The Oldest City in America, San Agustín

I thought Florida was supposed to be warm.

A freak cold snap has taken over the east and though the sky is blue and the sun is shining, it is approximately 40 degrees outside. Life is so unfair sometimes.

Also, there are sadly no longer any Hostelling International affiliates in Florida. I can, however, confidently put my stamp of approval on the Pirate Haus Inn, which has a fabulous location right between the main tourist thoroughfare and the waterfront. They also boast themed painted rooms, a patio, community kitchen, and all those typical amenities, plus all of the pirate paraphernalia one could ask for, and a free pancake breakfast put on by the artists/linguists in residence.

(I made the vaguely French looking pirate in the front)

I stayed just south of town with the owner of the aforementioned accommodation and his lovely wife, who took me to dinner at the local pizza parlor, Pizzalley, and then entertained me all evening with a drama-filled mouse battle, which we won with the help of their three dogs. I got an early start the next freezing cold morning in order to see all of the extremely old things that there are to see in this picturesque vacation town.

(El Castillo)

I would highly recommend renting a bike (for cheap at Solano Cycle) and seeing the sights that way, as everything is within very easy biking distance. El Castillo de San Marcos is the most prominent historic attraction, as it is the oldest thing that any Europeans built in what is now the U.S.* It is extremely impressive to look at, offers great views of the area, and interesting to me because it is the only fort in the U.S. that has never been taken by force, but changed hands only via treaties and diplomacy. There is also a famous lighthouse** and the national park on Anastasia Island, which I somehow managed to get lost on even with GPS.

(I am fairly certain that this needs no caption but this is the lighthouse, viewed from the bottom for free)

The rest of the town is full of amazing architecture spanning centuries, from the oldest wooden schoolhouse (built sometime before 1716) to the Spanish Renaissance Revival gem of Flagler College, to the astounding fantasy-style castle of Villa Zorayda, inspired by 12th century Moorish design. The city has an almost dreamlike feel, as everything is either quaint, grandiose, beautiful, or all of the above, and perfectly planned and accessible. A bit like Disneyland***, but an actual city.

FOR THE GREATER ENJOYMENT OF EATING AND DRINKING IN ST. AGUSTINE

Whatever you do, do NOT get sucked into the weird Floridian obsession with making wine out of everything but grapes. Many stores entice you to try grapefruit, chocolate, coffee, carrot, or boysenberry wine, which sounds interesting at first. Let me save you the trouble and tell you now, it is terrible.

Do, however, visit either Casa Maya or Blue Planet Co-op, which both offer fresh, delicious, affordable feasts to those of us that have had one too many scoops of jambalaya in the past couple of weeks.

After being surrounded by so much Spanish history all day, we felt it appropriate to make tapas for dinner, and after various glasses of the accompanying homemade sangria, I went to sleep eagerly anticipating the next day's trip down the coast of Florida, towards that steaming tropical vacation empire, Miami.


NOTES:

*The city was founded in 1565, and construction on the fort started in 1672.
**Though, they charge $9 to go to inside, and I think that is ridiculous! So I just imagined climbing 209 steps and peering out over the Atlantic, then rode my bike through the surrounding neighborhood, full of ramshackle, old fashioned vacation cottages.
***Which sounds like a negative thing but it is actually quite sweet. The town even has a little tourist bus made to look like a train that carries retirees and families from sight to sight. It would be much nicer if it was an actual train, but alas, I have relatively little clout with the St. Augustine Director of Transportation, even with my expertise in railroading.

From New Orleans to St. Augustine, with a Brief Stop in the City of INSANE

Hurricane Katrina is still an ever-present historic reference point in Louisiana, and especially in New Orleans. Everything can be described as being pre or post hurricane, because everything was either damaged, different, or exposed after that storm. Infrastructure suffered immensely- the roads are filled with cracks and cavernous potholes- but the damage of most interest to me was to the railroad. Until 2005 the Sunset Limited connected Los Angeles, Houston and New Orleans, then continued past the Mississippi to Florida. Katrina damaged the tracks east of the river, and though they were repaired by 2006*, passenger service was never restored because of low profitability, damage to stations on the route, and transfer of stock to other lines with more ridership. This is yet another example of the limbo in which Amtrak finds itself; it is under pressure to produce the results of a private corporation but with the constraints and limited means of a government agency providing a public service. I will set aside the political debate on the issue, however, and avoid further complaints and internal deliberations about cheap public transport options in the U.S. and simply say that to get to Florida and reunite with the train** I had to take the Greyhound from New Orleans to St. Augustine. I bought a ticket for six, and put it out of my mind for the day.

