A Quick Retrospective

Pennsylvania to
Ohio to
Kentucky to
Tennessee to
Mississippi to
Louisiana to
Mississippi to
Alabama to
Tennessee to
Virginia to
West Virginia to
Pennsylvania.

Nine different states.

Almost 2600 miles.

A stupid amount of gas money.

Memories that will last a lifetime.

That's how you categorize a road trip. What set out as a poorly-planned trip turned into the best week of my life. Sure, I could have known exactly how much I would have spent, exactly where I would have gone, and exactly what I would have seen, but that's not for me. I crave uncertainty. I long for adversity. I'm desperate for a new challenge.

This was our first road trip, and I promise it will not be our last. Roadsickness is a term not taken lightly. When you return from a road trip, I promise if you did it right, you will feel a longing for the road. While I was on the trip, I saw completely new things for an entire week. Every second my eyes were open, I was seeing something I had never seen before. Think about that.

"Miles to Graceland" is the record of a promise fulfilled - a promise made many years ago. It may have been a pipe dream at the time, but stranger plans have been made. I'm glad this one came to fruition.

Get a car. Get a scooter. Stick your thumb out on the side of the road. I don't care, just get out on the road. You will never fully experience life unless you venture outside of the norm. I say this not from a presumptuous position; instead, I say it as a word of encouragement. Go out and talk to a stranger. Go somewhere you have never been before. Go eat something you would never eat in your hometown. Go live..

Sure, I look forward to the future, though I can't help but look back on the past one last time. It was fun, but it's time to move on. I learned a lot on the road. If I could do one-tenth of what I did, for a living, I could not ask for a better life. To be honest, writing this blog was probably the most fun I've ever had writing. I wrote what I saw, and I was overwhelmed by how many people enjoyed it.

The next post will contain some of the hundreds of other pictures we never published. The thousands of words contained in these pictures are no match to anything I can write. Enjoy.

For those of you who have been reading: thank you. I never expected such a positive response. Who knows what the next blog will bring? For now, I can safely look back and call it a blog.

Thanks again everyone,

CPS

Leg 3 to 3.5: New Orleans to Biloxi

Another early morning start for your protagonists meant another 6:20am trip to Starbucks. This officially marked the unofficial halfway point of our trip. New Orleans would be the farthest south we would, or could travel. From here, it was east to Biloxi, and north to Birmingham. From there, well, that has yet to be decided.



We dodged early morning traffic as we waved our final goodbye to New Orleans. A cloud of haze hung over the horizon, yet off in the distance, we could see a faint outline of the remaining patch of land before the Gulf of Mexico. We followed the signs for I-10 east en route to Biloxi, but curiosity got the best of us and we stopped at what we like to believe was a NASA Secret Underground Nuclear Missile Facility. This unassuming rest stop gave us the chance to examine a large map and revealed a scenic route that ran along the southern coast of Mississippi. Having seen our share of tree-lined interstate, we decided a departure from the norm was not only nice - it was mandatory.



Needless to say, we were not disappointed. After passing through a small town, we found ourselves cruising along a calm stretch of highway, flanked on our left by gorgeous, sprawling Southern estates, and on our right by an infinite blue canvas stretching clear out to the horizon. At the first chance, we stopped on the side of the road, kicked off our loafers, and ran across the white-sand beaches until our toes barely touched the cool Gulf of Mexico water. Since it was so flat, Marc was able to walk almost 100 yds. into the water without getting so much as his ankles wet.





We continued on this road for some time until reaching Biloxi, a sunny town filled with casinos, resorts, and tiny restaurants. We were in desperate need of sustenance, so we hightailed it to Snapper’s Seafood Restaurant. The restaurant was full of nothing but two road trippers and two servers, so breakfast took all of six minutes to arrive. We each ordered breakfast platters, and they were delivered piping hot. I enjoyed creamy, buttery grits with my eggs and sausage, while Marc had the same, minus the grits and plus hash browns. We scarfed down our meals while gazing out over the empty beach.



In speaking with our server, Trevor, we learned that he was actually from Birmingham, and was kind enough to share several hot spots for us to visit. One of these spots included “the spot where I met my second ex-wife.” Tell me how one can have a bad time with a build up like that. We threw down a pittance for how much we ate, and departed for Alabama.

If you don't see me for a while, it means I moved to Biloxi,

CPS

New Orleans Day 2: Highest CPB (Culture Per Block) Ratio in the South

For the first time in the entire trip, we were able to sleep in, and what an appropriate morning to do so. I lifted my head up off the pillow and was instantly smacked with a “What happened last night?” headache. Please, no bright lights, and no loud noises. In my near vegetative state, I gravitated like a zombie toward the nearest pot of fresh coffee, which happened to be about two blocks away at Starbucks. I picked up a paper and two cups of liquid boost juice and carefully balanced all three while stumbling back to the hotel.

