tour. Our tour guide was a fast talking loon, but she did give a good tour and was filled with profuse amounts of random information. The Mercer-Williams House, perhaps the most well known in Savannah due to the book and film “Midnight in The Garden of Good and Evil,” was unfortunately closed when we were there, but it was nevertheless compelling to see.

A place that does require a drive outside of Savannah, but is well worth the extra time, is the Fort Pulaski National Monument. The Fort, which is named after the Revolutionary War hero Count Cashmir Pulaski, is a remarkably well preserved, restored, and staffed Civil War-era stronghold. The Fort has underground shelters for its magazines and gunpowder, multiple moats, drawbridges, brick spiral staircases, a dungeon, broad ramparts, portcullises, cannons pointing in all direction, and a baseball field. Unlike Fort Sumter, which was remodeled during each World War, Pulaski stands in the same fashion as it did in the late 1800s, with the exception of its rebuilt south-east facing wall. The Fort, which took nearly thirty years to be created from the original idea to its final armament, was the site of the first significant use of rifle-barreled cannons. The new developments in artillery, used in the Battle of Fort Pulaski, rendered the Fort, and other such brick-wall fortifications, practically obsolete. Even without such significant history, the Fort would be an amazing place to visit due to its picturesque location on the South Channel, and the kelly-green fields and swampland surrounding the brick red building. Now that’s good knowledge.

The last night in Savannah, Lea and I went to the Savannah Bistro for some Savannah style cooking. Lea had a whole flounder with apricot marmalade, and I had some amazing pan-fried tilapia with battered and deep-fried crab & onion crisps on top accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes. Mine was amazing, the whole fried flounder was slightly intimidating.

Side note: In the South anything can be deep-fried. While in Florida I heard about deep-fried Coca-Cola Classic. I was unreservedly intrigued and asked a guy who looked about the right weight of someone who would indulge in such an innovation to explain it. As it was described to me: Deep-fried Coca-Cola is a batter similar to funnel cake, but instead of water, Coca-Cola is used in the mixture. The batter is deep-fried until crisp, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and topped with Coca-Cola syrup. You can have it with ice cream, making the end result something close to a Cola float. Wow! Genius! Well, I didn’t have any, but it sounded interesting…

On the way south to Florida, a stop at “The GA Pig” was necessary because I think I somehow had managed to go almost two days without eating bar be que pork, and I needed my fix. The Georgia Pig is what a rural southern bar be que joint should look like. When I dream of pulled pork at night, I dream of it oozing from a building like the one The Georgia Pig is in. It is stationed in a log cabin right off the highway under a shady grove of trees with group of wooden tables scattered about. It reminded me of the kind of place that I always imagined Paul Bunyan, Davey Crocket, or Abraham Lincoln growing up in. Inside are large wooden tables with all the necessary condiments and accessories in the center, including the essential bar be que sauce squirting bottles, hot sauce sidekick, and large rolls of paper towels. All these items are to be used to the point of excess. While ordering, you must throw in some cups of beans and slaw, at 99 cents a pop, and you’re a sleeping bag away from making that log cabin your home. It is such a loveable, and intriguing place that there is a sign on the front door that states, “No photography allowed inside,” or something like that. In short, if you find yourself driving around in south-east Georgia and are in need of some bar be que, don’ think, just do, and stop at The GA Pig.

Jacksonville, Fl. is about as close a modern city can get to being a ghost town. On a warm, sunny, Sunday afternoon, there was hardly a soul out in the downtown streets or at the shops, restaurants, and bars of Jacksonville Landing. I actually felt bad for the people working at the shops that were intended to be tourist stops, because they literally had nothing to do. The busiest place on Jacksonville’s riverfront, which was a very pleasant place, was the ice cream shop, where the line moved slower than growing grass. I would cry if I were forced to move to Jacksonville.

St. Augustine, on the other hand, has it going on, with really nice beaches, Spanish-colonial downtown, and numerous tourist friendly locations in close proximity. The two days I spent in St. Augustine, I lounged in eighty-five degree weather and seventy degree water and I really can’t complain, because although small, St. Augustine has character to spare. For a town with as much history as St. Augustine possesses, the people who live in the city claim that there really isn’t much to do. I personally found plenty to do, but I could definitely see their point. The town had become a tourist trap of the worst kind, where every old building is a pay to see attraction, and areas of the very pleasant downtown were gated off in an amusement park fashion. The whole idea of St. Augustine being a Spanish and Pirate history epicenter was slightly ruined by the over commercialization of interesting places. The best, or perhaps I should say worst, example is the infamous, “Fountain of Youth.”

Oh eeyeah, I just drank from the Fountain of Youth and feel young again. That’s the way I had hoped I would feel, but after choking down the metallic tasting water I felt more like spitting it back up. The mildly entertaining amusement park that is the Fountain of Youth is barely, just barely, worth the $6.50 admission price. The property consists of pathways, peacocks, a severely out-of-date planetarium, and a shack with plaster conquistadors and Indians standing around the supposed fountain itself. It’s essentially a hole in the ground, where water is naturally filtered by the underground caves and comes out relatively pure. The legendary conquistador, Don Juan Ponce de Leon went searching for the underground spring in 1513 and it ended up being the reason that Florida fell under Spanish rule. It’s an insignificant, but awkwardly momentous, landmark in American history. Apparently, Indians in the Caribbean, who were trying to convince the Spanish to leave their island for something better, told the myth of the Fountain of Youth. Ponce de Leon, never one to miss an opportunity to impress the King of Spain, gullibly left the tropical islands and landed in St. Augustine. “Wow,” I thought, “How could something so interesting, be so horribly presented to the public.” It was sad. On the flip side, the Castillo de San Marcos, a fort built in 1695 and run by the National Park System, was spectacular to visit. With knowledgeable staff, and no cost to me to get in, the Castillo is a shining example of why historically significant places in American history should be run by the Nation Park System.

Next stops: Atlanta, Nashville & Memphis, oh my!

The road from Boston to St. Augustine, Florida, the East Coast leg of the trip, has been spectacular. The combination of interesting cities, delectable food, historical stops, transitioning culture, and quality-company has made every mile of the east coast enthralling.