The National Park Service has a Jazz National Historic Park in the Quarter, and I learned there that Congo Square is a very important site in American Jazz history because it was the only place in the U.S. where slaves and people of African descent could play traditional styles of music, practice religion, conduct trade, and sustain other cultural activities during the 1800s. This is part of the reason that jazz flourished here, benefitting from the relatively free musical expression that different groups enjoyed here. I was also urged to walk the Jazz Walk of Fame in Algiers Point, a free ferry ride away on the west side of the river. As no human that I am aware of is capable of resisting a free boat ride anywhere, I did so. Algiers point used to be a large slave market, and was also the point where the Acadian people were deposited when they were shipped to Louisiana from France, but now it is a relatively quiet neighborhood. The boat ride was worth every penny, but the Jazz Walk of Fame consisted of 12-foot-tall lampposts with tiny captioned pictures of legendary musicians on the tops, that were virtually impossible to see or read. My recommendation: go to Algiers if you like boats and nice family homes (or, heaven forbid, you want to visit that monstrosity they call Mardi Gras World) but unless you have a special interest in street lamps of the early 20th century, do not bother with the Walk of Fame.

On the ride back to Canal Street a bluegrass band played a song about a woman who ordered every item on the menu at a cafe. Her husband responded,

"I know that you're a hungry gal and I don't mean to squeal, but who ya think is gonna pay for such a hefty meal?"

The chorus said,

"My name is Morgan but it ain't J.P. You must think I own a railroad company!"

I liked that a lot.

I then accidentally collided with the New Orleans Christmas parade and fair, which like all good public events involved dancing ladies, men dressed as elves doing Elvis impersonations on scooters, and many tiny ponies.*** The next thing I knew it was time to get on the bus.

(They had a tiny train at the fair as well!)

A seemingly harmless man offered to carry my bags to the bus but I knew better and turned him down. Nevertheless, he decided I needed to be stalked anyway and sat across the aisle from me in the half-filled bus. Behind me sat a nun, so I assumed I would be safe. Wrong. The next hours were spent with the man periodically hissing, clucking, and whispering at me about our upcoming marriage, punctuated with violent tapping on my chair, waving his cell phone in my face, and desperate pleas to be allowed to sit next to me. The nun, meanwhile, thought he was talking to her and started shouting Bible verses about God protecting her, proclaiming her need for personal space, and generally ranting at an unnecessary volume. I responded to neither one, and at the first meal stop she bought them both food and they sat happily eating together thenceforth. Unbelievable.

I transferred three times**** and finally arrived the next day in the brilliantly sunny city of St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States. I was thrilled not only to see some amazing Spanish architecture and stay with the owners of the city's best hostel, The Pirate House Inn, but also to know that, if everything went according to plan, I would not have to take another Greyhound bus for the rest of the year.


NOTES:

*The freight company CSX owns the tracks, as with the rest of the Amtrak system.
**I refuse to go back into the wintry darkness of the New England until the last possible moment and will bask in the sunny tropical regions of the US for as long as I can.
***The elves called themselves "Elfis" and thousands of toddlers and their pushy parents made it nearly impossible for me to get close to the ponies and take my picture with them. A love of ponies knows no age!

****By the way, there is nothing to do for four hours in Jacksonville, Florida on a Sunday morning, save wander an abandoned mall with creepy Beachboys Christmas music blaring with a sickly looking homeless person as your only companion.

A Surprise Trip to Thibodaux

I know that I am supposed to be traveling by train whenever possible, but when a Swiss gentleman offers you a ride to New Orleans in a red Mustang, you accept.

