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 5 to 6: Abingdon to Pittsburgh aka What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

Could it really be? Could this really be the end of the mindless journey we set out upon almost six days ago? I wish I could say the trip ended with a roar, but unfortunately, the final leg was more of a whimper than we expected.



The western half of Virginia is the skinniest part of Virginia, meaning we were not on the road very long before we careened in to the home of Pitt's rival: West Virginia. The first thing we noticed was mountains; undoubtedly the largest we had seen in several states. It looked like the chorus of "God Bless America" no matter where we went.



Our first stop led us to Beckley, a small but dense town in the southern swing of West Virginia. After taking the exit ramp, I phoned my Grandma and asked for her recommendation on the best place to eat in Beckley. Granted, IHOP looked comparable to the other fine establishments in Beckley, but we nonetheless decided to press on. Around this time, I began trying to persuade Marc to take exit 47 to the local casino, knowing that table games were legal in West Virginia. Apparently, we stumbled into the Bermuda Triangle of West Virginia, and watched as exit 46 quickly evaporated into exit 48 without warning. My wallet thanked me as we headed to the next eatery.

The road north through West Virginia is - in comparison to others we had seen - a scenic route. Indecisive topography made for decisive photography, and we would have been crazy to pass on such miraculous sights. A quick detour led us to the second largest arch bridge in the country. Words can not do it justice, so I'll let you decide if the stop was worthy of a blog post:




As we passed through nameless town after nameless town, we eventually came across a quaint little strip of strip mall to our left. My stomach gurgled and quickly persuaded us to stop.

I never thought I would find authentic Mexican food in West Virginia, but given the circumstances so far, it really did not seem so far out of the ordinary. We took a quick exit aka left turn in to a strip mall directly off the interstate. We opened the door to La Carretta, which is Spanish for "delicious Mexican restaurant where the only other patron is a young mother with four screaming kids" (source: Wikipedia). I was skeptical, right up until the point where a God-gifted hostess led us to our table.



I ordered a plate of crispy chimichangas, and Marc ordered a plate of random Mexican ingredients aka fajitas. The great thing about Mexican food is this: the ingredients pretty much stay the same, while the mix of these ingredients changes with each dish. After almost no time, my two cylinders of deliciousness arrived. They were packed with steaming beef tips and covered in a bevy of quacamole, queso sauce, sour cream, and lettuce. I barely blinked before I deposited every morsel on my plate in to my eager stomach. Marc followed suit. It seemed almost rude not to.



What else was there? After such a good meal, the rest of the trip seemed like a bleak, foregone conclusion. I secretly hoped for a casino that never came. Believe it or not, there are no casinos between the southern half of West Virginia and the northern half, at least via the interstate (further research revealed several "really?" locations, none of which were blatantly advertised). Green signs flew through the rear view mirror until finally we reached our final state: Pennsylvania (sorry for the lack of state sign - I was slow on the trigger finger).




For the first time in the trip, I recognized our surroundings. I saw familiar road signs. I saw familiar surroundings. For the first time in the trip, I saw something I had seen before. It was miraculous that we had survived so much. The final stretch to Pittsburgh felt more like a victory lap than anything else. There would be no unnecessary road stops; there would be no random departures from the interstate. This was the last stretch of road before home, and frankly, it felt like the longest stretch of the trip. For the first time in the trip, we hit traffic. Hundreds of hesitant-to-drive-through-a-tunnel Pittsburghers stood between us and home.



It was here that I began to feel a strange feeling; something I had never expected to feel throughout the entire trip. In a word, I can only describe it as: roadsickness. I didn't want this to trip to end. I yearned for the road. I craved the uncertainty of an unfamiliar destination. I desperately sought a place where citizens looked at me as the stranger.



As Marc affixed the playlist to the most appropriately depressing songs he could find, we made our final trek in to Oakland. It had been a long, unforgettable trip. If I could describe it in one word; well, I can't. I'll save that for another post, for one word can not do it justice. I had just been on one of the greatest journeys of my life, and to try and sum it up in one word would be doing a terrible disservice to the adventurous spirit of all travelers of the world. I looked up at the Oakland sign and in that moment, I saw home.