You would think that parking in New York could cause major problems, and it normally does, but due to perfectly aligned connections I was able to achieve VIP status in a conveniently located underground parking facility. Having your car towed in Boston: $110. Having someone scrape against the side of your car while parallel-parked in Boston: $300. Having a protected place to park when you get to New York City: Priceless. A week in New York goes by a lot faster than a week in any other city. There is more than a lifetime of activities, restaurants, sights, and museums to experience, so I had to pick and choose my activities wisely. To be productive, most days I woke up around noon. I figured that I deserved this now, because I had been on the go almost every day since leaving Santa Cruz, and with the changing time zones and various levels of sleep quality, I could use the refueling, after all, I am on vacation. I had the pleasant fortune of having magnificent weather, which made afternoons watching softball in Central Park, a trip to the top of Rockefeller Center, “The Rock,” at sunset, and evenings out in the Greenwich Village, Upper East Side, and Brooklyn, all possible. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, on the edge of Central Park, was very enjoyable afternoon activity. Like the city itself, the museum is also extremely large. With copious amounts of art pieces and exhibits to enjoy, I was forced to speed-walk to all the specific sections and displays that I thought I would enjoy, and essentially skipped everything else. Also like the city, there is just too much to see at “The Met.” Anyway, I’m not too keen on spending large amounts of my days wandering in cavernous museums when I could be watching football and checking out the happy hour scene at neighborhood bars and restaurants. I mean seriously, you only live once.

New York has a great selection of food. I’m not really sure if I remember all that I had to eat, but I do remember that it was bueno. There is plenty to debate when it comes to New York restaurant cuisine, as anyone who has read, or seen, “American Psycho” would know, but I’m pretty sure that I ate at all the best New York City restaurants. Debate over. Well, maybe not all of the upper echelon, but everything was great at the time, and I am on a budget. Everything from Turkish falafel, Jewish deli, sushi and Max Brenner Chocolate By The Bald Man all provided the great meals you would expect from NYC’s smorgasbord of eateries.

If you ever drive south off of Manhattan Island into New Jersey do so in the early evening. The skyline of the city, looking over your left shoulder when you emerge from the tunnel, is absolutely picture-perfect. I was driving at the time in pretty heavy traffic, therefore no picture was taken, and you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Although I have been to Washington D.C. on a number occasions, I feel that each time I go back, my visits just keep getting better. Perhaps as I get older I become more aware and appreciative. Perhaps it’s simply timing and luck. Whatever it is, D.C. is a city that I will never grow tired of visiting.

Walking amongst the monuments of Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, and Roosevelt and the Vietnam, Korean, and World War II memorials, certainly inspires and mesmerizes. There is something about the layout of the Washington Mall and the size & significance of the monuments that make the whole thing seem out of place. It takes me back to all those hours in American and World history, political science, and government classes and really puts the achievements of great people, the brutal reality of war, and scope of national and individual accomplishment into a new perspective. My personal significance is put into a new perspective as well. And I digress…

The Electric Six concert at The Black Cat was a concert for the ages. With no shortage of showmanship, the E6 rocked through all their dance-rock staples, mixed with some work off their new album. In a room slightly larger than most high school classrooms, the E6 kicked up the tempo with the encouragement of “bailamos,” and played to the crowd’s demands, except for the hit “Synthesizer” off their first album. I can’t even count the amount of times that I have sung along with “Dance Commander,” “”Dance Epidemic,” or “Electric Daemons In Love,” and now I singing and dancing along with the loony front man, in D.C. of all places. The show was great, the beer was good, the Pizza Mart pizza afterwards was everything I had dreamed of.

Honestly, the food in DC matched that of New York. Amsterdam Falafelshop is certainly a must do when one is in DC. Better than many suggestions in “Roadfood,” the Falafelshop provides the precious opportunity to create an over-stuffed pita of joy with your own hands for under six dollars. You can create an edible orb, about the size of a size two soccer ball, filled with incredibly fluffy falafel nuggets, hummus, babaganoosh, chopped garlic, roasted vegetables, other stuff, and more other stuff. Order up some crispy fries, stick one in the top like a fuse, and you got yourself a pretty bomb little feast any hour of the day or night. Right down the street is aforementioned Pizza Mart, another all night eatery of notoriety. The shop serves slices of pizza up lightning quick the size of your torso for like three dollars. Whatever hangover you may have had in the morning is sopped up in the two pounds of pizza dough that you put in your stomach, and the next day you don’t crave breakfast until noon. When you do have breakfast I recommend the pulled pock sandwich at Jesse and Erin’s apartment. Scrumptious and free. Now that’s a good deal. D.C. ended up being the perfect mix of music, nightlife, site-seeing, food, and good people that epitomizes what this trip is all about.

When traveling down the east coast, D.C. feels like the final checkpoint before crossing the imaginary line that separates the “north” from the “south.” I’m not saying that all of Virginia has that distinctive southern feel, but you do start noticing large numbers of cars parked in front of trailers, an increase in the size of the people’s guts, and the infamous “Waffle House” and “Cracker Barrel” combination at every freeway exit. (Explanation to come.) The stop in Virginia Beach was negatively tainted by the mysterious disappearance of Lea’s phone charger, a phone earpiece, and my iPod Nano from our hotel room. While plugged into charge, these items took a walk, never seen by myself, or hotel staff, again. Oh well. I was pissed, but in retrospect I feel that it was a deserved punishment for breaking the cardinal rule of staying in hotels: Never leave valuables in plain site. New travel declaration: I will never stay in a HoJo Hotel again. With long sandy beaches, miles of shops, bars and restaurants, I could imagine Virginia Beach bustling with lobster-red frat guys, glossy girls, and soldiers on military leave, but there really wasn’t much going on in the ol’ VB except for a few beach goers and the typical riff-raff that congregates in beachside communities. A strange thing about Virginia Beach was that all the restaurants, whether independent, chain, or affiliated with a hotel, have fundamentally the same menu. A couple steak options, a couple burger options, some seafood, and perhaps some salads make up the bulk of every restaurant’s offerings for almost identical prices. There was very little diversity, which was disappointing, so Lea and I went to “Rock Fish” twice in one day to take advantage of the ridiculously cheap afternoon Ahi tacos and nightly free crab appetizers. Their marketing scheme was successful & I was in dollar taco heaven. Sadly, like the restaurant menus, the town of Virginia Beach has little diversity or culture to offer. You are limited to the long beachfront, and harbor area that make it a nice, but not exactly stimulating place to visit. Lets move on shall we…

Williams Street Bar B Que, in who-knows-where North Carolina, was a decent introduction to southern-style pulled pork and NC b-b-q sauce, which is vinegar not tomato based. The sauce is watery in consistency, similar to salad dressing, but full in flavor. The strong vinegar presence provides a unique tang, and although it sounds intimidating, the stuff is almost addicting as Moreno’s salsa. This would be the first of oh so many pulled pork experiences.

