We spent several restful days in Louisville visiting friends and family and touring the Locust Grove mansion, which is a three-story colonial mansion where revolutionary war hero George Rogers Clark lived. I learned that the reason we use the word “linen” to describe sheets because they used to weave flax into linen, which was used for the sheets on the beds. History!

From there, it was on to Hannibal, Missouri. By now, you know I am a literary nerd, and yes, this was where Mark Twain grew up and where his most famous books Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn are set.

The town is full of empty wide streets and dusty brick buildings, many of which have fallen into disrepair. We stayed at the Robard Mansion Bed and Breakfast on Millionaire Row, a street full of slightly rundown mansions. It’s owned by a nice old couple, Leon and Nedra. We got the Bonnie Blue room, a large suite on the second floor of the mansion. At first, I was a bit bummed we didn’t get the Gone With the Wind room, but then I found out that Mark Twain visited in the Bonnie Blue room once. Apparently, Robard was Mark Twain’s friend and Twain visited the house when Robard’s daughter was dying. So yes, I stayed in a room where a little girl died 100 years ago and also where Mark Twain visited her. I did not see her ghost.

So, Mayberry? It still exists. Although some of Hannibal’s small town feel is self-conscious–it calls itself America’s Hometown, after all–much of it is sincere too. People were sitting around talking to each other everywhere we went. We were maybe the youngest people in the town, however, which weirded me out a bit.

Naturally, I toured Twain boyhood home and museum. The museum was entertaining because it was all in Twain’s own words, which are always a delight to read. I was surprised by how often Twain encountered death as a child. People were drowning in the river, he saw a dead body in an office, he watched a bum burn up alive once, etc. Life was very dramatic in Hannibal in those days. Afterwards, Kyle and I did wholesome things like walk up to the lighthouse to look at the river and eat ice cream.

Me with Hannibal in the background

That night, we took the Mark Twain Dinner Cruise, a deal at $35 per person. We went on a white paddleboat and toured up and down the Mississippi River while eating. The Mississippi is exactly how Twain described it, even down to the islands of thickets that Huck and Jim camped out on. I was impressed. I think one of the signs of a brilliant writer is the ability to make you see what they see.

The dinner cruise was one of the best things we’ve done so far. It was romantic and fun. We had a buffet dinner and watched a man who looks like Col. Sanders play banjo and harmonica and sing sentimental songs about rivers and moons. Old people danced and two little girls kept running up and singing the songs into the microphone.

Later, Kyle and I went up to the top deck of the boat–which we had all to ourselves–and watched the sun set on the river, turning the water all sorts of colors. Then a huge golden moon rose and sat above the treetops, sending a shimmery path onto the water that almost seemed to touch the boat.

The next day, Leon took us on a personalized tour of the Robard Mansion. He and his wife have owned the house for 11 years and fixed it up quite a bit. We heard all about his life as a former pig farmer in Missouri. He and Nedra have been together since he was 12 and she was 9! At the top of the mansion is a glass lookout that let us see all of Hannibal. I was immediately jealous and wanted my own lookout that I could write in and look out on Petaluma.

At the end, we thanked Leon for the tour and explained how we were going to try to get all the way through Kansas that day. Leon told us which highway to take to avoid the small towns.

“You don’t want to speed in these small towns,” he said. “Not long ago, a police officer pulled me over and gave me a $88 ticket for going three miles over the speed limit.”

“Wow,” I said. “I would fight that one.”

“No point,” Leon said. “He’s not only the police officer, he’s also the judge.”

Oh America. You can be so adorable sometimes.