As it turns out, he is a writer with the French magazine Jazz Hot, the oldest jazz journal in the world, and he is currently doing research for a book focusing on renowned jazz pianist Mal Waldron and the free jazz movement. His plan to drive in his fancy car from Lafayette to New Orleans coincided with mine, and I would be doing a disservice to myself, him, and the environment if I did not take advantage of a free carpooling opportunity, am I right?

(Swamps. Obviously)

We drove the scenic route, stopping in a town called Thibodaux for lunch, then driving along Bayou Lafourge to an abandoned turn-of-the-century sugar plantation called Laurel Valley. It still has a little farm and museum/antique shop, with a wooden boat building school in the back. We had no idea what to expect there, but got more than we ever could have bargained for in our brief visit. We fed chickens, goats, and a pony, and met the friendly, straw hatted old man in charge of the animals. He taught us how to crack the pecans* he had just harvested and then asked to take our photos posing on various farm equipment. That was odd, but you know I can not refuse a photo shoot sitting in a wheelbarrow, so we obliged him.

We then met the very colorful Cajun man who teaches the art of wooden boat building. He gave us a unique look into the lifestyle there, telling us about "working from cain't to cain't"** collecting Spanish moss, and boating along the bayou as opposed to using roads. He also told us some weirder*** stories about having twin 19 year old girlfriends when he was a guitarist in a band at a local saloon called Happy Aunt Tammie's at the tender age of 13, being a roughneck and fisherman on the Gulf, his current gig as a DJ, and how schizophrenia ran in his family but he ignored the voices and did just fine.

(The Blue Moon Guesthouse. Just kidding. An old building from the abandoned plantation)

Before we left, he taught me how to read Tarot cards**** and the farmer gave us some homegrown grapefruits, and copies of the pictures he had taken. Various other townspeople had shown up by then and they all waved happily at us as we drove off. The abandoned plantation itself was nothing compared to the living community we had stumbled upon by accident.

Back in the Garden District of New Orleans, in the welcoming and familiar Marquette House once again, we snuck into a party for Louisiana architects, had truffles pancetta macaroni and cheese at Capdeville, and ended the evening listening to "John Gill's Big Three" at Fritzel's. A good New Orleans night, considering the next day would be my last in the city, and the great state of Louisiana.


NOTES:

*This task apparently requires a certain strength and finesse that I lack, though I make up for it by being fabulous at eating them.
**From before the sun rises in the morning until after the sun sets at night.
***And by weirder I mean shocking, risqué, and often accompanied by explicit photos.
****I am a natural, apparently! Ask me if you would like a reading. I will give you a special discount if you mention the blog.

DeQuincy Will Not Make It to My List of America's Quaintest Villages

I do not know how to write this without exposing my deep rooted and incurable hypocritical nature, so I will skip any pretense or excuse. I heard talk of a beautiful old train station converted into a railroad museum in a distant hamlet called DeQuincy, and I was desperate to visit it, but of course it is extremely isolated and not even the dreaded Greyhound will take a body there. Thursday morning, chatting over coffee with the five other guests in the hostel, I was shocked to find that though all of them had cars, none of them had any desire to drive me two hours into the wilderness to see a bunch of dusty old train paraphernalia. I almost convinced my Swiss friend, but then he realized he had no interest whatsoever in the outing and he backed out, the traitor.

That is how I decided to rent a vehicle to drive myself to the DeQuincy Railroad Museum.

As it was my first time doing such a typical "grown up" activity, I naturally had no idea what I was doing, but after messing up my reservation, being stranded in an airport, taking a cab, faxing insurance paperwork, about five phone calls with my father for support, and a call to my bank to unfreeze my ATM card,* I was on the road.

It was a nice drive to DeQuincy, though I became a bit obsessed with looking for hitchhikers to pick up** and only had terrible radio and CDs of famous Egyptian opera singers to listen to. However, once I arrived in the desolate place, the museum turned out to be vastly over-exaggerated in the scope and presentation of its exhibits and the friendliness of its docent. A woman who was four feet in height and as many centuries in age opened the door, demanded to know why I had bothered her there, and commanded me to sign the guest book. She then either forgot that I was there or simply lost interest, because I was left alone to poke around the incoherently organized and poorly labeled exhibits for quite some time until she suddenly appeared amongst some old typewriters and a model telegraph operator to query yet again as to why on earth I had come there. I was starting to wonder that myself.