Now, South Carolina feels like “the south.” There is no mistaking the distinctive southern drawl, the use of ya’ll, and the fact that the excuse for hotels not having wireless internet is, “Uh, well, you’re in the south.” There are aspects of Charleston that are extremely charming and make it a splendid place to visit, but there are some subtle nuances and idiosyncrasies that make Charleston’s atmosphere a little uncomfortable. Well, uncomfortable may not be the best word. How about, eccentric? Well, I can’t think of the right word exactly. The people are very pleasant, and the city seems quite safe and is remarkably beautiful, but there is a denial of the past, mostly pertaining to slavery, and an embracement of succession and confederate pride that composes Charleston white culture. For instance, the Magnolia Plantation and Garden, just outside Charleston proper, is a beautiful expanse of informal, but intricate, English gardens, moss filled trees, murky swamps, well-manicured fields, pastures, and stables. While exploring the grounds it became evident that one key element of southern plantation life had been purposely downplayed, and that was the role of slaves. The slaves’ quarters were described as “antebellum cabins,” and for the most part the slaves were simply referred to as “gardeners,” or “hands.” One of the few references to slavery on the property was the description of how the property owner had risked his own neck to provide the slave children with educational and religious studies, a practice that was outlawed in South Carolina at the time. The depiction of the pre-Civil War plantation came across as some sort of quixotic haven for the slaves, where they could work, learn, and live as if the property owners were doing them a favor by having them there. According to the information given on the tour of Fort Sumter, more slaves were brought into the United States through Charleston Harbor than any other city. Additionally, in the middle of town stands a long wooden-roofed open market that was originally used as a slave-trading market, but today is much like a farmers/crafts market on certain days of the week. Although there is mention of the original use of the facility, the references are quite subtle.

It is quite evident that Charlestonians try to downplay the role of slavery, but they take pride in showcasing their role in the Civil War and succession. In front of elegant bayside southern mansions on the East Battery, “Don’t Tread On Me” and “Stars and Bars,” flags are proudly displayed. “Don’t Tread On Me” was the slogan, and symbol, of South Carolina’s battle of wills to maintain the Southern way of life while facing Union demands on slavery laws. “Stars and Bars” was the original Confederate flag until soldiers realized that looked exactly like the Union’s “Stars and Stripes” when the wind wasn’t blowing. The fact that the Civil War started in Charleston is another source of local pride. Fort Sumter, which sits out on a sandbar in the Charleston Harbor, where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers collide, was the site of the first Civil War clash between Union and Confederate soldiers. I won’t go into detail, but to spare you the suspense, I will tell you that no one died in the bombardment of the Fort, and the Union soldiers who surrendered at Sumner were allowed to travel safely back to New York. Seemed like an awful friendly way to start such a bloody conflict, but nevertheless the Civil War began and to this day it appears that a significant population in the South don’t regret it happening. Perhaps they would if General William T. Sherman had decided to burn Charleston to the ground like every other city in the South, with the exception of Savannah. Another noteworthy factoid from the Fort Sumnter visit and then I’ll quit the history analysis, was the recreational activities of the soldiers stationed there. Abner Doubleday, the credited inventor of baseball, orchestrated some of the first “’formal” baseball games every played on the marching grounds of the Fort. This is interesting to me, because two weeks earlier I learned of this at the Baseball Hall of Fame, and a few days after visiting Charleston I would see the first picture of a baseball game ever taken at Fort Pulaski in Savannah, Georgia.

I may be coming off as having a negative impression of Charleston, but I really don’t. I was amazed at how preserved the original housing was, and the bayside walkways were as beautiful as anywhere on the California coast. The pulled pork was good. Bubba Gump Shrimp Company was fun. There is a lot to be admired in Charleston, even if they would prefer to be apart of another country.

So, it is true, I was turned away from that Canadian Border and am now happily hanging out in Charleston, South Carolina.

Before the detour at Niagara, I did enjoy The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, paid a ridiculous amount of money to toll booths for the privilege to drive through Indiana and Ohio, and had spicy Buffalo Wings, where Buffalo wings were invented at Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York.

After quickly realizing that the city of Cleveland has a limited amount of worthwhile attractions to tantalize the senses, although, I understand that the Cleveland Museum of Art has pretty decent Picasso collection, I decided to camp at a Howard Johnson Motel and prep for a long day at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame provided six and a half hours of entertainment, information, and rocking. It is a very thorough and extensive museum & showcase of rock and roll, the people that influenced the music over the years, and the culture that surrounds it. There really is too much in the Hall of Fame to do in one day. Too much music, literature, video, and artifacts to divide ones time amongst, and in truth, not everything needs to be seen to really appreciate the museum. The actual “Hall,” alphabetical signatures of all the inductees, was especially well done. Only the glowing signatures of the rock legends illuminate a spiraling hallway that takes you from Aerosmith to ZZ Top. And the sound of the inductee’s music comes from a two-story theater at the end of the hall that cycles through footage of all the inductees in order of the acceptance into the hall. A well done presentation.

After the Hall of Fame, the drive to Niagara Falls was just a quick shot down the turnpikes, but Niagara would be the furthest north that I would be allowed to go.

There really isn’t much to Cooperstown, NY. A small strip of downtown, cluttered with stores and restaurants all with baseball theme and décor, a well-groomed baseball field set back into a neighborhood filled with old wooden houses, and of course the Baseball Hall of Fame. The Hall of Fame is as much a church of baseball, as it is a history museum. The format of the museum is an extensive timeline that documents the evolution of baseball from the first games conducted by Abner Doubleday (A surprisingly significant person in history, who’s name would come up again during the tour of Fort Sumter in South Carolina) in the fields of Cooperstown, to the modern game that is played today. Along the way, the museum showcases the notable baseball individuals and achievements with displays built around the actual jerseys, baseballs, gloves, and shoes that made history. The artifacts, coupled with amazing video footage, capture the greatness of the game and the people who played it.