The Mississippi Delta was shining
Like a national guitar

(Pool in the hotel)

I am following the river
Down the highway
Through the cradle of the civil war,

I’m going to Graceland
Graceland
In Memphis Tennessee

(Beale Street in downtown Memphis)

I’m going to Graceland,
Poorboys

(Kyle eating ribs)

and pilgrims with families

(People waiting for a concert)

And we are going to Graceland

For reasons I cannot explain
There’s some part of me wants to see
Graceland,

(Graceland)

And I may be obliged to defend
Every love every ending
Or maybe there’s no obligations now,

(Elvis Presley’s living room)

Maybe I’ve a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland

(Elvis Presley’s grave)

Whoa in Graceland,
Graceland,
Graceland,
I’m going to Graceland
–Paul Simon

When you read a lot, certain places can become somewhat mythical in your mind. Years later when you finally go to these places in real life, they either delight you by exceeding your expectations or disappoint you by being far below them. Mississippi was the latter type.

This is the cradle of the Civil War? For real? The place that Mark Twain and Tennessee Williams and William Faulkner wrote about? Are you sure? The land of Huck Finn and The Sound and the Fury? This, this place of strip malls and kudzu?

Don’t get me wrong. Mississippi is pretty with the rolling hills and large trees. I even saw some cotton. See?

But there’s just not a lot here. We ended up in Oxford, which is where Faulkner grew up and wrote about in most of his books. From reading him, I had different expectations in mind. You mean, this brick building with the white columns tacked on the front is the type of mansion that Miss Emily in A Rose for Emily would live in? But that’s not right! Where are the huge windows with tattered curtains? Where is the Spanish moss hanging from decaying trees? You mean that isn’t really a thing in Mississippi and I should try other Southern states? You don’t say!

At least Faulkner’s house, Rowan Oak, didn’t disappoint. He bought the place in 1930 and lived here until his death in the 1960s. Before he owned it, it was the pre-war home of Colonel Sheegog, the guy who settled Oxford, and before that, the land was the home of some Native Americans. Faulkner was fascinated with its history.

Front of the house

During the tour, I learned that Faulkner wrote the structures for his novels on the walls of his office. I like this because that’s exactly what I would do if I owned my home and didn’t have to worry about getting a rent deposit back.

It makes sense too, because as smart as Faulkner was, the plots of his novels are complicated and he had to have some system for keeping everything straight. Here is a picture of his office wall where you can see the plot to A Fable written in pencil and red grease pen in Faulkner’s own hand:

I left the house liking Faulkner much more than I thought I would. Before I went in, I had the impression he was kind of a mean man, but now I think he was just uppity. And how can you not like someone who says things like this:

All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible.

Quick Facts:

• Miles traveled: 70
• Hotel: Richelieu Hotel in the French District of New Orleans
• Gas prices in the last four states: Roughly $2.89
• Landscapes: Spindly trees and swamps, yet somehow still pretty
• Disappointments: Not getting to go on a swamp tour because it’s booked. No alligators and snapping turtles for me.

I knew I would like New Orleans, but I didn’t know I would love it. Well I do. I loooove that place. Debauchery be damned–and easily avoided–anyplace where I can look at 18th-century architecture, listen to multiple bands for free, eat yummy cuisine, buy a painting by a local artist, and see interesting, varied, fascinating people ranging from the Amish to prostitutes (I have pictures of both) is a place for me.

Now you might be wondering: What about the hurricane? Yes, there is damage, but your average tourist won’t see the terrible stuff that’s on the news. Because I was in the French District, which was above the water, I only saw a few boarded-up houses–nothing that I would call devastation.

You might have also heard that New Orleans is getting dangerous. Neither Kyle nor I felt threatened or uncomfortable when we were there. Rather, we were impressed by how nice people are. There isn’t an apparent us-vs.-them attitude you usually get from locals in a place with heavy tourism. People went out of their way to help us and talk to us. We did see some bums–which is natural for a place where you can buy Hurricanes for $1 and carry them around with you–and the afore-mentioned prostitutes, but nothing scary.

