Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Everglades: Contrary to Popular Belief, Not a Swamp.
The Everglades Hostel is a ramshackle garden compound in Homestead, the nearest town to the eastern entrance to the National Park. It was founded thirteen years ago by an amazing woman who turned the property into a unique tropical hideaway, filling it with gorgeous native plants, building all sorts of tree houses, hammocks, canopied lounges, waterfalls, and giant chessboards, and decorating every clean and comfortable room uniquely. It is staffed mostly by a crew of friendly live-in volunteers who put on communal meals daily and welcome you to join their campfire each night. They also offer various tours to the park itself, which I was lucky enough to experience with their ten-year veteran "wilderness guide," Graham.
My first day in the sprawling settlement of Homestead was spent wandering the streets in solitude, visiting a central European pastry shop called Café Gold Prague, being horrified by the enormity of something called "Walmart Supercenter," and trespassing at the Homestead Pioneer Museum.* During the evening, however, I finally met a French person willing to teach me how to employ my French language Tarot cards, and I am now fully qualified to give you an accurate reading, albeit poorly translated into English. He appreciated my psychic skills so much that he essentially begged to accompany me for the next few days as I made my sojourn to the Florida Keys. Never one to refuse driving in a car with a foreigner, I accepted.
The Everglades are many things, but they are not, I repeat NOT, a swamp. They encompass nine different ecosystems, none of which are in any way related to a swamp, as Graham reiterated to our international trekking group** time after time. The whole thing is actually a giant river, which used to cover the entire southern tip of the state, but has been confined because of agriculture and development and other horrible things related to humans. During our day deep in its wilderness we squelched through icy, knee deep water in a cypress dome, walked along paths through a mangrove mangle, and kayaked through a maze-like lake where we spotted the biggest crocodile*** that currently exists in the whole park. But that was not enough to satisfy my appetite for viewing wildlife. No, I needed more.
I have mentioned on various occasions my love of ponies, and while sadly they are not one of the species native to the Everglades, a comparably weird and endearing creature does call their brackish waters home. That elusive creature is... the manatee. I told Graham that I would tip him twenty dollars if he could find me one, and forty if he could convince it to look at me and wink. While the latter proved impossible, he did use his amazing Everglades animal attraction powers to draw not one, but two of the lumpy adorable creatures to us in the harbor at Flamingo, the southernmost inhabited point of the contiguous United States. I was satisfied.****
To celebrate surviving the day we were taken to a famous tropical fruit stand called Robert Is Here, where we ran around and sampled starfruit, Florida avocados, papaya, and pomelos, and had key lime milkshakes. The next day we would set out to see more wildlife- this time the natives of a strange and fantastic place in the Caribbean, called Key West.
NOTES:
*It was closed, unfortunately, but they had an ancient wooden railroad car in the back that I climbed all over and took these pictures of. I think a local soda-crazed gang had made it their clubhouse, because the windows were broken and Pepsi cans were everywhere. Coolest. Clubhouse. Ever.
**We were French, British, German, Estonian, and Hungarian-cum-Japanese on the tour, and I took on the role of "token loudmouthed American" with gusto, as I am sure you can imagine.
***There are both alligators and crocodiles to be found in the Everglades, but crocodiles are much less common and are found in the saltier water towards the ocean while alligators prefer a fresher water environment. Gosh, I learned a lot on that tour.
****I am fairly certain that if I never see another wild animal again I will still have seen more than the average urban-dwelling human at this point. Though I am still holding out to find a unicorn someday.
My first day in the sprawling settlement of Homestead was spent wandering the streets in solitude, visiting a central European pastry shop called Café Gold Prague, being horrified by the enormity of something called "Walmart Supercenter," and trespassing at the Homestead Pioneer Museum.* During the evening, however, I finally met a French person willing to teach me how to employ my French language Tarot cards, and I am now fully qualified to give you an accurate reading, albeit poorly translated into English. He appreciated my psychic skills so much that he essentially begged to accompany me for the next few days as I made my sojourn to the Florida Keys. Never one to refuse driving in a car with a foreigner, I accepted.