The actual Hall in the Hall of Fame is built like a church, lighted like a church, and feels like a church. Along the walls where stained glass would be in an actual church are the placards with the bronze faces and captions of the members of baseball’s elite. At the end of the Hall, under a glass roof, are the faces of the original five inductees to the Hall of Fame: Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, Christy Mathewson and Walter Johnson— The Class of 1936. I have to admit it was pretty cool to walk past the Ruth’s jerseys, Cobb’s cleats, and Wagner’s glove in one room, and then come face to face with their bronze likeness forever captured today in 2006 the same way it was in 1936.

A highlight that I will never be able to fully convey to someone who has not stepped inside the Hall of Fame is the pure love of baseball that the Hall of Fame docents have, and how addicting it is when you are in the building. Upon entering the section of the Hall dedicated to baseball’s ballparks, I was greeted by an old-timer who asked me, “So, what’s your team?” I let him know I was a huge A’s fan, duh, and that was all the prompt he needed to go into an entire history of the Athletics franchise, baseball’s move west, and the successes and failures of the teams that have moved from their former east coast homes. He told me in great detail, while looking at pictures of the Old Polo Grounds in New York, about how he jumped and yelled for joy after the "Shot Heard 'Round the World," when New York Giants’ outfielder Bobby Thomson hit a walk-off homerun at the Polo Grounds to win the National League pennant on October 3, 1951. He continued to prattle on in an amusing and joyful way through the records and no-hitter displays. This man, no less than 80 years old, had managed to somehow consolidate, without omission of great detail, nearly the entire history of his relationship with baseball into about half an hour. It was inspirational and moving. It was a story of love and respect for the game that I had never witnessed in person. It explains why “Shoeless” Joe Jackson and Pete Rose are blacklisted, and why the steroid induced records and milestones of the modern game should not stand. The game is bliss, the players are heroes, and winning can be the greatest triumph in the world for a fan, but the cheaters ruin what is pure and perfect. I guess I needed to go to the church of baseball to be enlightened. Go A’s.

Yeah, Boston’s a nice little city. The city of bad drivers, limited parking, relentless traffic wardens, zero city planning, beans, beer, and oh so much history. Never drive to Boston. It’s just a really bad idea. They don’t want your car there, and you don’t want to have your car with you. In two days in Boston, I had my car sideswiped and towed. Both minor things to happen considering the alternatives, but nevertheless I couldn’t wait to move on to the safe underground parking havens of New York City. I really don’t blame current Bostonians for their reckless, road-raging, life threatening antics, because very little city planning was put into the design of Boston’s roadways. However, with MIT and Harvard just across the Charles River I feel that the great minds of the east coast should band together and attempt to remedy the disastrous driving situation. Just a suggestion.

That's all for now. I already have a lot more to say, but am falling behind.

Fear and Loathing at the Canadian Border.

I had the pleasure of spending a solid hour or so in the custody of Canadian Customs, on the other side of Niagara Falls, before being denied entry into Canada for reasons that were never specified to me. For those of you planning on crossing the border by car into The Great White North, I would recommend making secondary plans just in case, because not only did the custom officers not pay any attention to what I was explaining to them about my trip, what I was doing, and where I was from, but they were just flat out rude in their conduct. The fact that I had an itinerary, travel maps, and proof of all the places that I had been recently, didn’t seem to sway the custom workers’ convictions that I planned to infiltrate their land with the intention of inhabiting, exasperating, or eradicating. Like I really care enough about hockey, round bacon, snow, and large populations of people who speak French, to want to stay in Quebec for any extended period of time. I pleasantly had all my papers checked and my car and bags searched... (Read: ransacked.) I honestly answered all the questions about my origin, purpose, monetary accessibility, and dietary habits and then an hour later some older guy, who I hadn’t seen or talked to, gives me a slip of paper and tells me to go back across the border. “Entry denied.” Boom. No explanation, no chance to explain anything, no chance to talk about it, and no passport back until I was already on the bridge headed back towards New York ... I did get to see Niagara fall. The falls are pretty spectacular at night, but not worth the drive by itself … Oh, and I did stop at Anchor Bar in Buffalo, on the way to the border disaster, and had some buffalo wings at the very place Buffalo wings were supposedly invented. They were a seven on the buffalo wing scale, worth eating once, but not worth going back for. A little sad, considering, but at least I have a one-upper on food conversations during Monday Night Football games.

The sad thing is that I really did want to go. I really did want to see Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec City. And I wanted to see them over a four-day span, and then leave. Spend my money on Canadian things and then move on, but they didn’t want to hear that. So, that is it. I’m going to go spend my money in Cooperstown, New York instead, and then on to Boston a few days before schedule. I can’t believe that this is even an issue. Apparently, young people don’t road trip in Canada… Or, if they do, they get denied entry enough for the Canadian government to need to play “tit-for-tat” with the US customs. You just have to respect pissing contests.

Well I realized that I am now in New York State and have yet to discuss Yellowstone. I know you all have been waiting on pins and needles for the next segment so…