Having seen the city at dusk, I was still not satisfied. A return visit to downtown New Orleans was necessary before we could continue on our way. After a quick update, a shower, and some coffee, I regained my Magellan-esque adventurous spirit and we hopped in the wagon.



We followed the same route forged by our taxi driver the night before, and after some wondering aka getting lost (which by all accounts, was perfectly suitable to the whole experience), I found a terminal and deboarded for a foot tour of The Big Easy.

Our initial plan was to hit up the Acme Oyster House, a local eatery famous for its…yeah. However, upon reaching our destination, we discovered a line stretching out the door and down the sidewalk. Not to be discouraged, we decided to hoof it around the French Quarter in search of a similar yet equally tasty location.



A few words about the French Quarter: The French Quarter is rows and rows of long, bustling streets with street performers on nearly every corner. We happened upon a group of vagabonds playing what I can only describe as dark, moody jazz, and watched as an accordion player, a violinist, a banjo player, a guitarist, and a bassist serenaded the crowd without missing a single note. The next block showcased the Neil Peart of bucket drummers, while the subsequent block had a 70 yr. old lone guitarist laying waste to blues scales.



The shops in the French Quarter are a combination of fine antique stores, fine furnishings, fine apparel, and well…you get the idea. We wondered in to an antique jewelry store and saw things no one should ever be able to afford, including a broach worn by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.



Walking down the street at 11:30am, Marc and I noticed several trends among our fellow travelers. Nearly everyone was smiling, and about 70% of people were carrying some sort of drink, be it a beer, daiquiri, or bloody mary (which each had several stalks of picked green beans poking out of the top like a hand in the “Thriller” video). It seemed as though the entire city had a slight buzz going at all times. You would be hard-pressed to find someone unwilling to strike up a conversation. Knowing this, we picked up a round of daiquiris and began chatting with some of the locals about the best place to find oysters on the half-shell.



A bouncer beckoned us into his bar, mentioning something about a 3-for-1 special, but we could not be deterred from our mission, so we retorted with a few questions of our own. Trey recommended a small but eccentric looking hole-in-the-wall called Oceana Seafood. We walked about four blocks up the road and asked the doorman of Oceana if we could bring our drinks inside. Yes, you say? Well then Oceana it is.



I didn’t realize it until that day, but I had never actually eaten an oyster until I got to New Orleans. A good oyster does not taste like fish, or salt, or anything for that matter. These oysters had a texture like an egg yolk, and each hunk of oversized, marshmallow-soft meat effortlessly slid off the shell and into our bellies. Each one had a hint of sweetness to it, countered by a small squirt of lemon juice. Cocktail sauce was there, but we didn’t need it – these oysters stood alone. We ordered a dozen, and could have easily ordered a dozen more, were it not for the filling platters recommended by Raven, our vivacious waitress (Irish, Trey, Raven…why does it seem like everyone down here has a cooler name than us?).




I ordered a platter of crab cakes and substituted the fries for a New Orleans classic: red beans and rice. Marc ordered the “Taste of New Orleans,” a mish-mash of sausage, beans, rice, gumbo, shrimp, and whatever else was left in the pot. The red beans were flawless, and the crab cakes were exploding with flavor and covered in lumps of fresh crab meat mixed with a thick seafood cream sauce that tasted somewhat akin to She Crab soup. Marc’s platter (pictured below) was equally delicious, and packed enough punch to cause him to reach for his fast-melting Pina Colada more than once.



Feeling like another bite could potentially put one of us in cardiac arrest, we happily left Oceana and made way for Canal St. One of the things we wanted to see before leaving was the historic cemeteries, and although it seemed odd when Marc asked our waitress where the nearest one was, we felt a little better when our neighboring patrons at Oceana did the same thing.



Heading toward the trolley station on Canal St., I looked down and noticed antiqued beads wedged between the bricks of Bourbon St. I looked up and saw colorful beads hanging from the cable car wires. It was like a plastic graveyard, but boy did it speak to the character of this town.



Instead of taking a long trolley ride to the end of Canal, we decided to hop in the car and see the cemetery for ourselves. The Greenwood Cemetery was our final destination, and the pictures do it better justice than words can alone. Although we hoped to find the resting place of Marie Laveau, New Orleans’ famous Voodoo Queen, we soon discovered that her grave was actually located at the St. Louis cemetery. We parked the car and scrutinized the headstones of thousands of large stone graves. Each one was a temple in its own right.





It had been a long day, and an even longer trip, so with the sun beating on our necks, we decided to hop in the car and head back to the hotel. I felt like we had seen about one percent of everything New Orleans had to offer, but the other 99 percent would have to wait until another time. The rest of the day consisted of a final trip to the Manhattan Seafood Market, and a lot of much needed relaxation. As the sun fell on city, we closed our eyes and looked forward to the next leg of our trip.