Amongst the endless stacks of old railroad union handbooks I did find some intriguing specimens. Reading about the Kansas City Southern Railroad, which used to serve DeQuincy, I found that the company still exists after 120 years, and in 2005 completed a NAFTA-inspired merger with Mexrail Inc. and now includes Kansas City Southern de México and the Panama Railroad. I also read about engineering developments in the early 40s that made trains vital to the Allies during WWII. Powerful steam locomotives were built that transported supplies through the mountains in Europe, and when German spies reported heavy loads being transported on steep inclines at impressive speeds, the Nazis dismissed the reports as improbable, and thus the trains worked safely. There were some beautiful old locomotives and railcars outside, but they were fenced in and completely inaccessible, sadly. I left the place rather listlessly, I must say.

BUT on my way back to Lafayette I had a lovely drive through the bayou, making it to the Gulf in time for sunset, and stopping to dine on the best oysters I have ever eaten at a restaurant called Shucks, in Abbeville. The owner personally greeted me*** and graced my table with an array of barbecued oysters smothered in everything from garlic butter to pepper jelly to spinach and feta, and I was very, very happy that I had rented the car after all.

(Oysters apparently are not very photogenic)


NOTES:

*Wells Fargo assumed that if someone was attempting to rent a car, not just make hundreds of tiny restaurant or Amtrak ticket related purchases, my card must have been stolen.
**Alas, to no avail. I was alone the whole time, my carbon footprint growing exponentially with every mile.
***And made a huge show of his concern at my plight of dining alone, so I explained I was wealthy businesswoman exploring an investment in an oyster farming venture in the region.

Breaux Bridge by Bike

One of my favorite Cajun folktales* says that when the Acadians were expelled from Nova Scotia, their devoted friends, the lobsters, followed them all the way to the bayous of Louisiana. However, it was such an exhausting journey that they wasted away and became the more diminutive, infamous crawfish. I wanted to eat those little creatures, and I would let nothing get in my way, not even the possible necessity of physical exertion.

Breaux Bridge** is a quaint little town straddling a 100 mile long bayou, about twelve miles from Lafayette. I read somewhere that on Wednesday mornings one can go to this town and find a specific restaurant called Café Des Amis and hear old Cajun people speaking their special dialect while eating things like catfish and ettouffee and drinking delicious locally produced coffee. I wanted to experience this firsthand, and the generous staff at the Blue Moon offered me a rather sad and rusty orphan bicycle in order to accomplish this goal. In the process of pumping the tires one exploded, so I wheeled it over to the local bike shop, Recycled Cycles. They fixed me right up, but were shocked and impressed that I would dare to ride the unfathomable distance separating the two parishes. Setting out, I felt a mixture of pride and potential for embarrassing failure, the latter increasing when I realized that the left pedal hardly worked. Pedaling was a bit awkward and uneven, but I had set my course and there was no turning back! Crawfish and indiscernible languages awaited me.

It took less than an hour to arrive in the village, but I felt like I had accomplished something much more impressive, like winning the Tour de France, which is quite fitting as the French influence is so apparent there. Café Des Amis proved to be well worth the effort, and I dined on an amazing dish of delicately fried eggplant slices over a rich, savory pile of the glorious regional specialty, crawfish ettouffee. Like most of the famous Creole and Cajun dishes, I could not describe it as an attractive entree per se, but the perfectly seasoned, slow cooked concoction was close-your-eyes-while-you-chew worthy. The only disappointment was that instead of old Acadian men chatting in 17th century French, I only overheard two local antique dealers discussing a rather illegal sounding purchase and resale of some priceless antique guitars over cocktails.***

After tooling around the village inspecting various antique stores and stumbling upon a sort of time warp of a bakery where the old woman selling me tiny spice cookies told me that French was her first language and as a girl British schoolteachers would punish students for speaking French on the playground, I hopped on my handicapped bike and headed home, along a different route.