Some things that stuck in my head:

The truffled egg: A soft-boiled egg with the top sliced off so you could see its rich yellow yolk, rolled in truffles and sitting on a piece of toast in a bed of mushroom-and-cream-sauce. Amazing. We were at Bacco, a fusion of Creole and Italian food. “I love when people get the egg,” the waitress said. “It means they really love food.” Flattery! I also had great shrimp at Bacco, although they warned me several times that they leave the head and the tail on when I ordered them. “One lady from New York started crying when she saw the heads, so we warn people now,” the waitress said. The waiter also told us where we could go to hear real jazz bands and escape the club atmosphere of Bourbon Street, which turned out to be a Godsend.

The American chameleon: Walking down the street, suddenly this little guy shot out of the window box and began to stalk a bug. I said, “Is it a gecko?” and Kyle said, “No it’s an American chameleon.” We were about to catch the lizard and put it on different surfaces to see if it changed colors when a local stopped and said, “No it’s a gecko. They are all over Louisiana. They change from brown to green depending on where they are.” Kyle still thinks it is an American Chameleon.

I think he’s probably right.

Musicians everywhere: And all of them really good. I tend to get bored with jazz, but these bands held my attention for entire sets. And there were no covers.

My new hat: Circa 1930 or so, $12 at a vintage store.

It’s sad when the squinting picture is the best one.

Banana trees: I never realized how banana trees have orchid-like flowers that hang down on long cords, which eventually sprout bananas. I don’t think we can grow bananas in California, which is too bad, because they are awesome plants.

“She done run out here!”: a woman exclaimed as a little black girl ran toward her and they embraced. “I done got me some love from this one,” the woman said, covering the little girl’s face with kisses. Adorable!

Balconies:

I just love the balconies.

So in conclusion: Do not be afraid of New Orleans. Go there and have fun.

I wanted to go to Austin because of Reality Bites. I loved that movie in high school–Winona Ryder smoking cigarettes in her Austin apartment, hanging out with her cool friends, dealing with crisis of conscience like should she date Michael, the soulless corporate guy with money, or Ethan Hawke’s character, the smart philosophy major who is also her best friend? It seemed like an important question to me at age 16. Who would I choose?

Anyway, aside from the heat, I liked Austin a lot. It reminded me of Portland with interesting-looking restaurants and shops. Unlike Portland, though, Austin seems a little stuck in the 90s. I saw people walking around in neon shirts and long hair, black mod vests over tee-shirts, and of course, Doc Martins.

The art scene there is struggling, the local alternative weekly informed me. That made sense–it did feel like a place that had had its golden age already and was still hanging on to it. Not that we didn’t have a great time. We had steak and played pool and then listened to two really good blues bands play.

Downtown Austin

We also drank lots of iced tea. And by “we” here, I mean “Kyle.”

O’Henry lived in Austin. He’s the guy who wrote The Gift of the Magi, the short story about a couple who wants to give each other Christmas presents but are too poor, so she sells her hair to give him a case for his gold watch and he sells his gold watch to give her a comb for her hair. On Christmas morning, they discover their folly, but it’s okay because while they are poor in finances, they are rich in love.

O’Henry wrote hundreds of short stories in his lifetime–there is even a prominent short story award named after him–but The Gift of the Magi is the only one people remember today. It was certainly all I remembered. So we decided to check out the tiny yellow house O’Henry lived in for two years with his wife and daughter.

The old Texas man who gave us the tour of the house, didn’t seem to entirely approve of O’Henry.

“And at that point, he got himself a job as a reporter at the Houston Chronicle,” he said, rolling his eyes. “He sure liked that writin’.”

The reason the old man didn’t like O’Henry, it turned out, is because the writer was arrested for embezzling money from the bank he worked for in Austin. He stole $800 from the bank, was caught, fled to Honduras for six months, returned to Austin because his wife was dying, and then went to jail for three years “leaving his poor little girl motherless,” the tour guide concluded. Who knew O’Henry was so colorful?

I learned later that while in jail, O’Henry started publishing the short stories that made him well-known, and he emerged a successful writer when his sentence was up. I always thought that it wouldn’t be the end of the world for a writer to go to jail–all that downtime to think and write, no one bothering you, lots of books at your disposal…

Not that I want to try it out.