The Everglades are many things, but they are not, I repeat NOT, a swamp. They encompass nine different ecosystems, none of which are in any way related to a swamp, as Graham reiterated to our international trekking group** time after time. The whole thing is actually a giant river, which used to cover the entire southern tip of the state, but has been confined because of agriculture and development and other horrible things related to humans. During our day deep in its wilderness we squelched through icy, knee deep water in a cypress dome, walked along paths through a mangrove mangle, and kayaked through a maze-like lake where we spotted the biggest crocodile*** that currently exists in the whole park. But that was not enough to satisfy my appetite for viewing wildlife. No, I needed more.
I have mentioned on various occasions my love of ponies, and while sadly they are not one of the species native to the Everglades, a comparably weird and endearing creature does call their brackish waters home. That elusive creature is... the manatee. I told Graham that I would tip him twenty dollars if he could find me one, and forty if he could convince it to look at me and wink. While the latter proved impossible, he did use his amazing Everglades animal attraction powers to draw not one, but two of the lumpy adorable creatures to us in the harbor at Flamingo, the southernmost inhabited point of the contiguous United States. I was satisfied.****
To celebrate surviving the day we were taken to a famous tropical fruit stand called Robert Is Here, where we ran around and sampled starfruit, Florida avocados, papaya, and pomelos, and had key lime milkshakes. The next day we would set out to see more wildlife- this time the natives of a strange and fantastic place in the Caribbean, called Key West.
NOTES:
*It was closed, unfortunately, but they had an ancient wooden railroad car in the back that I climbed all over and took these pictures of. I think a local soda-crazed gang had made it their clubhouse, because the windows were broken and Pepsi cans were everywhere. Coolest. Clubhouse. Ever.
**We were French, British, German, Estonian, and Hungarian-cum-Japanese on the tour, and I took on the role of "token loudmouthed American" with gusto, as I am sure you can imagine.
***There are both alligators and crocodiles to be found in the Everglades, but crocodiles are much less common and are found in the saltier water towards the ocean while alligators prefer a fresher water environment. Gosh, I learned a lot on that tour.
****I am fairly certain that if I never see another wild animal again I will still have seen more than the average urban-dwelling human at this point. Though I am still holding out to find a unicorn someday.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Welcome to Miami, Sucka!
I have heard songs about the alluring characteristics of Miami, mostly by rappers, but for some reason I really had no idea what I was getting myself into by going to that wretched conglomeration of dwellings, businesses and humanoid like beings.* Miami is like a crappy reproduction of Las Vegas, which itself is a reproduction of all of the other actual interesting places in the world, and all soul, familiarity, and class has been progressively lost in the process of making these copies. It reminds me of the hit comedy Multiplicity, when Michael Keaton's clone clones himself, and the result funny in theory, but says things like, "I want to eat dolphins."
There is none of the Southern hospitality that I have grown accustomed to here- attractive lanky blondes talk to you on the street to try to lure you into garishly decorated overpriced restaurants and clubs, and Cuban gangsters drive next to you for blocks asking if they can take you somewhere and why you do not want to be their friend. This kind of superficial interaction is highly disconcerting.
Here are two excerpts of conversations I overheard between women in Miami:
In Spanish, about boyfriend trouble, "Yeah, I know it's bad, but he bought me a Coach purse."
and
In English, in response to a compliment from a male friend, "I look good? What, only now? I didn't look good before?"
I think you get the point. I stayed in the Deco Walk Hostel, which had ocean views over South Beach and was very stylish, but not even friendly Argentine staff, a cheap lobby bar, a roof terrace, and very low rates could make me want to stay in Miami for more than 24 hours. While there I was adopted into a party of ten wealthy conservative Ohioans who insisted I eat an inordinate amount of sushi with them, but even partaking in an enormous lobster roll and sake bomb buffet could not negate the detrimental effects of almost being forced to join a Latina gang of some kind at a music show** later that night.
(Castle? Museum? No, probably a corporate criminal's summer home)
The next day I rode a bike everywhere in the region, and while some of the architecture was stunningly beautiful and the waterfront properties were gorgeous, the historic art deco neighborhood was very disappointing and rather rundown. Other than along a few manicured pedestrian malls filled with designer stores there is no way at all do get around safely without a motor vehicle, preferably a Mercedes Benz.
(I finally found a cool old theater, but it was converted into condos, of course)
In Miami it seems that everything is trying to be something else. The hotels all look like giant cruise ships run aground, the homes look like gaudy Barbie mansions***, the bike lanes look like terribly paved gutters indeterminate from car lanes, the stores look like museums, the restaurants look like exclusive nightclubs, and the people all look like murderers who have tanned themselves to a crisp and gotten various plastic surgeries to disguise themselves from law enforcement.