I found Yellowstone to be a challenging, but not entirely impossible, park to see in one day. Sure, I may have missed a few hikes, mountaintops, and beautiful vistas, but as they say, “if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.” That is not the mantra that I adhere to, and I really wouldn’t recommend it, but in the case of this Yellowstone visit, I had to do what was feasible, and leave rest behind. After camping in the pleasant, but painfully minimalistic, Indian Creek campground, I headed to the vast Norris Geyser Field for my first bit of sight seeing. The Norris area, unlike Old Faithful, which I’ll get to, requires you to walk around, wait, and get lucky. Most geysers are erratic, spontaneous, random, and all those other words that essentially mean, “unpredictable.” Norris has a verity of geysers and sulfur vents in the form of mud volcanoes, hot springs, and other such geothermal creations. Like the sulfur fields in Lassen National Park, Yellowstone reeks of, well, sulfur. But not in that “ew, rotten eggs,” way, but in that, “ I’m going to really smell bad tonight,” kind of way. Which is no problem, because so will everyone else. The most predictable, and therefore “faithful,” of Yellowstone’s geysers is the storied Old Faithful. It’s not the highest, or the largest, or even the most spectacular, according to park employees, but it is the largest geyser in the world that works on a regular schedule. I chose to view Old Faithful from an observation point on a near-by hilltop, entitled Observation Point. I’m not sure if this is the best way to view the geyser, but it beats standing, or sitting, amongst the large crowds, and perhaps allows for a better perspective of size and altitude. At least I like to think so. Despite its faithful moniker, Old Faithful is also a big tease. Its cycle is approximately an hour and fifteen minutes, give or take. So, you sit there, with the camera. The naïve, like myself, snap off photos at the first sign of activity. This is wrong, and you must learn to wait. Remember the old saying, “a watched pot never boils?” Well, this theory applies to geysers as well. You must stay ready, alert, and with the right focus and aperture. Perhaps you’ve even taken a test photo of the area to make sure the angle is decent. And you wait. And then spurts, but small ones. Not the great geyser performance that you had heard about. “Was that it?” You ask yourself and the others around you. Should I stay? Leave? So, you wait some more. And wait. And you think, “Maybe that was it? This is bullshit.” Finally, when you think you may have just gotten unlucky, and this just happened to be an especially weak performance, Old Faithful comes through. Ooh… ahhh… time to hit the road. But that’s not all. Yellowstone has a predictable geyser, a really large high-altitude lake, sulfur fields, and it also has, and I didn’t know this until I got there, a spectacular canyon with numerous waterfalls.

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, as it is officially called, is a pretty darn spectacular place. I was surprised by how colorful the walls of the canyon were, created by constant sulfur activity, and how much water was traveling through the canyon. The waterfalls, although not as high as Yosemite’s, certainly pumped out their fair share of water, and made for some pretty quality photo opportunities. Yellowstone positively has more to offer, and I feel like I may have rushed the trip, but now I know that I can go back with some park familiarity and still have some fresh sights to enjoy.

Boulder, Colorado seems like a great place to live as long as its not snowing, but the road to Boulder from Yellowstone was more than mildly unpleasant. The first, very short, portion of the ride southeast took me through The Grand Teton National Park just south of Yellowstone. The sunset view, that I had the pleasure of witnessing, over the Rockies is the single most spectacular view of the trip. In a word, it was “awesome.” The view, coupled with the turning color of the trees, made for one hell of a photo op and made me wish that I had allocated more time to Teton Park, and less to Yellowstone.

Never, ever, for any reason drive through the middle of Wyoming at night. Every kind of animal that the state has to offer will dart in front of your vehicle at some point. No joke. At different times throughout the drive I had a buffalo, or bison, moose, deer, elk, owl, mouse, not to be confused with moose, and rabbit in front of my car. It’s like they have a genetically predisposition to leap, dart, run or saunter in front of moving vehicles. No big deal. No harm, no foul. But I’m sitting there rigid in the drivers seat, with J.T. the Brick quietly ranting about the up coming football season on the radio, hands tightly gripping the wheel, eyes scanning the medians and margins of the road frantically, and my foot jerking at the slightest sign of movement. I really don’t want to hit a moose, or even a deer. Do you even know how bad that would suck? Oh, GPS, just lead me safely to thy nearest rest stop so I can rest my weary head, and I will never forsake your guidance, or take your misleading directions in vain again.

Fort Collins, just north of Boulder, was packed with traffic of the worst kind — road work traffic. I was forced to take the New Belgium Brewery tour, and indulge in their tasting room. What a horrible way to beat traffic. Boulder was great.

I hope that everyone can appreciate the fact that I drove 671.50 miles today, while stopping only once for gas and thin, crispy burgers. And not only that, it was through, quite possibly, the most boring state in the union… as far as scenery, historical sites to laugh at, and diversity in landscape. The state of Kansas possesses three historical points of interest, as far as I’m concerned, and nothing else that is really worth stopping for. The Eisenhower Library & Center in Abilene, the home of Custer & The US Cavalry Museum at Fort Riley, and the site of the initial Brown v. The Board of Education, at the Courthouse in Topeka. I neglected to stop at any one of the three. The burger place that I did stop at was so disappointing that I almost swore off the Roadfood book entirely. The Cozy Inn in Salina sounds like a nice pleasant place, right? That’s what I thought. According to Roadfood, the burgers, “somehow form a perfect combination with pickle, mustard, and ketchup,” which I felt was far from the truth. Perhaps a local favorite, the burgers ranked up there with, but not necessarily surpassing McDonald’s, Burger King, and White Castle. In short, the burger stand was about as impressive as Kansas’ scenery. Important road rule: Never drive through Wyoming at night, and never drive through Kansas during the day.

Because I had no idea what to do with myself in Kansas City, I was forced to return to Roadfood’s guidance and get some highly recommended Bar-Be-Que at Arthur Bryant’s. It is important to note that the “grease house” as it is called, is in Missouri and not Kansas, therefore keeping Kansas’ “cool score” at zero. Arthur Bryant’s, is not your corporate fast food Bar-Be-Que, like K.C. Masterpiece, and pretty much rocked. I had a sopping wet brisket sandwich and a hefty plate of beans and fries. I know why people in the Midwest are disgustingly fat. After eating a tiny, lame, forgettable burger for lunch, the spicy sauce and the tender smoked dead cow, with crispy, fresh cut fries, and saucy beans was like eating dirt your entire life and then finally having your first real meal. Roadfood was temporarily back in my good graces. After dinner, I found out just how bad a baseball team the Kansas City Royals really are. Randy Johnson had a no hitter into the seventh inning, and the Yankees ended up winning nine to one. Not much going on in Kansas City… just another blip on the radar.