Here’s how:

The sky is insanely big: At one point we were watching a sunset that went on 360 degrees around us. It was like being under a dome of sunset. Sample picture:

The grass is insanely green: Really, it’s like Technicolor green. Or color-corrected-in-Photoshop green. I didn’t even know it came in that color.

It’s insanely humid: The humidity sucks, period. My hair is limp, I’m getting zits from all the sunscreen, I have to shower every day, and I start feeling faint if I walk in it too long. I am a delicate English rose that needs to be fanned and fed grapes. I am not a Texas cactus!

There are bugs everywhere: We pull up on our first night in Texas to the American Inn, a truck stop motel in a dry county that doesn’t believe in street lights, and there is a bug orgy going on. In front of the hotel, giant black beetles, yellow grasshoppers, and black crickets are crawling. In the gas station behind us, there are so many moths, I wonder how people can stand to get gas with them bashing into the lights above their heads. All day long, butterflies have been committing suicide on our windshield. Piles of dead black beetles are in front of every gas station, and I don’t know if they are cockroaches or what, because as far as I know, we don’t have cockroaches in California. When I ask Kyle, he calls me sheltered and says that other places in the world have bugs.

People are really nice: They are friendly and cheerful. Although they are not my style, cowboy hats make sense in this heat.

Men stare at women here: Men look at women everywhere in the world, but here they stare and stare. They don’t even bother to look at your face–they go straight for the boobs. Very aggressive staring in Texas.

Lattes are hoity-toity: I figured Starbucks had taken over the world by now and therefore there would be espresso everywhere. But not in Texas, noooo.

That is all.

A Texas town

I give you Roswell, A Photo Essay:

The End.

Quick Facts:

• Distance traveled: 235 miles
• Hotel: Garrett’s Desert Inn, which has a hotel shaped like a chile pepper
• Number of Torrential Downpours: Two
• Dinner: Ore House, featuring Southwestern fare
• Souvenirs purchased: Two pretty bowls and a beaded barrette

Santa Fe was not at all how I imagined it would be. I don’t know what I was expecting–I think something like Sebastopol, only with more colors–but it looked different than I thought. Established in 1515 by Catholic Missionaries, it’s full of old churches and clay-colored adobes. It also has a charming downtown square with shops and art galleries.


Adobe


Santa Fe is an artist community and art is everywhere you look. For example, these trees had to come down, so someone carved statues in the trunks.

One of the reasons I wanted to come to Santa Fe was to see the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. We had some trouble finding the place and ended up walking down the wrong street. Then, suddenly, it was pouring rain. I was shocked–I had no idea it was about to rain. We fled and stood under the awning in a construction site. The rain passed quickly, but my shirt had turned see-through from the water.

So there I was in downtown Santa Fe, walking along in my see-through blouse, holding a water bottle up in front of me so people couldn’t see my bra. Luckily, the sun had somehow re-appeared (??) so by the time we finally got to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, my shirt had mostly dried. However, the woman inside the museum told us they had shut down the exhibit to re-arrange things and we couldn’t go in. I almost started crying.


Photo of Georgia O’Keeffe painting in the desert

I comforted myself by buying some serving dishes in the gift shop and then going to the Museum of Fine Art, which had several O’Keefe paintings. Afterwards we walked around and looked at many other galleries.

For dinner, we were sitting on the balcony of the Ore House people watching, when suddenly, like a crowd of Hell’s Angels roaring into town, another thunderhead blew over the town and it began to pour again. We retreated inside for dinner.

Things I learned from Santa Fe:

• There are many pretty flowers in the desert
• Rain is completely unpredictable here
• Southwestern-style clothes/art/jewelry looks tacky and strange outside of the Southwest, but makes perfect sense within the context of Santa Fe
• I dislike most Southwestern things, except for the very expensive stuff
• TV studios change commercials based on the area you’re in. Examples:

Pregnancy test ad:
California: The most high-tech instrument you will ever pee on.