Easy come, Easy go,

CPS

New Orleans: When in New Orleans, Voodoo as New Orleans Do

"If someone ever makes a bet with you and says, 'I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes,' don't indulge them. If you wanna play along, you got your shoes on your feet."

This was a quote from Allison, our Camp Moore tour guide, and it proved to be a valuable piece of information.

The night began in the confines of our hotel room. At the request of Irish, the fine looking, amiable clerk behind the hotel counter, we passed on dropping unnecessary rubles on an expensive dinner, and instead went to Manhattan St. Seafood Market. The Manhattan St. Seafood Market is the most unassuming place to find a world class meal; frankly, it looks more like a grocery store than anything.

However, as soon as we opened the door, the smell hit us like a brick. Cajun shrimp swam in giant vats of spicy broth; fresh oysters were stacked inside a cage; and crawfish stared at us through the glass like prisoners on death row. We found our winner.

Marc and I each ordered a pound of crawfish. Marc paired this with two hard shell crabs and boiled shrimp, and I went for a New Orleans staple: an oyster Po' Boy. Before leaving, I asked the woman behind the counter for a few sheets of butcher paper. A crime scene would ensue back at the hotel.



WHACK! Crab guts flew across the table. CRACK! A crawfish beheaded in seconds - his brains instantly sucked out. It was sheer carnage. The shrimp and crawfish had been stewing in a cajun blend of spices, and each bite sharply bathed my taste buds with a combination of heat, spice, and oceanic salt. I took one bite of my Po' Boy and considered moving to New Orleans. Heaps of fried oyster were mixed with pickles, lettuce, and hot sauce. This heavenly combination sat on top of a deceptively-soft mattress of French bread. We passed the crustacean corpses back and forth without saying a word. As with any meal, the less words spoken, the better the meal is.



With full stomachs and open minds, we set sail for Bourbon St. Again, we chatted with our cab driver and made sure to hear his input on the best sights in the city. As he pulled up to Bourbon St., I took one look down the long stretch of lighted paradise and knew at that instant that it would be a good night.



There are too many words to describe Bourbon St. It is lively, cultured, bright, mysterious, friendly, expensive, unpredictable, and driven by debauchery. Open bars overflow in to the streets. Beads rain down on patrons like a snowstorm of green, yellow, and purple plastic. Every so often, a "Who Dat" echoes through the streets. Drunk bicyclists high-five firemen while drinking grain alcohol-laden daiquiris.




Speaking of which, daiquiris are apparently the drink of choice, and each bar has it's own colorful spectrum of flavors, ranging from Pina Colada (Marc's beverage of choice) to Antifreeze 190 (your humble author's hangover-inducing elixir). We even challenged Tropical Isle - a local bar - to prove it's claim as having "The Most Powerful Drink in New Orleans:" a "hand grenade." No offense, but I've probably drunk beers with more alcohol content than this melon-flavored concoction.



The streets are filled with a blithesome crowd, and there isn't a single person who isn't smiling, myself included. Apparently, after reading today's paper, I learned that an Italian American Parade had taken place earlier in the day. This explained the large number of Southern belles with red, green, and white garters choking their thighs.



When this is all done, I plan on putting together a few rules I learned from the road. Rule #1, a gentleman's club with no cover means you will pay $7.75 for a Miller Lite. Joke's on us.

As we made our way further down the street and deeper into insanity, we stopped at a number of different attractions and indulged our thirst for drinks, and for culture. Nevermind the obvious attractions - a simple 45 degree upward tick of the head revealed some of the finest architecture I had ever laid eyes on. Beautiful stone buildings with spiraling iron gates stood over the crowd like reminders of a time long ago.



We continued for several hours, pining for beads from our northern brethren (Marc won by the way. Final count? Marc: 5, Chris: 3), until the threat of bankruptcy reared its ugly head. On a final walk out, just as Allison predicted, a chipper gentleman approached us and challenged us to test his shoe-identifying ability. Not today sir, not today.



After stopping for a few minutes to peruse the eclectic aisles of any voodoo gift shop we could find, and stopping for a minute to direct the University of Houston's Mens Basketball team (Go Cougars!) to the nearest watering hole, we headed for Canal St. in search of a cab.

"Chris call a cab."
*Chris raises hand*
Screeeeech.
"Where you boys headed?"



Home cab driver, home. I will never forget this place. In fact, I loved it so much, I decided a daytime visit might be enough to beguile my interest of what is arguably the biggest carnival on Earth. I love the spirit of this town. Coming off a Super Bowl win, I will fairly say that no other city deserves it more. Well, maybe one, but we can't get greedy right? New Orleans is like a family reunion for the world's biggest family, and Bourbon St. is the drunk uncle who hasn't been seen in 6 years, but has the best stories out of any one.