I can’t believe that the Gateway Arch is closed! “The arch is temporarily closed. And it is uncertain when it will reopen,” was all the park rangers could tell me. Oh, St. Louis, I wanted to slap someone. They don’t tell you this until you’ve entered the six-dollar parking structure and walked to the base of the monument. WTF? St. Louis does have a spectacular botanical garden, however, which they DO allow you to enter. Thanks to Mr. Oliver, I was able to enjoy the sold out Chihuly Nights exhibit which featured the artists spectacularly blown glass arrangements throughout the garden. The garden complex is definitely worth the time, whether there is a special exhibit there or not. The grounds are quite expansive, requiring a good evening of walking to see Japanese, Victorian, herb, rose, vegetable, forested, humid, and temperate gardens. In addition fountains, pools, an educational center, restaurant & bar, the garden, apparently during the summer, has free concerts, which allow people to bring their own food, drink, and seating to enjoy the music and the evening on any part of the grounds. Very interesting and entertaining place. ... I ended up staying at the Huck Finn International Hostel in a part of town that the locals at Nadine’s Gin Joint called, “The Island.” It was an interesting place out of the downtown area, which has the dive bars, coffee shops, and small restaurants of an actual neighborhood. Nadine’s Gin Joint made for a lively place to watch the end of the Steelers–Dolphins season opener and Cardinals–Diamondbacks game. Cardinal’s fans are passionate to say the least, and the few that I was sitting with, enjoyed yelling at the TV much more than they enjoyed talking to each other, unless you want to talk about how Isringhausen blows, Pujols is so not on steroids, and how the beginning of the football season makes life so much more enjoyable.

I’m sitting here, below the arch, at nine thirty in the morning waiting for whatever problem that exists to be fixed, so that I can see the sights, go to the brewery, and then drive on to Chicago. What are the odds that the two days that I am in town, the thing is closed? Pissed am I. Unfortunate this is.

Hey, but at least Anheuser-Busch came through with a stellar brewery tour and tasting room equipped with pretzels and eight different beers on tap. The tour, lasting a little over an hour, walks through the original Busch family Clydesdale stables, the frigid fermentation rooms with single vats of a beer that would take a person over a hundred and twenty years to drink at a pace of one pint an hour, every hour. Then the toasty brew house, and ten story bottling plant. The final leg of the tour is a trolley ride back across the expansive campus to the hospitality room. Some interesting facts: During prohibition, the brewery became the largest manufacturer of baking yeast in the world, to makeup for the loss of alcohol production. The brewery also produced soda and other beverages during this time. Additionally, all the storerooms on the property, the largest single beer storing unit in the world, must be replenished every twenty four hours just to keep Midwest beer distributors in stock… if I remember correctly, that was about half a million cases (24 bottles) of beer every day, just in the Midwest.

The road to Chicago was quick and easy until about twenty miles outside the city when I realized the cardinal rule of entering a new city: never do it at rush hour. What should have taken fifteen minutes, took nearly an hour, and left me frazzled, hungry, and slightly claustrophobic. A walk through a fresh neighborhood quickly remedies all long car rides, and a quality meal of a sun dried tomato pesto and turkey sandwich and potato salad eliminates recent frustrations.

Breakfast at the Cozy Corner Diner and Pancake House was a spectacular way to start the day. Endorsed by Roadfood, which pissed me off again in St. Louis with their recommendation of Goody Goody Diner, the Cozy Corner Diner came through in ways where their previous hamburger recommendations had drastically missed — as in exceptional food, not just throwback atmosphere. Watching the chefs wail through order after order was worth the price of the food by itself. Eggs, hash browns, sausage, and of course pancakes, makes for a breakfast worth starting a day with. No doubt the kind of place that should be recommended. The day in Chicago has been another tourist assault of sorts. Drive by tourism of the legendary Wrigley Field at 1060 West Addison probably didn't give the landmark site the time it truly deserves, but I think I'll be back in the future. A stroll to Millennium Park was shortly followed by a trip up to the Hancock Building’s observatory, and then the Magnificent Mile of Michigan street. I really like Chicago, and will have to come back.

More on Cleveland, the six hours I spent at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, attempting the cross the Canadian border, and heading to Cooperstown in the next installment…

Saturday: My day in Seattle turned out to be far more spectacular, and physically insane, than could have ever been expected. Out of bed at seven-thirty. Breakfast and some Internet time after a quick shower. I arrived right as the Experience Music Project was opening, at ten, and found that I practically had the entire place to myself for the first few hours. The EMP provides an entertaining look at Seattle’s music history, the general enjoyment of music, and of course, the man and the legend of Jimi Hendrix. Currently, the special exhibit at the EMP is a collection of concert poster artwork from all different eras, venues, and styles. Very cool. They had everything from early Elvis posters, to sixties psychedelic, to modern rock bands, but the focus of the exhibit was on the art of the posters.

One portion of the museum is dedicated to playing live music in sound-proof booths. Karaoke was in full effect.

While at the EMP, I ran into my Hostel roommate and his sister, who consequently is a concert poster artist, and they happened to have a friend with an extra ticket to the Bumbershoot Music Festival that she was willing to part with for twenty dollars. Bumbershoot is described as, "the mother of all arts festivals," with the primary attraction being the eleven simultaneous music stages that are active continuously throughout the Labor Day weekend. This years lineup featured: Hawthorne Heights, Blondie, AFI, Spoon, The New Pornographers, Kanye West, Steve Miller Band, Atmosphere, and A Tribe Called Quest. Sadly, I only witnessed one day. So, anyways, at around two-thirty, I saw Blondie do all their classics on the main stage. “Heat of Glass” tore the house down… It really did. Then went up the Space Needle, which was exactly what you would expect. The views of Seattle, the Sound, and surrounding areas were spectacular, because I was lucky enough to be there, “on the clearest day of the year,” according to one of the Needle’s employees. As far as a tourist destination, the Space Needle is worth both the time and the money.

I rallied myself to go back to downtown Seattle for dinner and a little more “tourist” experience. Because all tourists naturally gravitate towards Pike Plaza, the United States’ first outdoor farmer’s market, when visiting Seattle, I couldn’t help myself and went to the Pike Plaza Bar & Grill. The Steak Dip sandwich was good. The clam chowder was excellent, but the potato chunks were far too large for the cup the soup came in. After deeking in the 1st ever Starbucks and replenishing my caffeine level, it was back to Bumbershoot for Yellowcard and AFI. Yellowcard was strange. I’m still trying to figure out if I like their unique sound, or if I was just interested in the novelty of having a violin player in a rock band. AFI was quite an experience. The average age of the show must have been 16. Mainly girls dressing in all black, with black hair, makeup, and attitudes. This seemed over-the-top ironic when AFI came out on stage dressed in all white. Now's a good time to get black clothing at Seattle thrift stores. I promise you it is not the same AFI that played at The Vets Hall six years ago. Instead of indulging in the moshing with thousands of high schoolers, I had a good time keeping a low profile, which is something I would have never done when AFI was still a “punk-rock” band. I was literally on my feet for 12 out of 14 hours of the day in Seattle, and all that was before driving to Spokane.