The good thing about Miami is that they have an efficient regional public transit system to get one out of Miami as quickly as possible. After about 19 hours there, I was ready to take the MetroRail and a very scary county bus directly to the Everglades Hostel, which would prove to be the perfect place to recover from the psychological damage I suffered in Henry Flagler's Frankencity. ****
NOTES:
*I will not degrade the word by calling this place a "city."
**That billed itself as Jazz but was actually improvisational Latin Funk and intermittent rapping at a club called Jazzid. Jazzid? What does that even mean?
***I know, I owned one when I was 10. The mortgage was astronomical.
****Yes, I know that Frankenstein was actually the Doctor, but you get the point.
There is none of the Southern hospitality that I have grown accustomed to here- attractive lanky blondes talk to you on the street to try to lure you into garishly decorated overpriced restaurants and clubs, and Cuban gangsters drive next to you for blocks asking if they can take you somewhere and why you do not want to be their friend. This kind of superficial interaction is highly disconcerting.
Here are two excerpts of conversations I overheard between women in Miami:
In Spanish, about boyfriend trouble, "Yeah, I know it's bad, but he bought me a Coach purse."
and
In English, in response to a compliment from a male friend, "I look good? What, only now? I didn't look good before?"
I think you get the point. I stayed in the Deco Walk Hostel, which had ocean views over South Beach and was very stylish, but not even friendly Argentine staff, a cheap lobby bar, a roof terrace, and very low rates could make me want to stay in Miami for more than 24 hours. While there I was adopted into a party of ten wealthy conservative Ohioans who insisted I eat an inordinate amount of sushi with them, but even partaking in an enormous lobster roll and sake bomb buffet could not negate the detrimental effects of almost being forced to join a Latina gang of some kind at a music show** later that night.
(Castle? Museum? No, probably a corporate criminal's summer home)
The next day I rode a bike everywhere in the region, and while some of the architecture was stunningly beautiful and the waterfront properties were gorgeous, the historic art deco neighborhood was very disappointing and rather rundown. Other than along a few manicured pedestrian malls filled with designer stores there is no way at all do get around safely without a motor vehicle, preferably a Mercedes Benz.
(I finally found a cool old theater, but it was converted into condos, of course)
In Miami it seems that everything is trying to be something else. The hotels all look like giant cruise ships run aground, the homes look like gaudy Barbie mansions***, the bike lanes look like terribly paved gutters indeterminate from car lanes, the stores look like museums, the restaurants look like exclusive nightclubs, and the people all look like murderers who have tanned themselves to a crisp and gotten various plastic surgeries to disguise themselves from law enforcement.
The good thing about Miami is that they have an efficient regional public transit system to get one out of Miami as quickly as possible. After about 19 hours there, I was ready to take the MetroRail and a very scary county bus directly to the Everglades Hostel, which would prove to be the perfect place to recover from the psychological damage I suffered in Henry Flagler's Frankencity. ****
NOTES:
*I will not degrade the word by calling this place a "city."
**That billed itself as Jazz but was actually improvisational Latin Funk and intermittent rapping at a club called Jazzid. Jazzid? What does that even mean?
***I know, I owned one when I was 10. The mortgage was astronomical.
****Yes, I know that Frankenstein was actually the Doctor, but you get the point.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Following in the Footsteps of Henry Flagler
Who is Henry Flagler, you ask? I was unaware as well until I arrived in the Sunshine State* and saw his name on everything from street signs to universities to museums to most books about Florida. It seems that it was my fate to come to Florida and learn about this famous American visionary because he has been credited with the founding of modern Florida, and it is thanks entirely to him that the railroad connected the state with the rest of the country. To say that he is my new favorite historic American entrepreneur** would be putting it lightly.
This is very exciting to me and I could go on for quite some time about his accomplishments, but I have heard that some of you only want pictures so I will give you just the highlights of the life of this genius of the Gilded Age.
THE FOLLOWING SEGMENT IS ABOUT U.S. HISTORY ONLY. I MAKE NO JOKES OR TALK ABOUT ANYTHING AFTER 1935 FOR THE NEXT FEW PARAGRAPHS.