I am sure you are all assuming that I got terribly lost or fell into a swamp or crashed my bicycle into an alligator nest, but you are happily mistaken, and shame on you for your lack of faith. In fact, I ended up riding along back country roads so idyllic that I could hardly believe them. Little bridges crossed lush bayous, farms of varying degrees of disintegration housed goats, puppies, chickens, and rusted Model Ts, Spanish moss hung from every tree, and at one point I actually passed two boys riding horses down a lane. Time stopped.

That night there was an explosion of awesome zydeco music at the Blue Moon Saloon, and Cedric Watson and his band did not disappoint. I do not claim any sort of expertise on the topic, but to me the music was an infectious, fast-tempo hybrid of jazz, soul, country, and folk elements, and dancing was not an option, it was necessary. Within seconds the audience was stomping and flapping around like mad as energetic washboard, fiddle, drums, accordion, bass, and sassy Franglais**** lyrics took over all of our appendages. The crowd was very helpful in teaching us outsiders how to shimmy and hop around properly, and over the course of the evening I happily attempted to dance with various Peruvians, Mexicans, French, Swiss, British, and one extremely intoxicated southern gentleman.

Could zydeco be the new jazz? Only time will tell, but I do seem to have a knack for playing the washboard.*****


NOTES:

*Because I obviously know so many of them.
**A very cool example of the linguistic blending so common in this region. Another good example is writing something like "Here we geaux!"
***Mind you, it was barely noon at this time. The concept of waiting until "Happy Hour" for your first drink of the evening is unknown here, and would probably be decried as heresy would it ever be proposed.
****My super clever wombo combining French and Anglais.
*****Certainly not for washing with it.

I Know Why the Cajun Rages

I think most Americans are familiar with vague references to Cajun-ness in our culture, but who really knows anything about these misrepresented and supposedly very angry people? I went to Lafayette, a hotbed of Cajun culture, to find out just that.

First of all, the word Cajun is simply an Americanization of the word Acadian, which refers to a small group of French pioneers that settled in the area that is now Nova Scotia and New Brunswick in 1604. They got along relatively well with the indigenous populations, and essentially minded their own business in isolated but prosperous settlements there until the British just could not stand it anymore and kidnapped and expelled them to various other colonies/back to France in 1755. Because of the established French presence in the Isle of Orleans* many Acadians eventually made their way to the region just west of New Orleans, and by 1785 over 1000 families had settled here, and the current Acadian culture took root. After over 150 years of isolation in the swampy areas of southwest Louisiana, Acadian culture has become very distinct and extremely proud, and there are countless programs promoting French language, local music styles and cuisine, and their particular way of life in general.

After extensive research into a way to get to Lafayette, I was left the options of hitchhiking or taking Greyhound, and as thunderstorms we're forecast, I resigned myself to my fate. Luckily, the trip was only an hour, and I walked directly from the station to the Blue Moon Guesthouse and Saloon.** This place is a landmark in Lafayette, and famous for their fabulous local music from Wednesday through Sunday. As it was only Tuesday, and the next train was Friday, I knew I would have three nights to soak up all the zydeco, crawfish and Spanish moss that I possibly could.

My first day in the town involved a visit to the Lafayette museum, where I learned the single creepiest thing*** I have ever heard about Catholic nuns. Apparently, in this region in the 18th and 19th century, when a women took their vows and became nuns, they shaved their heads to be covered by their habits. Interesting, but not creepy, right? Wrong. After cutting their hair, they would send it to New Orleans to be woven into an intricate floral ornament that would surround a portrait of the newly confirmed nun in her new duds. There were various examples of these in the museum, such as this one.

I also found a toy train from the 1860s, which was much less disturbing.

I then partook in my first po' boy sandwich ever, at Old Tyme Grocery. When I ordered I told the waiter that it was my very first experience with this famous sandwich, and as I went to a table to wait I heard him yelling back to the cooks,

"Now this is her first shrimp po' boy folks, so you better give it yer all! Make it count!"

That is what I call service.

That night there was no zydeco to be found in the whole city, so I went to a terribly dull Christmas concert in the lovely cathedral in the center of town. No amount of inspirational religious architecture could keep me awake during the performance, however. I promised I would make it up to myself by hearing locally renowned zydeco prodigy Cedric Watson play the next night.


