I know, right? Today is my thirteenth day on the road. It's starting to feel a little surreal, honestly. It's strange to think about how much time has elapsed since I left Eugene, and how it's been nearly three months since I left Athens. I get giddy just thinking about returning (which I'm planning to do on Saturday). But for the moment I'm extremely excited to be where I am! I am in Alabama!
First, let me back up. Allow me to describe my adventure day in New Orleans.
The sun shone bright yesterday morning, and temperatures hovered around 60 degrees. A breeze shook the trees (still bright with greenery!), warning of an impending storm, or at the very least reminding the visitor of the city's proximity to several bodies of water.
I enjoyed a quick jog around the neighborhood I was staying, a little to the north end of the Garden District. I soaked up the sun as I trotted past old houses of every shape, size, and color. But it was time to head further into town. A rickety green streetcar runs along St. Charles Way, slowly ferrying residents and tourists to and fro around the western half of New Orleans. A buck twenty-five, exact change, will get you a ride, and I gazed out the window as we passed through several neighborhoods. The area where I boarded was primarily residential; next we screeched to a stop outside the majestic entrances to Tulane and Loyola universities. As we progressed toward the French Quarter, bars and restaurants began to crowd the street just as more and more riders crammed into the streetcar. The line ends at busy Canal Street, so I hopped off, ready to explore.
I decided to dedicate much of my day to the French Quarter, Canal Street, and other such ultra-famous locales that thrived on tourist dollars. It was a Monday in January, but the street still bustled with activity. And then, the most surprising thing that happened to me all day: I ran into two guys I know from Athens, who just happened to be adventuring in New Orleans! We chatted briefly, but it was extremely awesome.
Canal Street intersects several famous streets in the French Quarter: Bourbon, Royal, Decatur. I turned on Decatur, which took me along the Mississippi River. (In my last post, in my excitement I declared I drove into New Orleans between Lake Pontchartrain and the Gulf, forgetting that that was entirely impossible. I actually drove between the lake and the river, though it is also difficult to conceptualize the Mississippi River turning and heading east, but it does!) I wandered along the street, checking out a shop here and there, trying to avoid tourist traps but still get a feel for it. I paused and looked at Jackson Square, as the figure towered over the street. I stopped at Cafe du Monde, where dusty awnings proclaimed it to be the French Market's first coffee stand. Inside the open-air cafe, waitresses in matching, neatly pressed white aprons and caps served up "New Orleans-style" coffee and trademark beignets. Just outside, a middle-aged man with skin the color of dark chocolate played lazy notes on an old trombone. He wore a Saints sweatshirt. His notes rang true. He played recognizable standards, and occasionally would set down the horn and sing instead. His voice was soulful, but his eyes were sad.
At about this point in the day the overly touristic nature of the neighborhood started to put me on edge. I tried very hard to just take it all in, observe this famous city that I had never been to. It was a dreary day, and as rain and wind moved in, tourists dissipated. A girl working at the French Market along Decatur told me it had been a colder winter than normal, and tourism was down. Another vendor told me how business had never been
up since Hurricane Katrina.
After walking the length of Decatur, I turned north toward Bourbon Street, a few blocks away. I walked down lesser-traveled side streets, lined with skinny, tall houses painted a rainbow of colors. Plants and lights covered balconies that overhung the roadway, barely wider than an alley. Flyers preparing residents for Mardi Gras were tucked into each mailbox, reminding me that I was only a few turns away from the center of it all. Very interesting! I walked down Bourbon, which was its own adventure. Again, midafternoon on a Monday in late January, it was relatively sparse, mostly peopled with New Orleans residents and a chance group of tourists. Neon lights flashed, each bar offering a special more enticing than the last, as employees stood outside, calling to passers-by. I could certainly imagine what this place was like with even a little more hustle and bustle!
I reached Canal Street again, and it had begun to drizzle. I still had a lot of New Orleans I wanted to see, though, so I forewent the streetcar and walked along St. Charles Way. I ambled through the Warehouse/Arts district, though the museum I wanted to visit was closed on Mondays. I made my way to the lower Garden District, checking out shops here and there, thinking about a place to go for dinner. Eventually, I tired of walking and tossed five more quarters into the streetcar's slot to get back to my friend's place. I also had made an unfortunate misstep right before catching the trolley, and my feet were soaking wet. I curled up inside and regrouped.