Three hours on Bourbon St. is a lifetime. If you have never been, when you do go, keep your eyes, ears, and mind as open as possible, and don't forget the wise words of a wise woman: "You got your shoes on your feet."



Still smiling a day later,

CPS

Leg 2 to 3: Memphis to New Orleans aka Lemme Bayou a Drank

The third leg of our journey started with a word of positivity from an elderly woman in McDonald's. Awestruck by her benevolence, Marc cranked out a few words to commemorate the occasion.

"I’m not very good at writing with feeling. It’s about 6 am. Chris is zonked at our palace suite aka the Rest Inn. I’ve been at McDonalds down the block using their wireless and staring at a computer screen while doing two things: booking our next shitty motel room, and finding directions to the next shitty motel room.

This morning we leave Memphis, after seeing my favorite at the FedEx Forum last night. I’ll leave the concert review to Salera and Ebert. We’re heading to New Orleans today, and the weather is supposed to be incredible. I just finished booking our room for the next two days; we’re staying an extra day to take in as much of the Big Easy as we can. Seafood and jazz – what in the hell could be better?

Ever since I’ve known Chris, everything we have done together has turned into a circus in some way or another. Most people can’t comprehend the decisions we make – sometimes we can’t. We’ve talked about this trip for as long as I can remember.

Some old woman just walked past and asked where I was headed – she said our trip is “a blessing from Jesus”, smiled, and said, “Imma pray for ya both, Hunny”. I’m not very religious, anymore, but that’s all I needed to make this moment one of the best on the trip so far.

It’s back in the car for another 6 and some hours. I’m traveling the country with my best friend – I’m so happy. McDonald’s coffee is pretty good.

That’s how you do it, Son.

Marc."

Well put.

Mississippi (I had to do the old M-I-Ess-Ess spelling thing to remember) crept up on us. The drive from Memphis to New Orleans is basically one road, I-55 South, the entire way. I watched as the odometer simultaneously rose with the temperature, sipped coffee, and downed a Super Bun for fuel.



As we floated past cars on I-55, I felt, for the first time in the trip, that we really had no deadlines and no reason to hurry. We had seen so much in 48 hours, and there was nothing I looked forward to more than taking it easy in the The Big Easy. With that in mind, we looked for some brown side-of-the-road signs aka attractions. About 60 miles outside of New Orleans, we found our winner.



The Camp Moore Historical Association is a museum/memorial cemetery located in Tangipahoa, La. Camp Moore was the site of the largest Confederate training grounds during the Civil War. The upstairs is complete with shelves of historical artifacts, including medical kits, shell fragments, historical documents, and more. Allison was kind enough to show us around. She said she had been working there for seven years, and by all accounts, she knew her stuff.




We took a walk downstairs and saw a huge work-in-progess: sprawling timelines, pictures of famous soldiers, historical documents (including General Lee's final orders), and much more. I probably learned more in 10 minutes than I did in any social studies class. A final walk outside through the memorial cemetery was the cap on a fine visit to Camp Moore.




If you want to check it out, you can become a fan on Facebook, the page is called:

Camp Moore Historical Association

Or, visit it for yourself if you're ever in the area (from the Facebook page):

"Camp Moore is open Wednesday-Saturday, 10:00 am- 3pm. $2 for students, $3 for adults, free for kids 6 and under. Come visit today!

Tangipahoa, LA, 70465
(985) 229-2438"



The final 60 miles felt like 1000 miles. I could not wait to get there and suck crawfish heads while sipping a cool beer. This last road was arguably the most scenic part of the trip, which given the competition so far, was not saying much (you can only look at so many miles of trees). As you drive in to New Orleans, you pass through miles and miles of marsh land. There's a long stretch of elevated road running through the bayou - certainly a dangerous place to run out of gas. However, this stretch offered some of the best, and flattest views of the trip.



The cool thing about driving here is just how flat it really is. In Pittsburgh, you don't see the city until you're halfway down Grant St. Here, you can actually see the city from about 20 miles away. With our goal in sight, we rolled down the windows and let the salty air permeate the car.



I could write a separate blog just on my first impression of New Orleans. Hulking by-ways loop through the city, and by all accounts, there is no indication that this city was almost underwater just five years ago. There is so much to say, and so much to see, but it will have to wait until I get a better look before I write more.



We eventually dodged traffic and found our way to the Sun Suites Hotel, located about 10 miles outside the city. Once again weary from a long day of travel, we checked in to the room (a legendary upgrade from our past accommodations) and prepared for what would be an unforgettable night.

Who Dat,

CPS