At the same time, I saw the most unfamiliar place I had seen in seven days. I realized after traveling for six days with no plan, that my only home was the road. Roadsickness is a disease that never goes away. It stays with you until you make the next pitiful attempt to satisfy its unquenchable thirst. No number of untraveled miles will ever satisfy this thirst; however, the beauty of life is constantly trying to satisfy the unsatisfiable, while at the same time having absolutely no idea why the hell you are even trying.

I came, I saw, and I will never conquer, and that could not make me more happy.

Road is where the heart is,

CPS

Top Ten Rules for any Road Trip

In light of the overwhelmingly positive response to the travel log so far, I thought I would share a few tips we learned on the road before publishing the final two entries. As you probably have figured out by now, our trip ended on Wednesday night. Along the way, we saw some cool stuff, heard some cool stories, and learned some cool tips. Here are the top ten rules to remember for your journey:

10. Pictures are the cheapest souvenirs.

Sure, a tacky shirt that says "I got Bourbon faced on Shit Street," will be good for a laugh, but how many times can you actually wear it? Save your money for something else. Take a ton of pictures, they will be the most memorable souvenir you can buy.

9. Take care of your greatest asset: your car.

If you plan on traveling thousands of miles in a dilapidated coupe, it may be time for a little preventative maintenance. Get your oil changed, get a car wash, and get your tires rotated. A little extra effort will do wonders in the long-run.

8. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Remember, not everyone on the road is trying to help you get to the next place. Some people get wide-eyed when they see a tourist wandering around the streets, and if you're not careful, you might get caught in a scam. Do you really think someone can tell you where you got your shoes? Do you really think there are many gentleman's clubs with no cover? Not likely.

7. Keep your wallet in your front pocket, and keep all valuables secure and within reach.

You won't get very far on your journey without money, and unless you keep it secure, you're asking for trouble. Scammers see tourists as easy target, so keep walking if you hear a lame proposal for money (i.e. I need $10 for a deposit on a gas can). Scammers typically use very detailed stories and will make promises to pay back more than they borrow. Don't be fooled.

6. Carry enough cash with you, especially if you're headed to an unfamiliar location.

If you're headed in to a major city, you probably won't need tons of cash; but when you head further in to the outskirts, remember that an ATM could be miles away. The only thing worse than being stranded is being stranded and broke. Keep in mind though, if you do carry cash, keep it secure.

5. When in doubt, ask a local.

In our case, 90% of the locals we talked to were more than happy to share their opinion on the best things to see or the best places to eat. Most people are happy to help out a naive tourist, but you won't get far unless any request you make is accompanied by a "please" and "thank you."

4. Sometimes, the quickest way isn't always the best.

Or, as some might say, it's the journey, not the destination. You don't have to stick to every interstate. A departure from the norm, even if slower, can offer scenic views and is a welcome change from the familiarity of the main road.

3. Manage your time wisely.

This not to say you need to plan the trip down to every minute; however, a little bit of planning will keep you from being tied down to the same place all day. There is lots to see in this world, so if you spend all your day on one street, you're going to miss out on a lot of really cool stuff.

2. Never, ever be afraid to try new things.

After all, that's the point of the road trip, isn't it? If you've never tried an oyster before, and you end up in the oyster capital of the world, it may be time to break the hiatus. People are often surprised to find they like something they never expected to like. It's out there, so go out and try it.

1. When in [blank], do as the [blanks] do.

I've said this time and time again, but I guarantee it will help you on the road. Remember, you are in their territory, not the other way around. Save your hometown customs for your hometown. When you go somewhere else, you will stand out like a sore thumb unless you consider your surroundings, and the last thing you want to do is offend anyone with a social faux pas (this is especially relevant abroad). Though, this is not to say you can't share a little bit of your hometown flavor with the world, just be smart about it; after all, you are the guest.