Sunday: Today was a driving day of epic proportions. After going to AFI on Saturday evening I figured since I didn’t have a place to stay in Seattle, was wide-eyed and jittery from Red Bull and Starbuck’s, and my ears were ringing too uncontrollably to sleep or socialize, and would be for the next few hours, I decided to get a jump on the drive from Seattle to Yellowstone. I was able to make it all the way to Spokane, which is clear across the state or Washington, and slept in my car in the furthest corner of a Red Lion Hotel parking lot — dark, quiet, and a little creepy. Upon awakening I was pleasantly surprised by how nice of a downtown, and river area Spokane possessed. All I was really interested in, however, was a hearty breakfast and an early start. Breakfast commenced around seven-thirty, and for those of you who know my sleeping tendencies that should be an astonishing hour indeed.

Frank’s Diner, which was my first eatery experience out of the book “Road Food,” provided the kind of hearty breakfast that you would expect heading into middle America. Four egg omlets, hash brown, grilled onions, english muffin, and coffee, even if you don't ask for it. The counter is definitely the place to sit, so you can watch the quick order chef whip out all the eggs, pancakes, french toast, and hash browns that are ordered in a methodical, fast-paced flurry. The diner is in a turn-of-the-century presidential viewing railroad car, so it only seats about thirty, and makes for a fun, throwback, lively atmosphere. The waitresses were young, cute, but way way way too bubbly for that early in the moring, so I read the sports section. Frank's is worth looking into if you ever happen to wake up cramped in the back of a car in Spokane and crave an oversized breakfast.

Following breakfast, I drove past some amazing, and not so amazing, places today. First of all, raise your hand if you knew that there is a town caller Crackerville, Montana about one hundred and seventy miles north-west of Yellowstone. Yeah, I didn’t either, but it was funny to see. Entering Yellowstone was pleasant, but not spectacular. Some nice rivers, interesting rock for formations, and broad plains decorate the drive through Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming, but it is not until you get pretty deep into the park that you see the natural wonders that you drove hundreds of miles for. By the way, if you are heading to Yellowstone, you might as well drop into Manhattan and Amsterdam. They're all together so it would make for one hell of a vacation.

Tonight, as I lie on my second makeshift, back-seat bed in a National Park, I’m beginning to realize that I may have parked on a slant and am slowly sliding towards the back of the car. But I’m already too comfy to fix the current slope. It's strange how when you are out in the wilderness basically unprepared you notice simple things you don't have that you take for granted in everyday life. Like: It would be cool to have a spoon, since I have all this cereal. Oh, well. Not exactly roughing it, but definitely “camping.”

The last twenty-four hours have been action packed, so I have a lot of ground to cover before I hit the sack in anticipation of a rocking, both literally and figuratively, day in Seattle. First off, Portland is a really cool city. Interesting people, quality beer, delectable bar-type food, cultured downtown and neighboring boroughs, and now that I’ve reached Seattle I better get it all down on the record or else it will all be replaced with new experiences.

The Rose Garden, in Washington Park overlooking Portland proper, provided a nice stroll amongst the worlds largest collection of roses, a few photo ops, and a tourist hotspot to check off the list, but it is not the leading highlight of the Portland segment. I hear the Japanese Garden, Chinese Garden Sanctuary, and Zoo are all superior, but I didn’t see them. So, when you go take pictures for me.

While aimlessly wandering about I came across Good Dog, Bad Dog: Sausages For All in downtown Portland. It is the kind of cheap eats place that should be recommended and enjoyed by all, except for those of you that don’t eat meat. And if that is the case, move on to the next paragraph. The menu is simple: sausages in various forms, styles, flavors, and such. The Oregon Smokey, a blend of meat, herbs, and molasses, with grilled onions, cheddar cheese, and a soft bun rocked, as I’m sure the ten other flavors do as well. Pale Ale and smothered dog for fewer than eight bucks seemed pretty reasonable at the time considering it was a pretty substantial lunchtime meal. As you sit there amongst the dog themed decorations a steady stream of various downtown folk keep the small room filled. Business suits, hardhats, women, men. Chili, cheese, sauerkraut, horseradish, relish, hot and sweet mustard, ketchup. The kind of place that a messy dog, a pint in a plastic cup, and people watching goes together as smoothly as the pale ale goes down.

The Portland Timber’s game, or I should say PGE stadium, provides for a unique soccer-spectator experience. Show up early enough on a Thursday night your ten dollar assigned seating ticket, free if you know members of the team, becomes an all access pass to a field level beer garden and patio seating literally five yards from the playing field. With four local brews, and Miller Light, on tap I can’t imagine a better place to start an evening out on the town. The game, played on the Astroturf field, which is also shared by Portland's minor league baseball team, The Beavers, is fast paced and entertaining. Alas, the game only provided one goal and sadly the visiting Montreal Impact scored it in the 88th minute. Unfortunately, it was a disappointing ending to an otherwise well-played and enjoyable game.

The post-game happy hour at the Rock Bottom Brewery has some of the cheapest happy hour bar food I have seen since I was at “The Bear” in Chico two days ago. Slider n’ fries, mac n’ cheese, enchiladas, Tuscany salad, hot wings, nachos, and calamari all under three ninety-five each. The service was a little snotty, but considering that four people can eat and drink their fill and still manage to have a tab that totals less than forty dollars makes the waitress’ coarse attitude understandable.

Dixie Tavern is an absolute trip for the unprepared. I was only mildly prepared, but was surprisingly very entertained. The atmosphere is a cross between a white-trash rodeo and head-bangers ball, with the centerpieces of the action being scantily clad girls and hicks in cowboy hats rocking on the mechanical bull, and a fully tatted chick DJ playing everything from AC/DC to 311 to Hank Williams. The rowdy, boisterous crowd that is subject to spontaneous and clumsy dance parties makes for a fine milieu to enjoy a few Pabst Blue Ribbons in. It was fun in a "Wow. I've never been to a bar like that," kinda way.