NOTES:

*Which was a French colonial possession from 1699 until Louis XV gave it to King Charles III of Spain in 1763 because he lost a bet or some other ridiculous scenario, and was ultimately bought from Napoleon in 1803 by the U.S. (under Thomas Jefferson's advice) for $15 million.
**A homey, welcoming place that is super cheap and offers free grits! And as a guest you can see the musical acts for free and even get a complimentary drink ticket. Highly recommended.
***Granted, I do not know much.

The Road to Red Stick

The Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans houses both the Amtrak depot and Greyhound station. I arrived to buy a ticket for my chosen mode of transit, only to come to the earth-shattering realization that the train to Lafayette runs only on alternating days. I had considered the probability that eventually on this trip I might have to take some form of transit other than the train- you all remember my near-Megabus experience in D.C. I am sure- but I wanted to put it off as long as possible, especially when the alternative was the dreaded Greyhound.* But, Lo! A bus was soon leaving for Baton Rouge, a city which I was interested in visiting but had ruled out due to its inaccessibility via train. A ride was just under two hours, I was sure that I could survive that.** So I bought a ticket, heaven help me.

The bus was over an hour late arriving, and weary, confused passengers sat in line on the cold linoleum floor. Apparently Greyhound oversells as many buses as possible so if you are not early in line you may not get a seat even if you have a ticket. Once we boarded I found that each seat was approximately half the size it should have been to support the girth of the average passenger, resulting in a depressing and uncomfortable spilling of all sorts of human body parts into the tiny aisle. The driver gave a rather violent speech outlining the codes of conduct and the terrible things that would befall us if we were not to comply, locked himself into a plastic cage feasibly built to protect him from the passengers, and we hit the road.

I tried to read but got a bit sick, so watched billboards fly by. My favorite was a public service announcement about how sagging pants will ruin your life. It had a very specific illustration and a caption that read, "Low pants, no chance." This was the highlight of the uncomfortable but at least uneventful ride, which ended with my disembarking in the worst possible neighborhood of Baton Rouge. Luckily a fellow passenger took pity on me and gave me a ride to my couch surfing destination, by Louisiana State University. That night, I experienced for the first time ever the glories of The Sound of Music, and I will never be the same again.

Baton Rouge is not exactly a famous tourist destination, but it is an interesting and quirky little place. I explored by bike, riding along the Mississippi to the downtown area, which is home to the nation's tallest Capitol Building! It is a terrifying art deco skyscraper that looks like the Hollywood Tower of Terror. The Old Capitol Building competes in weirdness, as it is an enormous, pink trimmed Gothic Revival style castle.

It started raining while I was pedaling along, so I ducked into Strands Cafe, which turned out fabulously because the adorable family-run cafe and patisserie was not only lined wall to wall in pictures of Austrian castles, but also housed an unbelievable assortment of homemade chocolate confections. I finally decided on a whole fig stuffed with marzipan and dipped in dark chocolate, painted with edible gold.*** The sight of the whole family working together in a fairytale land of candy, warm beverages, and royal Alpine dwellings was almost too much to believe. I will not say that you have to go to Baton Rouge just for Strands, but if I find out that you were in the area and did not visit them, I will disown you.

I also found an amazing old steam locomotive at the Louisiana State Museum, and later at a bookstore, I found two train-themed children's boardgames, one of which was apparently Germany's bestselling game in 2004!

That night I participated in my first drum circle at a party in the welcoming home of four lovely couch surfing ladies, playing a wooden frog and finger cymbals.**** It was a fantastic night overall, though the low point was, in response to describing my train travel project, receiving the earnest question of, "Do we really have trains?"

I have my work cut out for me.


NOTES:

*For those of you unfamiliar, horror stories about Greyhound experiences in the United States are akin to the bedtime stories about goat-eating trolls and ghosts that roam the streets weeping and stealing children in other cultures. Almost too shocking to believe but then again... What if? So you avoid going out after dark and playing under bridges and ever reserving a ticket on that insane asylum on wheels that is the Greyhound.
**Obviously I still suffer from an acute case of that teenager and 20-something immortality complex.
***All that glitters can be gold?
****Like a pro, if I do not say so myself, which obviously I do, so this footnote is officially without any purpose whatsoever.