Henry Morrison Flagler was a well-known salesman who had built himself up from the impoverished life of the son of a rural Presbyterian minister when he partnered with John D. Rockefeller to found Standard Oil. In fact, it was only because of his influence that the company incorporated in 1870. He used the railroads to get a comparative advantage in the oil refining business, ensuring the vast success and monopolization of the company and garnering no small amount of bitterness in the public eye.
Later in his life, he started spending time in St. Augustine for the health of his consumptive wife but found that the accommodations and transportation there did not meet his standards. He therefore took it upon himself to build the most immaculate hotel in the nation, connect the town to the railroad, and develop "America's Riviera" out of what had been only a few years before a sleepy town with a few orange groves. The newly wealthy industrialists of the era now had a place to spend all of their profits in the mild Floridian climate, and a vacation empire was created.
He subsequently extended the Florida East Coast Railroad all the way down to what would soon be known as Miami, but at that time was hardly even a village. The locals actually wanted to name the young city for him after he single-handedly developed all of its infrastructure, but he declined and said that it should be named for the indigenous name, "Maiyami." The rest was history, and the next thing we knew Will Smith was beckoning us all to the high rise party condo Mecca of the south.
Flagler's latest and most impressive accomplishment in my opinion though is his extension of the Florida East Coast Railroad over 130 miles of ocean to Key West, in 1910. The undertaking was dubbed "Flagler's Folly" at first, but he managed to accomplish the feat at last, to the amazement of of the world. The inspiration, will, engineering, manpower, and capital investment that the construction demanded amazes me. Sadly, only 25 years later the worst storm in U.S. history hit the Keys and destroyed the entire thing, and it was replaced by highway as part of the New Deal.
I just wanted y'all to know about Mr. Flagler, possibly one of the most underrated figures in U.S. history. I will resume the story now.
I arrived in the city of Palatka to hook up with the Silver Star heading to Miami. The station was attached to an exhibit put on by the local rail preservation society, and there I learned about an amazing thing called the American Freedom Train, which was a mobile exhibit about American History that traveled the whole country in 1975-6 in celebration of its bicentennial***. Waiting for the train, I also had a chance to have an in depth interview with an elderly gentleman who had worked for 21 years on the railroad. When I told him about my project, he was eager to fill my little brain with as much train trivia as possible. He held my rapt attention for over an hour.
(America's Freedom Train!)
He worked as am engineer and as security, so he had a very different, hands-on perspective, and he had a ton of information about the technological developments of train functions, most importantly new techniques for quicker braking. In an emergency, powerful air brakes are used, and sand is actually ejected on the tracks in front of the engine to give more traction. Genius! Working in train security he often encountered hobos and vagrants hopping trains, but he said he always had compassion for them and actually respected many of them as simple working people that needed to get from one point to another. He explained that many were Latin American migrant workers, some were typical hobos with a lifestyle of moving about on the fringes of society, and others were just teenagers hopping on and trying to make amateur adventure movies. I told him that the idea of hopping freight trains had intrigued me but I had thought better of it and decided to buy tickets from Amtrak and collect the most Guest Rewards points of any human in history. He said that it was probably a good decision, especially as a woman traveling alone****, and that I could redeem my points for countless fabulous things, like free upgrades and companion tickets!
He wistfully described how even now, retired, he always examines passing trains considering different factors that could cause the train to derail, and admiring their phenomenal cosmic power.
I was delighted to be back on the train again, though the scenery was not quite so exciting as on other rides. I was surprised to see that much of Florida looks like the African Savannah, the myriad luxury beach resorts and Walt Disney World notwithstanding. Bereft of exciting events outside the window, and feeling a bit awkward caught in the crossfire of the avid flirting of my seat mate and another passenger, I moved to the cafe and chatted with the train staff for most of the afternoon. The big news was the construction of a new station in a place called Okeechobee, and they all excitedly peered out the windows to see the site as we passed. They explained the Miami dialect to me, saying it was the same mixed patois of the various early European settlers in the area, which essentially equated to Spanglish. Luckily, I am fluent in this language.
Nearly on time, we pulled into our last stop, and the first thing I saw was an enormous sign saying,
"Welcome to Miami!"
NOTES:
*Florida. I am in Florida.
**My old favorite was Eli Whitney, best known for the invention of the cotton gin.
***Oh, how I wish I could have been there to see that!
****So ladies, resist the urge to hop a train, or if you must do so, try to bring a male friend along.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
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 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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)