Today: Cup and Saucer Café serves great breakfast eats for the better part of the day in a Telegraph Avenue style setting on Hawthorne across the river from downtown Portland. Good thrift stores, record stores, and coffee shops all with a charming, yet dingy, aura make up much of the store fronts that line the short, but lively Hawthorne drag.

I could probably spend a few more days in Portland. Lots to do, cool people to hang with, and many more bars, thrift & record stores, and restaurants to test-drive… It’s safe to say that I’ll be back at some point in the near future.

A little pit stop in Tacoma, while heading through Washington State on my way to Seattle, to pay homage to Neko Case and her song “Thrice All American.” (“I want to tell you about my hometown, It's a dusty old jewel in the South Puget Sound, Well the factories churn and the timbers all cut down, And life goes by slow in Tacoma”) Yeah, you know the one. Pretty neat city, but a hell of a lot bigger than Ms. Case makes it out to be in her little ditty. I’m not exactly sure what people would do with themselves here except eat smoked turkey and cheese on asiago-pesto bagels, which I did, and roam the “historic downtown district,” which I didn't. I’m beginning to become convinced that the words “Historic Downtown” equate to “not much to do here, but walk around and read strategically placed plaques.” Perhaps that is too harsh a judgment, considering I come from a city with the third and fifth wonders of the novelty amusement world — being The Santa Cruz Boardwalk and Mystery Spot, respectively. Oh well, on to Seattle. To Tacoma’s credit, the bagels were good.

Finally: It’s remarkably hot here in Seattle. A one arm tanning kind of day in the car, subtly transitioning into a shorts and tank top evening… should be interesting to see what the weather is like for Experience Music Project and concert tomorrow. My left arm is much tanner than my right, by the way; a trend that I imagine will only get more noticeable as the miles in the sun tack on.

Shout out to Ronnie, Yuri, Carly, and Mike. Good times, great hospitality.

There is nothing quite like sleeping on a floor and then driving 500 miles to make your neck feel like you were a victim of a vicious pile drive. However, the drive from Chico to Portland was surprisingly relaxing and enjoyable. The weather this morning in Chico made my decision to abruptly head north toward a cooler climate remarkably easy. Ninety-degree weather at ten in the morning practically drags you out of bed and makes you want to be miles away before you make the heat activated decision to stay inside under the shelter of air conditioning until nightfall. With that said, my Chico experience was nothing short of enjoyable and worthwhile. The World Famous Madison Bear Garden, or “The Bear,” provided the three essential to any quality evening out: victuals, beverage, and entertainment. Flip of a coin, tails never fails, and your drink’s half off. The clock strikes ten and your food orders are a whopping $1.99… except when they’re free because you know the chefs. Do you even realize how good a Barbeque-sauce cheeseburger and Chili-cheese nachos are when you’re starving and you’re eating dinner at a rustically decorated bar where the pints are a dollar? That’s right, “It’s pretty bomb,” and far superior to the enchiladas I had at Burrito Boy in Eugene this afternoon. You can’t win ‘em all, but you can try.

Unfortunately I was unable to stop at all the tourist Mecca’s between Chico and the Oregon border. The Salmon Viewing Plaza in Red Bluff was one tasty treat that the heat kept me from enjoying. And sadly Yreka’s Historic Downtown didn’t meet the cut either, but both made the “places to go before I die” list which will be considerably long by the end of this trip I imagine.

The border between California and Oregon not only separates the Golden State from the Beaver state, but it also separates two significantly different terrains. As you ascend from the minor mountain range on the Oregon side of the border the color green replaces the color gold on all the hills, mountains and valleys. The hills and valleys of California are grass and crop filled, relatively bland landscapes, that strangely enough all look alike. You could be in Gilroy, Modesto, Lodi, or somewhere between Chico and the Oregon border and I guarantee that the highway you drive on will be in the middle of some fields, and the fields will be in the middle of some golden hills… with maybe a mountain in the distance. Now Oregon, on the other hand, has trees covering their hills and forests in the valleys. Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Firseed, Johnny Spruceseed, and Johnny Cederseed had a tree planting pow-wow in the Pacific Northwest and neglected to include California. The wooded landscape makes for a pleasant vibe from Ashland to Portland.

My day comes to an end in a comfortable resting place. The boys in Portland have an evening game tomorrow, so a day in Portland sounds reasonable at this juncture. Apparently tomorrow is “Thirsty Thursday” at the soccer stadium, so I may have to go watch warm ups and relax for a while. For now, its time to rest, because sitting on your cakes, in a car, for the better part of a day, doing nothing physically what so ever, is far more tiring of an activity than it logically should be. Good night, and good luck.

The money has been made, the car’s been tuned, the words of Hunter S. Thompson, Karouac, and Steinbeck are fresh in the mind, and the applicable portions of “Worst Case Scenario’s Survival Handbook” have been duly memorized. The florescent orange line traces the highways, byways, back ways, and sideways of America’s roadways creating a big, odd shaped, jagged-edged loop, circumnavigating North America with no real beginning or end, just a whole lot of in-between. A geographical “connect-the-dots,” if you will, between metropolises, museums, monuments, mountains, music, national parks, ballparks, Chan Ho Parks, battlefields, landmarks, coastlines, bars, restaurants, diners, and friends.

Approximately: 10,716 miles in 60+ days, consuming 383 gallons of gas, while touching 36 states, and eating a hell of a lot of barbeque and pie.

In the next two months I will see the sun set over the Rockies and rise across the Atlantic. I’ll tread the battlefields of the Civil War in Georgia and stroll the streets of the Civil Rights Movement in Birmingham. I’ll boogie with the King in Graceland and Walk the Line with Cash at Sun Studios in Memphis. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, Experience Music Project in Seattle. The Windy City, The Big Apple, The Big Easy, Bean-town, The Mile High City, The City That Never Sleeps, The City of Angeles, The City of Brotherly Love, Music City, Motown.

The things I see, the people I meet, the places I go, the music I listen too, the hurricanes I run from, the beaches I lie on, the street I walk and the food I eat make up this trip. There is me and the road and a whole lot of country to look at. Well, I’m gone.