Montgomery: Birthplace of a movement, hometown to a hillbilly…

You can run your fingers through the water, across the names, places, and dates, starting with the Supreme Court outlawing school segregation in Brown v. The Board of Education in 1954 and ending with the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in Memphis in 1968. There are no signs telling you to do so, but just about everyone who visits the memorial is instinctively drawn to wet their hands in the thin layer of cold water that pours off the edge of the inscribed tablet. Just up the hill from the black, slick, wet rock of the Civil Rights Memorial is the infamous Alabama state capitol building— the White House of The Confederacy, longtime home to George C. Wallace, and stage to many significant moments during the fight for equality. A mere stones-throw from the steps of the capitol building is The Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church where King preached from 1954-1960 and “officially” began his quest for civil rights. All of this seemed like a lot grasp at 9 o’clock in the morning after a measly continental breakfast and pungent hotel coffee…

I was the only person in the Civil Rights Memorial building connected to the Southern Poverty Law Center in downtown Montgomery, other than two docents and a security guard who gave me a good pat down upon entering. Because I was the lone visitor at the time, I had my own personal guide through the small, but emotionally powerful exhibit that is dedicated to the people and stories inscribed in the black stone in front of the building. The docent asked if I was an architecture student, which I am not, and was pleasantly surprised that my purpose of visiting was simply to visit. Apparently, the center had opened just weeks before my visit, which was entirely by chance, and the place had been swamped with students of all sorts, reporters and photographers, and city officials. The center has a theater, classroom, interactive history stations, and a 20 by 40 foot “guestbook” called The Wall of Tolerance. I contributed my name to the wall, which, “records the names of people who have pledged to take a stand against hate, injustice and intolerance,” as described by the center, so if you are ever there add your name and look mine up. I left the center and memorial in a very contemplative sedation, and was quite satisfied with my decision to come through Alabama, because although the history of the state is tainted, revisiting that history is quite a remarkable experience.

The Hank Williams Museum, much like the Civil Rights Memorial and the streets of Montgomery, was eerily empty. The department store front, cubical style organization, and homemade, collage-esque exhibits made me feel bad for the operators of the place. It was depressing to see that the baby blue Cadillac that Hank had died in, some of his most famous stage outfits, and loads of original lyric and music writings were being so poorly displayed. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the effort that the museum curators put into the collection, but I just felt as if the legacy of Hank could have been better served. Simply put: The museum is well worth the five dollars entrance fee, but the legendary artifacts inside deserve a better resting place… such as The Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville. Elvis has Graceland, while Hank Williams has a space that would be better suited for a Woolworth’s. The gravesite and public statue of Hiram "Hank" Williams were also surprisingly discreet for the world’s most famous country star, but as people close to the man have been quoted saying, “That’s the way ol’ Hank woulda wanted it to be.” Its as if the legend of “Hank” outshines the actual history of Hiram Williams.

The day in Montgomery passed quicker than just about any other day on the road. I don’t even remember eating that day until I arrived at the Dew Drop Inn in Mobile for ice tea, cheeseburgers and hotdogs. Note: According to Roadfood, Dew Drop Inn’s hamburgers are the source of inspiration for Jimmy Buffet’s song, “Cheeseburgers in Paradise.” In addition to the burgers, Mobile was a satisfying place to finally arrive in because it is where I would pick up Interstate 10, which provides a straight shot to the PCH and Pacific Ocean. Oh, the comfort of familiarity.

As I sat on my makeshift bed in the back of my car, parked in a rest stop somewhere between Mobile and Biloxi, I couldn’t help but think about the day that lay ahead. Tomorrow I would drive through the heart of Hurricane Katrina’s wreckage. For those of you who may have forgotten the details: On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina flooded 85 percent of greater New Orleans, killing more than 1,800 people, causing more than $81 billion in damage, and leaving over 100,000 people homeless. It spooked, but excited me that in a few hours I would be driving across Lake Pontchartrain’s 24 mile causeway heading directly into New Orleans’ 7th, 8th, and 9th wards, the areas devastated most severely.