Keep these things in mind, and you just might survive your own trip,

CPS

Leg 3.5 to 4: Biloxi to Birmingham aka Barbeque and Huge Slot Machines

We took one final look at the ocean and headed - for the first time in 4 days - to the North. A small connecting road put us back on the interstate and led us to our sixth state of the trip – Alabama. The ride would assuredly be filled with Forrest Gump quotes.




No more than 20 minutes in to our ride and before we even reached Alabama, Captain Marc exclaimed with a raucous exclamation, “NO WAY! IT CAN’T BE.” Half asleep and still half drunk from such a good breakfast, I inquired as to the source of his jubilation. A roadside sign advertised “The Shed BBQ.” For those who do not watch The Travel Channel, “The Shed BBQ” was featured as a backwoods rest stop with live music and damn good barbeque. Built entirely out of spare parts by a redheaded, bearded young adult, you might mistake it for a shanty were it not for the captivating smell of smoky, slow-roasted meat.



The building looks somewhat like the raft built by Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Tin panels covered the roof, and spare two-by-fours made up the foundation. The sign displaying the upcoming bands was donated from a (likely) local middle school. Despite it’s ragtag design, “The Shed BBQ” is an amazing estate. There are several bars, a live music stage, an outdoor fire pit, and enough seats to house three football teams. I’ve never regretted eating breakfast more. I would have loved nothing more than to eat there, but I was so full that it would have not ended well; instead, we chatted with the owner and several of the servers, all of whom were glad to have an outsider but disappointed not to have a customer.





To check out any of the six "The Shed BBQ" locations, visit www.theshedbbq.com, or follow "The Shed BBQ - A Family Food Drinkery" on Facebook. We visited the original location in Gulfport, but there may be one by you...check it out and let us know if the meat tastes as good as it smells.

After a quick refuel across the street, we hopped back on the interstate and continued on our way. We eventually made it to Alabama and hopped off at a rest stop to snap a few pictures. The first sign we saw welcomed us to Alabama. The second sign we saw was this:




After passing through miles and miles without seeing so much as a McDonald’s, we happened upon an Indian Casino/Resort called “Wind Creek.” We were somewhat bored and hadn’t stopped in like 13 minutes, so we again pulled over and decided to check it out.



My eyes grew wide as we approached the oasis of fun. Marc kept a close eye on me, fearing I would disappear for four hours and return with a broken kneecap and no clothes. Unfortunately (see also: fortunately), there were no table games at this particular casino, so I instead had to satisfy my thirst for fun (see also: gambling problem) with slots. I sat down amongst the elder, blank-faced gamblers and watched as a blinking colossus sucked down my dollar bill with no intention of returning it. I chose literally the largest slot machine in the casino, hit the button, and watched as BAR-BAR-BAR came up. I now had five dollars. The woman next to me glared in jealousy as I cashed out and walked to the next row. Once again, I threw a dollar in, hit a line, and realized a 1200% return in just two minutes. Suck it Madoff.

If you ever find yourself in Atmore, AL with nothing to do...you'll find a big slot machine with guaranteed (almost) winnings at the Wind Creek. www.windcreekcasino.com

With a few bucks more in gas money, we scooted over to the interstate and restarted on our journey. We actually managed to make it more than 20 minutes this time without something shiny detracting us from our final destination.



Eventually though, hunger got the best of us, and we stopped at a Whataburger. Whataburger, as described by Marc, serves burgers that taste like a Whopper with a McDonald’s bun. It’s topped with jalapenos and grilled onions, and it’s good. It’s damn good. We sat and ate our burgers, toppings spilling all over the place, while we eavesdropped on a conversation between what I gathered to be a pep talk from a district manager to an employee considering a management position. Before leaving, we stopped to tell him that this was our first Whataburger, and it wouldn’t be our last. He was pleased.




The final stretch after Whataburger took about an hour, and I chatted with my way-too-far-away girlfriend while Marc put on his game face and drove straight to Birmingham. After a long day of far too many rest stops, we checked in to our extended stay hotel (complete with a full kitchen and a couch for just $45, and how!) and cashed in on some well-earned rest.

Still chasing triple 7’s,

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