We went out to dinner at a tapas restaurant down the road, where the waitress recognized my friends and conversed freely with us. Later, we went to a cramped sports bar a few blocks away, somewhat closer to Tulane's campus, though Tulane is similar to the University of Oregon in that there isn't a concentration of bars huddled around the campus. This was a neighborhood where 3-4 feet of water stood in the street for weeks after Katrina hit. Throughout the day, I couldn't get images of flooded streets and mass evacuations out of my head. I tried to picture what the city must of looked like, and the feeling of utter devastation and chaos that was certainly everywhere.
Today dawned gray and humid, as last night's drizzle had continued through the night. Though the rain had ceased by the time I awoke, the moisture from all that precipitation hung above the city, reminding me of muggy summer days in Athens. I packed up and hit the road, easily finding I-10 and sailing east out of the city. The interstate stayed up on bridge-like pilons for dozens of miles eastward, a fact I still just find extremely exciting.
The interstate arced into a bridge right before the border with Mississippi, and as I drove along the Gulf I crossed a few more rivers, lakes, and arms of the ocean. One bridge soared up at such an angle that before I reached it, it appeared to drop off dramatically into the Gulf. Once I entered Mississippi, I followed MS-607 to pick up US Highway 90, which closely follows the southernmost curves of the region. This added probably an hour onto my trip, but it was worth it.
US-90 goes right through the Gulf towns of Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Gulfport, Biloxi, Pascagoula, to name a few. I gaped as, to my right, about fifty yards of white sand separated the roadway from the Gulf of Mexico. In Biloxi, I pulled over, pulled on my old jogging shoes, and skipped along the beach. I was the only such carouser I could see in either direction. The sky was hazy with latent moisture, but the early afternoon sun shone through. I let the waves lap over my feet for a few minutes, relishing the time I got to spend with the water. I really, really love being in and near water. One of the greatest things about last summer was the amount of time I got to spend swimming. I'm lucky to live so near to Stroud's Run, but I miss the ocean.
My grandfather (as have countless servicemen) spent some time in Biloxi before he went off to World War II, so I thought about him as I drove along the highway, past towering casinos and sparkling resorts. I wondered how the tourism industry was doing here. In some of the first towns I drove through, the economic downturn was obvious, as the highway was lined with shuttered souvenir shops. Shopping plazas stood empty, parking lots covered in residual dirt.
I don't mean to linger on my presumptions about post-Katrina New Orleans and Mississippi. I am sure that I have only the slightest of ideas as to what life is actually like in the region, but even so I was moved thinking about what I do know of the utter destruction the area experienced.
I crossed into Alabama, and soon tired of US-90's slower speeds even as it curved away from the coastline. I returned to I-10 and headed to Mobile, Alabama, where I hooked up with Interstate 65 going north. I originally chose this route because I wanted to stop in Montgomery, to check out this southern state's capital. I soon realized that I had spent too much time on the beach for such a stopover, and indeed by the time I reached the Montgomery city limits it was almost 5:30, and all the museums were certainly closed. I guess that is yet another thing I will have to save for a future adventure!
I-65 arcs up and around through Alabama, never quite heading due north-south. It takes a pretty directly northeast route from Mobile to Montgomery, and veers northwest out of Montgomery into Birmingham. What I could see of the scenery before night fell was just as I remembered it - thick and lush with trees and plants of all sorts. I sighed happily. I crossed a series of rivers outside of Mobile, and reflected again on the geographical makeup of the region, how all these rivers and lakes have changed course over time, moving silt with them.
Tomorrow morning I will check out Birmingham for a bit, and then head eastward again!
Today's mileage: 416. Total mileage: 4,155.
(the adventure-mobile turned 177K today! go car go!)
Here is a map I made of my adventures. The black indicates the route I took in November; the purple is trips I took around the Northwest while there; the red is the route I took back in January. Enjoy!