“My head is so full I don’t think I can sleep…”

A Belated Road Home…

By now I’m sure some of you are wondering what happened to me. Most know. A few probably don’t care. But many still believe Memphis is just a quick shot up the interstate from highway 17, with little in-between. I apologize for the confusion. The fact of the matter is that once home, in Santa Cruz, there no longer exists those empty, dark, solitary hours that must be filled with endless ramblings and jettisoned communiqués from my wandering soul to the outside world. I am here! Not there. I feel as if this writing is no longer as important as it was when it was my only method of transferring my happenings — always hopeful that the next rest stop, hostel, or coffee shop would provide the miracle of wireless internet. But as the time has passed, I feel that the importance of closure has gained priority in my conscience. So, allow me to finish…

You can read endless historical accounts and view numerous movies and pictures that attempt to recreate the essence of a place, but honestly it is impossible to absorb the true attitude, texture, and aura of a location without visiting in person. I remember learning about the Civil Rights Movement early in elementary school, but feeling even into my time as an undergrad that Alabama, Mississippi, and Little Rock in the 1960’s was such a foreign and far-away place. At first, you learn about the people: Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, and what these names now mean to a people, generation, and country. Then the places and movement’s activities: Birmingham, Montgomery, Selma, bus boycott, sit-ins, marches. The story is moving and captivating, heroic and tragic, but to a white kid from California, very abstract. As I headed from Memphis to Birmingham all I could think about was all the appalling things that had gone down within the city limits of Birmingham and Montgomery. The Drive By Trucker’s lyrics, “A church blows up in Birmingham, four little black girls killed, for no god-damned good reason,” rattled around in my head, and I couldn’t shake the negativity that I felt towards the cities and the state.

Birmingham has all the characteristics of an archetypal southern city, but it possessed a prevailing melancholy connotation, which made me feel as if I was returning to the scene of a crime… perhaps many crimes. It was strange to me that the only location that I could think of off the top of my head to enter into my GPS was the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, where on September 15th, 1963 four young girls and a boy, aged 11-14, were blown up while attending Sunday school — considered the most cowardly, inhuman and reprehensible terrorist act of the Civil Rights era. Not far from there is the city’s plaza and city center where the famous pictures of black men and women being attacked by German Shepherds and fire hoses were taken; proof of the hatred and viciousness that was brewed and bred in the city and state by the hands of “respected” officials like Eugene “Bull” Connor and George Wallace. I had difficulty finding a comfortable moment while in Birmingham. Even the friendly faces of the staff at the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, directly across the street from the Sixteenth Street Baptist church, couldn’t shake my uneasiness or expunge the deep, simmering feeling of guilt that had been burdening me since I got out of my car. After just a few hours in the city I felt I had to move on.

There is not much to see on the drive from Birmingham to Montgomery, but there is a hell of a lot of football jabber to listen to on the radio. From the few hours of sports talk radio that I could handle, it appeared that the rivalry between Auburn University and University of Alabama exceeded that of any that we possess in the western states. Its hard to believe, but I think that it must be harder to get a full sentence in on an Alabama college football radio show than it is on The View with Rosie O’ Donnell. Its quite comical how the show host will introduce a question to a particular person and before the answerer can get two syllables of their response out three of four other voices are yelling in chaotic Tuscaloosa twang about the quarterback throwing like a pansy and the running-back’s sexual preference. It was all gibberish to me, and as far as I can remember not one caller ever made a decisive football statement — the calls were always intended to enlighten everyone about how dumb and/or homosexual a previous caller is. Fascinating.

I drove to Montgomery, the capital of Alabama, to see two things: The Civil Rights Memorial at the Southern Poverty Law Center, and The “Official” Hank Williams Museum. I did have some presumptions about Montgomery, but nothing quite as negative as those for Birmingham. I arrived at dusk and gathered a sizeable stack of tourist information from the Visitor Information Center to read up on for the following day…

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.