New Mexico: The most high-tech instrument you will ever … um… you know…


Government abstinence ad:
California: Tell your child to wait to have sex

New Mexico: Tell your child to wait until marriage to have sex.




Tomorrow: Roswell … and beyond!

Quick Facts:

• Distance Traveled: 436 miles
• Lunch: Cracker Barrel, Kyle’s favorite restaurant
• Books Listened To: Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
• Altitude: 6,000 feet
• Scary Thunderstorms Traveled Through: One
• Hotel: Red Roof Inn in Gallup, New Mexico

Kyle and I took a trip to the Grand Canyon three years ago, so we decided to drive straight through Arizona this time around.

The weather, for most of the trip, was perfect–75 degrees with a pleasant wind. Arizona is beautiful with a giant sky and huge clouds and zillions of juniper bushes that spot the landscape like a never-ending Christmas tree farm. The highway signs kept telling me to look for elk and rams, but the only creature I saw was a dead coyote on the side of the road. False advertising.

I did, however, see my first desert cactus.

At the end of the day, Kyle and I went to the painted desert and petrified forest. The painted desert was not as vibrant as it usually is because of a persistent thunder storm that had started about an hour beforehand. I still enjoyed the weird rock formations.

Now the petrified forest was amazing. The trees, which are millions of years old, are gorgeous amalgamations of colors–red, yellow, white, black, orange. Sometimes it’s hard to believe they are stone. Other times, it is hard to believe they were once trees.

A pile of rocks? No, the roots of an ancient tree.

The thunderstorm was the strangest one I have ever been in. Because the clouds were interrupted by the blue sky, you could see where it began and ended. As we drove into it, giant bolts of lightning twisted in the sky and when we got on the highway again, there was a giant rainbow that ended on the freeway. We drove right through it. (No pot of gold, though.)

Then, it started to hail. Soon it was hailing so hard, I thought it was going to break through the window. Lightning was flashing all around us. It scared me, so I put my hands over my face and tried not to freak out. After awhile, I decided that if the hail was going to go through the window, it would have done it already and started to calm down.

Just then, a giant bolt of lightning streamed down and struck across the freeway. It was so close, we could see how the end of the lightning looked like a red poker when it struck. I more or less held my breath from then on, and finally, we came out of it. The sunset that night was amazing.

Tomorrow: Santa Fe.

Quick Facts:

• Distance Traveled: 601 miles
• Temperature: Hot with weird hot wind
• Hotel: The Stratosphere, the one shaped like a space needle
• Dinner: A surprisingly good sea bass at the Luxor, the one shaped like a pyramid

The drive over was smooth and fast, considering. I now know it’s not that bad to drive 600 miles in one day. The Mojave Desert was hot but not unbearable, especially since we spent most of the drive under a sheet of clouds.

This is the second time I’ve been to Vegas. I’ve now been to the entire strip. I put a dollar into a slot machine and did not win. Bummer. I watched people on drugs and women in tiny tiny tops and drunken packs of 35-year-old housewives out on the town with the girls. One lady was not wearing pants–she was wearing white leggings circa 1989 and a red polka-dot shirt, and the leggings were completely see-through. Two old guys with stringy hair were filming a handsome young man walking down the Vegas Strip for a movie or TV show. The actor was looking up at the lights in a country-mouse-in-the-city kind of way, and he did not break character even when the old guy shooed a woman out of his path by shouting “Clear!” Everything is so dramatic in Vegas. I suggested to Kyle we get matching “Sin City Kitty” tee-shirts, but he wouldn’t go for it.

It was fun, but Vegas is getting so expensive! I’m mean really, if I am going to buy a $12 cocktail, I’d better be in the fanciest most awesome bar in San Francisco, not in an overrated desert town. Where was the free food? The $2 margaritas? Will people keep coming here when they realize all that’s going away?

Probably. But I won’t.

Today, I am going to … Gallup, New Mexico … possibly? Adventure!